THE STRANGE STORY.—THE ARRIVAL OF THE MOB AT THE HALL, AND THEIR
DISPERSION.
“You will find that the time which elapsed since I last saw you in
London, to have been spent in an eventful, varied manner.”—“You were
in good circumstances then,” said Mr. Chillingworth.—“I was, but
many events happened after that which altered the prospect; made it
even more gloomy than you can well imagine; but I will tell you all
candidly, and you can keep watch upon Bannerworth Hall at the same
time. You are well aware that I was well to do, and had ample funds,
and inclination to spend them.”—“I recollect; but you were married
then, surely?”—“I was,” said the stranger, sadly, “I was married
then.”—“And now?”—“I am a widower.” The stranger seemed much moved,
but, after a moment or so, he resumed—“I am a widower now; but how that
event came about is partly my purpose to tell you. I had not married
long—that is very long—for I have but one child, and she is not old, or
of an age to know much more than what she may be taught; she is still
in the course of education. I was early addicted to gamble; the dice
had its charms, as all those who have ever engaged in play but too
well know; it is perfectly fascinating.”—“So I have heard,” said Mr.
Chillingworth; “though, for myself, I found a wife and professional
pursuits quite incompatible with any pleasure that took either time
or resources.”—“It is so. I would I had never entered one of those
houses where men are deprived of their money and their own free will,
for at the gambling-table you have no liberty, save that in gliding
down the stream in company with others. How few have ever escaped
destruction—none, I believe—men are perfectly fascinated; it is ruin
alone that enables a man to see how he has been hurried onwards without
thought or reflection; and how fallacious were all the hopes he ever
entertained! Yes, ruin, and ruin alone, can do this; but, alas! ’tis
then too late—the evil is done. Soon after my marriage I fell in with
a Chevalier St. John. He was a man of the world in every sense of
the word, and one that was well versed in all the ways of society. I
never met with any man who was so perfectly master of himself, and
of perfect ease and self-confidence as he was. He was never at a
loss, and, come what would, never betrayed surprise or vexation—two
qualities, he thought, never ought to be shown by any man who moved
in society.”—“Indeed!”—“He was a strange man—a very strange man.”—
“Did he gamble?”—“It is difficult to give you a correct and direct
answer. I should say he did, and yet he never lost or won much; but I
have often thought he was more connected with those who did than was
believed.”—“Was that a fact?” inquired Mr. Chillingworth.—“You shall
see as we go on, and be able to judge for yourself. I have thought he
was. Well, he first took me to a handsome saloon, where gambling was
carried on. We had been to the opera. As we came out, he recommended
that we should sup at a house where he was well known, and where he was
in the habit of spending his evenings after the opera, and before he
retired. I agreed to this. I saw no reason why I should not. We went
there, and bitterly have I repented of so doing for years since, and do
to this day.”—“Your repentance has been sincere and lasting,” said Mr.
Chillingworth; “the one proves the other.”—“It does; but I thought not
so then. The place was glittering, and the wine good. It was a kind of
earthly paradise; and when we had taken some wine, the chevalier said
to me,—
“‘I am desirous of seeing a friend backwards; he is at the
hazard-table. Will you go with me?’—I hesitated. I feared to see the
place where a vice was carried on. I knew myself inclined to prudential
motives. I said to him,—‘No, St. John, I’ll wait here for you; it may
be as well—the wine is good, and it will content me?’
“‘Do so,’ he said, smiling; ‘but remember I seldom or never play
myself, nor is there any reason why you should.’—‘I’ll go, but I will
not play.’—‘Certainly not; you are free alike to look on, play, or quit
the place at any moment you please, and not be noticed, probably, by a
single soul.’
“I arose, and we walked backwards, having called one of the men who
were waiting about, but who were watchers and door-keepers of the
‘hell.’ We were led along the passage, and passed through the pair
of doors, which were well secured and rendered the possibility of a
surprise almost impossible. After these dark places, we were suddenly
let into a place where we were dazzled by the light and brilliancy of
the saloon. It was not so large as the one we left, but it was superior
to it in all its appointments.
“At first I could not well see who was, or who was not, in the room
where we were. As soon, however, as I found the use of my eyes, I
noticed many well-dressed men, who were busily engaged in play, and who
took no notice of any one who entered. We walked about for some minutes
without speaking to any one, but merely looking on. I saw men engaged
in play; some with earnestness, others again with great nonchalance,
and money changed hands without the least remark. There were but few
who spoke, and only those in play. There was a hum of conversation; but
you could not distinguish what was said, unless you paid some attention
to, and was in close vicinity with, the individual who spoke.
“‘Well,’ said St. John, ‘what do you think of this place?’—‘Why,’ I
replied, ‘I had no notion of seeing a place fitted up as this is.’
“‘No; isn’t it superb?’—‘It is beautifully done. They have many
visitors,’ said I, ‘many more than I could have believed.’
“‘Yes, they are all _bona fide_ players; men of stamp and rank—none
of your seedy legs who have only what they can cheat you out
of.’—‘Ah!’—‘And besides,’ he added, ‘you may often form friendships
here that lead to fortune hereafter. I do not mean in play, because
there is no necessity for your doing so, or, if you do so, in going
above a stake which you know won’t hurt you.’—‘Exactly.’
“‘Many men can never approach a table like this, and sit down to an
hour’s play, but, if they do, they must stake not only more than they
can afford, but all their property, leaving themselves beggars.’ ‘They
do?’ said I.
“‘But men who know themselves, their resources, and choose to indulge
for a time, may often come and lay the foundation to a very pretty
fortune.’
“‘Do you see your friend?’ I inquired.—‘No, I do not; but I will
inquire if he has been here—if not, we will go.’
“He left me for a moment or two to make some inquiry, and I stood
looking at the table, where there were four players, and who seemed
to be engaged at a friendly game; and when one party won they looked
grave, and when the other party lost they smiled and looked happy. I
walked away, as the chevalier did not return immediately to me; and
then I saw a gentleman rise up from a table. He had evidently lost. I
was standing by the seat, unconsciously holding the back in my hand. I
sat down without thinking or without speaking, and found myself at the
hazard table.
[Illustration: The hangman’s first night at the gaming table.]
“‘Do you play, sir?’—‘Yes,’ I said. I had hardly uttered the words when
I was sorry for them; but I could not recall them. I sat down, and play
at once commenced.
“In about ten or fifteen minutes, often losing and then winning, I
found myself about a hundred and twenty pounds in pocket, clear gain by
the play.
“‘Ah!’ said the chevalier, who came up at that moment, ‘I thought you
wouldn’t play.’—‘I really don’t know how it happened,’ said I, ‘but I
suddenly found myself here without any previous intention.’
“‘You are not a loser, I hope?’—‘Indeed I am not,’ I replied; ‘but not
much a gainer.’
“‘Nor need you desire to be. Do you desire to give your adversary his
revenge now, or take another opportunity.’—‘At another time,’ I replied.
“‘You will find me here the day after to-morrow, when I shall be at
your service;’ then bowing, he turned away.
“‘He is a very rich man whom you have been playing with,’ said the
chevalier.—‘Indeed!’
“‘Yes, and I have known him to lose for three days together; but you
may take his word for any amount; he is a perfect gentleman and man of
honour.’—‘’Tis well to play with such,’ I replied; ‘but I suppose you
are about to leave.’
“‘Yes, it grows late, and I have some business to transact to-morrow,
so I must leave.’—‘I will accompany you part of the way home,’ said I,
‘and then I shall have finished the night.’
“I did leave with him, and accompanied him home, and then walked to my
own home.”
• • • • •
“This was my first visit, and I thought a propitious beginning, but it
was the more dangerous. Perhaps a loss might have effectually deterred
me, but it is doubtful to tell how certain events might have been
altered. It is just possible that I might have been urged on by my
desire to retrieve any loss I might have incurred, and so made myself
at once the miserable being it took months to accomplish in bringing me
to.
“I went the day but one after this, to meet the same individual at the
gambling-table, and played some time with varied success, until I left
off with a trifling loss upon the night’s play, which was nothing of
any consequence.
“Thus matters went on; I sometimes won and sometimes lost, until I won
a few hundreds, and this determined me to play for higher stakes than
any I had yet played for.
“It was no use going on in the peddling style I had been going on; I
had won two hundred and fifty pounds in three months, and had I been
less fearful I might have had twenty-five thousand pounds. Ah! I’ll try
my fortune at a higher game.
“Having once made this resolution, I was anxious to begin my new
plan, which I hoped would have the effect of placing me far above my
then present position in society, which was good, and with a little
attention it would have made me an independent man; but then it
required patience, and nothing more. However, the other method was so
superior since it might all be done with good luck in a few months. Ah!
good luck; how uncertain is good luck; how changeful is fortune; how
soon is the best prospect blighted by the frosts of adversity. In less
than a month I had lost more than I could pay, and then I gambled on
for a living.
“My wife had but one child; her first and only one; an infant at her
breast; but there was a change came over her; for one had come over
me—a fearful one it was too—one not only in manner but in fortune too.
She would beg me to come home early; to attend to other matters, and
leave the dreadful life I was then leading.
“‘Lizzy,’ said I, ‘we are ruined.’—‘Ruined!’ she exclaimed, and
staggered back, until she fell into a seat. ‘Ruined!’
“‘Ay, ruined. It is a short word, but expressive.’—‘No, no, we are not
ruined. I know what you mean, you would say, we cannot live as we have
lived; we must retrench, and so we will, right willingly.’
“‘You must retrench most wonderfully,’ I said, with desperate calmness,
‘for the murder must out.’—‘And so we will; but you will be with
us; you will not go out night after night, ruining your health, our
happiness, and destroying both peace and prospects.’
“‘No, no, Lizzy, we have no chance of recovering ourselves; house and
home—all gone—all, all.’—‘My God!’ she exclaimed.
“‘Ay, rail on,’ said I; ‘you have cause enough; but, no matter—we have
lost all.’—‘How—how?’
“‘It is useless to ask how; I have done, and there is an end of the
matter; you shall know more another day; we must leave this house for a
lodging.’—‘It matters little,’ she said; ‘all may be won again, if you
will but say you will quit the society of those who have ruined you.’
“‘No one,’ said I, ‘has ruined me; I did it; it was no fault of any one
else’s; I have not that excuse.’—‘I am sure you can recover.’
“‘I may; some day fortune will shower her favours upon me, and I live
on in that expectation.’—‘You cannot mean that you will chance the
gaming-table? for I am sure you must have lost all there?’
“‘I have.’—‘God help me,’ she said; ‘you have done your child a wrong,
but you may repair it yet.’
“‘Never!’—‘’Tis a long day! let me implore you, on my knees, to leave
this place, and adopt some other mode of life; we can be careful; a
little will do, and we shall, in time, be equal to, and better than
what we have been.’
“‘We never can, save by chance.’—‘And by chance we never shall,’ she
replied; ‘if you will exert yourself, we may yet retrieve ourselves.’
“‘And exert myself I will.’—‘And quit the gaming-table?’
“‘Ask me to make no promises,’ said I; ‘I may not be able to keep them;
therefore, ask me to make none.’—‘I do ask you, beg of, entreat of you
to promise, and solemnly promise me that you will leave that fearful
place, where men not only lose all their goods, but the feelings of
nature also.’
“‘Say no more, Lizzy; if I can get a living elsewhere I will, but if
not, I must get it there.’
“She seemed to be cast down at this, and she shed tears. I left the
room, and again went to the gambling-house, and there that night, I
won a few pounds, which enabled me to take my wife and child away from
the house they had so long lived in, and took them afterwards to a
miserable place,—one room, where, indeed, there were a few articles of
furniture that I had saved from the general wreck of my own property.
“She took things much less to heart than I could have anticipated;
she seemed cheerful and happy,—she endeavoured to make my home as
comfortable as she could.
“Her whole endeavour was to make me, as much as possible, forget the
past. She wanted, as much as possible, to wean me away from my gambling
pursuits, but that was impossible. I had no hope, no other prospect.
“Thus she strove, but I could see each day she was getting paler, and
more pale; her figure, before round, was more thin, and betrayed signs
of emaciation. This preyed upon me; and, when fortune denied me the
means of carrying home that which she so much wanted, I could never
return for two days at a time. Then I would find her shedding tears,
and sighing; what could I say? If I had anything to take her, then I
used to endeavour to make her forget that I had been away.
“‘Ah!’ she would exclaim, ‘you will find me dead one of these days;
what you do now for one or two days, you will do by-and-bye for many
days, perhaps weeks.’—‘Do not anticipate evil.’
“‘I cannot do otherwise; were you in any other kind of employment but
that of gambling,’ she said, ‘I should have some hope of you; but,
as it is, there is none.’—‘Speak not of it; my chances may turn out
favourable yet, and you may be again as you were.’
“‘Never.’—‘But fortune is inconstant, and may change in my favour as
much as she has done in others.’
“‘Fortune is indeed constant, but misfortune is as inconstant.’—‘You
are prophetic of evil.’
“‘Ah! I would to Heaven I could predict good; but who ever yet heard of
a ruined gambler being able to retrieve himself by the same means that
he was ruined?’
“Thus we used to converse, but our conversation was usually of but
little comfort to either of us, for we could give neither any comfort
to the other; and as that was usually the case, our interviews became
less frequent, and of less duration. My answer was always the same.
“‘I have no other chance; my prospects are limited to that one place;
deprive me of that, and I never more should be able to bring you a
mouthful of bread.’
“Day after day,—day after day, the same result followed, and I was as
far from success as ever I was, and ever should be; I was yet a beggar.
“The time flew by; my little girl was nearly four years old, but she
knew not the misery her father and mother had to endure. The poor
little thing sometimes went without more than a meal a day; and while
I was living thus upon the town, upon the chances of the gaming table,
many a pang did she cause me, and so did her mother. My constant
consolation was this,—
“‘It is bad luck now,’ I would say; ‘but will be better by-and-bye;
things cannot always continue thus. It is all for them—all for them.’
“I thought that by continuing constantly in one course, I must be
at land at the ebb of the tide. ‘It cannot always flow one way,’ I
thought. I had often heard people say that if you could but have the
resolution to play on, you must in the end seize the turn of fortune.
“‘If I could but once do that, I would never enter a hell again as long
as I drew breath.’
“This was a resolve I could not only make but keep, because I had
suffered so much that I would never run through the same misery again
that I had already gone through. However, fortune never seemed inclined
to take the turn I had hoped for; fortune was as far off as ever, and
had in no case given me any opportunity of recovering myself.
“A few pounds were the utmost I could at any time muster, and I had to
keep up something of an appearance, and seem as if I had a thousand a
year; when, God knows, I could not have mustered a thousandth part of
that sum, were all done and paid for.
“Day after day passed on, and yet no change. I had almost given myself
up to despair, when one night when I went home I saw my wife was more
than usually melancholy and sad, and perhaps ill; I didn’t look at
her—I seldom did, because her looks were always a reproach to me; I
could not help feeling them so.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘I have come home to you because I have something to
bring you; not what I ought—but what I can—you must be satisfied!’—‘I
am,’ she said.
“‘I know also you want it; how is the child, is she quite well?’—‘Yes,
quite.’
“‘Where is she?’ inquired I, looking round the room, but I didn’t see
her; she used to be up.—‘She has gone to bed,’ she said.
“‘It is very early.’—‘Yes, but she cried so for food that I was obliged
to get her to sleep to forget her hunger; poor thing, she has wanted
bread very badly.’
“‘Poor thing!’ I said, ‘let her be awakened and partake of what I have
brought home.’
“With that my wife waked her up, and the moment she opened her eyes she
again began to cry for food, which I immediately gave her, and saw her
devour with the utmost haste and hunger. The sight smote my heart, and
my wife sat by watching, and endeavouring to prevent her from eating so
fast.
“‘This is bad,’ I said.—‘Yes, but I hope it may be the worst,’ she
replied, in a deep and hollow voice.
“‘Lizzy,’ I exclaimed, ‘what is the matter—are you ill?’—‘Yes, very
ill.’
“‘What is the matter with you? For God’s sake tell me,’ I said, for I
was alarmed.—‘I am very ill,’ she said, ‘very ill indeed; I feel my
strength decreasing every day. I must drink.’
“‘You, too, want food?’—‘I have and perhaps do, though the desire to
eat seems almost to have left me.’
“‘For Heaven’s sake eat,’ said I; ‘I will bring you home something more
by to-morrow; eat and drink Lizzy. I have suffered; but for you and
your child’s sake, I will do my best.’—‘Your best,’ she said, ‘will
kill us both; but, alas, there is no other aid at hand. You may one
day, however, come here too late to find us living.’
“‘Say no more, Lizzy, you know not my feelings when you speak thus;
alas, I have no hope—no aid—no friend.’—‘No,’ she replied, ‘your love
of gaming drove them from you, because they would not aid a gambler.’
“‘Say no more, Lizzy,’ I said; ‘if there be not an end to this life
soon, there will be an end to me. In two days more I shall return to
you. Good bye; God bless you. Keep up your heart and the child.’—‘Good
bye,’ she said, sorrowfully. She shed tears, and wrung her hands
bitterly. I hastened away—my heart was ready to burst, and I could not
speak.
“I walked about to recover my serenity, but could not do so
sufficiently well to secure anything like an appearance that would
render me fit to go to the gaming-house. That night I remained away,
but I could not avoid falling into a debauch to drown my misfortunes,
and shift the scene of misery that was continually before my eyes.”
• • • • •
“The next night I was at the gaming-house. I went there in better
than usual spirits. I saw, I thought, a change in fortune, and hailed
that as the propitious moment of my life, when I was to rise above my
present misfortunes.
“I played and won—played and lost—played and won, and then lost again;
thus I went on, fluctuating more and more, until I found I was getting
money in my pocket. I had, at one moment more than three hundred
pounds in my pocket, and I felt that then was my happy moment—then
the tide of fortune was going in my favour. I ought to have left off
with that—to have been satisfied with such an amount of money; but the
demon of avarice seemed to have possessed me, and I went on and on with
fluctuating fortune, until I lost the whole of it.
“I was mad—desperate, and could have destroyed myself; but I thought
of the state my wife and child were in; I thought that that night they
would want food; but they could not hurt for one day—they must have
some, or would procure some.
“I was too far gone to be able to go to them, even if I were possessed
of means; but I had none, and daylight saw me in a deep sleep, from
which I awoke not until the next evening set in, and then I once more
determined that I would make a desperate attempt to get a little money.
I had always paid, and thought my word would be taken for once; and, if
I won, all well and good; if not, then I was no worse off than before.
“This was easy to plan, but not to execute. I went there, but there
were none present in whom I had sufficient interest to dare make the
attempt. I walked about, and felt in a most uncomfortable state. I
feared I should not succeed at all, then what was to become of me—of
my wife and child? This rendered me almost mad. I could not understand
what I was to do, what to attempt, or where to go. One or two persons
came up, and asked me if I were ill. My answers were, that I was
well enough. Good God! how far from the truth was that; but I found
I must place more control on my feelings, else I should cause much
conversation, and then I should lose all hope of recovering myself, and
all prospect of living, even.
“At length some one did come in, and I remarked I had been there all
the evening and had not played. I had an invitation to play with him,
which ended, by a little sleight of hand, in my favour; and on that I
had calculated as much as on any good fortune I might meet. The person
I played with observed it not, and, when we left off playing, I had
some six or seven pounds in pocket. This, to me, was a very great sum;
and, the moment I could decently withdraw myself, I ran off home.
“I was fearful of the scene that awaited me. I expected something;
worse than I had yet seen. Possibly Lizzy might be angry, and scold as
well as complain. I therefore tapped at the door gently, but heard no
one answer; but of this I took no notice, as I believed that they might
be, and were, most probably, fast asleep. I had provided myself with a
light, and I therefore opened the door, which was not fastened.
“‘Lizzy!’ said I, ‘Lizzy!’ There was no answer given, and I paused.
Everything was as still as death. I looked on the bed—there lay my wife
with her clothes on.
“‘Lizzy! Lizzy!’ said I. But still she did not answer me.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘she sleeps sound;’ and I walked towards the bed, and
placed my hand upon her shoulder, and began to shake her, saying, as I
did so,—
“‘Lizzy! Lizzy! I’m come home.’ But still no answer, or signs of
awaking.
“I went on the other side of the bed to look at her face, and some
misgivings overtook me. I trembled much. She lay on the bed, with her
back towards the spot where I stood.
“I came towards her face. My hand shook violently as I endeavoured to
look at her. She had her eyes wide open, as if staring at me.
“‘Lizzy,’ said I. No answer was returned. I then placed my hand upon
her cheek. It was enough, and I started back in great horror. She was
dead!
“This was horror itself. I staggered back and fell into a chair. The
light I placed down, Heaven knows how or why; but there I sat staring
at the corpse of my unfortunate wife. I can hardly tell you the
tremendous effect this had upon me. I could not move. I was fascinated
to the spot. I could not move and could not turn.”
[Illustration: The hangman discovers his dead wife and child.]
• • • • •
“It was morning, and the rays of the sun illumined the apartment; but
there sat I, still gazing upon the face of my unfortunate wife, I saw,
I knew she was dead; but yet I had not spoken, but sat looking at her.
“I believe my heart was as cold as she was; but extreme horror and
dread had dried up all the warm blood in my body, and I hardly think
there was a pulsation left. The thoughts of my child never once seemed
to cross my mind. I had, however, sat there long—some hours before I
was discovered, and this was by the landlady.
“I had left the door open behind me, and she, in passing down, had the
curiosity to peep, and saw me sitting in what she thought to be a very
strange attitude, and could hear no sounds.
“After some time she discovered my wife was dead, and, for some time,
she thought me so, too. However, she was convinced to the contrary,
and then began to call for assistance. This awoke the child, which was
nearly famished. The landlady, to become useful, and to awaken me from
my lethargy, placed the child in my hands, telling me I was the best
person now to take care of it.
“And so I was; there was no doubt of the truth of that, and I was
compelled to acknowledge it. I felt much pride and pleasure in my
daughter, and determined she should, if I starved, have the benefit of
all I could do for her in the way of care, &c.”
• • • • •
“The funeral over, I took my child and carried it to a school, where
I left her, and paid in advance, promising to do so as often as the
quarter came round. My wife I had seen buried by the hands of man, and
I swore I would do the best for my child, and to keep this oath was a
work of pleasure.
“I determined also I would never more enter a gaming-house, be the
extremity what it might; I would suffer even death before I would
permit myself to enter the house in which it took place.
“‘I will,’ I thought, ‘obtain some employment of some kind or other.
I could surely obtain that. I have only to ask and I have it,
surely—something, however menial, that would keep me and my child. Yes,
yes—she ought, she must have her charges paid at once.’”
“The effect of my wife’s death was a very great shock to me, and such a
one I could not forget—one I shall ever remember, and one that at least
made a lasting impression upon me.”
• • • • •
“Strange, but true, I never entered a gambling-house; it was my horror
and my aversion. And yet I could obtain no employment. I took my
daughter and placed her at a boarding-school, and tried hard to obtain
bread by labour; but, do what would, none could be had; if my soul
depended upon it, I could find none. I cared not what it was—anything
that was honest.
“I was reduced low—very low; gaunt starvation showed itself in my
cheeks; but I wandered about to find employment; none could be found,
and the world seemed to have conspired together to throw me back to the
gaming-table.
“But this I would not. At last employment was offered; but what was
it? The situation of common hangman was offered me. The employment was
disgusting and horrible; but, at the same time, it was all I could get,
and that was a sufficient inducement for me to accept of it. I was,
therefore, the common executioner; and in that employment for some time
earned a living. It was terrible; but necessity compelled me to accept
the only thing I could obtain. You now know the reason why I became
what I have told you.”