AT MONTE CARLO.
Reader, have you ever been to Monte Carlo, that loveliest spot in all
the world, where nature and art have done so much; where the summer
rains fall so softly, and the winter sun shines so brightly, and where
the blue of the autumnal sky is only equaled by the blue of the
Mediterranean sea, whose waves kiss the beautiful shore and cool the
perfumed air? If you have been there you do not need a description of
the place, or of the mass of human beings, who daily press up the hill
from the station, or, swarming from those grand hotels, hurry toward one
common center, the tall Casino, whose gilded domes can he seen from
afar, and whose interior, though, so beautiful to look upon, is, as Miss
Betsey McPherson would express it, the very gate of hell. Perhaps, like
the writer of this story, you have stood by the long tables, and watched
the people seated there; the white-haired, watery-eyed old men, whose
trembling hands can scarcely hold the gold they put down with such
feverish eagerness; the men of middle age, whom experience has taught to
play cautiously, and stop just before the tide of success turns against
them; the young men, who, with the perspiration standing thickly about
their pale lips, and a strange glitter in their feverish eyes as they
see hundreds swept away, still play recklessly, desperately, until all
is lost, and they leave the accursed spot, hopelessly ruined, sometimes
seeking forgetfulness in death, with only the silent stars looking down
upon them and the restless sea moaning in their ears, lost, lost! There
are women too, at Monte Carlo, more, I verily believe than men; old
women, who sit from the hour of noon to the hour of midnight; women,
with their life's history written on their wrinkled, wicked faces;
women, who laugh hysterically when all they have is lost, and then
borrow of their friends to try their luck again; women, who go from
table to table with their long bags upon their arms, and who only risk
five or ten francs at a time, and stop when their unlucky star is in the
ascendant, or they feel that curious eyes are watching them. For these
habitual players at Monte Carlo are very superstitious, and it takes but
little to unnerve them. There are young women there too, who play first,
to see if they can win, and when by the fall of the little ball their
gold piece is doubled, they try again and again, until the habit is
fixed, and their faces are as well known in the saloons as those of the
old men with the blear eyes, which find time between the plays to scan
these young girls curiously, and calculate their price.
And among these young women, Daisy McPherson sat the morning after her
arrival at Monte Carlo, with a look of sweet innocence on her face, and
apparent unconsciousness of the attention she was attracting. She had
been among the first who entered the _salon_ at the hour of its opening,
for she was eager for the contest. She did not expect Archie to play,
for she knew he would not break the promise made to his dying father.
But she was bound by no such vow, and she meant to make her fortune on
the spot where gold was won so easily, and alas, so easily lost.
Rarely, if ever, had a more beautiful face been seen in that gilded den
than Daisy's, as she entered the room, leaning upon the arm of her
husband, and walking slowly from table to table to see how it was done
before making her first venture. Not a man but turned to look at her,
and when at last, with a trembling hand, she put down her five franc
piece, not one but was glad when she took up two, and with a smile of
triumph tried her luck again. It is said that success always attends the
new beginner at Monte Carlo, and it surely attended Daisy, who played on
and on, seldom losing, until, grown bold by repeated success, she staked
her all, one hundred and fifty francs, and doubled it at once.
"That will do. Twelve pounds are enough for one day," she said, and
depositing her gains in her leather bag, she took Archie's arm and left
the room, followed by scores of admiring eyes, while many an eager
question was asked as to who the lovely English girl could be.
In the ante-room outside there was a crowd of people moving in opposite
directions, and the train of Daisy's blue muslin, for those were not
the days of short dresses, was stepped upon and held until the gathers
at the waist gave way and there was a long, ugly rent in one of the
bottom flounces.
"I beg your pardon, miss, for my awkwardness, but really I could not
help myself, I was so pushed by the crowd," was said in Daisy's ear in a
rich Irish brogue, and turning partly round she saw a fair-haired young
man, scarcely two years older than herself, with a look of genuine
distress upon his aristocratic but boyish face, as he continued: "I hope
I have not ruined the dress, and it is such a pretty one!"
"I am sure you could not help it, but I am awful sorry, for it is my
very best gown; but then I can afford another now, for I gained twelve
pounds to-day," Daisy said, gathering up her torn skirt, and thus
showing to good advantage her pretty feet, and the fluted ruffles on her
white petticoat.
"Daisy!" Archie said, reproachfully, for he did not like her speaking
thus freely to a stranger, "Let's get out of this;" and he made his way
to the open air, followed by the young man who still kept apologizing
for his awkwardness, until Archie lost all patience, and said a little
hotly, "I tell you, it is of no consequence. My wife can afford
another."
"Your wife!" the young Irishman repented with a gasp. "Is it possible? I
thought she was your sister. She looks so young. Your wife?"
"Yes, my wife! and I am Archibald McPherson, of Stoneleigh, Bangor, in
Wales," Archie answered, fiercely, and with a look which he meant should
annihilate the enemy, who, not in the least abashed, because he really
meant no harm, lifted his soft hat very respectfully, as he replied:
"Mr. McPherson, I am glad to make your acquaintance. I was in Bangor
last year, at the George Hotel, and heard your name mentioned. I am Lord
Frederic Hardy, of Dublin, better known there as Ted Hardy, of Hardy
Manor, and I am out on a spree, running myself, independent of tutors
and guardians, and all that sort of thing; bores I consider the whole
lot of them, though my guardian, fortunately, is the best-natured and
most liberal old cove in the world, and gives me mostly all I want. I
think it a streak of luck to have met you here, where I know nobody and
nobody knows me, I hope we may be friends."
His manner, so friendly and so familiar, mollified Archie, who had heard
of the young Irish lord, whose income was £10,000 a year, and who spent
his money lavishly during the few days he was at the George, while
Daisy, who held a title in great veneration, was enraptured with this
young peer who treated her I like an equal. And so it came that in half
an hour's time the three were the best of friends, and had made several
plans with regard to what they would do during their stay at Monte
Carlo.
The next day Daisy did not see her new acquaintance, but as she was
dressing for the _table d'hote_ dinner, which she could afford with her
twelve pounds gain, a box was brought to her room, with a note addressed
to her by Lord Hardy, who wrote as follows:
"DEAR MRS. McPHERSON: I send you a new dress in place of the one I
had the misfortune to spoil yesterday Please accept it without a
protest, just as if I were your brother, or your husband's best
friend, as I hope to be. Yours sincerely,
"TED HARDY."
"Oh, Archie!" Daisy exclaimed, as she opened the box and held to view a
soft, rich, lustrous silk of dark navy-blue, which Lord Hardy had found
in Nice, whither he had been that day, and which, in quality and style,
did justice to his taste and generosity. "Oh, Archie, isn't it a beauty,
and it almost stands alone?"
"Ye-es," Archie answered, meditatively, for he rather doubted the
propriety of receiving so costly a present for his wife from a stranger,
and he said so to Daisy, adding that it was of course very kind in Lord
Hardy, but wholly uncalled for, and she'd better return it at once, as
he would not quite like to see her wear it.
But Daisy began to cry, and said she had never had a silk dress in her
life, and this was just what she wanted, and she could make it herself,
and she presumed the amount Lord Hardy paid for it was no more to him
than a few pence were to them. And so she kept it and thanked Lord Hardy
very sweetly for it with tears swimming in her great blue eyes, when
she met him in the evening at dinner, for he had given up his luxurious
quarters at the more fashionable hotel, and had come to the same house
with the McPhersons, whose shadow he became. The navy-blue silk was
quickly made in the privacy of Daisy's apartment, and she was very
charming in it, and attracted a great deal of attention, and drove the
young Irishman nearly crazy with her smiles and coquetries. Lord Hardy
took her and her husband to drive, every day, in the most stylish
turn-out the place afforded, and took them to Nice and Mentone, and
introduced them to some friends of his who were staying at the latter
place, and of whose acquaintance, slight as it was, Daisy made capital
ever after. The adventuress was developing fast in her, and Lord Hardy
was her willing tool, always at her beck and nod, and going everywhere
with her except into the play-room itself. From that place he was
debarred, for at Monte Carlo they have decreed that no male under age
shall enter the charmed spot, and Teddy was not twenty-one, and had said
so to the man in the office, and after that neither persuasions nor
bribes were of any avail.
"Better have lied straight out," more than one hard old man said to him,
but Ted Hardy could not lie _straight out_, and so he staid out and
waited around disconsolately for Daisy, whom fortune sometimes favored
and sometimes deserted.
One day she lost everything, and came out greatly perturbed, to report
her ill-luck to "Teddy," as she called him now.
"It's a shame that I can't go in. I could loan you some, you know," Lord
Hardy said; and Daisy replied:
"Yes; 'tis an awful shame!" Then after a moment she added; "Teddy, I've
been thinking. I expect my Cousin Sue from Bangor every day."
"Ye-es," Teddy replied, slowly, and thinking at once that a cousin Sue
might be _de trop_. "Is she nice? How does she look?--any like you?"
"No; more like you, Ted. She is about your height--you are not tall, you
know; her hair is just the color of yours, and curls just like it, while
her eyes are the same. Dress you in her clothes, and you might pass for
her."
"By Jove! I see. When will she be here?" Teddy asked, and Daisy
replied:
"Just as soon as you can buy me some soft woollen goods to make her a
suit, and a pair of woman's gloves and boots which will fit you, and a
switch of hair to match yours. _Comprenez vous?_"
"You bet I do!" was the delighted answer; and within twenty-four hours
the soft woolen goods, and the boots, and gloves, and switch of hair,
and sundry other articles pertaining to a woman's toilet, were in
Daisy's room, from which, during the next day, issued shrieks of
laughter, almost too loud to be strictly lady-like, as Daisy fitted the
active little Irishman, and instructed him how to demean himself as
cousin Sue from Bangor.
Two days later, and there sat, side by side, at the roulette table, two
fair-haired English girls, as they seemed to be, and nobody suspected
the truth, or dreamed of the ruse which had succeeded admirably and
admitted to forbidden ground young Lord Hardy, who, in the new dress
which fitted him perfectly, and with Daisy's linen collar, and cuffs,
and neck-tie, and one of Daisy's hats perched on his head and drawn over
the forehead, where his own curly hair was kept in its place as a _bang_
by numerous hair-pins, would have passed for a girl anywhere. Nobody had
challenged him or his age as he passed in with Daisy, who was well known
by this time, and around whom and her companion, a crowd of curious ones
gathered and watched them as they played, cautiously at first, for that
was Daisy's style; then as Ted's Irish blood began to tingle with
excitement, more recklessly, until he whispered to her:
"Play high. There's no such thing as _second hand low_ here. Double your
stakes and I'll be your backer."
And Daisy played high and won nearly every time, while the lookers-on
marveled at her luck and wondered by what strange intuition she knew
just where to place her gold. For days the pair known to the crowd as
"_Les cousines Anglaises_," played side by side, while Lord Hardy
maintained his incognito perfectly, though some of the spectators
commented on the size of his hands and wondered why he always kept them
gloved. And Ted enjoyed it immensely, and thought it the jolliest lark
he ever had, and did not care a _sous_ how much he lost if Daisy only
won. But at last her star began to wane, and her gold-pieces were swept
off rapidly by the remorseless _croupier_, until fifty pounds went at
one stroke, and then Daisy turned pale, and said to her companion:
"Don't you think we'd better stop? I believe Satan himself is standing
behind me with his evil eye! Do look and see who is there!"
"Nobody but your husband, upon my soul," Ted whispered, after glancing
back at Archie, who, with folded arms and a cloud on his brow, stood
watching the game and longing to take his wife away. "Nobody but your
husband, who looks black as his Satanic majesty. But never you mind, my
darlint," he continued, adopting the dialect of his country. "Play high,
and it's meself'll make good all you lose. Faith and be jabers they
can't break Ted Hardy."
Thus reassured, Daisy played high, and her luck returned, and when she
left the hall that night she was richer by a thousand pounds than when
she entered it.
The next day the McPhersons left Monte Carlo, accompanied by Lord Hardy,
who went with them to Genoa, and Turin, and Milan, and the Italian
lakes, and Venice, where he said good-by, for he was going to Rome,
while they were to turn their faces homeward, stopping for a few weeks
at Paris, which Daisy said she must see before shutting herself up at
stupid old Stoneleigh, which looked very uninviting to her since she had
seen the world and found how much there was to enjoy and how much
influence she could exert in it. Others than Ted Hardy had been
attracted by the airy little beauty, who always managed to make them
serviceable in some way, notwithstanding Archie's oft-repeated protest
that she made too free with strangers, and accepted civilities where she
ought to have given rebukes. Archie had not been altogether pleased with
the campaign, and was glad when at last he drove into the old park at
Stoneleigh and was warmly welcomed by Dorothy and Anthony, who had made
the place as comfortable as possible with the small means at their
command.