The money that “at play” is spent
Must oft be raised at “cent per cent.”
The Mode.
“Good night, or rather good morrow,” said Linton, as he stood with
Cashel on the steps of his newly taken residence.
Cashel made no reply; his thoughts were recurring to the scene of the
late debauch, and in some pangs of self-reproach he was recalling the
heavy sum he had lost. “You spoke of my being able to raise this money,
Linton, without Kennyfeck's knowing; for I am really ashamed of the
affair. Tell me how can it be done?”
“Nothing easier.”
“Nay, but when? for, if I must confess it, I can think of nothing else
till it be arranged.”
“What a timid conscience yours must be,” said Linton, laughing, “that
cannot sleep lest the ghosts of his I. O.'s should haunt him.”
“The fact is so, nevertheless. The very gloomy moments of my life have
been associated with play transactions. This shall be the last.”
“What folly! You suffer mere passing impressions to wear deep into
your nature,--you that should be a man of nerve and vigor. What can
it possibly signify that you have thrown away a few hundreds, or a few
thousands either?”
“Very little as regards the money, I own; but I'm not certain how long
my indifference respecting play might last. I am not sure how long
I could endure being beaten--for that is the sense losing
suggests--without a desire to conquer in turn. Now up to this I have
played to oblige others, without interest or excitement of any kind.
What if I should change and become a gambler from choice?”
“Why, if you propound the question with that solemn air, you'll almost
frighten me into believing it would be something very terrible; but if
you ask me simply what would be the result of your growing fond of play,
I 'll tell you fairly, it's a pleasure gained,--one of the few resources
which only a rich man can afford with impunity, so much the more
fascinating that it can be indulged in such perfect accordance with
every humor of a man's mind. If you are so inclined, you play low, and
coquet with fortune, or if lavishly given, you throw the reins loose and
go free. Now it seems to me that nothing could better suit the careless,
open-handed freedom of your habits than the vacillations of high play.
It's the only way that even for a moment you can taste the sensation of
being hard pressed, while in the high flood of luck you can feel that
gushing sense of power that somehow seems to be the secret soul of
gold!”
“Men must lose with a very different look upon their features before I
can win with the ecstasy you speak of,” cried Cashel. “But where are we
straying to,--what part of the town have we got into?”
“This is the cattle-market,” said Linton, “and I have brought you here
because I saw you 'd not close your eyes till that silly affair was
settled; and here we are now at Dan Hoare's counting-house, the man of
all others to aid us. Follow me; I ought to know the stairs well, in
daylight or dark.”
Cautiously following his guide, Cashel mounted a half-rotten, creaky
stair, which passed up between two damp and mildewed walls, and entered
a small chamber whose one window looked out in a dirty court. The only
furniture consisted of two deal chairs and a table, on which various
inscriptions made by penknives betokened the patience and zeal of former
visitors.
Linton passed on to the end of the chamber, where was a narrow door, but
suddenly halted as his eye caught a little slip of paper attached to a
sliding panel, and which bore the word “Engaged.” “Ha!” cried he, “one
here already! You see, early as it is, Dan is at work, discounting and
protesting as usual. By the way, I have forgot one essential: he never
gives a stamp, and so I must provide one. Wait for me here; there is
a place in the neighborhood where they can be had, and I 'll be back
presently.”
Cashel sat himself down in the cheerless little den, thinking of the
many who might have waited there before, in so many frames of anxiety
and torturing suspense. His own memory could recall a somewhat similar
character in Geiz-heimer, and while he was thus remembering some
features of the past he fell into a reverie, forgetting time and place
together, the sound of voices from the adjoining room serving rather
to lull than arouse his attention. At last a word caught his ear. He
started suddenly, and, looking about him for a second, experienced
almost a difficulty to remember where he was. Could it be possible, or
was it mere fancy? but he believed he heard his name mentioned by some
one within that room. Less caring to know how or by whom the name was
spoken than if the fact were actually so, he leaned forward on his
chair, and bent his ear to listen, when he heard, in a voice louder than
had been used before, the following words:--
“It may be all as you say, sir; I won't pretend to throw a doubt upon
your words; but, as a mere man of business, I may be permitted to say
that this promise, however satisfactory to your friend's feelings, is
not worth a sixpence in law. Corrigan asks for a renewal of his lease,
and the other says, 'Keep your holding,--don't disturb yourself,'--and
there he is, a tenant at will. Now, for the purposes you have in view
towards me, that pledge goes for nothing. I cannot renew these bills
upon such frail security. If the old man cannot find means to meet them,
Leicester must, that's all.”
“Leicester is a villain!” cried another and a deeper voice, whose tones
seemed not quite strange to Roland's ears. “He has ruined my poor old
friend; he will soon leave him houseless, and he threatens to leave him
almost friendless too.”
“He told me,” said the other, “he should certainly claim his daughter,
and means to return next summer for that purpose.”
“I almost hope poor Con will never live to see that day,” said the
former, with a heavy sigh.
“Well, to return to our own affair, sir, I tell you frankly, I don't
consider Cashel's promise deserving of any consideration. He doubtless
means to keep it; that's the very most anybody can say about it. But
remember what a life he is leading: he has drawn about thirty thousand
out of Latrobe's hands in three months,--no one knows for what. He has
got among a set of men who play high, and cannot pay if they lose. Now,
his estate is a good one; but it can't last forever. My notion is that
the young fellow will end as he began, and become a buccaneer once
more.”
“He has a long course to run ere that comes,” said the other.
“Not so long as you fancy. There are demands upon him from quarters you
little suspect, or that, for the moment, he little suspects himself. It
would surprise you to hear that he is in Leicester's hands too.”
“Roland Cashel--Mr. Cashel--in Leicester's hands! How do you mean?”
Just at this instant Linton's foot was heard ascending the stairs, and
Cashel, whose eagerness to hear the remainder became a perfect torture
of anxiety, was forced to lose the opportunity.
“What a hunt I have had!” said Linton, as he entered, flushed and
weary-looking. “Our amount is rather above the ordinary mark, and
I found it almost impossible to procure the stamps. Are you tired
waiting?”
“No,--nothing to speak of,” said Cashel, confusedly.
“Well, I fancy our friend here has had much more than his share of an
audience. I'll see, and unearth him.”
And so saying, Linton knocked with his cane at the door. A low murmuring
of voices succeeded, the sound of feet followed, and soon after the door
was opened, and a small, thin, pale-faced man in black appeared.
“Good morning, Mr. Hoare. Here have we been playing antechamber to your
serene highness for full an hour. This is Mr. Roland Cashel, Mr. Hoare,
who wishes to make your acquaintance.”
The little man turned his quick gray eyes towards Cashel with a most
scrutinizing keenness; but, as suddenly withdrawing them, invited both
to enter.
“Be seated, gentlemen. Pardon the humble accommodation of this place.
Take a chair, Mr. Linton.”
“We want tin, Mr. Hoare,” said Linton, slapping his boot with his
cane,--“that most universal and vulgar want My friend here desires to
raise a sum without having recourse to his agent, and I believe no man
can aid in a little secret-service transaction like yourself.”
“Is the sum a large one, sir?” said Hoare, addressing Cashel.
“I cannot tell you exactly,” said Cashel, in some confusion at the
confession of his ignorance. “I fancy it must be close on ten or twelve
thousand pounds.”
“More like twenty!” cried Linton, coolly. Then, turning to Hoare, he
went on: “My friend here is, happily for him, very little skilled in
affairs of this kind, and, as his security is about the best that can be
offered, he need not buy his experience very dearly. Now just tell us,
frankly, how, when, and on what terms he can have this money.”
“Money is scarce just now, sir,” said Hoare; “but as to securities, Mr.
Cashel's bills are quite sufficient. There is no necessity for any
legal expenses whatever. I need not say that the transaction shall be
perfectly secret: in fact, I'll keep the bills in my own hands till
due.”
“There, that's the man I told you he was,” cried Linton. “A Croesus
in generosity as in gold. I would I were your son, or your son-in-law,
Hoare.”
“Too much honor, Mr. Linton,” said the money-lender, whose slight flush
did not betoken a concurrence in his own words. “Now to business,”
continued he, addressing Cashel. “If you favor me with your name on four
bills for five thousand each, and the accompanying charges for interest,
discount, commission, and so on, I 'll engage that you have this money
within the week.”
“Could it not be to-morrow? I should like greatly to have the whole off
my mind; and as I mean not to play again--”
“Pooh, pooh,” said Linton, stopping an explanation he was by no means
pleased Hoare should hear; “time enough for resolutions, and time enough
for payment too. By the end of the week, Hoare, will do perfectly. You
can bring the bills with you to my quarters, say on Saturday morning,
and we 'll drive over to Mr. Cashel's.”
[Illustration: 222]
“Very well. I 'll be punctual. At eleven on Saturday expect me. May I
bring that little thing of yours for two hundred pounds with it, Mr.
Linton?”
“Of course you may not. Where do you expect me to find money for the
debts of last year? My dear Hoare, I have no more memory for such things
than I have for the sorrows of childhood.”
“Ah, very well, sir, we'll keep it over,” said Hoare, smiling.
“Let him bring it,” whispered Cashel, “and include it in one of my
bills. There's nothing so worrying as an overhanging debt.”
“Do you think so?” replied Linton. “Bless me, I never felt that. A life
without duns is like a sky without a cloud, very agreeable for a short
time, but soon becoming wearisome from very monotony. You grow as sick
of uninterrupted blue as ever you did of impending rain and storm. Let
me have the landscape effect of light and shadow over existence. The
brilliant bits are then ten times as glorious in color, and the dark
shadows of one's mortgages only heighten the warmth of the picture. Ask
Hoare, there, _he'll_ tell you. I actually cherish my debts.”
“Very true, sir; you cannot bear to part with them either.”
“Well said, old Moses; the 'interest' they inspire is too strong for
one's feelings. But hark! I hear some fresh arrivals without. Another
boat-load of the d----d has crossed the Styx.”
“Thanks for the simile, sir,” said Hoare, smiling faintly,--“on
Saturday.”
“On Saturday,” repeated Linton.
Cashel lingered as he left the room; a longing desire to speak one
word, to ask one question of Hoare--who was this Leicester of whom he
spoke?--was uppermost in his mind, and yet he did not dare to own he had
heard the words. He could have wished, too, to communicate his thoughts
to Linton, but a secret fear told him that perhaps the mystery might be
one he would not wish revealed.
“Why so thoughtful, Roland?” said Linton, after traversing some streets
in silence. “My friend Hoare has not terrified you?”
“No, I was not thinking of him,” said Cashel. “What kind of a character
does he bear?”
“Pretty much that of all his class. Sharp enough, when sharpness is
called for, and seemingly liberal if liberality pays better. To me he
has been ever generous. Why, Heaven knows; I suppose the secret will out
one of these days. I'm sure I don't ask for it.”
Linton's flippancy, for the first time, was distasteful to Cashel. If
the school in which he was bred taught little remorse about the sin of
incurring debt, it inculcated, however, a manly self-reliance to
clear off the encumbrance by some personal effort, and he by no means
sympathized with the cool indifference of Linton's philosophy. Linton,
always shrewd enough to know when he had not “made a hit,” at once
turned the conversation into another channel, by asking at what time
Cashel proposed to receive his visitors at Tubbermore.
“Is the honor seriously intended me?” said Cashel, “or is it merely a
piece of fashionable quizzing, this promised visit, for I own I scarcely
supposed so many fine people would like to encounter the hard usage of
such an old ruin as I hear this must be.”
“You'll have them to a certainty. I doubt if there will be a single
apology. I know at this instant the most urgent solicitations have been
employed to procure invitations.”
“With all my heart, then,” cried Cashel; “only remember the order of
the course depends on you. I know nothing of how they ought to be
entertained or amused. Take the whole affair into your own hands, and I
shall concur in everything.”
“Originality is always better than imitation, but still, if one cannot
strike out a totally new line, what do you think of taking old Mathews
of Johnstown for our model, and invite all our guests with free
permission to dine, breakfast, and sup at what hour and in what parties
they please? This combines the unbridled freedom of an inn with the
hospitality of a country house. Groups form as fancy dictates. New
combinations spring up each day,--no fatigue, no _ennui_, can ensue with
such endless changes in companionship, and you yourself, instead of the
fatiguing duties of a host, are at liberty, like any of your guests, to
join this party or that.”
“I like the notion immensely. How would our friends take it, for that is
the point?”
“It would be popular with every one, for it will suit your people, who
know and like to mix with every set in society, and at the same time
gratify your 'exclusives,' who can form their own little coteries with
all the jealous selection they love. Besides, it avoids another and a
great difficulty. Had you received in ordinary fashion, you must have
asked some lady friend to have done the honors for you. This would have
been a matter of the greatest embarrassment. The Kennyfecks have not
rank enough; old Lady Janet would have frightened every one away; Mrs.
White would have filled the house with her own 'blues,' and banished
every one else; and as for Lady Kilgoff, who, besides being a very
pretty woman and well-mannered, has an exceedingly fascinating way with
strangers, 'my Lord' is so jealous, so absurdly, madly jealous, that
she dare not ask after the success of a shooting-party without his
suspecting an allegorical allusion to Cupid and his shafts.”
“Well, then, let us resolve to receive 'en Mathews;' and now, when shall
we name the day?”
“Let us wait till the result of the division be known in Parliament. A
change of ministers is hinted at, and if it were to occur, you'll have
every one hastening away to his county for the new election; by Saturday
we shall learn everything, and that will be time enough.”
“In any case, I had better set off and see what can be done to put the
house in a fit state to receive them.”
“Leave all that to me. I 'll take Popham, the architect, down with me,
and you need never trouble your head about the matter. It's quite clear
people who accept an invitation like the present must put up with a
hundred small penalties on convenience. The liberty of such a house
always repays whatever is wanting on the score of ceremonial and order,
and your fine guests, who would perhaps give themselves airs towards the
Kennyfecks and their set if meeting them elsewhere, will here affect, at
least, a tone of good-natured equality, just as in revolutionary times
people shake hands with their hairdresser.”
“But how to amuse or even occupy them! that is a great puzzle to me.”
“Leave them perfectly to their own devices. In fun there should be
always free-trade. Protection ruins it. But all this is Egyptian to you,
so go to bed and sleep soundly, and leave the cares of state to me.
“On me the glory or disgrace,
The pride of triumph or the shame of fall.”
“Then I 'll think no more of the matter,” said Cashel; “and so good-by.”
“Now for a twenty-four hours' sleep,” said Linton, “and then once more
to roll the stone of life, which, by the way, gives the lie to the old
adage, for unquestionably it does 'gather moss' as we grow older.”