Dalton found his little household on the alert at his return home; for
Mrs. Ricketts had just received an express to inform her that her “two
dearest friends on earth” were to arrive that evening in Baden, and she
was busily engaged in arranging a little fête for their reception.
All that poor Nelly knew of the expected guests was that one was a
distinguished soldier, and the other a no less illustrious diplomatist;
claims which, for the reader's illumination, we beg to remark were
embodied in the persons of Colonel Haggerstone and Mr. Foglass. Most
persons in Mrs. Ricketts's position would have entertained some scruples
about introducing a reinforcement to the already strong garrison of the
villa, and would have been disposed to the more humble but safe policy
enshrined in the adage of “letting well alone.” But she had a spirit far
above such small ambitions, and saw that the Dalton hospitalities were
capable of what, in parliamentary phrase, is called a “most extended
application.”
By the awestruck air of Nelly, and the overweening delight manifested by
her father, Zoe perceived the imposing effect of great names upon both,
and so successfully did she mystify the description of her two coming
friends, that an uninterested listener might readily have set them down
for the Duke and Prince Metternich, unless, indeed, that the praises she
lavished on them would have seemed even excessive for such greatness.
A triumphal arch was erected half-way up the avenue, over which, in
flowery initials, were to be seen the letters “B.” and “P.,” symbols to
represent “Bayard” and “Puffendorf;” under which guise Haggerstone and
the Consul were to be represented. Strings of colored lamps were to
be festooned along the approach, over which an Irish harp was to be
exhibited in a transparency, with the very original inscription of “Caed
Mille failtha,” in Celtic letters beneath.
The banquet--the word “dinner” was strictly proscribed for that day--was
to be arrayed in the hall, where Dalton was to preside, if possible,
with an Irish crown upon his head, supported by Nelly as the genius of
Irish music; and Zoe herself in a composite character,--half empress,
half prophetess,--a something between Sappho and the Queen of Sheba;
Martha, for the convenience of her various household cares, was to be
costumed as a Tyrolese hostess; and Purvis, in a dress of flesh-colored
web, was to represent Mercury, sent on purpose from above to deliver a
message of welcome to the arriving guests. As for the General, there was
a great doubt whether he ought to be Belisarius or Suwarrow; for, being
nearly as blind as the one and as deaf as the other, his qualifications
were about evenly balanced.
If not insensible to some of the absurdities of this notable project,
Dalton forgot the ridicule in the pleasanter occupation of the bustle,
the movement, and the tumult it occasioned. It did his heart good to see
the lavish waste and profusion that went forward. The kitchen-table, as
it lay spread with fruit, fish, and game, might have made a study for
Schneiders; and honest Peter's face glowed with delight as he surveyed a
scene so suggestive of convivial thoughts and dissipation.
“No doubt of it, Nelly,” said he; “but Mother Ricketts has grand
notions! She does the thing like a princess!” The praise was so far
well bestowed that there was something royal in dispensing hospitality
without regarding the cost; while, at the same time, she never
entertained the slightest sentiment of esteem for those in whose favor
it was to be exercised. Among the very few things she feared in this
world was Haggerstone's “tongue,” which she herself averred was best
conciliated by giving “occupation to his teeth.” The banquet was “got
up” with that object, while it also gave a favorable opportunity of
assuming that unbounded sway in Dalton's household which should set the
question of her supremacy at rest forever.
To this end was poor Martha engaged with puff-paste and jellies and
whip-cream, with wreaths of roses and pyramids of fruit, from dawn
till dusk. To this end was Purvis nearly driven out of his mind by
endeavoring to get off by heart an address in rhyme, the very first
line of which almost carried him off in a fit of coughing,--the word
“Puffendorf” being found nearly as unmanageable to voice as it was
unsuited to verse. While poor Belisarius, stripped of rule and compass,
denied access to water-colors, Indian-ink, or charcoal, spent a most
woful day of weary expectancy.
It was, indeed, an awful scene of trouble, fatigue, and exertion
on every side, adding one more to those million instances where the
preparation for the guest has no possible relation to the degree of
esteem he is held in. For so is it in the world: our best receptions
are decreed to those we care least for; our “friend” is condemned to
the family dinner, while we lavish our fortune on mere acquaintances. In
these days the fatted calf would not have been killed to commemorate the
return of the prodigal, but have been melted down into mock-turtle, to
feast “my Lord” or “Your Grace.”
The day wore on, and as the arrangements drew nearer to completion, the
anxieties were turned towards the guests themselves, who were to have
arrived at five o'clock. It was now six, and yet no sign of their
coming! Fully a dozen times had Mrs. Ricketts called Martha from some
household cares by the adjuration, “Sister Anne, sister Anne, seest thou
nobody coming?” Mercury had twice ventured out on the high-road, from
which he was driven back by a posse of hooting and laughing children;
and Dalton himself paced up and down the terrace in a state of nervous
impatience, not a little stimulated by hunger and certain flying visits
he paid to the iced punch, to see if it was keeping cool.
There is, assuredly, little mesmeric relation between the expecting host
and the lingering guest, or we should not witness all that we do of our
friends' unpunctuality in this life. What a want of sympathy between the
feverish impatience of the one and the careless dalliance of the other!
Not that we intend this censure to apply to the case before us, for
Haggerstone had not the very remotest conception of the honors that
awaited him, and jogged along his dusty road with no greater desire
to be at the end of the journey than was fairly justifiable in one who
travelled with German post-horses and Foglass for a companion.
Six o'clock came, and, after another hour of fretful anxiety, it
struck seven. By this time beef had become carbon, and fowls were like
specimens of lava; the fish was reduced to the state of a “purée,”
while everything meant to assume the flinty resistance of ice was calmly
settling down into a fluid existence. Many an architectural device of
poor Martha's genius was doomed to the fate of her other “castles,” and
towers and minarets of skilful shape dropped off one by one, like the
hopes of her childhood. All the telegraphic announcements from the
kitchen were of disasters, but Mrs. Ricketts received the tidings with
a Napoleonic calmness; and it was only when warned by the gathering
darkness over Dalton* s brow that she thought it wiser to “give in.”
Dalton's ill-humor had, however, a different source from that which she
suspected. It proceeded from the quiet but steady importunity with which
little Hans paced up and down before the door, now appearing before
one window, now before another, totally insensible to the cold
discouragement of Dalton's looks, and evidently bent on paying no
attention to all the signs and signals intended for his guidance.
“Doesn't he see we've company in the house? Has n't the little creature
the sense to know that this is no time to be bothering and teasing about
money? Has he no decency? Has he no respect for his superiors?” Such
were the deep mutterings with which Dalton tried to “blow off the steam”
of his indignation, while with many a gesture and motion he intimated
his anger and impatience. “Faix! he 's like a bailiff out there,” cried
he at last, as he issued forth to meet him. Whatever might have been
the first angry impulses of his heart, his second thoughts were far more
gentle and well disposed as he drew near to Hansèrl, who stood cap in
hand, in an attitude of deep and respectful attention.
“They have accepted the bail, Herr von Dalton, and this bond needs but
your signature,” said Hans, mildly, as he held forth a paper towards
him.
“Who's the bail? Give me the bond,” said Dalton, rapidly; and not
waiting for the answer to his question, “Where's the name to be,
Hanserl?”
“Here, in the space,” said the dwarf, dryly.
“That 's soon done, if there's no more wanting,” rejoined Peter, with a
laugh. “'T is seldom that writing the same two words cost me so little.
Won't you step in a minute, into the house? I 'd ask you to stop and eat
your dinner, but I know you don't like strangers, and we have company
to-day. Well, well, no offence; another time, maybe, when we 're alone.
He 's as proud as the devil, that little chap,” muttered he, as he
turned back within the house; “I never saw one of his kind that was n't
'T is only creatures with humpbacks and bent shins that never believes
they can be wrong in this world; they have a conceit in themselves
that's wonderful! Not that there isn't good in him, too; he's a friendly
soul as ever I seen! There it is, now. Peter Dalton's hand and deed;”
and he surveyed the superscription with considerable satisfaction.
“There it is, Hans, and much good may it do you!” said he, as he
delivered the document with an air of a prince conferring a favor on a
subject.
“You will bear in mind that Abel Kraus is a hard creditor!” said Hans,
who could not help feeling shocked at the easy indifference Dalton
exhibited.
“Well, but haven't we settled with him?” cried Peter, half impatiently.
“So far as surety for his claim goes--”
“Yes, that's what I mean,----he's sure of his money; that's all he
wants. I 'd be the well-off man to-day if _I_ was sure of getting back
all ever I lent! But nobody does, and, what's more, nobody expects it.”
“This bond expires in twelve days,” added Hans, more than commonly
anxious to suggest some prudential thoughts.
“Twelve days!” exclaimed Peter, who, instead of feeling alarmed at the
shortness of the period, regarded it as so many centuries. “Many's
the change one sees in the world in twelve days. Would n't you take
something,--a glass of Marcobrunner, or a little plain Nantz?”
Hans made no reply, for, with bent-down head and hands crossed on his
bosom, he was deep in thought.
“I 'm saying, that maybe you'd drink a glass of wine, Hans?” repeated
Dalton; but still no answer came. “What dreamy creatures them Germans
are!” muttered Peter.
“And then,” exclaimed Hanserl, as if speaking to himself, “it is but
beginning life anew. Good-bye--farewell.” And so saying, he touched his
cap courteously, and moved hastily away, while Dalton continued to
look after him with compassionate sorrow, for one so little capable of
directing his path in life. As he re-entered the house, he found Mrs.
Ricketts, abandoning all hopes of her distinguished guests, had just
ordered the dinner; and honest Peter consoled himself for their absence
by observing that they should be twice as jolly by themselves! Had it
depended on himself alone, the sentiment might have had some foundation,
for there was something of almost wild gayety in his manner. All the
vicissitudes of the morning, the painful alternations of hope and
fear,--hope so faint as to be a torture, and fear so dark as to be
almost despair,--had worked him up to a state of extreme excitement.
To add to this, he drank deeply, quaffing off whole goblets of wine, and
seeming to exult in the mad whirlwind of his own reckless jollity. If
the jests he uttered on Scroope's costume, or the other allegorical
fancies of Zoe's brain, were not of the most refined taste, they were at
least heartily applauded by the indulgent public around his board. Mrs.
Ricketts was in perfect ecstasies at the flashes of his “Irish wit;”
and even Martha, fain to take on credit what was so worthily endorsed,
laughed her own meek laugh of approval. As for Purvis, champagne
completed what nature had but begun, and he became perfectly
unintelligible ere dinner was over.
All this while poor Nelly's sufferings were extreme; she saw the
unblushing, shameless adulation of the parasites, and she saw, too, the
more than commonly excited glare in her father's eyes,----the wildness
of fever rather than the passing excitation of wine. In vain, her
imploring, beseeching glances were turned towards him; in vain she
sought, by all her little devices, to withdraw him from the scene of
riotous debauch, or recall him from the excesses of a revel which was an
orgie. In his wild and boastful vein he raved about “home,” as he still
called it, and of his family possessions,----at times vaunting of his
wealth and greatness, and then, as suddenly breaking into mad invectives
against the Jews and money-lenders, to whom his necessities had reduced
him.
“A good run of luck over there!” cried he, frantically, and pointing
to the blaze of lamps which now sparkled through the trees before the
Cursaal. “One good night yonder, and Peter Dalton would defy the world.
If you 're a lucky hand, Miss Martha, come over and bet for me. I 'll
make the bank jump for it before I go to bed! I know the secret of it
now. It's changing from color to color ruins everybody. You must be
steady to one,--black or red, whichever it is; stick fast to it. You
lose two, three, maybe six or seven times running; never mind, go on
still. 'T is the same with play as with women, as the old song
says,----
If they're coy, and won't hear when you say you adore,
Just squeeze them the tighter and press them the more.”
“Isn't that it, Mrs. Ricketts? Ah, baithershin! you never knew that
song. Miss Martha's blushing; and just for that I 'll back 'red' all the
evening; and there's the music beginning already. Here's success to us
all! and, faix! it's a pleasant way to deserve it.”
Nelly drew near him as they were leaving the room, and, passing her arm
fondly about him, whispered a few words in his ear.
“And why not this evening?” said he, aloud, and in a rude voice. “Is
it Friday, that it ought to bring bad luck? Why should n't I go this
evening? I can't hear you; speak louder. Ha! ha! ha! Listen to that,
Miss Martha. There's the sensible Nelly for you! She says she had a
dhrame about me last night.”
“No, dearest papa; but that it was like a dream to me. All the narrative
seemed so natural,--all the events followed so regularly, and yet I was
awake just as I am now.”
[Illustration: 294]
“More shame for you, then. We can't help ourselves what nonsense we
think in our sleep.”
“But you'll not go, dearest papa. You'll indulge me for this once, and I
'll promise never to tease you by such follies again.”
“Faix! I'll go, sure enough; and, what's more, I'll win five thousand
pounds this night, as sure as my name's Peter. I saw a black cat shaving
himself before a new tin saucepan; and if that isn't luck, I'd like to
know what is. A black cat won the Curragh Stakes for Tom Molly; and it
was an egg saucepan made Dr. Groves gain the twenty thousand pounds in
the lottery. And so, now, may I never leave this room if I'd take two
thousand pounds down for my chances to-night!”
And in all the force of this confidence in fortune, Dalton sallied forth
to the Cursaal. The rooms were more than usually crowded, and it was
with difficulty that, with Mrs. Ricketts on one arm and Martha on the
other, he could force his way to the tables. Once there, however, a
courteous reception awaited him, and the urbane croupier moved his own
august chair to make room for the honored guest. Although the company
was very numerous, the play was as yet but trifling; a stray gold piece
here or there glittered on the board, and in the careless languor of the
bankers, and the unexcited looks of the bystanders, might be read the
fact that none of the well-known frequenters of the place were betting.
Dalton's appearance immediately created a sensation of curiosity.
Several of those present had witnessed his losses on the preceding
night, and were eager to see what course he would now pursue. It was
remarked that he was not accompanied, as heretofore, by that formidable
money-bag which, with ostentatious noise, he used to fling down on
the table before him. Nor did he now produce that worn old leather
pocket-book, whose bursting clasp could scarce contain the roll of
bank-notes within it. He sat with his hands crossed before him, staring
at the table, but to all seeming not noticing the game. At length,
suddenly rousing himself, he leant over and said a few words, in a
whisper, to the croupier, who, in an equally low tone, communicated with
his colleague across the table. A nod and a smile gave the quiet reply;
and Dalton, taking a piece of paper, scrawled a few figures on it with
a pencil, and with a motion so rapid as to be unseen by many of the
bystanders, the banker pushed several “rouleaux” of gold before Dalton,
and went on with the game.
Dalton broke one of the envelopes, and as the glittering pieces fell
out, he moved his fingers through them, as though their very touch was
pleasure. At last, with a kind of nervous impatience, he gathered up a
handful, and without counting, threw them on the table.
“How much?” said the croupier.
“The whole of it!” cried Dalton; and scarcely had he spoken, when he
won.
A murmur of astonishment ran through the room as he suffered the double
stake to remain on the board; which speedily grew into a loader ham
of voices, as the banker proceeded to count out the gains of a second
victory. Affecting an insight into the game and its chances which he did
not possess, Dalton now hesitated and pondered over his bets, increasing
his stake at one moment, diminishing it at another, and assuming all
the practised airs of old and tried gamblers. As though in obedience to
every caprice, the fortune of the game followed him unerringly. If he
lost, it was some mere trifle; when he won, the stake was sure to be
a large one. At length even this affected prudence--this mock
skill--became too slow for him, and he launched out into all his
accustomed recklessness. Not waiting to take in his winnings, he threw
fresh handfuls of gold amongst them, till the bank, trembling for its
safety, more than once had to reduce the stakes he wished to venture.
“They'd give him five hundred Naps, this moment if he 'd cease to play,”
said some one behind Dalton's chair. “There 's nothing the bank dreads
so much as a man with courage to back his luck.”
“I 'd wish them a good-night,” said another, “if I 'd have made so good
a-thing of it as that old fellow; he has won some thousand Napoleons, I
'm certain.”
“_He_ knows better than that,” said the former. “This is a 'run' with
him, and he feels it is. He 'll 'break' them before the night's over.”
Dalton heard every word of this colloquy, and drank in the surmise as
greedily as did Macbeth the Witches' prophecy.
“He deserves to win, too,” resumed the last speaker, “for I never saw a
man play more boldly.”
“So much for boldness,” cried the other; “he has just risked a fifth
time on the red and lost. See if it be not two hundred 'Naps.'”
The defeat did not dishearten him, for again Dalton covered the board
with gold. As if that moment had been the turning-point of his destiny,
his losses now began, and with all the rapidity of his previous gains.
At first he bore the reverse calmly and patiently; after a while a
slight gesture of impatience, a half-muttered exclamation would escape
him; but when loss followed loss unceasingly, and one immense stake
disappeared after another, Dalton's fingers trembled, and his cheeks
shook like one in ague. His straining bloodshot eyes were fixed on the
play with the intensity of passion, and a convulsive shudder would shake
his massive frame at each new tidings of loss. “Am I never to have luck
again? Is it only to lead me on that I won? Can this go on forever?”
were the low-muttered words which now he syllabled with difficulty, for
already his utterance was thick, and his swollen tongue and flattened
cheeks seemed threatened with paralysis.
His last stake was swept away before him, and Dalton, unable to speak,
stretched forth his arms across the table to arrest the banker's hand.
“A hundred 'Naps,' on the red,” cried he, wildly; “no--two hundred--neck
or nothing, I 'll go five--d' ye hear me?--five hundred on the red!”
A short conversation in whispers ensued between the croupiers, after
which one of them spoke a few words to Dalton in a low voice.
“You never said so when I was losing,” cried Peter, savagely. “I heard
nothing about the rules of the tables _then_.”
“The stake is above our limit, sir; above the limit laid down by law,”
said the chief banker, mildly.
“I don't care for your laws. I lost my money, and I 'll have my
revenge.”
“You can make half de stakes in my name, saar,” said a long-moustached
and not over-clean-looking personage beside Dalton's chair.
“That will do----thank you,” cried Dalton. “Bet two hundred and fifty
for me and I'll stake the rest.”
A moment more, and the low voice of the croupier proclaimed that red had
lost!
“What does he say--why won't he speak plainly?” cried Dalton, in a voice
of passionate energy.
“You lose de stake,” muttered the man behind him.
“Of course I do; what other luck could I have? Lose--lose--lose!”
said he to himself, in a low, moaning voice. “There they go--the
fools!----betting away as fresh as ever. Why won't they take warning by
_me?_ beggared, rained as it has left me. May I never! if the red isn't
winning every time now!” And, as he spoke, his eyes followed a great
heap of gold which some fortunate gambler just drew in before him. “How
much did he win, then?” cried Dalton; but none replied to a question so
contrary to every etiquette of the table.
“He never counts it,” muttered Peter, as he continued to gaze on the
lucky player with a kind of envious admiration. “They say it's best not
to count one's winnings. I don't know what's best; I believe 't is only
the devil knows--for it was _he_ invented the game.--Red, again, the
winner!”
“Why you no back de red?” whispered the man behind his chair.
Dalton started, and was about to give an angry reply, but corrected
himself, and merely stared stupidly at him.
“You win eleven hundred Napoleons if you do go on,” said the other,
showing in proof of his assertion the card on which he had marked all
the chances.
“And where 's the money?” cried Dalton, as, with a hissing utterance, he
spoke, and he pointed to the table before him. “Have I Coutts's bank at
my back, or is all Lombard Street in my pocket? 'T is easy to say, go
on! Red again, by Jingo!”
“I tell you dat!” said the other, gravely.
Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared steadfastly at the speaker.
His mind was in that state of wild confusion when every conception,
however vague and fanciful, assumes a certain degree of reality, and
superstitions take on them all the force of warnings. What if his
prompter were the devil himself! was it not exactly what he had often
heard of? He never saw him there before, and certainly appearances were
not much against the hypothesis. He was tall and spare, with a high,
narrow forehead, and a pair of most treacherous-looking black eyes,
that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. Unabashed by or
indifferent to Dalton's scrutiny, he went on with his chronicle of
the game, noting down the chances, and only muttering a few words to
himself.
“Nine times red,” said he, as he counted the scores.
“Will it go ten?” asked Dalton, with a purposelike energy that showed
his faith in the oracle; but the other never heeded the question.
“Back de red, I say; back de red dis time,” whispered he in Dalton's
ear.
“Don't you see that I have no money?” said Dalton, angrily.
“Dey will lend on your name; ask for a hundred Naps. Be quick, be
quick.”
Dalton stooped across the table, and whispered the croupier, who
returned a look of doubt and uncertainty. Peter grew more pressing, and
the other bent over, and spoke to his colleague. This time the request
was not met with a smile and a bland bow, and Dalton watched with angry
impatience all the signs of hesitation and deliberation between them.
“Say your banker is closed,--that you must have de moneys,” whispered
the dark man.
“Must I wait till the bank is open to-morrow morning,” said Dalton, “or
do you mean to give me this trifle?”
“Our rules are strictly opposed to the practice of lending, Count,”
whispered the croupier at his side; “we have already transgressed them
in your favor, and--”
“Oh, don't inconvenience the Count,” interposed his colleague. “How much
is it?”
“Say two hundred,--two!” muttered the unknown.
“Two hundred Naps.,” cried Dalton, resolutely.
“This will make five hundred and forty to-night, Count.”
“And if it was five thousand,” said Peter, running his fingers through
the gold with ecstasy, “what matter? There goes fifty on the red.”
“Ah, you play too rash,” whispered the dark man.
“What business is it of yours? am I your ward?” cried Dalton,
passionately, for the stake was lost in the instant. “Bed, again fifty.
May I never! if I don't believe 'tis _you_ brings me the bad luck,” said
Dalton, darting a savage glance at the other, whose impassive face never
betrayed the slightest emotion.
“I no wish to disturb your game, saar,” was the meek reply of the dark
man; and with a bow of meek humility he backed through the crowd and
disappeared.
In a moment Dalton felt shocked at his own rudeness, and would have
given worlds to have recalled his words, or even apologized for them;
but other thoughts soon supplanted these, and again his whole heart was
in the game.
“You did n't bet last time,” remarked some one near him, “and your
favorite color won.”
“No, I was looking about me. I was thinking of something else,” replied
he; and he sat fingering the gold pieces as though unwilling to part
with them.
The game went on; luck came and went; the gold glittered and clinked;
the same endless “refrain”----“Faîtes votre jeu, Messieurs,” followed
by the same sing-song phrases, continued to roll on, and Dalton sat, now
counting his money, and piling up the pieces into tens or twenties; or,
with his head resting on his hand, deep in serious thought. Twice he
placed a heavy stake upon the table, and recalled it at the very moment
of the game's beginning. Every gesture and action showed the terrible
struggle between hope and fear that went on within him. A red spot
glowed on one cheek, while the other was pale as death, and his lips
from time to time were moved with a short spasmodic jerk, as if some
sudden pain shot through him. At last, with a great effort, he pushed
all the gold into the centre of the table, and cried out, but in a voice
so strange and inarticulate that the words could not be distinguished.
“You said 'rouge,' Count, I think?” asked the croupier.
“I fancy the gentleman said 'noir,'” remarked a bystander.
“Let him declare for himself,” observed another.
“But the game has already begun,” said the banker.
“So much the worse for the bank,” remarked another, laughing, “for it's
easy to see what will win.”
“Pray declare your color, sir,” said an impatient gambler at Dalton's
side; “the whole table is waiting for you.”
Dalton started, and, darting an angry look at the speaker, made an
effort to rise from the table. He failed at first, but grasping the
shoulder of the croupier, he arose to his full height, and stared
around him. All was hushed and still, not a sound was heard, as in that
assembly, torn with so many passions, every eye was turned towards the
gigantic old man, who, with red eyeballs and outstretched hands, seemed
to hurl defiance at them. Backwards and forwards he swayed for a second
or two, and then, with a low, faint cry,--the last wail of a broken
heart,--he fell with a crash upon the table. There he lay, his white
hairs streaming over the gold and silver pieces, and his bony fingers
flattened upon the cards. “A fit!----he's in a fit!” cried some, as they
endeavored to raise him.--“Worse still!” remarked another, and he passed
his hand from the pulse to the heart, “he is dead!”
The hero of a hundred fights, he who has seen death in every shape and
on every field, must yield the palm of indifference to its terrors to
the gambler. All the glorious insanity of a battle, all the reckless
enthusiasm of a storm, even the headlong impetuosity of a charge, cannot
supply the cold apathy of the gambler's heart; and so was it that they
saw in that lifeless form nothing beyond a disagreeable interruption to
their game, and muttered their impatience at the delay in its removal.
“Well,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she sat in an adjoining apartment, “have
you any tidings of our dear 'Amphytrion?'----is he winning to-night?”
The question was addressed to the tall, dark man, who so lately had
been standing behind Dalton's chair, and was our old acquaintance, Count
Petrolaffsky.
“He no win no more, Madame,” replied he, solemnly.
“Has he gone away, then?--has he gone home without us?”
“He has gone home, indeed----into the other world,” said he, shaking his
head.
“What do you mean, Count? For Heaven's sake, speak intelligibly.”
“I mean as I do say, Madame. He play a game as would ruin Rothschild;
always change, and always at de wrong time, and never know when to make
his 'paroli.' Ah, dat is de gran' secret of all play; when you know when
to make your 'paroli' you win de whole world! Well, he is gone now; poor
man, he cannot play no more!”
“Martha--Scroope, do go--learn something--see what has happened.”
“Oh, here's the Colonel. Colonel Haggerstone, what is this dreadful news
I hear?”
“Your accomplished friend has taken French leave of you, Madame, and
was in such a hurry to go that he wouldn't wait for another turn of the
cards.”
“He ain't d-d-dead?” screamed Purvis.
“I'm very much afraid they insist on burying him tomorrow or next day,
under that impression, sir,” said Haggerstone.
“What a terrible event!--how dreadful!” said Martha, feelingly; “and his
poor daughter, who loved him so ardently!”
“That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. Ricketts, at once roused to
activity by thoughts of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage at
once. I must break it to her myself. Have you any particulars for me,
Colonel?”
“None, Madame! If coroners were the fashion here, thay 'd bring in a
verdict of died from backing the wrong color, with a deodand against the
rake!'”
“Yes, it is ver' true, he always play bad,” muttered the Pole.
And now the room began to fill with people discussing the late incident
in every possible mood and with every imaginable shade of sentiment. A
few--a very few--dropped some expressions of pity and compassion.
Many preferred to make a display of their own courage by a bantering,
scornful tone, and some only saw in the event how unsuited certain
natures were to contend with the changeful fortunes of high play. These
were, for the most part, Dalton's acquaintances, and who had often told
him--at least, so they now took credit for--that “he had no head
for play.” Interspersed with these were little discussions as to the
immediate cause of death, as full of ignorance and as ingenious as
such explanations usually are, all being contemptuously wound up by
Haggerstone's remark, “That death was like matrimony,--very difficult
when wanted, but impossible to escape when you sought to avoid it!” As
this remark had the benefit of causing a blush to poor Martha, he gave
his arm to the ladies, with a sense of gratification that came as near
happiness as anything he could imagine.
“Is Miss Dalton in the drawing-room?” said Mrs. Rick-etts, as with an
air of deep importance she swept through the hall of the villa.
“She's in her room, Madame,” said the maid.
“Ask if she will receive me,--if I may speak to her.”
The maid went out, and returned with the answer that Miss Dalton was
sleeping.
“Oh, let her sleep!” cried Martha. “Who knows when she will taste such
rest again?”
Mrs. Ricketts bestowed a glance of withering scorn on her sister, and
pushed roughly past her, towards Nelly's chamber. A few minutes after a
wild, shrill shriek was heard through the house, and then all was still.