THE BROOKS CLUB.
Eleven o'clock chimed from the tall clock placed opposite the fireplace.
To its faint, silvery tones, which vibrated for some moments upon the
atmosphere of the silent chamber, neighboring clocks, repeating the
hour, seemed to make echo with their melancholy voices.
"Already eleven o'clock!" exclaimed Esther, starting to her feet. "I
must go; I should be at home at this moment!"
"The crowd has not yet dispersed," answered Lady Vereker; "listen to
their shouts."
Lady Vereker's mansion was situated upon Park Lane, at that day a
lonesome part of the town, whither gentlemen were wont to come in the
early morning to cross swords in order to get up an appetite, and
instead frequently succeeded in turning their stomachs inside out. Bella
approached one of the windows. Upon the faint, luminous grayness of the
sky were sketched the outlines of Hyde Park wrapped in profound sleep,
but the glow of the bonfires flushed the southern horizon, and from time
to time savage outcries crossed the calmness of the night.
"They are delirious over their Rodney," said Bella with a shrug;
"neither a chair nor a coach will be able to pass through St. James's,
and the other side of the Green Park is deserted at this hour; we should
risk being attacked there. Ah, me! how fortunate are common women! They
can go everywhere. But why should we not change our attire? My women
will accommodate us with gowns. _Pardieu!_ that would be charming!"
Lady Vereker uttered her little oath in French. The idea of the
masquerade pleased her immensely, and without waiting for Esther's
acquiescence she began to put it in execution.
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour they were equipped as women of
the lower class.
[Illustration]
"Esther," exclaimed Lady Bella, "you look like a Soho dressmaker! And I,
Fanchette, what do I look like?"
"I dare not say," replied the maid; "all that I can assure your ladyship
is that in my gown you are--worse than I."
"Exactly as I desire to look," replied Lady Vereker with a burst of
laughter at the impertinence.
Thereupon she started off, taking Esther by the arm, and forbidding even
a footman to follow her. For that matter, her people seemed accustomed
to the strange caprices of their mistress.
Upon reaching Piccadilly they passed suddenly from the shadow and
silence into the tumult and violent glare of the bonfires. Many a joke
was levelled at them as they passed. One man wearing clerical attire,
and who seemed completely intoxicated, approached them, declaring that
by Jupiter they were deucedly pretty girls and he would have a kiss from
each! In order to escape him the two women ran down St. James Street,
where the crowd separated them from the enterprising clergyman.
"A churchman!" panted Esther. "Can you believe it?"
"No, my dear: it was the Duke of Norfolk; he whom they call 'Jockey
Norfolk.' His mania is for disguising himself as a country curate, and
running about town and making a fool of himself. When he is dead-drunk
people profit by his condition to rob him."
"What a horrible person!"
"On the contrary, I assure you that when he is sober he is most
amiable."
In the neighborhood of St. James's the mob grew denser and more
excited. There were beggar-women holding their new-born infants at arms'
length, chairmen, sailors, thieves of all ages, recognizable by their
skulking air and their sly, sharp glances, and finally a sprinkling of
gentlemen, come hither after a good dinner to give vent to their
political passions, or simply to amuse themselves by hustling the women
and making a noise generally. The crowd laughed and vociferated, and
threw stones at the windows of a grand mansion which belonged to one of
the king's ministers. They applauded each successful shot, and howled
over the failures.
At last all the ministerial windows were broken except one, which
remained intact, protected by two caryatides which advanced like
sentinels, supporting the roof; and against this single window were all
the efforts directed, as if the detested minister were standing behind
the sash, or as if the crushing of that bit of glass were going to cover
the enemies of England with confusion and terminate the war at a blow.
The assailants excited each other by constantly crying, "Be bold,
Tommy!" "At it again, Jack!" "Pluck up there, old boy!"
Suddenly a figure bounded from the midst of the crowd, a long arm was
extended, a stone whizzed through the air, and the window so long
protected was shattered, and fell into a thousand pieces. A yell of
triumph burst from a hundred throats, and every eye was turned upon the
hero. He was a great, lank, awkward fellow with a pug-nose, a cold,
impertinent eye, thin lips and blinking eyelids, who testified the
satisfaction in his achievement simply by a fleeting smile of coarse
disdain.
"Is that you, William?" said Bella to him. "Fine occupation for Lord
Chatham's son!"
Young William Pitt turned sharply and bent his keen gaze upon the person
who had thus apostrophized him. He recognized her and a swift flush
stained his pallid cheeks.
"Let me alone," he muttered; "I was only having some fun!" And walking
off, he was soon lost in the crowd.
"That boy will never be anything but a ne'er-do-well," said Lady Vereker
with a shrug.
Three years later "that boy" became Prime Minister of England, and such
a Prime Minister as England had never had before him.
Meanwhile the crowd waxed more turbulent. The ferocity born of pleasure,
the longing to destroy, peculiar to such huge assemblies of Englishmen,
begin to make themselves manifest.
As there were no more windows to break, what was to be done?
"Pull down the house!" was the cry. "Get a beam and we will set our
shoulders to it! Here are twenty good men of like mind! No: fetch some
straw and fagots! Set fire to the door! Let us smoke the rats out of
their trap!"
A score of figures appeared, ghastly, sinister, suggesting pillage. In
the general disorder the libertines grew bolder. The shrieks of women
burst from obscure corners, followed by long, brutal laughter.
"I am terrified! I feel as if I were going to faint," gasped Esther.
Although she affected a show of courage, Lady Vereker was beginning to
quail.
"Indeed, I did very wrong to come here," she said; "let us try to
retrace our steps or gain a side street."
But it was too late. The mob increased with every moment. The crowds of
new arrivals pressed down upon them, cutting off the retreat of those
who sought to escape the turmoil.
"I am stifling!" cried Esther wildly, as she lost her footing.
At this moment a cry arose:--
"The Guards! the Guards!"
The solid earth trembled beneath the gallop of the troop which had just
turned the corner of Pall Mall and were charging up the street. Amidst
the frightful tumult there came a second of silence and stupor, during
which was heard the ring of hoofs as they struck the pavement and the
commands of the officers:--
"Right about! Forward! Draw sabres!"
There was a click of steel and glimmer of blades. An indescribable panic
ensued. The people, of late so buoyant, now mad with terror, rushed
towards the nearest exit--that is, to some place of safety--with such
savage energy and with so formidable an impulse that iron railings were
rent before them. Esther felt herself wrenched from Bella so suddenly
and with such brutal force that it was a miracle that her arm which
encircled Lady Vereker's waist was not left behind her. The human tide
hurled her against a house and would have crushed her against the wall
had not other human bodies intervened and saved her from the violence of
the shock. She found herself at the head of a flight of six stairs
without having set foot upon one of them. A large door stood open before
her. Twenty persons were projected along with her into the interior in
a solid mass, entering the house like an inundation. Esther was saved;
the horrible fear which had paralyzed every nerve was relieved, and her
heart began to beat again. At the same time, through the open door and
high above the desperate cries of those who still struggled in the
street, she heard the ringing voice of an officer commanding a halt. The
Riot Act was being read, and an occasional fragment of the coldly
menacing phrases reached even her ear.
The place into which Esther had been cast was a spacious vestibule, into
which surged fresh arrivals without ceasing, despite the efforts of the
footmen and of a man who fretted and fumed, and gave useless and
inexecutable orders. This man, the proprietor of the place, was Mr.
Brooks, and the house was the famous club which bore his name. Poor Mr.
Brooks endeavored to confine the crowd to the vestibule, which he was
forced to yield to it, as one yields to a conflagration; but already
under the pressure of the mass Esther had been thrust into a second
antechamber. The air was close and stifling; the situation became
critical, while the second danger threatened to become worse than the
first.
Suddenly a little door was thrown open, and some one laid hold upon her.
In the next instant the door was closed, and the girl found herself in
the depths of an arm-chair, where she swooned.
Not entirely, however; she felt in a half-conscious way that some one
slapped her hands and blew in her face. A voice murmured, "Some water!
Cold water, quick!" Then the person left her, for she felt that she was
alone again. Suddenly a great hubbub filled the house. In the street
without, now quite deserted, the cavalry swept by like a whirlwind.
Then all was silence. With eyes closed, and in a state of
semi-consciousness, Esther believed herself alone, when all at once, but
a few steps from her, a word was pronounced in an angry tone.
"A doublet!"
Oaths and stifled exclamations accompanied the word. Brought to her
senses by curiosity and apprehension, Esther opened her eyes and beheld
a remarkable spectacle. It was a vast hall lighted by several lamps
suspended from the ceiling. The light, gathered by immense reflectors of
tin, fell full upon a long table placed in the centre of the apartment.
This table was covered with a green cloth crossed with white lines.
Seven or eight men were seated about it, each one having at his side a
bowl full of gold pieces and a small tray bearing a cup of tea, a glass,
and a flask of brandy. They were engaged in a game of faro.
Nothing could have been more singular than their appearance and attire.
Nearly every man wore a large straw hat to screen his eyes from the
dazzling light, and perhaps to mask his emotions at the same time; but
the most ridiculous part of it was that two or three of the younger
gamesters had seen fit to decorate their hats with flowers and ribbons
after the fashion of the shepherdesses in the opera. Certain persons,
attired with studied refinement, wore leathern cuffs to avoid soiling
the lace at their wrists. God save the mark! They would consent to lose
a castle in the course of an evening, but would hesitate to spoil a pair
of Chantilly ruffles. Others seemed to have lost all respect for
themselves. One young man who sat opposite Esther, a sort of
good-natured athlete, with big, sensual jaws, and whose tanned face,
especially his brow and glance, shone with intelligence and audacity,
was so negligent in his attire that his hairy chest appeared beneath his
open shirt. Another, an older man, wore his coat turned inside out,
through superstitious fancy, as every one was aware; while more than
one, with hands concealed beneath the table, feverishly fingered some
sort of talisman.
These men appeared to have heard nothing,--neither the cries of the mob,
the invasion of the house, the charge of the Guards, nor the entrance of
a strange woman into the very room where they were playing. What
mattered it all to them? What did it all amount to in comparison with a
doublet? As infatuated as Horace's wise man, the end of the world would
not have interrupted their game.
Esther felt that her presence was as unperceived as though a charm had
rendered her invisible, like the living being whose terrible fate had
conducted him on board of the phantom ship. Therefore without a qualm of
fear she permitted herself to enjoy the novel scene.
At this moment the banker's _coteau_ raked in all the stakes, the rare
and fortunate result of drawing two similar cards from his right and
left.
"Used up!" exclaimed a stout man with a prodigious sigh, his bowl being
empty. In the speaker Esther recognized Stephen Fox, whom she had seen
at Drury Lane. His brother, Charles James, the eminent orator, the man
with the open shirt, gayly smote his shoulder.
"Shylock will make you a loan," he said; "you have more than a pound of
flesh to offer him as security!"
Instead of a laugh, Charley's joke was received with a grunt of
approbation.
One man alone seemed insensible to the incidents of the game. This was a
gentleman of some sixty years, dressed in accordance with the latest
Parisian _mode_. In him Esther recognized George Selwyn, who had been
one of the most amiable, one of the wittiest men of his time, but was
now absorbed and besotted by a passion more potent than that of gaming.
Up to this time the actress had not seen the banker, whose back was
turned to her and who had not uttered a word. At this moment, however,
the following disdainful words escaped him: "Ten thousand pounds, and no
more! What a shame that I should have played for such low stakes!"
Esther started at sound of that voice, which she had heard not more than
twice, but which she recognized instantly. It was Lord Mowbray, that
terrible Mowbray, against whose love she had been warned!
A man entered the room and approached her with a glass of water in his
hand.
"I see that you are better," he said. "Never mind; drink this to secure
your recovery."
Esther hesitated. Still fluttered by the discovery which she had just
made, she could not but be mindful of Lady Vereker's warning words. How
many times had she read in romances and journals strange narratives of
young girls being rendered helpless by narcotics! Ought she to drink, to
trust this unknown man? She looked at him, and her perplexity increased.
Another enigma to decipher: a generous sentiment pictured upon an evil
countenance.
In fact, all the passions seemed to have left their trace upon that
worn, pallid, haggard face. His age was uncertain, his condition
ambiguous; his accent even sounded a note of doubt upon the nationality
of the individual, offering no clew. Was he of middle age or old; valet
or gentleman; English or a foreigner? One surprising thing was that the
hard, bold manner which might well be habitual vanished before an
expression of interest which seemed sincere. As he noted the girl's
hesitation a trace of sadness passed over his coarsened features, almost
ennobling them.
"I am not thirsty," she said, loath to wound the feelings of one who had
already shown her consideration.
And he, regaining his accustomed composure, placed the glass upon a
console.
Softly as Esther had spoken, Lord Mowbray had heard her. He turned and
bent his stupefied gaze upon her. Esther, alone, in the torn garments of
a serving maid, half fainting, in the card-room of the Brooks Club!
Assuredly there was food in plenty for his surprise. What fate had sent
his prey into his very clutches? Fortune, it is said, never comes
single-handed! After the doublet, this fairest flower! And he was just
the man to profit by his luck.
"Gentlemen," he said, rising as he spoke, "circumstances oblige me to--"
A cry of indignation interrupted his words, while three or four hands
were placed upon his shoulders, forcibly obliging him to resume his
seat.
"The game is not over." "We won't permit it!" "Wait until you win
another ten thousand!" "This is not fair!"
"So be it!" answered Mowbray with a smile; "only permit me to say one
word to Lebeau."
The man who had brought the glass of water approached upon hearing his
name, and Lord Mowbray hastily whispered a phrase in a foreign tongue in
his ear. Thereupon Lebeau, as we may now call him, returned to the girl.
"The street is free," he said, "but, now that the Guards have passed,
the disorder may begin again. If you wish to profit by the lull to make
your way home, the minutes are precious. Do you feel strong enough to
walk?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then come."
Esther rose and obeyed him, this time without hesitation. The momentary
excitement occasioned by the doublet having subsided, the gamblers had
remarked her presence. The glances directed towards her betrayed their
curiosity. Despite her disguise, she might be recognized; consequently
the necessity of escaping as speedily as possible presented itself. But
she did not forget that Lebeau was her guide, the accursed mentor of the
greatest libertine in England. The young lord had whispered to his
former tutor; evidently the hurried words had reference to her.
Therefore she saw the necessity of being upon her guard, ready to fly at
the slightest suspicious movement. Meanwhile her heart beat with fear,
curiosity and, perhaps, with delight; for it must be admitted that she
adored an adventure.
So they went out. The din of the riot came to them from a distance. The
street was empty; the night was beautiful and calm. The lights in the
lanterns were flickering in their sconces and expiring. The minister's
house with its broken windows was guarded by soldiery.
[Illustration]
Preceded by a page who carried a torch, Lebeau took the way towards
Westminster. It seemed marvellous that he should know so well the
location of Miss Woodville's abode.
"Will it please you to give me your arm?" he asked in a slightly
changed, humble tone.
She passed her arm within his. Lebeau quickly drew his cocked hat down
over his eyes to conceal his glance, and sustained the young girl with
an almost tender solicitude, but with discretion and respect.
Thus they walked some distance in silence. At last he began:--
"You distrusted me at first."
She tried to protest, but he added:--
"Oh, you were quite right. Be on your guard. Life is full of snares. I
have an intimate acquaintance with my brother man, and I find him bad."
Was he speaking of mankind in general, or of some one in particular?
Esther was upon the point of inquiring when they halted in Tothill
Street before a low door, upon which Lebeau knocked loudly.
"Some one is coming," he said; "I hear steps in the garden. You have
escaped a menacing danger. I do not speak of being crushed beneath the
hoofs of the horses; that would be as nothing compared with the other.
You are saved, but the peril may threaten you again at any moment.
However, it does not signify. _You are in my care._"
With these words he turned upon his heel and vanished just as the door
was thrown open. Esther found herself confronted by the more severe than
anxious face of her cousin Reuben. With his youthful air, his light,
fluffy hair and sombre eyes, he resembled one of those avenging angels
whom the Lord sent to the guilty cities to pronounce their doom when the
hour of repentance had passed and that of retribution had sounded.
"At last!" he muttered in a bitter tone.
"Were you alarmed about me? Has not a man been sent here with a message
from Lady Vereker?"
"Yes," answered Reuben with a derisive sneer; "that woman, whose very
name is a reproach and a scandal, has had the goodness to assure us that
you were in her charge. A strange guardian! Daniel was safer in the
lions' den than Esther Woodville under Lady Vereker's wing!"
"You have no idea what has happened? All London is insane over Rodney's
victory. They are fighting and breaking windows; the streets are full of
soldiers."
"But what means this disguise?"
"I swear to you it was the only means of passing through the crowds."
"I should be glad to believe you," said Reuben, enveloping her in a
glance of fire. "Oh, Esther! You who bear the predestined name, the
chaste name of the woman who saved the people of God, you who ought to
be as pure as the fountain of Gihon, as fresh as the rose of Sharon!"
But Esther abbreviated the biblical effusion.
"I must hasten to relieve my aunt's mind," she said.
"I have advised her to retire without waiting for you."
"That was wise. Good night, Reuben."
"Good night. I am going to pray."
"And I--am going to bed and to sleep."
But she did not sleep as readily as she had anticipated. The events of
the day and evening, Sir Joshua's guests, the gamblers at Brooks's with
their shepherd hats, the dangers encountered, her new friend Bella, the
mysterious personage who had, as it seemed, received orders to plan her
ruin, yet had protected her,--all these conflicting subjects created a
tumult in her brain.
She cogitated upon the singular destiny which had cast her between the
love of a Reuben and that of a Lord Mowbray, between a saint and a
demon.
And when at last she sank into the unconsciousness of sleep, between
these two personalities, equally imperious and passionate, but actuated
by an opposite sentiment, there glided the pale, melancholy visage of
Francis Monday.