In his absence, Ellen and George began to take a list of all the furniture in the house, that it might be ready for a sale, and Mrs. Dolly sat in her arm-chair, weeping and wailing.
“Oh! laud! laud! that I should live to see all this!” cried she. “Ah, lack-a-daisy! lack-a-daisy! lack-a-day! what will become of me? Oh, la! la! la! la!” Her lamentations were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Hark! a knock, a double knock at the door,” cried Mrs. Dolly. “Who is it? Ah, lack-a-day, when people come to know what has happened, it will be long enough before we have any more visitors; long enough before we hear any more double knocks at the door. Oh, laud! laud! See who it is, George.”
It was Mr. Belton, who was come to ask George to go with him and his little nephew to see some wild beasts at Exeter-’change: he was much surprised at the sorrowful faces of George and Ellen, whom he had always been used to see so cheerful, and inquired what misfortune had befallen them? Mrs. Dolly thought she could tell the story best, so she detailed the whole, with many piteous ejaculations; but the silent resignation of Ellen’s countenance had much more effect upon Mr. Belton. “George,” said he, “must stay to finish the inventory he is writing for his mother.”
Mr. Belton was inquiring more particularly into the amount of Maurice’s debts, and the names of the persons to whom he had lost his money at the gaming-table, when the unfortunate man himself came home. “No hope, Ellen!” cried he. “No hope from any of those rascals that I thought my friends. No hope!”
He stopped short, seeing a stranger in the room, for Mr. Belton was a stranger to him. “My husband can tell you the names of all the people,” said Ellen, “who have been the ruin of us.” Mr. Belton then wrote them down from Maurice’s information; and learned from him that he had lost to these sharpers upwards of three thousand eight hundred pounds in the course of three years; that the last night he played, he had staked the goods in his shop, valued at 350l, and lost them; that afterwards he staked the furniture of his house, valued at 160l.; this also he lost; and so left the gaming-table without a farthing in the world.
“It is not my intention,” said Mr. Belton, “to add to your present suffering, Mr. Robinson, by pointing out that it has arisen entirely from your own imprudence. Nor yet can I say that I feel much compassion for you; for I have always considered a gamester as a most selfish being, who should be suffered to feel the terrible consequences of his own avaricious folly, as a warning to others.”
“Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Belton!” cried Ellen, bursting now, for the first time, into tears, “do not speak so harshly to Maurice.”
“To you I shall not speak harshly,” said Mr. Belton, his voice and looks changing; “for I have the greatest compassion for such an excellent wife and mother. And I shall take care that neither you nor your son, whom you have taken such successful pains to educate, shall suffer by the folly and imprudence in which you had no share. As to the ready money which your husband has lost and paid to these sharpers, it is, I fear, irrecoverable; but the goods in your shop, and the furniture in your house, I will take care shall not be touched. I will go immediately to my attorney, and direct him to inquire into the truth of all I have been told, and to prosecute these villains for keeping a gaming-table, and playing at unlawful games. Finish that inventory which you are making out, George, and give it to me; I will have the furniture in your house, Ellen, valued by an appraiser, and will advance you money to the amount, on which you may continue to live in comfort and credit, trusting to your industry and integrity to repay me in small sums, as you find it convenient, out of the profits of your shop.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Maurice, clasping his hands with a strong expression of joy, “thank you! thank you from the bottom of my soul! Save her from misery, save the boy, and let me suffer as I ought for my folly.”
Mr. Belton, in spite of his contempt for gamesters, was touched by Maurice’s repentance; but, keeping a steady countenance, replied in a firm tone, “Suffering for folly does nobody any good, unless it makes them wiser in future.”
CHAPTER III.
Mrs. Dolly, who had been unaccountably awed to silence by Mr. Belton’s manner of speaking and looking, broke forth the moment he had left the house. “Very genteel, indeed; though he might have taken more notice of me. See what, it is, George, to have the luck of meeting with good friends.”
“See what it is to deserve good friends, George,” said Ellen.
“You’ll all remember, I hope,” said Mrs. Dolly, raising her voice, “that it was I who was the first and foremost cause of all this, by taking George along with me to the tea-drinking at the bowling-green, where he first got acquainted with Mr. Belton.”
“Mr. Belton would never have troubled his head about such a little boy as George,” said Ellen, “if it had not been for — you know what I mean, Mrs. Dolly. All I wish to say is, that George’s own good behaviour was the cause of our getting acquainted with this good friend.”
“And I am sure you were the cause, mother,” said George, “of what you call my good behaviour.”
Mrs. Dolly, somewhat vexed at this turn, changed the conversation saying, “Well, ’tis no matter how we made such a good acquaintance; let us make the most of him, and drink his health, as becomes us, after dinner. And now, I suppose, all will go on as usual: none of our acquaintance in Paddington need know any thing of what has happened.”
Ellen, who was very little solicitous about what Mrs. Dolly’s acquaintance in Paddington might think, observed that, so far from going on as usual, now they were living on borrowed money, it was fit they should retrench all their expenses, and give up the drawing-room and parlour of the house to lodgers.
“So, then, we are to live like shabby wretches for the rest of our days!” cried Mrs. Dolly. “Better live like what we are, poor but industrious people,” replied Ellen, “and then we shall never be forced to do any thing shabby.”
“Ay, Ellen, you are, as you always are, in the right; and all I desire now, in this world, is to make up for the past, and to fall to work in some way or other; for idleness was what first led me to the gaming-table.”
Mrs. Dolly opposed these good resolutions, and urged Maurice to send George to Mr. Belton, to beg him to lend them some more money. “Since he is in the humour to be generous, and since he has taken a fancy to us,” said she, “why not take him at his word, and make punch whilst the water’s hot?”
But all that Mrs. Dolly said was lost upon Ellen, who declared that she would never be so mean as to encroach upon such a generous friend; and Maurice protested that nothing that man, woman, or devil, could say, should persuade him to live in idleness another year. He sent George the next morning to Mr. Belton with a letter, requesting that he would procure employment for him, and stating what he thought himself fit for. Amongst other things, he mentioned that he could keep accounts. That he could write a good hand was evident, from his letter. Mr. Belton, at this time, wanted a clerk in his manufactory; and, upon Maurice’s repeating his promise never more to frequent the gaming-table, Mr. Belton, after a trial, engaged him as his clerk, at a salary of 501. per annum.
Every thing now went on well for some months. Maurice, on whom his wife’s kindness had made a deep impression, became thoroughly intent upon his business, and anxious to make her some amends for his past follies. His heart was now at ease: he came home, after his day’s work at the counting-house, with an open, cheerful countenance; and Ellen was perfectly happy. They sold all the furniture that was too fine for their present way of life to the new lodgers, who took the drawing-room and front parlour of their house; and lived on the profits of their shop, which, being well attended, was never in want of customers.
One night, at about ten o’clock, as little George was sitting, reading the history of Sandford and Merton, in which he was much interested, he was roused by a loud knocking at the house door. He ran to open it: but how much was he shocked at the sight he beheld! It was Mrs. Dolly! her leg broken, and her skull fractured!
; Ellen had her brought in, and laid upon a bed, and a surgeon was immediately sent for. When Maurice inquired how this terrible accident befel Mrs. Dolly, the account he received was, that she was riding home from the bowling-green public-house, much intoxicated; that she insisted upon stopping to get a glass of peppermint and brandy for her stomach; that, seeing she had drunk too much already, every thing possible was done to prevent her from taking any more; but she would not be advised: she said she knew best what agreed with her constitution; so she alighted and took the brandy and peppermint; and when she was to get upon her horse again, not being in her right senses, she insisted upon climbing up by a gate that was on the road-side, instead of going, as she was advised, to a bank that was a little further on. The gate was not steady, the horse being pushed moved, she fell, broke her leg, and fractured her skull.
She was a most shocking spectacle when she was brought home. At first she was in great agony; but she afterwards fell into a sort of stupor, and lay speechless.
The surgeon arrived: he set her leg; and during this operation, she came to her senses, but it was only the sensibility of pain. She was then trepanned; but all was to no purpose — she died that night; and of all the friends, as she called them, who used to partake in her tea-drinkings and merry-makings, not one said more when they heard of her death than “Ah, poor Mrs. Dolly! she was always fond of a comfortable glass: ’twas a pity it was the death of her at last.”
Several tradesmen, to whom she died in debt, were very loud in their complaints; and the landlady at the bowling-green did not spare her memory. She went so far as to say, that it was a shame such a drunken quean should have a Christian burial. What little clothes Mrs. Dolly left at her death were given up to her creditors. She had owed Maurice ten guineas ever since the first month of their coming to Paddington; and when she was on her death-bed, during one of the intervals that she was in her senses, she beckoned to Maurice, and told him, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he would find in her left-hand pocket what she hoped would pay him the ten guineas he had lent to her. However, upon searching this pocket, no money was to be found, except sixpence in halfpence; nor was there any thing of value about her. They turned the pocket inside out, and shook it; they opened every paper that came out of it, but these were all old bills. Ellen at last examined a new shawl which had been thrust into this pocket, and which was all crumpled up: she observed that one of the corners was doubled down, and pinned; and upon taking out the yellow crooked pin, she discovered, under the corner of the shawl, a bit of paper, much soiled with snuff, and stained with liquor. “How it smells of brandy!” said Ellen, as she opened it. “What is it, Maurice?”
“It is not a bank note. It is a lottery ticket, I do believe!” cried Maurice. “Ay, that it is! She put into the lottery without letting us know any thing of the matter. Well, as she said, perhaps this may pay me my ten guineas, and overpay me, who knows? We were lucky with our last ticket; and why should not we be as lucky with this, or luckier, hey, Ellen? We might have ten thousand pounds or twenty thousand pounds this time, instead of five, why not, hey, Ellen?” But Maurice observing that Ellen looked grave, and was not much charmed with the lottery ticket, suddenly changed his tone, and said, “Now don’t you, Ellen, go to think that my head will run on nothing but this here lottery ticket. It will make no difference on earth in me: I shall mind my business just as well as if there was no such thing, I promise you. If it come up a prize, well and good: and if it come up a blank, why well and good too. So do you keep the ticket, and I shall never think more about it, Ellen. Only, before you put it by, just let me look at the number. What makes you smile?”
“I smiled only because I think I know you better than you, know yourself. But, perhaps, that should not make me smile,” said Ellen: and she gave a deep sigh.
“Now, wife, why will you sigh? I can’t bear to hear you sigh,” said Maurice, angrily. “I tell you I know myself, and have a right to know myself, I say, a great deal better than you do; and so none of your sighs, wife.”
Ellen rejoiced to see that his pride worked upon him in this manner; and mildly told him she was very glad to find he thought so much about her sighs. “Why,” said Maurice, “you are not one of those wives that are always taunting and scolding their husbands; and that’s the reason, I take it, why a look or a word from you goes so far with me.” He paused for a few moments, keeping his eyes fixed upon the lottery ticket; then, snatching it up, he continued: “This lottery ticket may tempt me to game again: for, as William Deane said, putting into the lottery is gaming, and the worst sort of gaming. So, Ellen, I’ll show you that though I was a fool once, I’ll never be a fool again. All your goodness was not thrown away upon me. I’ll go and sell this lottery ticket immediately at the office, for whatever it is worth: and you’ll give me a kiss when I come home again, I know, Ellen.”
Maurice, pleased with his own resolution, went directly to the lottery office to sell his ticket. He was obliged to wait some time, for the place was crowded with persons who came to inquire after tickets which they had insured.
Many of these ignorant imprudent poor people had hazarded guinea after guinea, till they found themselves overwhelmed with debt; and their liberty, character, and existence, depending on the turning of the wheel. What anxious faces did Maurice behold! How many he heard, as they went out of the office, curse their folly for having put into the lottery!
He pressed forward to sell his ticket. How rejoiced he was when he had parted with this dangerous temptation, and when he had received seventeen guineas in hand, instead of anxious hopes! How different were his feelings at this instant from those of many that were near him! He stood to contemplate the scene. Here he saw a poor maid-servant, with scarcely clothes to cover her, who was stretching her thin neck across the counter, and asking the clerk, in a voice of agony, whether her ticket, number 45, was come up yet.
“Number 45?” answered the clerk, with the most careless air imaginable. “Yes” (turning over the leaves of his book): “Number 45, you say — Yes: it was drawn yesterday — a blank.” The wretched woman clasped her hands, and burst into tears, exclaiming, “Then I’m undone!”
Nobody seemed to have time to attend to her. A man servant, in livery, pushed her away, saying, “You have your answer, and have no more business here, stopping the way. Pray, sir, is number 336, the ticket I’ve insured {Footnote: This was written before the act of parliament against insuring in lotteries.} so high, come up to-day?”
“Yes, sir — blank.” At the word blank, the disappointed footman poured forth a volley of oaths, declaring that he should be in jail before night; to all which the lottery-office keeper only answered, “I can’t help it, sir; I can’t help it. It is not my fault. Nobody is forced to put into the lottery, sir. Nobody’s obliged to insure, sir. ’Twas your own choice, sir. Don’t blame me.”
Meanwhile, a person behind the footman, repeating the words he had addressed to the poor woman, cried, “You have your answer, sir; don’t stop the way.”
Maurice was particularly struck with the agitated countenance of one man, who seemed as if the suspense of his mind had entirely bereaved him of all recollection. When he was pressed forward by the crowd, and found himself opposite to the clerk, he was asked twice, “What’s your business, sir?” before he could speak; and then could only utter the words — number 7? “Still in the wheel,” was the answer. “Our messenger is not yet returned from Guildhall, with news of what has been drawn this last hour. If you will call again at three, we can answer you.” The man seemed to feel this as a reprieve; but as he was retiring, there came one with a slip of paper in his hand. This was the messenger from Guildhall, who handed the paper to the clerk. He read aloud, “Number 7. Were you not inquiring for 7, sir?”
“Yes,” said the pale trembling man.
“Number 7 is just come up, sir, — a blank.”
At the fatal word blank, the man fell flat upon his face in a swoon. Those near him lifted him out into the street
, for air.
“Here, sir; you are going without your change, after waiting for it so long,” cried the clerk to Maurice; who, touched with compassion for the man who had just fallen, was following those who were carrying him out. When he got into the street, Maurice saw the poor creature sitting on a stone, supported by a hackney-coachman, who held some vinegar to his nose, at the same time asking him if he did not want a coach?
“A coach! Oh, no,” said the man, as he opened his eyes. “I have not a farthing of money in the world.” The hackney-coachman swore that was a sad case, and ran across the street to offer his services where they could be paid for: “A coach, if you want one, sir. Heavy rain coming on,” said he, looking at the silver which he saw through the half-closed fingers of Maurice’s hand.
“Yes, I want a coach,” said Maurice: and bade the coachman draw up to the stone, where the poor man who had swooned was sitting. Maurice was really a good-natured fellow; and he had peculiar pity for the anguish this man seemed to feel, because he recollected what he had suffered himself, when he had been ruined at the gaming-table.
“You are not able to walk: here is a coach; I will go your way and set you down, sir,” said Maurice.
The unfortunate man accepted this offer. As they went along he sighed bitterly, and once said, with great vehemence, “Curse these lotteries! Curse these lotteries!” Maurice now rejoiced, more than ever, at having conquered his propensity to gaming, and at having sold his ticket.
When they came opposite to a hosier’s shop, in Oxford-street, the stranger thanked him, and desired to be set down. “This is my home,” said he; “or this was my home, I ought to say,” pointing to his shop as he let down the coach-glass. “A sad warning example I am! But I am troubling you, sir, with what no way concerns you. I thank you, sir, for your civility,” added he, turning away from Maurice, to hide the tears which stood in his eyes: “good day to you.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 426