PRIUS DEMENTAT.
When Maurice Mangan left the train at Winstead, and climbed out of the
deep chalk cutting in which the station is buried, and emerged upon the
open downs, he found himself in a very different world from that he had
left. Far away behind him lay the great city (even now the dusky dome of
St. Paul's was visible across the level swathes of landscape), with its
miry ways and teeming population and continuous thunder of traffic;
while here were the windy skies of a wild March morning and swaying
trees and cawing rooks and air that was sweet in the nostrils and soft
to the throat. As he light-heartedly strode away across the undulations
of blossoming gorse, fragments of song from his favorite poets chased
one another through his brain; and somehow they were all connected with
the glad opening out of the year--"And then my heart with pleasure
fills, and dances with the daffodils"--"Along the grass sweet airs are
blown, our way this day in spring"--"And in the gloaming o' the wood,
the throssil whistled sweet"--Mangan could sing no more than a crow; but
he felt as if he were singing; there was a kind of music in the long
stride, the quick pulse, the deep inhalations of the delicious air. For
all was going to be well now; he was about to consult Francie as to
Lionel's sad estate. He did not stay to ask himself whether it were
likely that a quiet and gentle girl, living in this secluded
neighborhood, could be of much help in such a matter; it was enough that
he was going to talk it all over with Miss Francie; things would be
clearer then.
Now, as you go up from Winstead Station to Winstead Village, there is a
strip of coppice that runs parallel with one part of the highway; and
through this prolonged dingle a pathway meanders, which he who is not in
a hurry may prefer to the road. Of course Mangan chose this pleasanter
way, though he had to moderate his pace now because of the briars; and
right glad was he to notice the various symptoms of the new-born life of
the world--the pale anemones stirred by the warm, moist breeze, the
delicate blossoms of the little wood-sorrel, the budded raceme of the
wild hyacinth; while loud and clear a blackbird sang from a neighboring
bough. He did not expect to meet any one; he certainly did not expect to
meet Miss Francie Wright, who would doubtless be away at her cottages.
But all of a sudden he was startled by the apparition of a rabbit that
came running towards him, and then, seeing him, bolted off at right
angles; and as this caused him to look up from his botanizings, here,
unmistakably, was Miss Francie, coming along through the glade. Her pale
complexion showed a little color as she drew near; but there was not
much embarrassment in the calm, kind eyes.
"This is indeed a stroke of good-fortune," he said, "for I came down for
the very purpose of having a talk with you all by yourself--about
Lionel. But I did not imagine I should meet you here."
"I am going down to the station," she said. "I expect a parcel by the
train you must have come by; and I want it at once."
"May I go with you and carry it for you?" he said, promptly; and of
course she could not refuse so civil an offer. The awkward part of the
arrangement was that they had to go along through this straggling strip
of wood in single file, making a really confidential chat almost an
impossibility; whereupon he proposed, and she agreed, that they should
get out into the highway; and thereafter they went on to the station by
the ordinary road.
But this task he had undertaken proved to be a great deal more difficult
and delicate than he had anticipated. To have a talk with Francie--that
seemed simple enough; it was less simple, as he discovered, to have to
tell Lionel's cousin that the young man had gone and engaged himself to
be married. Indeed, he beat about the bush for a considerable time.
"You see," he said, "a young fellow at his time of life, especially if
he has been petted a good deal, is very apt to be wayward and restless,
and likely to get into trouble through the mere impulsiveness, the
recklessness of youth--"
"Mr. Mangan," Miss Francie said, with a smile in the quiet gray eyes,
"why do you always talk of Linn as if he were so much younger than you?
There is no great difference. You always speak as if you were quite
middle-aged."
"I am worse than middle-aged--I am resigned, and read Marcus Aurelius,"
he said. "I suppose I have taken life too easily. Youth is the time for
fighting; there is no fight left in me at all; I accept what happens.
Oh, by the way, when my book on Comte comes out, I may have to buckle on
my armor again; I suppose there will be strife and war and deadly
thrusts; unless, indeed, the Positivists may not consider me worth
answering. However, that is of no consequence; it's about Linn I have
come down; and really, Miss Francie, I fear he is in a bad way, and that
he is taking a worse way to get out of it."
"I am very sorry to hear that," she said, gravely.
"And then he's such a good fellow," Mangan continued. "If he were
selfish or cruel or grasping, one might think that a few buffets from
the world might rather be of service to him; but as it is I don't
understand at all how he has got himself into such a position--or been
entrapped into it; you see, I don't know Miss Burgoyne very well--"
"Miss Burgoyne?" she repeated, doubtfully.
"Miss Burgoyne of the New Theatre."
Then Mangan watched his companion, timidly and furtively--which was a
strange thing for him, for ordinarily his deep-set gray eyes were
singularly intense and sincere.
"Perhaps I ought to tell you at once," he said, slowly, "that--that--the
fact is, Lionel is engaged to be married to Miss Burgoyne."
"Lionel--engaged to be married?" she said, quickly, and she looked up.
He met her eyes and read them; surely there was nothing there other than
a certain pleased curiosity; she had forgotten that this engagement
might be the cause of her cousin's trouble; she only seemed to think it
odd that Linn was about to be married.
"Yes; and now I am afraid he regrets his rashness, and is in terrible
trouble over it--or perhaps that is only one of several things. Well, I
had made other forecasts for him," Mangan went on to say, with a little
hesitation. "I could have imagined another future for him. Indeed, at
one time, I thought that if ever he looked out for a wife it would be--a
little nearer home--"
Her eyes were swiftly downcast; but the next instant she had bravely
raised them and was regarding him.
"Do you mean me, Mr. Mangan?" she asked.
He did not answer; he left her to understand. Miss Francie shook her
head, and there was a slight smile on her lips.
"No, no," she said. "That was never possible at any time. Where was your
clear sight, Mr. Mangan? Of course I am very fond of Linn; I have been
so all my life; and there's nothing I wouldn't do to save him trouble or
pain. But even a stupid country girl may form her ideal--and in my case
Lionel never came anywhere near to that. I know he is good and generous
and manly--he is quite wonderful, considering what he has come through;
but on the other hand--well--oh, well, I'm not going to say anything
against Linn--I will not."
"I am sure you will not," said Mangan, quietly; and here they reached
the station.
The parcel had not arrived; there was nothing for it but to retrace
their steps; and on their way across the common they returned to Lionel
and his wretched plight.
"Surely," said Miss Francie, with a touch of indication in her
voice--"surely, if Miss Burgoyne learns that he is fretting over this
engagement, she will release him at once. No woman could be so shameless
as to keep him to an unwilling bargain--"
"I am not so sure about that," Mangan made answer. "She may think she
has affection for two, and that all will be well. It is a good match for
her. His position in his profession and in society will be advantageous
to her. Then she may be vain of her conquest--so many different motives
may come in. But the chief point is that Linn doesn't want to be
released from this engagement; he declares he will abide by it--if only
she doesn't expect him to be very affectionate. It is an extraordinary
imbroglio altogether; I am beginning to believe that all the time he has
been in love with that Italian girl whom he knew in Naples, and who was
in the New Theatre for a while, and that now he has made the discovery,
when it is too late, he doesn't care what happens to him. She has gone
away; he has no idea where she is; here he is engaged to Miss Burgoyne,
and quite willing to marry her; and in the meantime he plays cards
heavily to escape from thinking. In fact, he is not taking the least
care of himself, and you would be surprised at the change in his
appearance already. It isn't like Linn Moore to talk of going to bed
when he ought to be setting out for a dinner-party; and the worst of it
is, he won't pay any heed to what you say to him. But something must be
done; Linn is too good a fellow to be allowed to go to the mischief
without some kind of protest or interference."
"If you like," said Miss Francie, slowly, "I will go to Miss Burgoyne.
She is a woman; she could not but listen. She cannot want to bring
misery on them both."
"No," said he, with a little show of authority. "Whatever we may
try--not that. I have heard that Miss Burgoyne has a bit of a temper."
"I am not afraid," said his companion, simply.
"No, no. If that were the only way, I should propose to go to Miss
Burgoyne myself," he said. "But, you see, the awkward thing is that
neither you nor I have any right to appeal to her, so long as Linn is
willing to fulfil the engagement. We don't know her; we could not
remonstrate as a friend of her own might. If we were to interfere on his
behalf, she would immediately turn to him; and he is determined not to
back out."
"Then what is to be done, Mr. Mangan?" she exclaimed, in despair.
"I--I don't quite see at present," he answered her. "I thought I would
talk it over with you, Miss Francie. I thought there might be something
in that; that the way might seem clearer. But I see no way at all,
unless you were to go to him yourself. He would listen to you. Or he
might even listen to me, if I represented to him that you were
distressed at the condition of affairs. At present he doesn't appear to
care what happens to him."
They had crossed the common; they had come to the foot of the wood; and
they did not go on to the highway, for Miss Francie suggested that the
sylvan path was the more interesting. And so they passed in among the
trees, making their way through the straggling undergrowth, while the
soft March wind blew moist and sweet all around them, and the blackbirds
and thrushes filled the world with their silver melody, and in the more
distant woods the ringdoves crooned. Maurice Mangan followed her--in
silence. Perhaps he was thinking of Lionel; perhaps he was thinking of
the confession she had made in crossing the common; at all events, he
did not address her; and when she stooped to gather some hyacinths and
anemones he merely waited for her. But as they drew near to the farther
end of the coppice the path became clearer, and now he walked by her
side.
"Miss Francie," he said (and it was _his_ eyes that were cast down now),
"you were speaking of the ideals that girls in the country may form for
themselves--and girls everywhere, I dare say; but don't you think it
rather hard?"
"What is?"
"Why, that you should raise up an impossible standard, and that poor
common human beings, with all their imperfections and disqualifications,
are sent to the right about."
"Oh, no," Miss Francie said, cheerfully. "You don't understand at all. A
girl does not form her ideal out of her own head. She is not clever
enough to do that; or, rather, she is not stupid enough to try to do
that. She takes her ideal from some one she knows--from the finest type
of character she has met; so that it is not an impossible standard, for
one person, at least, has attained to it."
"And, for the sake of that one, she discards all those unfortunates who,
by their age or appearance or lack of position or lack of distinction,
cannot hope to come near," he said, rather absently. "Isn't that hard?
It makes all sorts of things so hopeless, so impossible. You put your
one chosen friend on this pedestal; and then all the others, who might
wish to win your regard, they know what the result of comparison would
be, and they go away home and hide their heads."
"I don't see, Mr. Mangan," she said, in a somewhat low voice, and yet a
little proudly too, "why you should fear comparison with any one--no,
not with any one; or imagine that anything could--could displace you in
the regard of your friends."
He hesitated again--anxious, eager, and yet afraid. At last he said,
rather sadly,
"I wish I knew something of your ideals, and how far away beyond human
possibility they are."
"Oh, I can tell you," she said, plucking up heart of grace, for here was
an easy way out of an embarrassing position. "My ideal woman is Sister
Alexandra, of the East London Hospital. She was down here last
Sunday--sweeter, more angelic than ever. That is the noblest type of
woman I know. And I was so glad she enjoyed her rare holiday; and when
she went away in the evening we had her just loaded with flowers for her
ward."
"And the ideal man?"
"Oh," said Miss Francie, hurriedly, "I hardly know about that. Of
course, when I--when I spoke of Linn a little while ago, I did not wish
to say anything against him--certainly not--no one admires his better
qualities more than I do--but--but there may be other qualities--"
They were come to the wooden gate opening on to the highway; he paused
ere he lifted the latch.
"Francie," said he, "do you think that some day you might be induced to
put aside all your high standards and ideals, and--and--in short, accept
a battered old journalist, without money, position, distinction, without
any graces, except this, that gratitude might add something to his
affection for you?"
Tears sprang into her eyes, and yet there was a smile there, too; she
was not wholly frightened--perhaps she had known all along.
"Ah, and you don't understand yet, Maurice!" she said, and she frankly
gave him her hand, and her eyes were kind even through her tears. "You
don't understand what I have been saying to you, that a girl's ideal is
one particular person--her ideal is the man or woman whom she admires
and loves the most. Can you not guess?"
"Francie, you will be my wife?" he said to her, drawing her closer to
him, his hands clasped round her head.
She did not answer. She was silent for a second or two. And then she
said, with averted eyes,
"You spoke of gratitude, Maurice. I know who has the most reason to be
grateful--and who will try the hardest to show it."
So that betrothal was completed; and when they passed out from the
coppice into the whiter air, behold! the wild March skies had parted
somewhat, and there was a shimmer of silver sunlight along the broad
highway between the hedges. It was an auspicious omen--or, at least,
their full hearts may have thought so; and then, again, there was a
wedding chorus all around them from the birds--from the bright-eyed
robin perched on the crimson bramble-spray; from the speckled thrush on
the swaying elm; from the lark far-hovering over a field of young corn.
But in their own happiness they had thought of others; Francie soon came
back to Lionel again and his grievous misfortunes; and she was listening
with meekness to this tall, clear-eyed man, who could now claim a
certain gentle authority over her. They were a long time before they got
to the doctor's house.
That same evening Miss Kate Burgoyne invited Lionel to come to her room
for a cup of tea when he had dressed for the last act; and accordingly,
when he was ready, he strolled along the corridor, rapped with his
knuckles, and entered. It turned out that the prima-donna had other
visitors: a young lady whom he had never seen before and Mr. Percival
Miles. The young gentleman, in faultless evening dress, seemed a little
surprised at the easy manner in which Lionel had lounged into the place;
and perhaps Lionel was also a little surprised--for this was Mr. Miles's
first appearance in the room; but each man merely nodded to the other,
in a formal-acquaintance style, as they were in the habit of doing at
the Garden Club. At the same moment Miss Burgoyne opened a portion of
the curtain, so that she could address her guests.
"Mr. Moore, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Ingram. Mr. Miles I
think you know."
And Lionel was glad enough to turn to the young lady and enter into
conversation with her, for the pale young man with the slight yellow
moustache was defiantly silent, and had even something fierce about his
demeanor. It was no business of Lionel's to provoke a quarrel with this
truculent fire-eater, especially in Miss Burgoyne's room. To quarrel
about Kate Burgoyne?--the irony of events could go no further than that.
And of course, as the most immediate topic, they spoke of the gale that
had been blowing across London all the afternoon and evening; for the
southerly winds that had prevailed in the morning had freshened up and
increased in violence until a veritable hurricane was now raging,
threatening roofs, chimneys, and lamp-posts, to say nothing of the
whirled and driven and bewildered foot-passengers.
"I hear there has been a bad accident in Oxford Street," Lionel said to
the young lady. "Some scaffolding has fallen--a lot of people hurt. I'm
afraid there will be a sad tale to tell from the sea; even now, while
we are secure in this big building, thinking only of amusement, I
suppose there is many a ship laboring in the gale, or going headlong on
to the rocks. Have you far to get home?" he asked.
"Oh, I am going home with Miss Burgoyne," the young lady answered.
But here Miss Burgoyne herself appeared, coming forth in the full
splendor of Grace Mainwaring's bridal attire and with all her radiant
witcheries of make-up, and the poor lad sitting there, who had never
before been so near this vision of delight, seemed quite entranced by
its (strictly speaking) superhuman loveliness. He could not take his
eyes away from her. He did not think of joining in the conversation. He
watched her at the mirror; he watched her making tea; he watched her
munching a tiny piece of bread and butter (which was imprudent on her
part, after the care she had bestowed on her lips); and always he was
silent and spellbound. Miss Burgoyne, on the other hand, was talkative
enough.
"Isn't it an awful night!" she exclaimed. "I thought the cab I came down
in would be blown over. And they say it's getting worse and worse. I
hear there has been a dreadful accident; some of the men were telling
Jane about it; have you heard, Mr. Moore?--something about a scaffold. I
suppose this theatre is safe enough; I don't feel any shaking. But I
know I shall be so nervous going home to-night--I dread it already--"
"Miss Ingram says she is going home with you," Lionel pointed out,
carelessly.
"But that is worse!" the prima-donna cried. "Two women are worse than
one--they make each other nervous; no, what you want is a man's
bluntness of perception--his indifference--and the sense of security you
get from his being there. Two frightened women; how are they going to
keep each other's courage up?"
It was clearly an invitation; almost a challenge. Lionel only said,
"Why, what have you to fear! The blowing over of a cab is about the last
thing likely to happen. If you were walking along the pavement, you
might be struck by a falling slate; but you are out in the middle of the
road. If you go home in a four-wheeled cab, you will be as safe as you
are at this minute in this room."
She turned away from him; at the same moment the pale young gentleman
said, rather breathlessly,
"Miss Burgoyne, if you would permit me to accompany you and Miss Ingram
home, I should esteem it a great honor--and--and pleasure."
She whipped round in an instant.
"Oh, thank you, Percy--Mr. Miles, I mean," she added, in pretty
confusion. "That will be so kind of you. We shall be delighted, I'm
sure--very kind of you indeed."
No more was said at the moment, for Miss Burgoyne had been called; and
Lionel, as he wended his way to the wings, could only ask himself,
"What is she up to now? She calls me Mr. Moore before her friends, and
him Percy, and she contrives to put him into the position of rescuing
two distressed damsels. Well, what does it matter? I suppose women are
like that."
But Mr. Percival Miles's accompanying those two young ladies through the
storm did matter to him, in another way, and seriously. When, the
performance being over, he got into evening dress and drove along in a
hansom to the Garden Club, he found there two or three of the young
gentlemen who were in the habit of lounging about the supper-room,
glancing at illustrated papers or chewing toothpicks, until the time for
poker had arrived.
"Johnny," he said to one of them, "somehow I feel awfully down in the
mouth to-night."
"That's unusual with you, then," was the cheerful reply. "For you are
the pluckiest loser I ever saw. But I must say your luck of late has
been just something frightful."
"Well, I'm down altogether--in luck, in finances, and spirits; and I'm
going to pull myself up a peg. Come and keep me company. I'm going to
order a magnum of Perrier Jouet of '74, and I only want a glass or two;
you must help me out, or some of those other fellows."
"That's a pretty piece of extravagance!" the other exclaimed. "A
magnum--to get a couple of glasses out of it; like an otter taking a
single bite from a salmon's shoulder. Never mind, old chap; I'm in. I
hate champagne at this time of night; but I don't want you to kill
yourself."
As they sat at supper, with this big bottle before them, Lionel said,
"It will be a bad thing for me if young Miles doesn't show up to-night."
"I should have thought it would have been an excellent thing for you if
Miles had never entered this club," his companion observed.
"That's true," said Lionel, rather gloomily. "But my only chance now is
to get some of my property back, and I can only get it back from him.
You fellows are no use to me--not if I were winning all along the line."
"Look here, Moore," said the young man, in a more serious tone, "you may
say it's none of my business; but the way you and that fellow Miles have
been going on is perfectly awful. If the committee should hear about it,
there will be a row, and no mistake!"
"My dear boy," Lionel protested, as he pushed the unnecessary bottle to
his neighbor, "the committee have nothing to do with understandings that
are settled outside the club. You don't see Miles or me handing checks
for £200 or £300 across the table. How can the committee expel you for
holding up three fingers or nodding your head?"
"Well, then, you'll excuse me saying it, but he's a young ass, to gamble
in that fashion," Johnny remarked, bluntly. "What fun does he get out of
it? And it's quite a new thing with him--that's the odd business. I know
a man who was at Merton with him; and certainly Miles got into a devil
of a scrape--which cut short his career there; but it had nothing to do
with gambling. He never was that way inclined at all; it's a new
development, since he joined this club. Well, I suppose he can do what
he likes. The heir to a baronetcy and such a place as Petmansworth can
get just as much as he wants from the Jews."
"My good man, he doesn't need to go to the Jews," said Lionel, with grim
irony.
"Where does he get all that money from? Do you think his father is fool
enough to encourage him in such extravagance? I should hope not! At the
same time I wish I had a father tarred with something of that same
brush."
"Where does he get all the money from? So far he has got it from me,"
Lionel said, with a bit of a shrug. "He doesn't need to go to his
father, or to the Jews either, when he can plunder me. And such a run of
luck as he has had is simply astounding--"
"It isn't luck at all," the other interrupted. "It's your play. You play
too bold a game--too bold when you know he is going to play a bolder.
Twice running he caught you last night bluffing on no hand at all; and I
don't know what fabulous stakes were up--with your nods and signs. It's
no use your trying to bluff that fellow. He won't be bluffed."
"The thing is as broad as it's long, man," Lionel said, impatiently. "If
he is determined to see me every time, he must be caught when I have a
good hand--it stands to reason. The only thing is that my luck has been
so confoundedly bad of late."
"Yes; and when the luck's against you, you go betting on no hands at
all--with Miles waiting for you!" his companion exclaimed. "All right;
every man must play the game his own way. You don't seem to have found
it profitable so far."
"Profitable!" Lionel said, with a dark look in his eyes. "I can tell you
I am in a tight corner, and I reckoned on to-night to settle it one way
or the other--not with you fellows, I can't get anything worth while out
of you, but with Miles. And now he's gone away home with--"
He stopped in time; ladies' names are not mentioned in clubs--at least,
not in such clubs as the Garden.
"The odd thing is," continued Johnny, as he lit a cigarette, and
definitely refused to have any more of the wine, "the extremely odd
thing is that he doesn't seem to care to win from the rest of us. He
lets us share our modest little pots as if they weren't worth looking
at. It's you he goes for, invariably."
"And he's gone for me to some purpose," Lionel said, morosely. "I'm just
about broke--broke five or six times over, if it comes to that--and by
that pennyworth of yellow ribbon!"
"You needn't call him names," said Johnny, as he lay back in his chair.
"Upon my soul I think Miles is somebody in disguise--a priest--an
Inquisitor--somebody with a mission--to punish the sin of gambling. What
does he care about the game? Nothing--I'll swear it! He's only watching
for you. He's an avenger. He has been sent by some superior power--"
"Then it must have been by the devil," said Lionel, with a sombre
expression, "for he has got the devil's own luck at his back. Wait till
I get four of a kind when he is betting on a full hand--and then you'll
see his corpse laid out!" This was all he could say just then; for here
was the young man himself, who must have come back from the Edgeware
Road in a remarkably swift hansom.
Almost directly there was an adjournment to the card-room; and the
players took their places.
"I propose we have in the joker,"[2] Lionel called aloud, as the cards
were dealt for deal.
[Footnote 2: The joker is a fifty-third card, of any kind of
device, which is added to the pack; the player to whom it is dealt
can make it any card he chooses. For example, if the other four
cards he holds are two queens and two sevens, he can make the joker
card a third queen, and thus secure for himself a full hand.]
"I don't see the fun of it," objected the young man who had been
Lionel's companion at the supper-table. "You never know where you are
when the joker is in. What do you say, Miles?"
"Oh, have it in by all means," Percival Miles said, with his eyes fixed
on the table.
And perhaps it was that Lionel was anxious and nervous (for much
depended on the results of this night's play), but he seemed to feel
that the pale young man who sat opposite him appeared to be even more
cold and implacable in manner than was usual with him. He began to have
superstitious fears--like most gamblers. That was an uncanny suggestion
his recent companion had put into his head--that here was an avenger--a
deputed instrument--an agent to inflict an awarded punishment. At the
same time he tried to laugh at the notion. Punishment--from this
stripling of a boy! It was a ludicrous idea, to be sure. When Lionel had
in former days accepted his challenge to fight, it was with some kind of
impatient resolve to teach him a wholesome lesson and brush him aside.
And he had regarded his running after Miss Burgoyne with a sort of
good-natured toleration and contempt; there were always those young
fools in the wake of actresses. But that he, Lionel, should be afraid of
this young idiot? What was there to be afraid of? He was no
swashbuckler--this pallid youth with the thin lips, who concentrated all
his attention on the cards, and had no word or jest for his neighbors.
How could there be anything baleful in the expression of eyes that were
curiously expressionless? It was a pretty face (Lionel had at one time
thought), but now it seemed capable of a good deal of relentless
determination. Lionel had heard of people shivering when brought into
contact with the repellent atmosphere that appeared to surround a
particular person; but what was there deadly about this young man?
The game at first was not very exciting, though now and again the joker
played a merry trick, appearing in some unexpected place, and laying
many a good hand low. Indeed, it almost seemed as if Lionel had resolved
to recoup himself by steady play; and so far there had been no duel
between him and young Miles. That was not distant, however. On this
occasion Lionel, who was seated on the left of the dealer--in other
words, he being age--when the cards were dealt found himself with two
pairs in his hand, aces and queens. It was a pretty show. When the time
came for him to declare his intention, he said,
"Well, I'm just going to make this another ten shillings to come in."
That frightened no one; they all came in; what caused them to halt and
reflect was that, on Lionel being subsequently asked how many cards he
wished to have, he said,
"None, thank you."
Not a syllable was uttered; there were surmises too occult for words.
The player on Lionel's left bet an humble two shillings. The next player
simply came in. So did the third--who was Mr. Percival Miles. Likewise
the dealer; in fact, they were all prepared to pay that modest sum to
inspect the age's hand. But Lionel wanted a higher price for that
privilege.
"I'm coming in with the little two shillings," said he, "and I will
raise you a sovereign."
That promptly sent out the player on his left; his neighbor also
retired. Not so the pallid young man with the thin lips.
"And one better," he said, depositing another sovereign.
The dealer incontinently fled. There only remained Lionel and his enemy;
and the position of affairs was this--that while Lionel had taken no
additional cards, and was presumably in possession of a straight or a
flush (unless he was bluffing), Miles had taken one card, and most
likely had got two pairs (unless he was finessing). Two pairs against
two pairs, then? But Lionel had aces and queens.
"And five better," Lionel said, watching his enemy.
"And five better," said the younger man, stolidly.
And now the onlookers altered their surmises. No one but a lunatic would
challenge a player who had declined to take supplementary cards unless
he himself had an exceptionally strong hand, or unless he was morally
certain that his opponent was bluffing. Had Miles "filled," then, with
his one card; and was a straight being played against a straight, or a
flush against a flush? Or had the stolid young man started with fours?
The subdued excitement with which this duel was now being regarded was
enthralling; they forgot to protest against the wild raising of the
bets; and when Lionel and his implacable foe, having exhausted all their
money, had recourse of nods--merely marking their indebtedness to the
pool on a bit of paper lying beside them--the others could only guess at
the amount that was being played for. It was Lionel who gave in; clearly
that insatiate bloodsucker was not to be shaken off.
"I call you."
"Three nines," was the answer, and Miles laid down on the table a pair
of nines and the joker. The other two were worthless; clearly, he had
taken the one card as a blind.
"That is good enough--take away the money," Lionel said, calmly; and the
younger man, with quite as expressionless a face, raked over the pile of
gold, bank-notes, and counters.
There was a general sense of relief; that strain had been too intense.
"Very magnificent, you know," said the player who was next to Lionel, as
he placed his ante on the table, "but it isn't poker. I think if you fix
a limit you should stick to it. Have your private bets if you like; but
let us have a limit that allows everybody to see the fun."
"Oh, certainly, I agree to that," Lionel said, at once. "We will keep to
the sovereign limit; and Mr. Miles and I will understand well enough
what we are betting when we happen to play against each other."
Thereafter the game went more quietly, though Lionel was clearly playing
with absolute carelessness; no doubt his companions understood that he
could not hope to retrieve his losses in this moderate play. He seemed
tired, too, and dispirited; frequently he threw up his cards without
drawing--which was unusual with him.
"Have a drink, old man, to wake you up?" his neighbor said to him, about
half-past two.
"No, thanks," he answered, listlessly looking on at the cards.
"A cigarette, then?"
"No, thanks. I think I must give up smoking altogether--my throat isn't
quite right."
But an extraordinary stroke of good-luck aroused him. On looking at his
cards he found he had been dealt four aces and a ten. Surely the hour of
his revenge had sounded at last; for with such a hand he could easily
frighten the others out, while he knew that Percival Miles would remain
in, if he had anything at all. Accordingly, when it came to his turn he
raised before the draw--raised the pool a sovereign; and this caused two
of the players to retire, leaving himself, Miles, and the dealer. He
took one card--to his astonishment and concealed delight he found it was
the joker. Five aces!--surely on such a hand he might bet his furniture,
his clothes, his last cigarette. Five aces!--it was nothing but brute
force; all that was wanted was to pile on the money; he could well
afford to be reckless this time. He saw that Miles also asked for one
card, and that the dealer helped himself to two; but what the took was a
matter of supreme indifference to him.
It was Percival Miles's turn to bet.
"I will bet a sovereign," said he.
"And I'll stay in with you," remarked the dealer, depositing the golden
coin.
"One better," said Lionel.
"And one better," said Miles.
Here the dealer retired, so that these two were left in as before--well,
not as before, for Lionel had five aces in his hand! And now they made
no pretence of keeping to the limit that had been imposed; their bets
were registered on the bit of paper which each had by him; and
pertinaciously did these two gladiators hack and slash at each other.
Lionel was quite reckless. His enemy had taken one card. Very well.
Supposing he had "filled" a flush or a straight, so much the better.
Supposing he also had got fours--that, too, was excellent well; for he
could have nothing higher than four kings. Strictly speaking, there was
only one hand that could beat Lionel's--a straight flush; but then a
straight flush is an uncommonly rare thing; and, besides, the appearance
of five aces in one's hand seems to convey a sense of quite unlimited
power. That five aces are no better than four aces does not strike the
possessor of them; he regards the goodly show--and strives to conceal
his elation.
But even the onlookers, intensely interested as they were in this fell
combat, began to grow afraid when they guessed at the sum that was now
in the imaginary pool. The story might get about the club; the committee
might shut up the card-room; there might be a talk of expulsion. As for
Lionel, he kept saying to himself, "Well, this is a safe thing; and I
could go on all night; but I won't take a brutal advantage. As soon as I
think I have got back about what this young fellow has already taken
from me since he came into the club, I will stop. I don't want to break
him. I don't want to send him to the money-lenders."
As for the pale young man across the table, his demeanor was that of a
perfect poker-player. The only thing that could be noticed was a slight
contraction of his pupils, as if he were concentrating his eyes on the
things immediately around him and trying to leave his face quite
inscrutable. There was no eagerness in his betting--nor was there any
affected resignation; it was entirely mechanical; like clock-work came
the raised and raised bet.
"I call you," said Lionel, at last, amid a breathless silence.
Without a word Percival Miles laid his cards on the table, arranging
them in sequence; they were five, six, seven, eight, and nine of
clubs--not an imposing hand, certainly, but Lionel knew his doom was
sealed. He rose from his chair, with a brief laugh that did not sound
very natural.
"I think I know when I've had enough," he said. "Good-night!" And
"Good-night!" came from one and all of them--though there was an ominous
pause until the door was shut behind him.
He went down below, to the supper-room, which was all deserted now; he
drew in a chair to a small writing-table and took a sheet of note-paper.
On it he scrawled, with rather a feverish hand:
"As I understand it, I owe you £800 on this evening, with £300 from
yesterday--£1100 in all. I will try to let you have it to-morrow.
L.M."--and that he put in an envelope, which he addressed to "Percival
Miles, Esq.," and sent up-stairs by one of the servants. Then he went
and got his coat and hat, and left. It was raining hard, and there was a
blustering wind, but he called no hansom; the wet and cold seemed
grateful to him, for he was hot and excited. And then, somewhat blindly,
and bare-throated, he passed through the streaming thoroughfares--caring
little how long it took him to reach Piccadilly.