Mr. Scarborough's Family Part 60

Had a little time been allowed him all would have been paid; and all had been paid. He knew that by the rules of such inst.i.tutions time could not be granted; but still he did not feel himself to have been a dishonest man. Yet he had been so disgraced that he could hardly venture to walk about the streets of London in the daylight. And then there came upon him, when he found himself alone at Tretton, an irrepressible desire for gambling. It was as though his throat were parched with an implacable thirst. He walked about ever meditating certain fortunate turns of the cards; and when he had worked himself up to some realization of his old excitement he would remember that it was all a vain and empty bubble. He had money in his pocket, and could rush up to London if he would, and if he did so he could, no doubt, find some coa.r.s.e h.e.l.l at which he could stake it till it would be all gone; but the gates of the A---- and the B---- and the C---- would be closed against him; and he would then be driven to feel that he had indeed fallen into the nethermost pit. Were he once to play at such places as his mind painted to him he could never play at any other; and yet when the day drew nigh on which he was to go to London, on his way to Buston, he did bethink himself where these places were to be found. His throat was parched, and the thirst upon him was extreme. Cards were the weapons he had used. He had played ecarte, piquet, whist, and baccarat, with an occasional night of some foolish game such as cribbage or vingt-et-un. Though he had always lost, he had always played with men who had played honestly. There is much that is, in truth, dishonest even in honest play. A man who can keep himself sober after dinner plays with one who fl.u.s.ters himself with drink. The man with a trained memory plays with him who cannot remember a card. The cool man plays with the impetuous; the man who can hold his tongue with him who cannot but talk; the man whose practised face will tell no secrets with him who loses a point every rubber by his uncontrolled grimaces. And then there is the man who knows the game, and plays with him who knows it not at all. Of course, the cool, the collected, the thoughtful, the practised,--they who have given up their whole souls to the study of cards,--will play at a great advantage, which in their calculations they do not fail to recognize. See the man standing by and watching the table, and leaving all the bets he can on A and B as against C and D; and, however ignorant you may be, you will soon become sure that A and B know the game, whereas C and D are simply infants. That is all fair and acknowledged; but looking at it from a distance, as you lie under your apple-trees in your orchard, far from the shout of "Two by honors," you will come to doubt the honesty of making your income after such a fas.h.i.+on.

Such as it is, Mountjoy sighed for it bitterly,--sighed for it, but could not see where it was to be found. He had a gentleman's horror of those resorts in gin-shops, or kept by the disciples of gin-shops, where he would surely be robbed,--which did not appal him,--but robbed in bad company. Thinking of all this, he went up to London late in the afternoon, and spent an uncomfortable evening in town. It was absolutely innocent as regarded the doings of the night itself, but was terrible to him. There was a slow drizzling rain; but not the less after dinner at his hotel he started off to wander through the streets. With his great-coat and his umbrella he was almost hidden; and as he pa.s.sed through Pall Mall, up St. James's Street, and along Piccadilly, he could pause and look in at the accustomed door. He saw men entering whom he knew, and knew that within five minutes they could be seated at their tables. "I had an awfully heavy time of it last night," one said to another as he went up the steps; and Mountjoy, as he heard the words, envied the speaker. Then he pa.s.sed back and went again a tour of all the clubs. What had he done that he, like a poor Peri, should be unable to enter the gates of all these paradises? He had now in his pocket fifty pounds. Could he have been made absolutely certain that he would have lost it, he would have gone into any paradise and have staked his money with that certainty.

At last, having turned up Waterloo Place, he saw a man standing in the door-way of one of these palaces, and he was aware at once that the man had seen him. He was a man of such a nature that it would be impossible that he should have seen a worse. He was a small, dry, good-looking little fellow, with a carefully preserved mustache, and a head from the top of which age was beginning to move the hair. He lived by cards, and lived well. He was called Captain Vignolles, but it was only known of him that he was a professional gambler. He probably never cheated. Men who play at the clubs scarcely ever cheat,--there are so many with whom they play sharp enough to discover them; and with the discovered gambler all in this world is over. Captain Vignolles never cheated; but he found that an obedience to those little rules which I have named above stood him well in lieu of cheating. He was not known to have any particular income, but he was known to live on the best of everything as far as club life was concerned.

He immediately followed Mountjoy down into the street and greeted him.

"Captain Scarborough as I am a living man!"

"Well, Vignolles; how are you?"

"And so you have come back once more to the land of the living! I was awfully sorry for you, and think that they treated you uncommon harshly.

As you've paid your money, of course they'll let you in again." In answer to this, Mountjoy had very little to say: but the interview ended by his accepting an invitation from Captain Vignolles to supper for the following evening. If Captain Scarborough would come at eleven o'clock Captain Vignolles would ask a few fellows to meet him, and they would have--just a little rubber of whist. Mountjoy knew well the nature of the man who asked him, and understood perfectly what would be the result; but there thrilled through his bosom, as he accepted the invitation, a sense of joy which he could himself hardly understand.

On the following morning Mountjoy was up, for him, very early, and taking a return ticket went down to Buston. He had written to Mr.

Prosper, sending his compliments, and saying that he would do himself the honor of calling at a certain hour.

At the hour named he drew up at Buston Hall in a fly from Buntingford Station, and was told by Matthew, the old butler, that his master was at home. If Captain Mountjoy would step into the drawing-room Mr. Prosper should be informed. Mountjoy did as he was bidden, and after half an hour he was joined by Mr. Prosper. "You have received a letter from my father," he began by saying.

"A very long letter," said the Squire of Buston.

"I dare say; I did not see it, and have in fact very little to say as to its contents. I do not know, indeed, what they were."

"The letter refers to my nephew, Mr. Henry Annesley."

"I suppose so. What I have to say refers to Mr. Henry Annesley also."

"You are kind,--very kind."

"I don't know about that; but I have come altogether at my father's instance, and I think, indeed, that, in fairness, I ought to tell you the truth as to what took place between me and your nephew."

"You are very good; but your father has already given me his account,--and I suppose yours."

"I don't know what my father may have done, but I think that you ought to desire to hear from my lips an account of the transaction. An untrue account has been told to you."

"I have heard it all from your own brother."

"An untrue account has been told to you. I attacked your nephew."

"What made you do that?" asked the squire.

"That has nothing to do with it; but I did."

"I understood all that before."

"But you didn't understand that Mr. Annesley behaved perfectly well in all that occurred."

"Did he tell a lie about it afterward?"

"My brother no doubt lured him on to make an untrue statement."

"A lie!"

"You may call it so if you will. If you think that Augustus was to have it all his own way, I disagree with you altogether. In point of fact, your nephew behaved through the whole of that matter as well as a man could do. Practically, he told no lie at all. He did just what a man ought to do, and anything that you have heard to the contrary is calumnious and false. As I am told that you have been led by my brother's statement to disinherit your nephew--"

"I have done nothing of the kind."

"I am very glad to hear it. He has not, at any rate, deserved it; and I have felt it to be my duty to come and tell you."

Then Mountjoy retired, not without hospitality having been coldly offered by Mr. Prosper, and went back to Buntingford and to London. Now at last would come, he said to himself through the whole afternoon, now at last would come a repet.i.tion of those joys for which his very soul had sighed so eagerly.

CHAPTER XLII.

CAPTAIN VIGNOLLES ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS.

Mountjoy, when he reached Captain Vignolles's rooms, was received apparently with great indifference. "I didn't feel at all sure you would come. But there is a bit of supper, if you like to stay. I saw Moody this morning, and he said he would look in if he was pa.s.sing this way. Now sit down and tell me what you have been doing since you disappeared in that remarkable manner." This was not at all what Mountjoy had expected, but he could only sit down and say that he had done nothing in particular. Of all club men, Captain Vignolles would be the worst with whom to play alone during the entire evening. And Mountjoy remembered now that he had never been inside four walls with Vignolles except at a club. Vignolles regarded him simply as a piece of prey whom chance had thrown up on the sh.o.r.e. And Moody, who would no doubt show himself before long, was another bird of the same covey, though less rapacious. Mountjoy put his hand up to his breast-pocket, and knew that the fifty pounds was there, but he knew also that it would soon be gone.

Even to him it seemed to be expedient to get up and at once to go. What delight would there be to him in playing piquet with such a face opposite to him as that of Captain Vignolles, or with such a one as that of old Moody? There could be none of the brilliance of the room, no pleasant hum of the voices of companions, no sense of his own equality with others. There would be none to sympathize with him when he cursed his ill-luck, there would be no chance of contending with an innocent who would be as reckless as was he himself. He looked round. The room was gloomy and uncomfortable. Captain Vignolles watched him, and was afraid that his prey was about to escape. "Won't you light a cigar?"

Mountjoy took the cigar, and then felt that he could not go quite at once. "I suppose you went to Monaco?"

"I was there for a short time."

"Monaco isn't bad,--though there is, of course, the pull which the tables have against you. But it's a grand thing to think that skill can be of no avail. I often think that I ought to play nothing but rouge et noir."

"You?"

"Yes; I. I don't deny that I'm the luckiest fellow going; but I never can remember cards. Of course I know my trade. Every fellow knows his trade, and I'm up pretty nearly in all that the books tell you."

"That's a great deal."

"Not when you come to play with men who know what play is. Look at Grossengrannel. I'd sooner bet on him than any man in London.

Grossengrannel never forgets a card. I'll bet a hundred pounds that he knows the best card in every suit throughout the entire day's play.

That's his secret. He gives his mind to it,--which I can't. Hang it! I'm always thinking of something quite different,--of what I'm going to eat, or that sort of thing. Grossengrannel is always looking at the cards, and he wins the odd rubber out of every eleven by his attention. Shall we have a game of piquet?"

Now on the moment, in spite of all that he had felt during the entire day, in the teeth of all his longings, in opposition to all his thirst, Mountjoy for a minute or two did think that he could rise and go. His father was about to put him on his legs again,--if only he would abstain.

But Vignolles had the card-table open, with clean packs, and chairs at the corners, before he could decide. "What is it to be? Twos on the game I suppose." But Mountjoy would not play piquet. He named ecarte, and asked that it might be only ten s.h.i.+llings a game. It was many months now since he had played a game of ecarte. "Oh, hang it!" said Vignolles, still holding the pack in his hands. When thus appealed to Mountjoy relented, and agreed that a pound should be staked on each game. When they had played seven games Vignolles had won but one pound, and expressed an opinion that that kind of thing wouldn't suit them at all.

"School-girls would do better," he said. Then Mountjoy pushed back his chair as though to go, when the door opened and Major Moody entered the room. "Now we'll have a rubber at dummy," said Captain Vignolles.

Major Moody was a gray-headed old man of about sixty, who played his cards with great attention, and never spoke a word,--either then or at any other period of his life. He was the most taciturn of men, and was known not at all to any of his companions. It was rumored of him that he had a wife at home, whom he kept in moderate comfort on his winnings. It seemed to be the sole desire of his heart to play with reckless, foolish young men, who up to a certain point did not care what they lost. He was popular, as being always ready to oblige every one, and, as was frequently said of him, was the very soul of honor. He certainly got no amus.e.m.e.nt from the play, working at it very hard,--and very constantly.

No one ever saw him anywhere but at the club. At eight o'clock he went home to dinner, let us hope to the wife of his bosom, and at eleven he returned, and remained as long as there were men to play with. A tedious and unsatisfactory life he had, and it would have been well for him could his friends have procured on his behoof the comparative ease of a stool in a counting-house. But, as no such Elysium was opened to him, the major went on accepting the smaller profits and the harder work of club life. In what regiment he had been a major no one knew or cared to inquire. He had been received as Major Moody for twenty years or more, and twenty years is surely time enough to settle a man's claim to a majority without reference to the Army List.

"How are you, Major Moody?" asked Mountjoy.

"Not much to boast of. I hope you're pretty well, Captain Scarborough."

Beyond that there was no word of salutation, and no reference to Mountjoy's wonderful absence.