WARNING
In the evening, which was Wednesday, I repaired to the gardens, paying
for my admission, but no longer in the character of a fine gentleman.
Lord Fylingdale was not present, nor Molly. Lady Anastasia was there,
gracious and smiling as usual. Nothing was said about her approaching
departure. After walking round the long room she retired to the card
room, and play began as usual. It seemed to me, looking on with a few
others at the door, that there was a kind of awkwardness or constraint
among the company. They collected together in small groups, which
whispered to each other; then these groups melted away, forming new
companies, which in their turn dissolved. Something of importance had
happened. Presently some of the gentlemen in the card room came out.
They, in their turn, became surrounded and formed into another group,
who whispered eagerly with each other. They were standing near the
door, and I overheard some of their discourse. "I am assured," one of
them was saying, "that he has been ordered out of the assembly at Bath
for foul play at cards, and I have it on the best authority that he
was driven off the Heath of Newmarket." I did not know of whom he was
speaking.
"Truly," said another, "we seem to have fallen into the midst of a
very pretty set of sharpers. Will Tom Rising, if he gets the better of
his wound, have to pay that debt? I think not. A debt of honour can
only be contracted with a man of honour."
"On the other hand, sir, if Tom had won he would have looked for
payment."
"Why, sir, that is true. But observe, when we played with the colonel
we took him for a man of honour. Some of us have won a few guineas of
him. Should we return them? No. And why? Because we accepted him as a
man of honour, and stood to win or lose as between gentlemen. Now, one
does not play with a sharper knowingly. One would not take his money;
one would not pay him if we lost."
"Then Tom must not pay."
"If what we hear is true; if the man has been exposed at Bath; if he
has been warned off the Heath of Newmarket; most assuredly Tom must
not pay a farthing."
"At present the fever is still upon him. Well, but we must wait. All
this may be mere rumour."
"It may be, as you say; but I think not. The report comes from
Houghton, Sir Robert's place, where a certain cousin of Tom Rising,
member of Parliament, I think, for Ipswich, is now staying as a guest.
Houghton is only a few miles from Lynn. It lies in the marshland. This
gentleman, then, heard of the duel and the wound, and has been to see
his cousin."
"Is he still in the town? Can one have speech with him?"
"I think not. He has gone back to Houghton. But he will return. I am
informed that he inquired into the whole particulars; that he learned
of his cousin's heavy losses at play to one, Colonel Lanyon. 'Lanyon?'
says my Parliament man. 'I know that name--Colonel Lanyon? Why, the
fellow ought not to show his face among gentlemen,' and then out came
the whole story."
"Still," said the other, "he may be mistaken."
"Men are not often mistaken in such matters. But, sir, I can tell you
more. There are gentlemen in Sir Robert's party, at Houghton, who
profess to know strange things about others of our visitors from
London. I will mention no names, yet there will be a surprise for some
who pretend to be what they are not. I say no more, except to advise
you not to neglect next Friday's assembly. Meantime, silence, let us
say nothing."
The little group broke up. I paid small attention to the words. The
colonel was quite unknown to me, except as a constant attendant in the
card room. But I observed that the whispering went on, and increased,
and that every man in every group presently went away and formed other
groups, and that more communications were made and more discussions
followed, and that on every one was enjoined a promise of the greatest
secrecy.
Also I observed that every group contained the same varieties of
listeners. There was the open-mouthed man, who gaped with wonder; the
wise man after the event, who had always entertained suspicions; the
indignant man, who was for immediate measures; the slow man, who would
wait; and the critical man, who wanted evidence and proof. I dare say
there were more.
Such whisperings and such groups do not create cheerfulness in a
company. Suspicion and jealousy were in the air that night; the music
played and the fiddlers scraped; the singers squalled; the people
walked round and round, after their usual fashion; there was plenty of
conversation and of animation; they were excited; they were evidently
looking forward to some important event; but they were not laughing,
nor paying compliments, nor talking of dress, nor were they listening
to the music or the singers.
And a very curious circumstance happened in the card room. There was
at first the usual crowd of players sitting and standing; the usual
staking of guineas, and laying and taking odds; it was, in fact, an
ordinary evening, when the company pressed round the table and the
game went on merrily. Then one or two people came in from the long
room. There were whispers; two or three left their places and retired
from the room. Other people came in from the long room; there were
more whispers; more players gave up their seats and left the room.
After a while there was no one left in the card room at all except
Lady Anastasia, Sir Harry Malyns, and Colonel Lanyon. The croupier
still stood at the head of the table, rake in hand, crying the main
and proclaiming the odds. Seeing no one else at the table, the two
players desisted.
"What does it mean?" asked the lady, looking round. "We are deserted."
"I know not," Sir Harry replied. "Some distraction in the gardens;
probably a quarrel; one of the bumpkins has perhaps struck another."
He went out to inquire, but came back immediately. "There is no
distraction," he said. "Nothing has happened; the people are walking
round as usual."
"Something, surely," said the lady, "must have happened. Why are the
tables deserted? Such a thing has never occurred before. Colonel, will
you kindly find out what it means? I have the vapours to-night, I
think. My mind misgives me."
Colonel Lanyon rose and walked to the door. He looked up and down the
long room and returned. "Nothing has happened," he said. "They are all
strangers to me. But since there is no more play I will e'en betake me
to the tavern."
"And I," said the lady, "will go home. Sir Harry, please call my
fellows."
Sir Harry led her through the long room to the door. As she got into
the chair, she said, "Sir Harry, there is something brewing. I caught
looks of hostility as we passed through the room. Do you think it is
the jealousy of the women about that girl with the diamonds?"
"I observed no hostile looks."
"Men never see such things. I tell you I not only saw them, but I felt
them. We have given these people mortal offence. They are gentlefolk.
We come among them, and we admit to our society a girl who has no
pretence to gentility. Lord Fylingdale dances with her; I take her to
the assembly. Lord Fylingdale actually follows her when she is carried
off and fights for her and rescues her. This is a thing which he might
do for any of those ladies, and with no more than the customary
jealousies; but with such a girl it makes bad blood."
"Hostile looks mean nothing. What if there is bad blood?"
"Sir Harry--Sir Harry--it is only in London, and not always there,
that we account ourselves free from revenge. It is a revengeful world,
and there are many people in it who would willingly put you and me and
the colonel, not to speak of the parson and the earl himself, in
pillory, and pelt us with rotten eggs and dead cats."
So she got into her chair, and the old beau, shaking his head, called
his own chair and was carried home.
But Colonel Lanyon who walked to the tavern where his friends met
every night found the place, to his astonishment, empty. Then he, too,
remembered certain signs of hostility or resentment, notably the
desertion of the players, and the cold looks as he left the place.
Now, as the worthy adventurer and sharper was by no means conscious of
innocence, he began to feel uneasy. To such men as those who live by
their wits there is always the danger that some past scandal may be
revived, some former half forgotten villainy remembered.
Therefore he became disquieted. He had some reason for disquiet, for,
to begin with, he had done very well. Tom Rising would recover, it was
thought. He would recover in a week or two, or more. He would then, as
a man of honour, have to raise, by hook or by crook, the sum of
£1,200, of which, by the compact, one-fourth was to be the colonel's
and three-fourths were the earl's. This is a large sum of money to win
or to lose. Now, if anything inopportune was to occur, such as the
revival of an old scandal--say that of Bath, or that of Tunbridge
Wells, or that of Newmarket, these winnings would be in a dangerous
situation.
A gentleman who lives by his wits, although he may be a good swordsman
and a good shot with a pistol, cannot escape the consequences of a
scandal. The thing follows him from place to place. It gets into
taverns and hangs about gaming-houses; it stands between him and his
prey; it snatches the young and inexperienced player from his grasp;
it even prevents the payment of the debts commonly called of honour.
Now, the colonel had been about town and in the haunts of gamesters
for a good score of years, and, truth to tell, he now found it
difficult, anywhere, to be received into the company of gentlemen.
While he sat in the empty room one of the gentlemen, its frequenters,
came in. The colonel looked up.
"Why, sir," he said, "where is the company this evening?"
"There will be no company to-night, colonel."
"Ay--ay? No company? Where are they all, then?"
"To be frank with you, Colonel Lanyon, I am deputed to inform you that
certain things are rumoured about you which must be explained."
"Certain things, sir?" The colonel sprang to his feet. "To be
explained? This is a very ugly word. To be explained. The word, sir,
attacks my honour."
"It does so, colonel. You are quite right."
"Then, sir, you and your friends will have to fight me."
"We will willingly fight with--a man of honour. Not only that, but
where a man of honour is concerned we should be most willing to offer
an apology, if we have attacked his honour. To be brief, colonel,
certain things have been said concerning you and your honour. They
have been alleged behind your back."
"Well, sir, suppose my assailant meets me face to face. Gad, sir, he
shall meet me on the grass."
"Softly, softly, colonel. There will be no fighting, I assure you. As
for anything else, that depends on yourself. Frankly, colonel, they
are very nasty things. On the other hand, I assure you that, as we
have received you without suspicion, we shall stand by you loyally."
"In that case we need not talk of explanations."
"Loyally, I say, unless the explanations are not forthcoming."
"Give me the statements or the charges."
"I cannot, colonel. They are at present vague. But I am instructed to
invite you to be present in the card room on Friday evening next, when
an opportunity will be afforded you of hearing what has been stated
and of replying. Colonel, we have found you very good company. We all
desire to retain you as a friend."
"But, sir, permit me. This is monstrous. You tell me of charges, you
avoid my society, you refuse to tell me the nature of the charges, and
you call upon me to reply on the spot without knowing----"
"Your reply will be quite easy. It really means either yes or no. And
if, as I doubt not, you can disprove whatever is alleged, you will
yourself entirely approve of our action in separating for a time from
a man accused of things dishonourable, of giving him an opportunity of
reply, also of my warning."
"Why, sir, if to be grateful for such a warning and for such general
charges is a duty, I will be grateful. Meantime----"
"Meantime, colonel, you know your past life better than any one. If
there is in it anything of which you are ashamed let me recommend you
to present that affair in as favourable a light as possible. Men will
quarrel over cards. Accusations are easily made. The duel next morning
does not clear away suspicion. If, however, there is nothing, as I
hope, come with a light heart and a cheerful countenance, and we shall
rally round you as brothers and men of honour. I wish you good-night,
Colonel Lanyon, until Friday, after which I hope to sit here beside
you, the bowl of punch on the table, and your songs and stories to
keep us awake, till we sit down again to the cards."