Works of Ellen Wood, page 23
No. Few do. For it is the most insinuating vice that exists: no other evil, whether of crime or failing, steals so unconsciously over the victim it is fastening on. To what can its stealthy steps be compared? I am at a loss to say. Silently as the darkness covers the light at the close of day; imperceptibly as appears the first glimmer of morning; surely and quickly as winter succeeds to summer, and summer to winter; or step by step, unexpectedly and subtly, as glides on the approach of death? It is like unto all these; yet unlike: for though the darkness of the coming night, the light of the early morning, the gliding away of the seasons, and the grasp of the grave are things not in our own hands, or under our own power, and we could no more alter their order of working than we could alter the truths of Holy Writ; yet the other, the sin that creeps on us like unto these, is under our own control, and we might arrest its progress in the onset, and thrust it far away.
Robert and Lionel Danesbury could have done this. They would not now. Oh no: it was scarcely still in their power. So long as the cup of liquor could be obtained, they flew to it: they could not abstain: it was like the ignis fatuus which allures a traveller to his destruction. A yearning for amendment would at chance periods come over them. They saw men around them, the playfellows of their childhood, the companions of their youth, who were fulfilling their appointed duties in the world, honoured and respected; but they knew it would be as easy to turn the sun from its course as to turn them from the ruin they had entered upon.
They were not backward to declare that they would give over these practices and become steady men. Their mother would, over and over again, put trust in their word, and pity them, and carry them tea, or a mess of broth to their rooms in a morning, and urge them to partake of it, to “do them good.” They did not turn angrily away from her, but they did from what she offered them — that was of no use to slake their thirst; they must have something else. Stealthily they would sup something else, of a different nature, and go down stairs, and — stealthily again, for they did not like their mother to see them drink it in those moments of promised amendment — resort to the ale barrel, and consume long draughts of its contents. Ere half an hour elapsed, they would be as thirsty as before. A tumbler of brandy was what they longed for, but Mrs. Danesbury rigidly kept spirits and wine now under lock and key; though occasionally they would smuggle a bottle in, and hide it in their bedrooms. Failing brandy, they kept on at the ale, and, by the time evening came, where would be their good resolutions of the morning? Unheeded, uncared for: or, if thought of, their physical and moral strength were not equal to carry them out, for the temptations of the public-houses and the fellowship of their boon companions were irresistible.
Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury became old, and gray, and broken. Mrs. Danesbury’s very nature seemed changed. There was little anger or scolding now; tears in plenty, and midnight wailings. The dreadful habits her two sons had fallen into, were no longer hidden from any; they could not be; and she was often tempted to speak of them to the servants, or to friends. Speak she must, to some one, or her heart would break.
Bitter, bitter repentance had taken hold of Mrs. Danesbury. Her grief had led her to the only sure fountain of consolation, where she had never gone in a right way before, and her heart was softening, and things were becoming dear to her. She looked back on the past, and in her self-reproach almost feared that she could never be forgiven. She had loved her children, been proud of them, been vain of them, had indulged them reprehensibly, winked at their faults, joined them in deceiving their father in trifles, been anxious to further their worldly interests. But what else bad she done? Striven untiringly to lead them to God? corrected their failings, trained them in strict habits of temperance, encouraged in them social virtues, shown them their duties, made them look on home as the dearest spot on earth? No; she had never done this. And, dreadful as were the present fruits, she knew that she was only reaping what she had sown. Often and often was the useless wish now wailed forth from her heart, that she had remained Miss St. George, or else been a childless wife.
But about this time there appeared to be a change for the better taking place in Lionel. A little for the better: not much. He less frequently forgot himself, came in earlier at night, and was more careful of his dress; for both he and Robert had fallen into slatternly habits in that respect. The change was hailed with thankfulness by Mrs. Danesbury, who looked upon it as a precursor to reformation. The real cause, however, came to light
The inn chiefly frequented by Robert and Lionel was the Wheatsheaf. It was kept by a man named Bing and his wife, who had brought up their children in rather a superior manner. There were three of them, daughters, showy girls, too showy the father thought, to wait upon his customers, so two of them had been sent from home to learn the dressmaking; the other, Katherine, an exceedingly well-conducted girl, remained with her mother. It began to be rumoured in Eastborough, that Lionel Danesbury had latterly been seen walking with this girl: but, as is often the case, the last person to suspect it was Mrs. Bing, until one evening a gossip went into the Wheatsheaf and asked her if she knew where Kate was.
“She’s up stairs,” answered Mrs. Bing. “She went up after tea.”
“Did she?” quoth the visitor, in a significant tone: “She’s not there now, at any rate. She’s in the lane yonder, a-walking with young Mr. Danesbury; his arm round her waist, and her hand in his, as snug as two can be.”
“With young Mr. Danesbury!” uttered the mother, appalled at the news, and then taking refuge in disbelief. ‘‘Your eyes must have deceived you. Katherine would not be walking like that with a Danesbury, nor with any body else. She is a properly brought up girl.”
“Bless us, they are all alike. Girls are girls, and will have their sweethearts; and so did we, when we were young. But young Mr. Danesbury’s not a suitable one for Kate Bing, and the town’s talking about it. I said I knew you were not encouraging that.”
The visitor left, and Miss. Bing went to the side door and looked out, full of trouble. She remembered that Kate had latterly spent a good portion of her evening time away from her presence, but she had suspected nothing. It was a bright night; and Mrs. Bing presently saw Kate come flying along, round the comer of the lane, her cheeks crimson and her eyes bright.
“Where have you been?” demanded Mrs. Bing.
“I wanted a bit of ribbon, and I ran out to buy it,” was the girl’s evasive answer.
“Now, if you tell me another word of untruth, I’ll send you off to your grandmother’s to-morrow, and you shall never come back of one while,” retorted Mrs. Bing. “You have been walking in the lane with young Mr. Danesbury.”
Katherine hung her head, and the crimson of her cheeks spread over her face and neck.
“Katherine, have you been walking with him?”
“Oh, mother,’’ she answered, throwing herself into her mother’s arms, and hiding her face upon her neck, “he is so fond of me!”
Mrs. Bing’s heart went pit-a-pat. “Which of them is it?” she asked. ‘‘Mr. Robert or Mr. Lionel?”
“Mr. Lionel.”
“Child,’’ she said, sitting down, “I had a great deal rather you had struck me a blow than told me this.”
“Don’t say so, mother. You would not if you did but know the happiness it has brought to me! Every thing in the world seems brighter and better since I had him to think of.”
“How long have you been intimate with him? I mean intimate enough to walk, with him”
“Not long.”
“Is it a month? Or two?”
“No, I don’t know that it is.”
“Katherine,” resumed Mrs. Bing, “it is just ruin, and nothing else.”
Katherine stood up, her eye indignant. “Mother! don’t say such a thing of me! I don’t deserve it Mr. Lionel wants to marry me.”
“Marry the nonsense!” contemptuously uttered Mrs. Bing. “A Danesbury marry one of you! You had better not let such a speech get to Mrs. Danesbury’s ears; she’d box yours. And if he did marry you it would be ruin, for he is a dreadful drinker. You know he is, Katherine.”
“He is leaving it off. He says he shall leave it off quite, and never take to it again.”
“You leave off walking with him: that is all you need think about leaving off,” retorted Mrs. Bing.
Katherine did not answer. She knew she would break her promise if she gave it; for she had become completely enthralled by Lionel Danesbury.
The news did reach the ears of Mrs. Danesbury, and she taxed Lionel with it. He answered, in a somewhat flippant manner, that he should walk with any one he pleased.
“Your walking with Bing’s girl will lead to no good, to you or to her,” cried Mrs. Danesbury. “You can not think to disgrace yourself and your family by marrying her.”
“She is as good as I am,” returned Lionel, “whether to walk with, or for a wife.”
“Lionel,” sternly interrupted his mother, “let us have no more of this absurdity. She is not as good as you are, and she is not a fit wife for you; and were you to stoop to marry such a person, the daughter of a common public-house keeper, you must give up your family, for they could not recognize you afterward. But, before you talk of marrying any wife, just ask yourself how you are to keep one. You are living now upon us!”
Lionel stood by the window as his mother talked to him, drumming on one of its panes. He was still gentlemanly-looking in figure — more so than Robert, for Robert had grown bloated — but his once clear eyes were clouded, his fresh colour was gone, and his well-formed features were sunken. No lack of talents or of intellect had been granted to Lionel Danesbury, and how was lie making use of them?
“Who told you any thing about my walking with Kate Bing?” he resumed.
“The place is ringing with it, and crying shame.”
“The place may be swallowed! Let people mind their own business: it’s no concern of theirs. Here’s my father coming in from the factory: I’ll make myself scarce, or perhaps he will begin upon me.”
Lionel might have spoken more civilly: but one great evil, in such training as Mrs. Danesbury’s had been, is, that it causes children to forget their respect. As he went out Mr. Danesbury came in.
“Have you heard the report about Lionel and that Bing girl?” Mrs. Danesbury immediately began.
“I heard it some days ago.”
“You must speak to him.”
“I did speak to him,” replied Mr. Danesbury. “But it appears that it has had no effect; and the report is, that he means to marry her.”
“What in the world can possess him?” uttered Mrs. Danesbury, in consternation. “Is he mad?”
“I have heard a curious version of what are said to be the facts,” resumed Mr. Danesbury. “You remember that Lionel used to be forever with young Laughton, the solicitor — who is another one going the way of drink.”
“He has been less intimate with him latterly,’’ remarked Mrs. Danesbury.
“Lionel often saw pretty Jane Laughton; he was nearly always there when presentable, and it seems he had grown very much attached to her. One day he told her so, and she answered him with undisguised scorn, reflecting on his habits. Lionel was half mad. The next day he was told that Jane Laughton was engaged to Thomas Boyd, and would be married shortly. He was in at the Wheatsheaf, half tipsy, when he heard it, and he swore a fearful oath that he would make an offer to the first girl he met, and be married before Jane Laughton. As he was leaving the Wheatsheaf he met Bing’s daughter coming in, and did make her an offer, and since then he has been much with her; and, they say, intends to marry her.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“From William. He got it, he says, from a sure source, and thought it right to inform me.”
If Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury were indignant at this proposed (though whether in jest or earnest, they could not divine) marriage of Lionel’s, Bing and his wife were equally alarmed. However they might be impressed by the honour done their daughter in the notice of a Danesbury, the unfortunate habits of Lionel were too notorious to admit of any chance of comfort for a wife. Kate was ordered to hold herself in readiness for a visit to her grandmother’s; a sharp, active woman still, who had eyes on all sides of her, where young girls were concerned, and farmed her late husband’s bit of land just as well as he used to do.
Bing resolved to take her himself in the tax-cart. “No girl of mine sha’n’t tie herself to a lazy, boozing vagabond of a gentleman,” quoth he to some cronies on the night previous to the expedition, “and that’s what Mr. Lionel is: and I don’t mean no offense to his respected father in saying it.”
“Nor to Mr. Arthur,” chimed in one.
“Nor to Mr. Arthur, nor to Mr. William,” acquiesced the host. “But as to the other two, they are no credit to any body.”
“Mr. William’s not a saint, where a drop of good liquor’s concerned. He don’t spare it.”
“And why should he spare it?” cried the landlord, indignant at the insinuation. “He takes his glass with any gentleman, but he keeps himself as a gentleman; he do. If the two young ones was like him, there wouldn’t be no need of calling out.”
Bing might have spared the projection of his journey in the tax-cart, and his wife the trouble of writing to her mother, to tell her to expect Kate, and to “keep her up tight,” for, when the morning rose, Kate was missing. Lionel Danesbury was also missing: and, when the two came back to Eastborough, they were man and wife.
Mrs. Danesbury’s doors were haughtily closed against them; but Mr. Danesbury, ever merciful, ever considerate to his erring children, who were fast breaking his heart, could not let Lionel starve; and he was established in a small cottage residence, to get what practice he might — Mr. Danesbury being answerable for the rent, and allowing them twenty shillings a week to live upon. Kate’s father was inveterate, and would not notice her.
“What a come down,” quoth the gossips, “for one of the wealthy Danesbury’s!”
CHAPTER XIX.
AN EVIL DEATH.
Did Lionel Danesbury amend his ways and drink less, now that he had assumed graver duties? Surely this marriage of his, this settling in a home of his own, might have proved a turning point. It may be, that he did not strive to break through his disastrous habits, too conscious that they had become part and parcel of himself: or, it may be, that he strove to make the effort, and strove in vain. Whether he did or not, will never be known now. Far from any amendment resulting, he grew worse than before, and it was a rare thing now, morning, noon, or night, for him to be seen entirely sober. As to Robert — but the less that is said about him in detail the better.
As the months went on, and this change for the worse appeared in Lionel, Mrs. Danesbury thought it best to pocket her pride, and be reconciled. She fancied that her renewed favor and intercourse might be productive of some good effect upon him. She never could be cordial with his wife; not quite cordial; there mast, and would, always be a reserve in her manner, as from a lady to an inferior. Poor Katherine Danesbury was sadly changed, her hopeful visions of her husband’s reformation were worse than not realized. She was an excellent wife to him, a slave to him night and day, and Mr. Danesbury openly avowed his opinion, that she was a far better and more patient wife than Lionel deserved.
They had been married about ten months when, one evening at dusk, Lionel’s wife appeared at Danesbury House, sorrow in her eye and suffering in her pale cheek. If she had come to tell of trouble, she had not chosen an opportune time, for Robert had been causing an unpleasant scene. He had been demanding money of his father, and when Mr. Danesbury refused it, had broken out into a torrent of abuse, both of his father and mother, and dashed about the room, raving and swearing, and then rushed from the house. That he was so overcome as not to be fully aware of his words, was no excuse. For the last three days he had not been for one minute sober, and his actions had partaken of insanity. They were sitting on each side the fire, Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury, and she was lamenting openly; weeping bitterly: his sorrows were buried in silence, but they were eating away his very heartstrings. He was a towering, upright man when you first saw him, never a finer man in Eastborough. Can it be, that the shrunken frame, obliged to be supported by a stick when walking, the withered cheek, the bent back are his? In so few years, can he thus have changed? It is not the years that have changed him, but the sorrow they have brought The sons that were born to him in his manhood, and whom he loved as the apple of his eye, whom he fondly fostered, liberally educated, whom he expected to be the comfort of his old age, those sons have heaped shame and sadness upon him; they are rendering his days a scene of strife and wretchedness, and are contributing to bring them to a close. It was thus, as Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury were sitting there, chewing the bitter cud of unavailing grief, that a servant opened the door and ushered in Lionel’s wife.
“Well, Katherine,” cried Mr. Danesbury, as he pointed to a chair beside him, and there was a painful amount of sadness and suffering in his subdued tone, “you look as if you bad something bad to tell”
Katherine strove to speak, but, after a minute’s struggle with herself, burst into tears. She had come to disclose a pitiful tale, and she was grieved and ashamed to be obliged to do it. Mr. Danesbury had given her the money for the rent, quarter by quarter — three quarters now — for his payments were always made to her, not to his son. She had handed it promptly to Lionel, who had always taken it, as she believed, to the landlord. It turned out, now, that he had never taken it, but had gone so perpetually with excuses, that the landlord, tired out, had that day put a man in possession.
“I am so ashamed to come, sir,” she sobbed, “and tell you such a thing as this, after all your kindness to us. I went to try and get it from my mother, but I find she is gone out for a few days. And he has been so excited ever since the man came in, that I’m sure he must be got out to-night. He seems on the eve” — she lowered her voice— “of another of those dreadful attacks. His wrists and round his eyes are turning red, and his knees are shaking, and he is fancying he sees things.’’
