It was, then, into this dark recess that Mrs. Stephenson and her assistant conspirator slid, unobserved of any, during the interesting moment when all but the piquet-players were pressing forward to supper. A slight touch of the finger caused one of the curtains to drop entirely, and behind this shelter they seated themselves, having, by the partial elevation of the other, a perfect view of the persons whose proceedings they were about to watch.
They heard Mr. Ronaldson’s petition for supper, and Mr. O’Donagough’s answer to it. They saw the “tray worth having” brought in by the intelligent-looking Richardson. They saw Mr. Foxcroft, the only individual left in the room besides themselves and the players, quietly lock both the doors, and then assume to himself the office of butler, which he performed with so much zealous gaiety, that one flask of champagne was finished and another begun before he attempted to eat or drink anything himself. Neither did Mr. O’Donagough share largely in the conviviality of the moment, He professed himself to be quite out of heart from his infernal beating — swore that he had never met with any one so completely Ins master before, but declared that if he sat up all night and lost his last shilling he would not give in.
Mr. Ronaldson, whose head was not very capable of bearing steadily either his good fortune or the good wine, was beginning to grow loquacious, when O’Donagough, perceiving that the champagne had done all the work he wanted from it, at least for the present, brought back the attention of the young man to the business part of the entertainment, by saying —
“Now, Ronaldson! have at you again — double or quits — double the whole of my confounded losses, or quits. Do you agree?”
“To be sure I do,” replied the young man, with a jovial laugh. “What do you take me for?”
“For a very honest fellow, Ronaldson, who, knowing he has got the advantage in play, is willing to let his adversary take a chance from luck! Just put that tray back upon the other table, Foxcroft — we shall have no more whist to-night, I dare say.” Foxcroft obeyed, and then placed himself, as before, behind Ronaldson, and precisely opposite to O’Donagough. It was then that Mrs. Stephenson, whose interest in the scene passing before her was now worked up to a point that made her utterly forgetful of the awkwardness of her own situation — it was now for the first time that she began to comprehend fully the value, if not exactly the nature, of the telegraphic signs made by Mr. Foxcroft for the benefit of Mr. O’Donagough. It was quite impossible, unless he had turned himself completely round, that Ronaldson could even be conscious of Mr. Foxcroft being near him; while on the other hand, not a glance of the eye, or a motion of the finger, could escape being seen by O’Donagough, and that so distinctly, that the mere act of raising his eyes for an instant was all that was required to obtain all the information which it was the purpose of Mr. Foxcroft to convey.
Mrs. Stephenson felt, as she said afterwards, that she would willingly have staked her own life, and almost that of one of her children, upon the issue of that game. Nor would there in truth have been any great risk in doing so. The event, as all must anticipate, was in favour of Mr. O’Donagough, who, as soon as it was ended, said, very composedly —
“Well, then, Ronaldson, now we start fair again. I have had a tremendous beating, nevertheless — nine games to three. However, I scorn to show a white feather! If I lose, my Devonshire estates must pay for it. If you will, I am ready to play you again for the same amount as I have now won, and I will tell you what I will do besides — for I can’t endure the idea of turning craven, merely because I have met with a better player than myself — I will go on with you for six games — just write it down, Foxcroft — I will go on with you for six games, double or quits every time — and rather than let you count me a craven, I would go on for a dozen so, only I think we shall have had enough of it by that time, and the party will be broke up, and we shall all be ready to go to bed. Do you agree to it?” Poor Ronaldson, who at the freshest hour of the morning would hardly have been capable of judging accurately of the nature and extent of the proposition now offered to him, was at this moment as utterly incapable of doing so as if his age had amounted to one lustre only, instead of five. With a laugh that was very nearly that of imbecility, he rubbed his hands, and repeated again and again, “Done, done, done.”
Another, and another game was then played, of course with the same result as the last. The young man’s purse and well-stored pocket-book were by that time exhausted, upon which Foxcroft brought forth writing materials, and the half-sobered, half-stultified Ronaldson set his hand at the termination of the next game to the acknowledgment of an enormous debt.
Mrs. Stephenson’s position now became extremely painful. Though perfectly certain of the nefarious nature of the transaction that was going on before her eyes, she began, as her embarrassment increased, and her spirits sank, to doubt whether she would be able to prove it to others in such a manner as to exonerate the unfortunate young man from the effects of his folly. If not, she was conscious that in thus quietly looking on, and suffering their play to proceed, she was making herself a party to the poor victim’s ruin. A moment’s calculation sufficed to show her that the stake, if again doubled at the monstrous amount to which it had reached, would of itself constitute a large fortune, and this again had to be doubled, and the amount doubled yet again, before the match which she had heard agreed for could be finished. As to any change of fortune in the event of the games being played, she felt perfectly assured it could not occur; and thus, if her fears as to the value of her own evidence were well grounded, she should be doomed, unless she summoned courage to interfere, to see a vast robbery committed, which it was most certainly, at the present moment, in her power to prevent.
So earnestly had her attention been fixed upon the events of the card table, from the time of her entering the recess, that she bad paid no attention to the sounds proceeding from the ball-room; but she now, as the fourth game of the match was rapidly progressing to its conclusion, listened attentively, and became convinced that though the music had not ceased, the company were departing. She heard many names called upon the stairs, a door to which stood open in the middle room, and thus at intervals permitted the sounds to reach her, despite the closed doors of the card-room. The idea that she might, if she fingered longer, outstay her own party, and cause them thereby the most serious alarm, as well as place herself and Miss Peters in a situation the most painfully embarrassing, sufficed to screw her courage to the fitting point, and as Mr. Ronaldson at the end of a deal said, in a trembling voice—” I am forty-five to your ninety, O’Donagough, and the deal is yours,” — just as these boding words reached her ears, she started up, and, seizing her companion by the arm, drew her with her across the room, overturning two chairs in her progress, and on reaching the door, the key of which readily obeyed her hand, she turned, and said in a voice much more distinct than she herself hoped for—” Play no more, young man! We have watched the game, and know that you have been cheated. Throw down your cards and play no more. Your promissory note is not worth a farthing, for we can both witness to the manner in which it was won.”
Mr. Ronaldson had sprung from his chair the moment the two ladies had become visible, and standing aside to let them pass, stared, much after the manner he might have done had he seen a spectre. Mr. Foxcroft, who knew neither of the ladies by sight, flew to the door with some vague hope of preventing their going out, and whether he thought they might be subsequently pushed up the chimney, or thrown out of the window, he probably did not know himself at the moment; but whatever his projects might have been, they were rendered abortive by the door having yielded to the hand of Mrs. Stephenson before he reached it.
Mr. O’Donagough himself sat immovable, nor would it have been easy to perceive from his countenance that anything very remarkable had happened. The triumph of perceptibly shaking his philosophy remained for his old acquaintance Elizabeth Peters, who, recovering her courage the moment she saw the fight streaming in upon them from the now fast-thinning
rooms, forcibly drew back Mrs. Stephenson a step or two, and while several passers-by entered from curiosity, pronounced very distinctly, as she fixed her eyes upon his face —
“I should like to know, sir, why it is that you go by a false name? Your name is Allen. At least, you were always called Major Allen at Clifton, and that you know, as well as I.”
On hearing this, and on seeing the many eyes which were by this time fixed upon him, the bold spirit of the umquhile O’Donagough, now again Major Allen, was so far moved that he rose from his chair, and taking advantage of his accurate local knowledge, left the room by a side door which led to a back staircase, and was no more heard of that night.
Even the short moment occupied by these startling words of Miss. Peters, was sufficient for the drawing together so many of the remaining guests around the door of the card room, that something like a crowd appeared to surround it as the two ladies, still pale and strongly agitated, passed through it. Their only object was now to find some member of their own party who might assist their retreat from the scene in which they had played so strange a part; but her first glance at the rooms made Mrs. Stephenson exclaim— “They are gone! Gracious heaven! What terror must Frederic be enduring on reaching home and not finding me!”
Great, indeed, was her delight, when she perceived General Hubert approaching with hasty steps towards the spot where many voices were already discussing the adventure which nobody understood, but which everybody was endeavouring to explain.
“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed, eagerly receiving the hand which the trembling Nora held out to him. “What does all this mean? Where have you been hid? We have been looking for you in every direction for above an hour. Frederic is just gone, for the second time, to see if you have reached home!”
“I have guessed it all! But for mercy’s sake ask no questions now,” replied Mrs. Stephenson. “Take me away, dear general! Take us both away! we have both suffered together! We have been shut up looking on a horrid scene for hours. Yet now it is over, I am thankful that we had courage to act as we have done; but take us away, I implore you.”
“If we go now, my dear Nora,” replied the general, inexpressibly puzzled by her words, but convinced that it was no time to ask for explanation, “if we go now, Frederic will again miss you, Agnes is still in the other room — nothing could persuade her to leave the house till she was convinced that you were not in it. If you will sit down quietly with her a few minutes, Stephenson will return, and I am sure it will be better for you both. Miss Peters does not look so deadly pale as you do, but I feel her arm trembling like your own.”
While this was said, the general supported the two ladies, whose steps very unaffectedly faltered, across the room which divided the card-room from the principal drawing-room; but on reaching the door of it, instead of finding the quiet he had offered them, they were met by a scene which rendered anything like tranquillity in the neighbourhood of it quite impossible. Standing in the middle of the room was Mrs. O’Donagough with hands clasped, head-dress dishevelled, and her breast heaving with convulsive sobs. Beside her stood Miss Louisa Perking, with a pocket-handkerchief at her eyes; while, with the exception of one silent group which occupied a sofa in a distant corner, every individual not making part of the crowd now in possession of the card-room, stood around her listening to her lamentations, and occasionally uttering a word or two of what seemed very unmeaning consolation.
“She is gone! She is eloped! Heaven only knows where, and for what! Where is her father? He has got his hands full, I dare say. But for mercy’s sake let somebody go and bring Foxcroft to me — he shall go — Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Where shall he go? Where shall I send him? I have no more idea than the child unborn! But I am sure and positive, as I stand here, that it is that horrid vile yellow man with the black whiskers that has taken her! Does nobody know such a person as Don Tornorino? or Tornapino? or some such name as that, wasn’t it, Louisa? Dear, darling, good-for-nothing creature as she is! I saw her waltzing away like one possessed with him, and when I asked her how he came to be here — for goodness knows I never asked him — she answered, dear, wicked, clever creature, in her own droll way, ‘Never you mind that, mamma! Here he is, and that’s enough?’ Oh dear! Oh dear! H he does not turn out to be a man of rank and fortune I shall die and break my heart — I know I shall!”
Such were the sounds that from the crested pride of the unfortunate Mrs. O’Donagough poured forth amidst a torrent of tears, and a whirlwind of sighs, interrupted at intervals, but not checked, by the interjections of her hearers.
“How very distressing!”
“Poor woman! It is quite shocking!”
“I don’t wonder at her being so terrified.”
“I am sure if it was my child I should die on the spot.” Such and such-like were the only sounds which broke in upon the expression of her mental anguish, till at length, while the unhappy lady paused for a moment to blow her nose, the gentle voice of Miss Louisa Perkins was heard to say, “Do you think, ma’am, that there is any gentleman gone off with Matilda too?”
“Never mind whether there is or not!” replied the anxious mother. “What can that signify compared to my beautiful Patty? And such a fortune, too, as her poor, dear father told me this very day that she would be sure of. Oh! it is too cruel of her!”
All this, and a great, a very great deal more in the same strain, was uttered by the bereaved lady, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, and occasionally lying at full length upon a sofa,’ and ever with the much-enduring Louisa by her side, till at length every individual at all within hearing became fully aware, that Miss Patty O’Donagough had decidedly eloped with a black-whiskered Don, and that Miss Matilda Perkins had eloped too, but whether with her or with anybody else, there appeared no evidence to show.
Nothing but the consciousness that her interference could do no good, kept Mrs. Hubert at a distance from her really very unhappy aunt during all these lamentations; but quite aware that she could render no assistance, and being in a state of very painful anxiety respecting the unaccountable disappearance of her sister, she remained with Mr and Mrs. Henderson, who were equally anxious with herself, silently waiting for the return of General Hubert, who had left them for the purpose of once more entering the empty supper-room and once more inquiring of every servant in the hall if Mrs. Stephenson’s equipage had been called.
Much too occupied by their own anxiety to remark the absence of their hostess, they were not aware that, for the last half hour, that unfortunate lady had been employed upon the unpleasing task of convincing herself, by various inquiries among her domestics, that her precious daughter had most certainly left the house without giving a hint to any one of her intention of doing so. And as the black-whiskered Don (too well-remembered as the first-floor lodger in — street) had also suddenly become invisible, it was but natural to suppose that he was her companion.
Great, indeed, was the joy of Agnes and her friend Mary, when their two sisters appeared after their mysterious retreat, and greater still was that of Mr. Stephenson, who returned in a few minutes afterwards pale, vehemently agitated, and bringing the terrible intelligence that no tidings could be heard of them. It was then that Mrs. Hubert, her spirits being relieved from her own great anxiety, felt desirous of uttering some word of kindness to her aunt, but this now seemed to be rendered impossible by the earnest conversation in which she was engaged with Mr. Foxcroft.
“No, no, Agnes!” said Mrs. Stephenson, as she heard her sister proposing to the general that they should, before they left the house, express some feeling of sympathy with poor Mrs. O’Donagough’s alarm about her daughter, “No, Agnes, you must not speak to her now! It is not on account of her daughter’s running away that she is looking as horror-struck and terrified as you see her at this moment. Poor soul! she has heard worse news than that! But where are Lady Stephenson and the Nivetts, and where is your dear girl?”
“All gone home long ago, Nora,” replied Mrs. Hubert.
/> “Then for pity’s sake let us go too! This is no place for us to remain in! How kind you are to question me only with your eyes! But tired as I am, I am willing to tell you all our adventures before I sleep, if my poor frightened Frederic feels strength enough left in him to drive to your house for an hour, before he retreats to his own.
The whole party were, in truth, much too anxious to hear all the mysteries of this strange evening explained to leave them any memory of their fatigue, and they all drove together to Berkeley-square though five strokes from the general’s repeater warned them that it was high time to go to rest.
“But who,” said Mrs. Henderson, “could rest till this most incomprehensible adventure is explained?”
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE breakfast in Berkeley-square was not an early one, but there were other causes for this besides the lateness of the hour at which the general and his lady had retired to rest, for General Hubert, under all circumstances, was sure to be in his bathroom by eight o’clock. Neither was it the protracted slumbers of his lady which retarded the morning meal; for though on this occasion he certainly left her fast asleep, Her waking eyes had seen the light long before the clock struck nine. But it sometimes happens that bedrooms and dressing-rooms are used for other purposes than sleeping and dressing.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 275