University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Lady Beverly and her son got into their carriage
at an early hour, and Elkington ordered the
coachman to drive round the Park. The night was
clear without being cold, and the fresh air was
pleasant after the heat and somewhat uncommon
excitement of the ball.

“Besides,” said Elkington, as they wheeled out
of the Brandenburg gate, “I have to inform you
of what may lead to a consultation, which had better
be enjoyed at a proper distance from keyholes
and the thin partitioned rooms of these hotels. I
have had du succés to-night. The pretty bird is
limed.”

“You have had a conversation with Ida?” demanded
Lady Beverly, with lively marks of pleasure.

“She has, rather, acknowledged my superior

charms,” replied Elkington, also in the highest spirits;
“and I do not greatly doubt that, if I pressed
the thing, it might take place any day I choose.”

“Then, for the love of Heaven, Edward, let it be
at once.”

“I see no reason to be so alarmingly hasty,” said
Elkington, “though I am not disposed myself to
make any delay. She is a devilish fine girl. I
haven't seen her match. You may settle matters as
soon as you please with the old people. I give you
carte blanche.”

“I will then see the countess in the morning.”

“But will you answer me one question?” asked
Elkington.

“Tant que vous voudrez,” said Lady Beverly.

“I have observed in you a degree of anxiety
respecting this partie which I can't account for.
What does it mean? What particular interest have
you in this young lady?”

“Singular question!” said Lady Beverly. “Is it
extraordinary that a mother should exhibit anxiety
on the subject of her son's settlement in life?”

“No, not any reasonable anxiety; but you seem,
by a kind of logic, to betray the greatest anxiety
precisely at the moment when I feel the least.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“This, my good madame. When my amiable
father, Heaven preserve his life, is in good health,
and promises to last out the season, you settle down
into indifference. Now it is exactly when my father
promises to live long that I feel most desirous of
touching a fortune of my own. But, when the old
man is in one of his fits, and bids fair to pop suddenly
off, you are for marrying me to money in any
shape. Now I, not being at heart a marrying man,
would rather keep my freedom if I came into possession
of my inheritance, which, being entailed on
the eldest son, must come to me whether he will or
not.”

“Your imagination sees things which have no existence
in reality,” said Lady Beverly. “My empressement
to see you settled advantageously is always
equal; although, according to my mind, I may
not always betray it in the same degree. Only, Edward,
I want to see you married.”

“Much obliged to you, madame, I'm sure, for
your kind intentions; but, by Heaven, so mawkish
do I consider married life, that, if this charming
creature were less exquisite than she is, I would
bolt even yet. It's devilish lucky for her that she's
so pretty, or she would stand a slender chance of
being the Countess Beverly. A wife? bah! I am a
fool even now. The old man is ill; he must—d—n
it, he can't last long. I come in for my £50,000
a year; I pay my debts, and then what shall I do
with a wife? I shall be sick as death of her in
six months, and she, very likely, will run off from
me in twelve. She has too lovely a face to keep
out of danger. I shall have to shoot half a dozen
fellows on her account, to see her slip through my
fingers at last; for women, foul and fair, are all
alike at heart; and, though delicious creatures in
their proper places, are sad encumbrances when tied
to one by law. Partridge, always partridge.”

“I am afraid, it is true, that your disposition will
prevent your ever settling down into a happy husband;
but I trust it will correct some of your follies.
You will have no longer temptation to gamble;
at least, except at home, and more moderately.
Your debts once paid—”

“Ah, that's the question. If it were not for them,
I could leave this pretty thing to some more sentimental
adorer. Marriage sickens me. It's a damper.
But Shooter is getting impatient; and then—
the Jew; oh! how I hate and dread that man!”

“What are the amounts of these frightful liabilities?
You have often promised to tell me when
once in the way to discharge them. Your marriage

with Ida will do that at once, and enable you, moreover,
to be rich besides. What are the debts?”

“Oh, as things stand, I don't mind, if you think
your nerves can bear it!”

“I can bear anything, if you will conclude at
once your marriage with Ida. Come, frankly tell
me the amount.”

“Well, frankly, then, I owe Shooter £15,000.”

“And the other—the usurer?”

“£25,000.”

“Edward, my son!” cried Lady Beverly, equally
astonished and terrified.

“That's it,” said Elkington, lifting his foot against
the chariot cushion, and tapping it lightly with his
rattan. “I told you your nerves were not strong
enough.”

“£25,000?”

“Just, besides interest; which, by the time the
old man goes, if he doesn't go pretty quick, will
make it £40,000. Old Abraham is no half-way
man: he is, I believe, without intending to flatter
him, the most intense scoundrel that ever breathed.
He's got me hooked in such a way that all earth
can't help me; pay I must, and pay I shall.”

“Great Heaven! I had no idea of this; and if your
father should determine to—to—”

“He can't, madame; and, by Heaven, I don't understand
you; you have hinted this to me half a
dozen times. I am my father's heir, and neither he
nor any one else can help it. He won't last. He's
growing worse and worse. And, notwithstanding,
as usual, he goes on in the same way—living high,
drinking deep; and the doctor says it must be over
with him soon. With this prospect before me,
what's forty, fifty, a hundred, or even more thousands.
It is but living a year or two somewhere
abroad, or a lucky turn at cards, and all's right
again!”

“Listen to me, Edward,” said Lady Beverly, in

a tremulous voice. “But why do I advise you?”
She caught herself, as if on the eve of making a
disclosure respecting which she had changed her
mind. “Go on—play deep, as you have hitherto
done—heap yourself with debts—till one day you
may remember your mother's caution against the
wretched life of a gambler, and the danger of such
equivocal characters as Shooter—when, perhaps, it
may be too late to profit by it.”

“It's false, madame,” said Elkington; “the gambler's
life, if you honour me with that appellation, is
not wretched. That is a cry raised by cowards
who have not the courage to play, or by whining
asses that have lost. Play is life—happiness. Nothing
else gives me pleasure. I even deplore the
hours lost in attendance upon this little girl, and
which might be so much more delightfully employed.
The life of a player who has his wits about
him is one of continual pleasure. Its disappointments
come unattended with pain; for what you
lose to-day is, you know, only lent to be regained
to-morrow. Besides, some one must eventually
win, and why not I? Where so much money
changes hands, it must go somewhere. It doesn't
melt!”

“Ah, yes it does—and most effectually!” said
Lady Beverly.

“I allow something for your wit, madame, but
one may be facetious without being just; and as for
Shooter, he's a devilish fine fellow—true as steel—
and what's lost to him is fairly lost. As for Abraham—there,
I acknowledge, I've been duped; but
what's `without remedy should be without regard.'
I'll marry the girl if the fortune is, as you assure
me, large, and to be come at readily. This will
quiet them all, if it does not immediately pay them.
We'll go back to London, and—”

They had now reached their hotel. Scarlet threw
open the door. In the hall a gentleman was coming

out. Lady Beverly dropped her shawl. The
footman was hastening to pick it up, but it fell at
the stranger's feet. He raised it, politely handed it
to her, and passed on. At this moment Lady Beverly
staggered back against the wall, pale, and nearly
fainting.

“Madame, you are ill,” said Claude—for it was
he—hastening to her assistance.

“No, sir—thank you—it is the—air—the ball—
Scarlet—Edward—to my room—at once.”

Her fine appearance and splendid ball-dress, as
well as the distingué air of Elkington, and the richness
of the livery of the servants, excited Claude's
attention. On inquiring, he learned that he had
aided Lady Beverly and Lord Elkington. They
had the first floor of the hotel at which he had been
to make a call. He could scarcely repress a feeling
of envy, as the tall, handsome form of Elkington
disappeared from his view, and he thought what
a happy fate was his.