CHAPTER VIII.
_Birds of Prey_
THE young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berg-hemfor to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice,and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour.The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yeteverything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usualsilent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyoneobserving him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcelypresumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, anddressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was theman for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it! Cayenneand Burgundy and limes were ingredients, but there was a magic in theincantation with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular careto send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, ashe paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most markedconsciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: neveraddressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, 'Take thisto the Duke;' or asking the attendant, 'whether his Grace would try theHermitage?'
After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compoundingsome wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to_ecarte_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemeda general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be apitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of theiruniversal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive.Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron'selbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. Allthis meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.
Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say,so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; forat present his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted bythe constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over thedelicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself somecold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron,to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduringgreat trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit toserve him. Our hero devoured--we use the word advisedly, as fools sayin the House of Commons--he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting theHermitage with disgust, asked for porter.
They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were socomplicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played withhis memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened.The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Graceowed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to thetune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, butslightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw theused one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff thecandles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make atumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened.The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. Hepulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten o'clock,owed everyone something. No one offered to give over; and everyone,perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toiletsand went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters wereopened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.
They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Dukemade some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were,nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not atall depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and hisresources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to tenthousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; thenthirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts oflimits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.
At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now beganto be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating,he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery,and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there isnothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degradedfeelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has nocharms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.
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On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. Hefloundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough.Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted oneach as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for agamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses wereprodigious.
Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. Noattempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airingthe room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such aHell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everythingbut the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in theroom, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the townin which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watchingevery turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed theirtotal inability to sympathise with their fellow-beings. All forms ofsociety had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handedabout now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation ofoccasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossingone. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: a false toothhad got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have beenmost annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, andhe looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, andhis hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk.Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deepblue eyes gleamed like a hyaena's. The Baron was least changed. TomCogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribedrat.
On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreedto desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. LordCastlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While theywere resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts.He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.
Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us say,at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin.As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time inhis life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read.He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallenover his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued adissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nightsthat had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been theexhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes evenbeen the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his browthis harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped withthis anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthlyscowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible? it could notbe, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, thoseunhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen fromhis state, as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, as if he had betrayedhis trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations aflash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipatethis thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with thesoftening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everythingthat was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It wasthe innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corruptednature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight aransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweetair.
He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more.There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done.Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged himto have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt hewould recover if he pro
ceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seatedhimself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts,Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort,in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same timerecommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he wascool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, theBaron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.
The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with anyevidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated,'Pay us when we meet again,' he said, 'I think it very improbable thatwe shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I hadheard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am ayoung man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion.'
He reached his house. The Bird was out. He gave orders for himself notto be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. Whatrack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? Hishands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung withsupernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he wouldhave welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain hehad recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minutehe started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of hislate fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace;each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour wasonly a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was,at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remainedany longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshedhim. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, andhe slept.