CHAPTER VI.
_The Cost of Pleasure_
THE letter from his bankers informed the Duke of St. James that not onlywas the half-million exhausted, but, in pursuance of their powers, theyhad sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, had advancedeven beyond it. They were ready to accommodate him in every possibleway, and to advance as much more as he could desire, at five per cent.!Sweet five per cent.! Oh! magical five per cent.! Lucky the rogue nowwho gets three. Nevertheless, they thought it but proper to call hisGrace's attention to the circumstance, and to put him in possession ofthe facts. Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tellthe truth.
The Duke of St. James had never affected to be a man of business; still,he had taken it for granted that pecuniary embarrassment was not everto be counted among his annoyances. He wanted something to do, anddetermined to look into his affairs, merely to amuse himself.
The bankers were most polite. They brought their books, also severalpackets of papers neatly tied up, and were ready to give everyinformation. The Duke asked for results. He found that the turf,the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in purchasing the lease andfurniture of his mansion, and the rest, had, with his expenditure,exhausted his first year's income; but he reconciled himself to this,because he chose to consider them extraordinary expenses. Then thefestivities of Pen Bronnock counterbalanced the economy of his morescrambling life the preceding year; yet he had not exceeded his incomemuch. Then he came to Sir Carte's account. He began to get a littlefrightened. Two hundred and fifty thousand had been swallowed byHauteville Castle: one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville House.Ninety-six thousand had been paid for furniture. There were also someawkward miscellanies which, in addition, exceeded the half-million.
This was smashing work; but castles and palaces, particularly of thecorrectest style of architecture, are not to be had for nothing. TheDuke had always devoted the half-million to this object; but he hadintended that sum to be sufficient. What puzzled and what annoyed himwas a queer suspicion that his resources had been exhausted withouthis result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, who gave everyinformation, and assured him that, had he had the least idea that alimit was an object, he would have made his arrangements accordingly. Asit was, he assured the young Duke that he would be the Lord of the mostsumptuous and accurate castle, and of the most gorgeous and tastefulpalace, in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of words, when hisemployer cut him short by a peremptory demand of the exact sum requisitefor the completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, and requestedtime. The estimates should be sent in as quickly as possible. The clerksshould sit up all night, and even his own rest should not be an object,any more than the Duke's purse. So they parted.
The Duke determined to run down to Brighton for change of scene.He promised his bankers to examine everything on his return; in themeantime, they were to make all necessary advances, and honour hisdrafts to any amount.
He found the city of chalk and shingles not quite so agreeable as lastyear. He discovered that it had no trees. There was there, also, justeverybody that he did not wish to see. It was one great St. James'Street, and seemed only an anticipation of that very season which hedreaded. He was half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not fixupon any spot. London might be agreeable, as it was empty; but thenthose confounded accounts awaited him. The Bird of Paradise was a sadbore. He really began to suspect that she was little better than anidiot: then, she ate so much, and he hated your eating women. He gladlyshuffled her off on that fool Count Frill, who daily brought his guitarto Kemp Town. They just suited each other. What a madman he had been, tohave embarrassed himself with this creature! It would cost him a prettyransom now before he could obtain his freedom. How we change! Alreadythe Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, shillings, and pence. Ayear ago, so long as he could extricate himself from a scrape by forceof cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow.
The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily expected. He really couldnot stand them. As for Lady Afy, he execrated the greenhornism which hadmade him feign a passion, and then get caught where he meant to capture.As for Sir Lucius, he wished to Heaven he would just take it intohis head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent him at thatconfounded election, to say nothing of anything else.
Then there was Burlington, with his old loves and his new dances. Hewondered how the deuce that fellow could be amused with such frivolity,and always look so serene and calm. Then there was Squib: that man neverknew when to leave off joking; and Annesley, with his false refinement;and Darrell, with his petty ambition. He felt quite sick, and took asolitary ride: but he flew from Scylla to Charybdis. Mrs. Montfort couldnot forget their many delightful canters last season to Rottingdean,and, lo! she was at his side. He wished her down the cliff.
In this fit of the spleen he went to the theatre: there were elevenpeople in the boxes. He listened to the 'School for Scandal.' Neverwas slander more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry when it wasover, but was consoled by the devils of 'Der Freischutz.' How sincerely,how ardently did he long to sell himself to the demon! It was eleveno'clock, and he dreaded the play to be over as if he were a child. Whatto do with himself, or where to go, he was equally at a loss. Thedoor of the box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must be anacquaintance, this cub was better than any of his refined and latelycherished companions.
'Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?'
'Oh! I don't know; just looking in for a lark. Any game?'
'On my honour, I can't say.'
'What's that girl? Oh! I see; that's little Wilkins. There's Moll Otway.Nothing new. I shall go and rattle the bones a little; eh! my boy?'
'Rattle the bones? what is that?'
'Don't you know?' and here this promising young peer manually explainedhis meaning.
'What do you play at?' asked the Duke.
'Hazard, for my money; but what you like.'
'Where?'
'We meet at De Berghem's. There is a jolly set of us. All crack men.When my governor is here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose theremust be only one gamester in the family; eh! my covey?' Lord Bagshot,excited by the unusual affability of the young Duke, grew quitefamiliar.
'I have half a mind to look in with you,' said his Grace with a carelessair.
'Oh! come along, by all means. They'll be devilish glad to see you. DeBerghem was saying the other day what a nice fellow you were, and how heshould like to know you. You don't know De Berghem, do you?'
'I have seen him. I know enough of him.'
They quitted the theatre together, and under the guidance of LordBagshot, stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There they foundcollected a numerous party, but all persons of consideration. The Baron,who had once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and now lived inEngland, by choice, on his pension and private fortune, received themwith marked courtesy. Proud of his companion, Lord Bagshot's hoarse,coarse, idiot voice seemed ever braying. His frequent introductionsof the Duke of St. James were excruciating, and it required all thefreezing of a finished manner to pass through this fiery ordeal. HisGrace was acquainted with most of the guests by sight, and to some heeven bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, with the exceptionof two or three young peers like himself.
There was the Earl of Castlefort, plump and luxurious, with a youthfulwig, who, though a sexagenarian, liked no companion better than a minor.His Lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky;but the first was his merit, and the second was not his fault. There wasthe juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done his brothers out oftheir miserable 5,000L. patrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinklethat had already ruffled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and hisconvulsive lip, had been thrown, we suppose, into the bargain, and, inour opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had runthrough four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though onlythirty, one thing alone remained to be lost, what he called his ho
nour,which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Cogit, who, whenhe was drunk, swore that he had had a father; but this was deemed theonly exception to _in vino Veritas_. Who he was, the Goddess of Chancealone could decide; and we have often thought that he might bear thesame relation to her as AEneas to the Goddess of Beauty. His age was asgreat a mystery as anything else. He dressed still like a boy, yet somevowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had,and yet he contrived to live; connection he was not born with, yet hewas upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealergoing. He did the honours of a _rouge et noir_ table to a miracle; andlooking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and agold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced apres. LordCastlefort had few secrets from him: he was the jackal to these prowlingbeasts of prey; looked out for pigeons, got up little parties toRichmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to makea noise, and yet desired a little life, and perhaps could cog a die,arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler.
Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-placeis to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerousfollies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous,sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted bythe desire of gain, or as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire ofexcitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life whichstultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, andmortifies all our beautiful aspirations.
We know that we are broaching a doctrine which many will start at, andwhich some will protest against, when we declare our belief that noperson, whatever his apparent wealth, ever yet gamed except from theprospect of immediate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, ofennui, of satiety; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sortof substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a moreintense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, tooanxious, too complicated, too troublesome; in a word, _too sensible_ anaffair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinitedistraction.
The fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible,clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting;no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the affair at all. Itis the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre-supposes in itsvotary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in itstrain are the most mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoyingof daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience themexcept the great object which, as a matter of calculation, he is willingto aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gaming-table in a paroxysm.The first visit requires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stakewill make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and thestoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter ofcalculation and management, even in games of chance. Night after nightwill men play at _rouge et noir_, upon what they call a system, and forhours their attention never ceases, any more than it would if they werein the shop or oh the wharf. No manual labour is more fatiguing, andmore degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Every gamester feelsashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace, moralistsdaily inform us, man can never escape, is just the one from whichthe majority of men most completely, and most often, free themselves.Infinite is the number of men who have lost thousands in their youth,and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oftenerthan any other, leads man to self-knowledge. Appalled by the absolutedestruction on the verge of which he finds his early youth juststepping; aghast at the shadowy crimes which, under the influence ofthis life, seem, as it were, to rise upon his soul; often he hurries toemancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and with a ruined fortune,and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is stillwhite, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweetair of heaven.
And our young Duke, we must confess, gamed, as all other men havegamed, for money. His satiety had fled the moment that his affairs wereembarrassed. The thought suddenly came into his head while Bag-shot wasspeaking. He determined to make an effort to recover; and so completelywas it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned that, in thepresent state of his affairs, a few thousands more would not signify;that these few thousands might lead to vast results, and that, if theydid, he would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same coolness withwhich he had saluted it.
Yet he felt a little odd when he first 'rattled the bones;' and hisaffected nonchalance made him constrained. He fancied every one waswatching him; while, on the contrary, all were too much interested intheir own different parties. This feeling, however, wore off.
According to every novelist, and the moralists 'our betters,' the Dukeof St. James should have been fortunate at least to-night. You alwayswin at first, you know. If so, we advise said children of fancy and offact to pocket their gains, and not play again. The young Duke had notthe opportunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred pounds, and athalf-past five he quitted the Baron's.
Hot, bilious, with a confounded twang in his mouth, and a cracking painin his head, he stood one moment and sniffed in the salt sea breeze.The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and her cool, beneficent lightreminded him, with disgust, of the hot, burning glare of the Baron'ssaloon. He thought of May Dacre, but clenched his fist, and drove herimage from his mind.