It was November. Rose and Julius had returned to London to continue their felicity in a new sphere: they were quite a model couple, and were so happy that several people "of experience" shook their heads sceptically, and exclaimed:—"Ah, well! early times yet, early times!"
What a world of envy in a little phrase!
Meredith Vyner grew morose. His domestic comfort was now utterly destroyed, for his wife was entirely estranged from him; and he was without hope of her ever returning to the former state of hypocritical fondness. Beyond this, Violet would not remain in the house with her step-mother; so that except in his visits to Rose he saw no one that he loved. Blanche was also separated from him: her husband absolutely interdicted all communication between her and her father. This was the result of a violent quarrel on the old subject of his gambling, and of her father's attempt to get her from him.
Cecil's passion for gambling had returned with more than its former force and recklessness. Vyner had discovered it; had suppressed the allowance; lectured Cecil sharply, and endeavoured to persuade Blanche to leave him. A complete rupture was the consequence.
The miserable old man saw his daughter's impending ruin, and saw that he was impotent to save her from it. This, added to his domestic sorrows, made him morose. He was a changed being. He became dirtier and dirtier. He never quoted Horace. The dust collected on his manuscripts like the grains of snuff upon his waistcoat, without any effort on his part to shake them off. Life to him was purposeless, joyless.
Mrs. Vyner was as lively and dissipated as ever. No care sat upon her brow; no sorrow darkened her existence. For some weeks after the scene between her and Maxwell, he ceased to see her; a circumstance which made her husband for a moment rejoice; he believed that a rupture having taken place, his wife would return to him. The hope was not of long duration. She, at first indifferent, became at last uneasy at Maxwell's absence. She loved him, she was accustomed to his presence, she liked the excitement of his love, with its fierce whims, its brutal expressions, and its passionate, unrestrained vehemence. Shemissedhim.
Unable longer to bear his absence, she wrote a long and touching letter, in which real feeling aided her natural adroitness, and gained the victory.
Maxwell was on the point of giving way, when it reached him. Obstinate, violent, and revengeful as he was, he too was so uneasy at being absent from her, that he was glad to have such an excuse for forgiveness. He felt as if he could have stabbed her to the heart; yet he was softened in an instant by her letter.
Peace was made between them. He promised never again to doubt her love; she promised never again to offend him. Things resumed their old course; yes, even to the renewal of his jealousy and his threats; but on the whole Mrs. Vyner's brow was smooth!
Not very long after the reconciliation, they were together at a party at Mrs. Langley Turner's. Among the company there happened to be Lord * * * *, notorious in his early days for his successful gallantries, and not having yet relinquished the ambition of making conquests. He sat next to Mrs. Vyner, who was that evening in high spirits, and looked enchantinglypiquante. She was a violent radical in her opinions, and a great tuft-hunter; a title was always resplendent in her eyes, no matter what the wearer might be like. It is easily conceivable therefore, how, both as a coquette and a tuft-hunter, she should have been inordinately gratified at the attentions of Lord * * * *. She put forth all her fascinations; and although from time to time she met the dark scowl of Maxwell, who was observing her like a panther watching from his jungle, she only answered his anger with a scornful smile, and continued her attentions to the old nobleman.
As Maxwell saw her rise to depart, he hurried down stairs to the cloak-room, and there awaited her with the intention of expressing his anger, as he handed her into the carriage; but to his rage he saw Lord * * * * accompany her down stairs, gallantly cover her white shoulders with the shawl, and then handing her to the carriage, take leave of her in the most significant manner.
Maxwell with difficulty restrained himself from challenging his rival on the spot.
The next day when he called on Mrs. Vyner, he saw a cab drive from the door: it was Lord * * * * coming from his first visit. Maxwell refused to go in.
Day after day he saw that cab standing there for an hour or two together; he waited in the street the whole time, and in his impatience the hour seemed quadrupled. It was enough to irritate the least jealous of men; him it drove to phrenzy.
Pale with passion he at last went in, and found the two together. She received him with easy unconcern, as if he were no more than anhabitué. Lord * * * * looked somewhat "glum" at his presence, and after a few commonplaces, rose and departed.
"So," said Maxwell to her when they were alone, "my place is taken, is it?"
"What! jealous again?"
"Not jealous, but convinced."
"Convinced of your own folly?"
"Yes."
"Then, there are hopes of a reformation. George, don't scowl in that way; you are not handsome at any time, and when you scowl, least of all."
"Mary, you must see him no more."
"Him? explain: I hate enigmas."
"Lord * * * * I insist upon it."
"Now, don't be absurd, pray! Why should I not see a man old enough to be my father?"
"But not too old to be your lover."
"The old story! What a queer creature you are! Why, who ever could suppose there was danger in a man of his age—he hasn't an unbleached hair on his head."
"Perhaps not; but a coronet hides that."
"Ha! ha! ha! Oh, you green-eyed monster! Really, you are capital fun, though you don't mean it."
"Beware, beware!"
"Ah! now you are getting tragic ... have you an unloaded pistol about you by chance?"
A dark smile passed over his face.
"Mary, listen to me: I am very serious. Laugh, if you please, at my jealousy, but at any rate, acknowledge that I have a right to insist on a cessation of his visits."
"I acknowledge nothing of the kind. Why am I to be deprived of seeing whom I please? My husband does not object to my receiving Lord * * * * why should you?"
"Because you take pleasure in those visits."
"I do."
"They flatter you."
"They do."
"He flatters you."
"He is gallant enough to find my society agreeable—that is more than I can say for yours at this moment."
"You think it a feather in your cap to have a worthless old nobleman dangling after you."
"Perhaps I do; what then?"
"I will not allow it."
"Come, come; this is getting a little too imperious."
"I will not allow it, I say."
"Your permission is not necessary."
"I tell you itshall not be!"
"George—I am serious now—as you raise your voice—if you know me, you must know that I may be persuaded to anything, but I am not to bedriven. Obstinacy may not be an amiable quality; but it is a quality which belongs to me. Cease that tone of command therefore; you will get nothing by it."
"I shall not cease that tone. I shall adopt any tone I please."
"Do so; then don't wonder if I refuse to listen to you."
"But, by God! you shall listen."
"Try me."
Her eyes dilated as she said this, though her voice was perfectly calm. She was getting almost as angry as he was. The spirit of opposition was abetted by the resolution she had formed not to rebut the attentions of Lord * * * *, and she now was roused for the struggle.
And yet, flattered as she undoubtedly was, by the admiration of the old roué, she loved Maxwell well enough to have sacrificed that delight, had he taken another course, had he implored instead of threatened; but that was not in his nature, and his brutal imperiousness roused her to rebellion.
He had become livid with passion, and it was only with great effort that he could articulate—
"Don't play with me ... you know not the danger ... I warn you ... I warn you."
"And I laugh at your threats."
"You think I am not serious?"
"I do not care a straw whether you are serious or not."
"You are resolved then?"
"Quite."
"Oh, beware! beware! do not drive me to the last extremity...."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"By God!" he exclaimed, striking a small table with his fist.
"See," she said, "you have broken my china—a real bit of rococo; that's what it is to be ungentlemanly and violent."
"Mary ... This is .... You are rushing to destruction! Look here; I am almost mad ... but I know what I say ... choose whether you will obey me—if you do not, as I live, I will blow your brains out, and then my own!"
"Mr. Maxwell, if you think I am to be frightened by your ravings, if you think I am to obey your ridiculous caprices, if you think you are to be mymaster, you are egregiously mistaken. Leave the house:I hate you!"
Her look expressed her hate, as she said this.
He was convulsed; the veins started on his forehead; his chest heaved laboriously, and his eyes were dilated with fury, but he uttered no sound.
"Your love is degradation! Your soul is as ignoble as your manners are brutal! I have put up with this too long. I have been contaminated by your presence, and now, I hate you!"
A sort of gurgle, like the death rattle, sounded in his throat; his face was purple.
"I hate you!" she added. "Is that clear? Do you understand me now!"
With his eyes fixed horribly upon her furious countenance, he put his handkerchief to his mouth; when he removed it, she saw that it was stained with blood.
A sudden sickness overcame her, and she trembled.
He did not speak another word, but staggered rather than walked towards the door. Slowly he descended the stairs, and with his handkerchief still at his mouth reached home. The paroxysm of passion had burst a small bloodvessel.
Left to herself, Mrs. Vyner sank on a couch shivering, and her teeth chattering together from the combined effects of rage, excitement, and fear.
The heavy pall of a terrible doom seemed stretched over her future: dark, mysterious, and awful. She shuddered as she thought of what had passed, and only recovered a slight decree of calmness as the thought occurred to her that perhaps that broken bloodvessel might put an end to him!
For what will love's exalting not go through,'Till long neglect and utter selfishnessShames the fond pride it takes in its distress?LEIGH HUNT.—Rimini.
Cecil had removed to miserable lodgings at Hammersmith, consisting of two rooms, and those wretchedly furnished; he had also reduced his expenses by giving up hisatélier, and was now, without pretence at concealment, a gambler, and nothing else.
Blanche's grief when she first discovered his relapse was not so great as might have been expected, simply because she had to defend him against the bitter accusations of her father, and in the effort to excuse her husband in the eyes of another, she succeeded in greatly excusing him in her own.
There were doubtless many sleepless nights she had to pass, moodily contemplating the probable consequences of their fate; but when Cecil came home, her sorrow fled. Either he had won, and then his gaiety charmed her, and she allowed herself to be seduced into sharing his sanguine expectations; or else he had lost, and then she had to comfort and console him, and in that effort to assuage his grief, forgot her own.
There was something indescribably affecting in the tender solicitude and unshaken love of this gentle creature for her wretched husband; she had truly married him for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, and no adversity could alter the current of that love, which flowed from the everlasting fountain of her heart. He had blighted her youth; he had blighted the existence of their child; but she loved him perhaps still more dearly than on that happy day when the priest had joined them at the altar. He had been weak, contemptible, even infamous; but he had never ceased to be the idol of her heart.
One day she missed her watch; that watch which Cecil had given her, and which had always been at her side. She hunted about the house for it. All day she was in great distress at having lost it, and endeavoured in vain to persuade herself that perhaps Cecil had taken it out with him. He returned at two o'clock in the morning. Her first question was,
"Darling, have you my watch?"
"No," said he sulkily.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! it is lost, then—I have lost it—some one has stolen it!"
"Pooh! don't make a fuss—it's all right."
"Have you got it?'
"No; but I know where it is."
"Where?"
"In a place where it is quite safe—never fear!"
She understood him. He had pawned it, and the proceeds had gone where every shilling went.
Another day she missed the baby's coral with its golden bells. This time she said nothing; she knew too well what must have become of it, and she burst into tears as she thought of the fearful situation of a father robbing his own child to feed an infatuated passion!
One by one, every article upon which money could be raised had disappeared, until he possessed literally nothing more than the clothes he stood up in.
It was in vain she argued with herself that he, as the master, had a right to sell his own property, to sell anything and everything he pleased; she could not drive away the idea of there being something sneaking in this furtive disposal of his goods; an open sale might be necessitated, but this silent disappearance by stealth of article after article was horrible. She never knew what was gone until she wanted it; and at last her uneasiness became so great that she trembled to seek the most trifling thing.
Blanche's eyes were not shut to all the weakness of her husband's character, though her affection made her sophisticate with herself to an extraordinary extent. She saw the deplorable effects of his infatuation, and tried her best to wean him from it; but she always trusted that he would see the folly of the pursuit, and that, after a certain amount of experience, he would be cured. Meanwhile, that hope grew fainter and fainter, as time, instead of lessening, seemed to increase his passion.
To Vyner, Julius, Rose, and Violet, it seemed perfectly incomprehensible that Blanche should continue to love such a wretch as Cecil.
"His conduct," Vyner would say, "is enough to have estranged an angel."
Yet the fact is, that his conduct had not in the least degree alienated her affection from him; and the explanation of this fact resides in the moral axiom (the truth of which a large experience of human nature cannot fail to illustrate), that affection depends uponcharacter, not uponconduct.
We love those most with whom we sympathize most, not those from whom we have received the greatest benefits. The husband who ill-treats his wife (as people say) is often idolized, while the husband who idolizes his wife is often looked upon as a "good sort of person" at the best. No doubt, the ill-treated wife suffers from, and resents each act of ill-treatment; as the kindly-treated wife is pleased and grateful for each act of kindness; but in the one case, occasional acts cannot destroy that sympathy which is the bond of love; nor in the other case, can the occasional kindnesses create it. Again, I say it is character, not conduct, which creates affection.
It was Cecil's character that Blanche sympathized with. His affectionate, caressing manners—his gaiety, his cleverness, and as she thought genius, were qualities the charm of which could not be resisted. Then he loved her so truly! not enough, indeed, to forego, for her sake, the excitement of the gaming-table: not enough to prevent his sacrificing her with himself to this infatuation: but that was because he was incapable ofself-mastery. And if he was weak, she sympathized with his weakness.
Turn the phrase how we will, it always comes back to these simple pregnant words: she loved him!
O why, when Love doth wound, doth it not thenStrike deeper down—and kill!Old Play.
There was not a farthing in the house. Cecil was out on the chimerical expedition of borrowing a few pounds from one of his gaming-table acquaintances. Continual assistance had been lent them by Vyner and by Julius; but, of course, these sums were dissipated in the usual way; and so recent had been the assistance, that even Cecil had not the face to apply again.
Blanche was weeping over the cradle of her child, whom she had just rocked asleep, when the door opened, and the servant put in her head to say,—
"Please, mum, a gentleman."
In another instant, Captain Heath stood before her with outstretched hand, and embarrassed countenance: she grasped his hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly, for she felt that a deliverer was near. Since last they had met, what changes in her life! What had they both not undergone! He was much thinner, and looked older. Sorrow had deeply lined his noble brow, and dimmed his kind blue eye. He had sought in travel to forget the cause of his voluntary exile; and had learned, if not to forget, at least to master his feelings. When men have passed the impressionable and changeable age of youth, love becomes a more serious and enduring passion with them—it becomes consolidated in their manhood. And Captain Heath—too old not to have lost all the volatility of youth, but still too young to have lost its fervour—found that his passion for Blanche was ineffaceable.
Had he, then, returned with any hopes? No; his was one of those strong, brave, manly natures which know how to endure any calamity, any condition, so soon as it is recognised asinevitable; they endure, without childish repining, what they know must be endured; they brace their minds to the struggle, and they conquer at least that weak and fretful anxiety which attends upon those who cannot calmly look fate in the face.
He returned, but it was to watch over his beloved; and on his return, what was his horror to hear of the situation into which her wretched husband had precipitated her!
Blanche was embarrassed, yet delighted. From childhood she had known him, and loved him almost as a father; and to her old affection there was now added, the unconscious flattery of her knowledge of his love for her. No woman is ever insensible to such flattery; the man who loves her, though hopelessly, is always interesting in her eyes. Blanche was eminently a woman.
"How kind of you to come and see us," she said, "and in such a place as this! But then you are one of our true friends, and poverty cannot scare you."
"Yes, Blanche, I am your friend: always remember that, and in any difficulty, be sure not to forget it. But let me see your child: she is asleep?—what a beauty! How you must love it! Dear little thing, how quiet its breathing! may I kiss it? will she wake up?"
"No; kiss her gently: she is so used to it!"
He stooped down, and kissed its warm, soft cheek, and then gazed at it for some minutes in silence. With a mother's pride, Blanche watched him, occasionally looking down upon her darling, with that yearning tenderness, which only mothers know.
A low sigh escaped from him as he turned away from the cradle.
"Have you been long in England?" she asked.
"I came home last week. This is my second visit."
"Your first was to papa, I suppose?"
"Yes. Things are in a sad state there, Blanche. Your father is very much altered. But what could he expect? What could induce him to marry again?"
"Mama's conduct is shocking!—To think of a wife forgetting herself so!—Did you see her?"
"Yes, and she was as civil to me as ever, talked as hypocritically—and spoke of you in terms that made me excessively angry."
"What did she say?"
"It was notwhatshe said, so much as the manner of saying it: the tone of pity, of false pity, affecting to look upon you as if..."
"And what... Did she speak of ... of Cecil!"
Heath was silent.
"Ah! I know she did; but you must not believe her; indeed, it is not true—indeed, he is not."
"Is it possible?"
"That is .... she must have exaggerated.... He has been imprudent, unfortunate.... but he is the kindest, best of men.... They are all against him; they do not understand him; they require a man of genius to be as formal and regular as other men .... absurd, is it not? .... Are not all men of genius ... are they not?"
"Unhappily!" replied Heath.
"I know you would not join the cabal against him. You are more liberal! Oh! if you knew his heart, how good it is!—I wish he were here..."
At this moment little Rose Blanche cried; and her mother took her up. The little creature was terrified at first seeing the captain, and clung to her mother for protection; but after a little coaxing, she became pacified, and in a few minutes was in his arms and playing with his dark moustache, which greatly interested her.
This interruption saved Heath from an embarrassing situation, and threw the conversation entirely upon the child, of whom the fond mother had innumerable anecdotes to relate, all of which went to the establishment of the fact, that for intelligence and goodness, no such baby was to be met with in the three kingdoms. Heath was too happy to let the conversation continue in that strain, and having spent an agitated yet delicious hour with her, he thought it time to go.
"My dear Blanche," he said at last, "I came here upon a matter of business, which I must not forget in the pleasure of seeing you. My residence in Italy has developed in me a taste for pictures. I am not rich; but I am alone in the world, and can afford to indulge my taste. Your husband is an artist, and I am come to command a picture from him. I leave the subject, size, and price, entirely to him. Let him execute whatever his genius prompts him; and I am quite sure I shall be the gainer by leaving the price to him. Meanwhile, as you are not in flourishing circumstances, here is a cheque for fifty pounds, on account. When he wants more, he knows where to apply."
He placed a cheque in her hand as he said this. She understood but too well this delicate mode of assisting them, and a tear rose into her eye as she pressed his hand significantly: she could not speak. He embraced her child repeatedly, and, with a fond protecting look, bade her good-bye.
Left alone, she burst into tears: they were tears of gratitude and tears of shame: gratitude for the beautiful and delicate friendship of the act and its manner: shame at finding herself reduced to such a state, that she was forced to accept alms from her former lover.
As she grew calmer, the thought rose within her, that perhaps this might be the saving of Cecil—that he, finding employment, might resolutely set to work, and—no longer forced to seek a subsistence by gaming,—resume his honourable career.
Building cloud-castles on the landscape of the future, she was light and joyous when Cecil returned, and flung herself upon his neck, with almost frantic delight.
Cecil received those demonstrations of joy with moody sullenness. He had returned exasperated by failure, gloomy with the dark thoughts which lowered upon him, like heavy clouds collected over the sunny fields, boding a coming storm.
"Blanche," he said, "we are beggars."
The smile was still upon her face; she pushed the hair gently from off his forehead.
"There is no hope left. I have tried every body."
"I have had a visitor, darling, since you went out. Guess who it was."
"Julius?"
"No."
"Your father?"
"No."
"A dun?"
"Captain Heath."
"The devil it was!"
"Yes; I thought it would surprise you. Oh! I was so happy to see him!"
"Heath... here!" exclaimed Cecil, his cheek burning as he spoke. "And you saw him? ... received him here ... and in my absence? You did?"
"Was I wrong?" she, trembling, asked.
"Wrong? Oh, no; it was not wrong to receive your lover. You needn't start ... he is your lover, and you know it! You know, moreover, that I hate him... The scoundrel! And he saw you here ... here, in this beggarly place ... in this hole of poverty! And he triumphed over me ... triumphed because his prophecy was fulfilled! Didn't he, too, urge you to leave me? Didn't he, too, tell you I was a villain, dragging you to ruin? Didn't he offer to take you home? .... Speak! don't stare at me in that way! Tell me all the scoundrel said ... quick!"
"Cecil, Cecil, down on your knees, and beg his pardon for having so slandered him! You are not in your senses to speak so—and of him, of him!"
"Slandered him, have I? What! the sneaking wretch who takes advantage of my present situation...."
"To assistyou!" indignantly exclaimed Blanche.
"Assistme!and for whatpurpose? For whose sake—for mine? No; for yours! Oh! I see all his plans—I see them all!"
Cecil, mad with jealousy and rage, dashed his hand upon the table, and swore a fearful oath. It was not that he for a moment suspected his wife; but he had never been able to overcome his jealousy of Heath; and what added tenfold torture to that venomous feeling now, was the thought that Heath had come back to find Blanche reduced to want—to find her in this miserable lodging deprived of all the comforts and necessaries of life. He felt himself horribly humiliated in the eyes of his hated rival; he felt that his rival triumphed over his degradation; and he dreaded lest Blanche should have made an involuntary comparison between her present condition, and what it would have been had she married Heath. All this rapidly crossed his mind, and drove him to fury.
"Cecil," she said, struggling with her tears, "you are unhappy, and that makes you unjust. If you but knew the noble nature of him...."
"Hold your tongue! Am I to sit here and listen tohispraises? Noble nature, indeed! Yes, yes, I know it.... I know it."
"Then you know...."
"Silence, I say! Are you going to draw a comparison between us? Are you going to contrast his virtues with my vices? A good subject, but a bold one for a wife to touch upon!"
"Cecil, you break my heart... Will you hear me?"
"No!"
"What have I said or done...."
"You have received, during my absence, a man I hate—a man who, if he again crosses my threshold, I will throw out of the window."
"Look at this!" she said, presenting the cheque to him.
"What is that?"
"If you will not listen to me, trust your own eyes."
"A cheque for fifty pounds—and fromhim?"
"He came here to command a picture; you are to name your own price; that is on account."
Cecil took the cheque, looked at it, and then at her.
"And do you believe this?" he said, with intense calmness. "Do you really believe that he wants a picture?"
"No; I believe that to be an excuse...."
"An excuse! By God! she knows it!"
"It is a delicate way of assisting us.—That is the conduct of the man whom you have outraged by your suspicions."
Cecil was stupefied. Her perception of the subterfuge quite staggered him.
"So, so—he thinks tobuyyou, does he?" he at last said, choking with rage.
She coloured deeply with shame, and exclaimed,—
"Oh, Cecil! Cecil!"
"Well then, to buyme! He thinks I am to bepatronized.... to be his workman.... to receive his orders.... to receive his money! Blanche, this cheque is either an outrage to you, or an insult to me. Don't speak! .... Not another word."
He rose, and put on his hat.
"Good God! Cecil, what are you about to do?"
"To find out this liberal patron."
"Cecil, Cecil! do be calm!"
"I am. I will fling this cheque in his odious face, and tell him what I think."
She threw herself upon him.
"Cecil! my own darling! listen to your Blanche.... For God's sake, be calm! ... Think of me; think of your child! .... A duel! oh, Cecil! could you leave your child fatherless, Cecil?"
He flung her from him, and rushed out of the house: she reeled and fell. The child began to scream; the old lady living in the parlours hurried up stairs, and found Blanche lifeless on the floor.
Like a madman, Cecil bounded along the streets, goaded by one of those irresistible outbreaks of passion which sometimes mastered him. On reaching the house where Heath formerly lived, and hearing that he no longer lived there, he remembered Heath having just returned from abroad, and that his residence could only be known at his bankers. Thither he went: on his way he passed through Jermyn-street. It was in that street was kept the gaming-house where he had spent so many of his days and nights.
A new direction was given to his thoughts: insensibly they left the subject of Captain Heath to merge into that of play. Still he walked on, but less swiftly. The idea of the splendid martingale he had recently discovered, which this fifty pounds would enable him to play, would not leave him.
He walked more and more slowly. Fifty pounds—it might make his fortune.
After all, Heath might possibly have desired a picture. The fool! as if he knew anything about pictures—he, the heavy guardsman, purchase pictures!
Yet, if he was rich, that was one way of spending his money. There was nothing but what was perfectly legitimate in an artist receiving a commission;—all artists receive them.
And with this fifty pounds a fortune was within his grasp.
He no longer walked, he crawled. This money was certainly his, if he chose to take it; why should he refuse? To be sure, the money of that scoundrel! All an excuse, too: Blanche knew it was an excuse.
He quickened his pace again. He was at the banking-house: he pushed the door, and entered.
"I can return him the money to-morrow. I will say Blanche changed it. Out of my winnings I can repay it."
He handed the cheque to the cashier.
"How will you take it, sir?" demanded the cashier.
"Gold," was the brief answer.
His eyes sparkled as the fifty sovereigns were shovelled across the counter; and he left the bank with lights dancing before him.
The fascination of the gaming-table was too much for him; all his sense of dignity vanished before it; even his very jealous rage seemed thus powerless against it. Humiliated as he felt at the idea of accepting charity from his rival, he could not reject it when it came to feed his passion for play. Although he had not a farthing in the house, although utter destitution threatened him, he would not, to save himself from it, have accepted Heath's assistance; but he could accept it when it enabled him to play.
To one of his old haunts he went. The first man he saw there was the large-whiskered, jovial, and eccentric gentleman whom he had noticed on the second evening: of his entering a house of play: he had since lost sight of him. The little man stroked his bushy whiskers fondly over his face, and, offering Cecil a pinch of snuff, expressed his pleasure at meeting him again.
"Come to try the goddess, sir?" he inquired. "Fickle goddess! now smiling, now frowning—quite awoman! I am no great handmyself; but, as far as a few crowns go, I find it apleasant game—decidedly pleasant. Would you like toregulateyourself by mycard?—dulypricked, you see. There have been three runs upon the black; once it turned up eleven times. Shall we take a glass ofwinetogether? Yes;—waiter! somewine."
"No wine for me, thank you; I never touch it before dinner. Have you seen Mr. Forrester here to-day?"
"The gentleman with the large moustachios?—Yes; he has been playing, and won; but he went away about a quarter of an hourago."
Cecil took his seat at the table. Gambling by day has, somehow, a more hideous aspect than by night: I suppose because it looks so little like an amusement, and so much like a mere affair of cupidity. But Cecil had grown used to this, as to other loathsome aspects of his vice, and sat down to the table with as muchsang froidas if he were about to transact the most ordinary piece of business.
He had not been playing long, winning and losing in pretty equal succession, when Frank came back.
"What, again!" said Cecil. "I thought you had gone for the day: I heard you had departed with your winnings."
"The fact is, that I found my winnings rapidly decreasing, so I thought a little interval might very properly elapse; after which fortune again might be on my side. Besides, old boy, you must know that I haven't dined for eight days;—and when I say dined, I don't mean dining in the true sense, but in the common, vulgar,paupersense of the word. I have made no meal which couldrepresenta dinner. For eight days I haven't touched meat, damn my whiskers! So, being as ravenous as a hyena, I determined that to-day, at least, Iwoulddine."
"And have you?"
"Have I, Cis? Why it's not yet five: do you imagine that underanycircumstance I could lower myself so far as to dine at the shopkeeper's hour? No, damn it! one may be hard up, but one does not forget one is a gentleman!"
"Have you ordered your dinner then?"
"More than ordered it—paidfor it. I went to the butcher's, and bought two pounds of magnificent steak: this I carried to a small Public, hard by, with the strictest injunctions as to the dressing of it—saw the cook myself, and am satisfied she knows what's what. It is to be ready at half-past six precisely, with no end of fried potatoes, and a bottle of their old crusted, which I know from experience is a wine that a gentleman can drink. The dinner you will say is not epicurean, but at any rate it iscertain, because I have paid for it all. Now I don't mind risking the rest of my winnings. My mind is at rest: the baser appetites are provided for."
He began to play also; and he won.
"I told you luck would change," he said.
But he soon lost again, and lost repeatedly.
"Never mind, I have secured a dinner for to-day, which will last a week."
Cecil was equally unfortunate; the run seemed to be decidedly against him.
At last Frank threw down his final half-crown. It went like the others. He started up, and hurried away, without saying good-bye; indeed, giving no other expression of his feelings than was convoyed in an energetic denunciation of his whiskers.
Cecil played on; and as he saw the sovereigns disappear in spite of his famous martingale, his heart sank within him, and the gloom of despair seemed to paralyse his mind. Suffering horrible agony from the intense excitement of each coup, he yet played mechanically, almost listlessly, he lost, and won, and lost again, with fearful alternation of sick despair and dull joy. It was as if he were staking his heart's blood on each turn.
Frank returned, not without a certain hilarity in his manner.
"Where have you been?" Cecil faintly inquired.
"To my worthy host of the Coach and Horses, at whose house my dinner is commanded. It struck me that I could very well dispense with wine to-day—the more so as it costs six shillings a bottle, and here one gets it for nothing—so I negociated with the worthy publican, and sold him the wine back again for two half-crowns. Here they are. What d'ye think of that? Is that management of financial difficulties, eh?"
A sickly smile was the only answer Cecil gave, for at that moment he had just lost his fourthcouprunning. The two half-crowns seemed to bring back Frank's luck, for he won rapidly; Cecil, who played the same colours, also won. Winning and losing, and losing and winning, so the game went on, with alternate rising and falling of hopes, and in the rapidity with which small gains mounted up to large sums, and those sums dwindled down again, crowding as much excitement as would have filled a month of ordinary life.
"Done! cleaned out!" exclaimed Frank, as he saw himself once more penniless.
A sharp pang shot across Cecil's face, as he threw down his last sovereign on the red.
"Après," said the dealer.
Cecil had now only ten shillings remaining of the fifty pounds. In breath-suspended agony he watched the cards.
"Red wins!" said the dealer.
He breathed again, and looked round to smile at Frank; but that worthy had again departed to negociate the sale of his dinner.
Yes; this dinner, so cherished, so anticipated, paid for in advance, on which the imagination had luxuriated as on a kingly banquet; this dinner was sold for a miserable trifle, that he might risk one more coup at that table where so many men had ruined themselves before!
Cecil continued in luck until Frank returned; this time with no hilarity on his face, but a quiet gravity, which seemed prepared for the worst; and when he lost the last shilling he broke out into a short, sharp, hysterical laugh, and turning to Cecil, said with forced calmness,—
"I shall not dine to-day."
"Pleasantgamethis, sir," said the bushy-whiskered gentleman, coming up to where Frank sat, "take a pinch ofsnuff, sir?" Frank accepted with grace, and began chatting with the smiling gentleman, who was very communicative, and informed Frank that he had that afternoon won no less than ten half-crowns by backing the red.
"Quite right, sir," said Frank, "redisthe colour."
"No doubt about it."
"Yes, yes. By the way, you haven't a half-crown about you at this minute, have you? I am cleared out for the day."
"Why, I certainly havesucha thing, but..."
"Say no more, my dear fellow," said Frank, shaking him warmly by the hand, "half a crown will be abundance, I only want to try the red once. I'm really obliged to you for the offer of the loan, and shall accept it with pleasure. Now-a-days one does not often meet with such a trump! If ever you should run low, you know, in me you will always find one ready to reciprocate a civility."
The smiling gentleman rubbed his whiskers and filled his nose with snuff; but he concluded by slipping the half-crown into Frank's hand, who instantly threw it on the red.
Cecil had thrown his last five pounds upon the red, and with straining eyeballs watched the falling cards.
"Black wins," said the dealer.
Frank saw the croupier rake away his half-crown, and with it Cecil's five pounds.
A low cry burst from Cecil, as he learned his fate; and, leaning his elbows on the table, he let his head fall into his hands, and sobbed aloud.
The dealers and croupiers, accustomed to every expression of grief, sat with immoveable, expressionless faces, pursuing their routine with an indifference which was quite ghastly. The players looked upon him with different feelings: some with compassion, some with contempt, some with sympathetic fear. But above his wretched sobs were heard the unvarying tones of, "Gentlemen, make your game; the game is made."
Frank touched Cecil on the shoulder, and beckoned him to come away. Mechanically Cecil did so, and they stepped together out into the dull, dismal, November evening, and walked through the mist and lightly falling snow, without uttering a word.
At Park Lane they parted; a pressure of the hand was the only expression of their feelings which passed between them. Sick at heart, they both felt that nothing could be said to comfort them.
The lights glimmered dimly through the dirty air of that November evening, and the snow fell, and the rain, and the whole scene was drear and desolate, as Cecil wandered on, crushed in spirit, savage from remorse, exasperated by his impotent efforts to shake off the galling remembrance that he was now Heath's debtor—that he had taken his money, and could not throw it back at him.
Wild thoughts of suicide chased across his soul, like dancing lights over a bleak moor at night; but they did not long abide with him.
O God! O God! that it were possibleTo undo things done,—to call back yesterday!That Time could turn his swift and sandy glassTo untell days, or to redeem these hours!HEYWOOD.—A Woman Killed with Kindness.
When Blanche returned to her senses, she found herself in the arms of her landlady, who was bathing her forehead with vinegar and water.
"My husband!" she murmured; "where is my husband?"
"Oh, he's not come back yet. There, you are better now, aren't you?"
"Thank you; yes, I can walk now."
"Don't attempt it just yet."
"I must. I must go out."
"Go out such a day as this! Why, see how it snows."
"I must. You see I can stand. Oh, pray God, I may not be too late."
"But where do you wish to go, my dear? Can't I send my girl for you?"
"Where? Where? Ay, indeed. He did not tell me where. But then Cecil will not know where to find .... Thank God! Thank God!"
She sank down again upon the chair, relieved of her terrible anxiety; for she doubted not that if Cecil were unable to meet with Captain Heath, he would soon grow calmer, and look at things more rationally.
She waited for his return, however, with extreme uneasiness, fearful lest he should not have missed the captain; and dreading lest he should still continue his jealous suspicions. Free from all sentiment of jealousy herself, she could not understand Cecil's excessive susceptibility; and knowing Captain Heath so well as she did, she was perfectly convinced that her husband's jealousy was quite motiveless. This made her feel secure on this subject. Her deep sense of her own innocence, and of Heath's high-mindedness, made her convinced that Cecil must see the matter in its true light, so soon as he should calmly consider it.
It was nearly seven o'clock before her anxiety was relieved by hearing his knock at the door; but she screamed with terror as he entered the room. Although his coat and hat were covered with snow, he had left his chest exposed to the cold, and his shirt-collar and front were dripping with wet. He had evidently been altogether heedless of his person, and had given no thought of protecting it from the weather.
His face was pale and haggard, his eyes dull and blood-shot, his lips compressed—his whole aspect that of one who has just committed some fearful crime. She interrogated his face with watchful terror. He avoided her eye.
He seated himself in silence, and began brushing the snow off his hat. That completed, he placed his wet feet on the fender, and looked stedfastly at the fire.
Unable to bear this suspense, she went up to him, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said timidly,—
"Have you seen him?"
"No."
She felt greatly relieved. He continued to look at the fire, but gave no signs of wishing to prolong the conversation. She drew a stool by his side, and sat down upon it; and in silence they both contemplated the evanescent shapes in the burning coals.
Having sat thus for some time, Blanche rose and went into the next room, and presently returned with her baby in her arms, asleep, which she gently laid upon Cecil's lap.
He turned a dull, sad eye upon her, inquiringly, and then looked down upon the sleeping infant on his knee.
"Unhappy child!" he said, and the tears rolled down his cheeks, as he gazed upon the sleeping babe, unconscious of the sorrow it awakened in its father's heart, and the remorse for infatuated villany, the consequences of which must eventually fall upon its head.
"Take her away," he said, "take her away. Why do you bring her to me?"
"To make you happy."
"To make me more miserable than I was before—to reproach me—me, her father, that she has not a better home, warmer clothing! Take her away."
Blanche, sobbing, took the child and laid it again in its cradle.
"Blanche you must write a note for me," he said, after a pause.
"To whom, dearest?"
No reply.
"To whom am I to write?"
"To—Captain Heath!" he said, with an effort.
She started at the name, alarmed and wondering.
"What am I to say?"
"Whatever you please—you are sure to succeed."
"But tell me what the object is?"
"Money."
"Money?"
"For my picture—I am to paint him one, am I not? he has ordered it. Well! I want money in advance."
Blanche would have been highly delighted at such a speech, had it been uttered in a different tone, and had not Captain Heath, already, that very day, given a cheque in advance.
She made no reply.
"Well!" he said, "are you ready? Write it at once."
"But the fifty pounds...."
"Gone! I met a man to whom I owed it—he demanded payment—I was forced to let him have the cheque. You can explain it all to Heath, and tell him I must have ten pounds more to buy materials with. Tell him what you please, but get the money."
He resumed his contemplation of the fire after this speech, and scarcely opened his lips again for the evening. Blanche wrote the letter, but it was with loathing, and she hated herself while she was doing it, and was sure Captain Heath would also hate her.
Glad as she would have been to see her husband relinquish his absurd jealousy of the captain, it came with quite a different aspect when that relinquishment was not a matter of conviction, but of degraded calculation. She guessed at once the truth of the whole history; she saw that Cecil had gambled away the fifty pounds, and that he had not only reconciled himself to it, but had made up his mind to extort from the generosity of the captain certain sums which would enable him to indulge his unhappy passion.
What a situation for a loving wife! Never before, not even in his worst exhibitions of selfishness and weakness, had Blanche despised her husband; but she could not master the feeling now; a lurking sense of contempt would intrude itself upon her thoughts.
The letter was sent under cover to her father.
All the next day Cecil sat over the fire, sometimes whistling, but mostly quite silent. He was playing over again the games which he had lost on the previous day: andnow, as he played them, he calculated rightly, and always won.
Blanche observed that he exhibited singular impatience for the arrival of the postman; and when the day entirely passed over without bringing a letter, he constantly muttered to himself, "Very extraordinary!"
The next morning his impatience was greater, and when the two o'clock postman brought a letter for her from Rose, and nothing from Captain Heath, he began to swear and mutter to himself, till she was quite terrified.
He took up his hat and lounged out, without saying a word as to where he was going.
About three, Captain Heath called. Blanche was frightened lest Cecil should return and find him there; and was also alarmed at the probable storm which would burst upon her in consequence of this visit.
Heath saw her embarrassment, and attributed it to a sense of shame at her husband's conduct; for the note was so incoherently written, that he divined pretty nearly the whole truth of the matter.
"I have brought a cheque for your husband," he said, "because I did not wish to trust it to the post—also, because I wished to say a word to you. Blanche, I take the privilege of an old, a very old friend, to speak frankly to you; therefore, you must not be offended with me when I ask you to receive another ten pounds in advance for the picture, besides the cheque which your husband has requested. I mean the second sum to be received by you, for household expenses—to be kept a secret by you—you can keep a secret from your husband, can you not?"
"Why do you wish it?"
"Because, Blanche, affairs are not in a flourishing condition with you at present; and as your husband owes a good deal of money, perhaps, if he knew you had this sum, instead of allowing it to be devoted to your immediate necessities, he might also play that away."
She blushed deeply, as she perceived that he had guessed the truth.
"I wish, therefore, that you would give him this cheque from me, which he has asked, but that you would say nothing, if you can help it, about the other sum. I am asking, perhaps, that which I ought not to ask. I am overstepping, perhaps, the bounds of friendship, and interfering in domestic concerns where I have no sort of right to interfere. But it is my friendship which dictates the wish, and which must be my excuse. I do not bind you to any condition; I do not even wish you to keep the matter a secret, if it is at all repugnant to your feelings: but I would strenuouslyadviseyou to do so. Act just as you think fitting and proper; do not imagine that I wish in any way to dictate to you; but, as a brother might counsel you, I would venture to suggest, that on many accounts it would be well if you did not speak of this."
"Kindest, best of men!" she exclaimed, pressing his hand. She could say no more.
He quietly laid the cheque upon the mantelpiece, and slipped ten sovereigns into the pocket of her apron. He then, to change the subject, asked after Rose Blanche, who was brought to him immediately.
Blanche, after a long struggle with herself, at last said,—
"Captain Heath, you know me well enough to believe that I am neither insensible to your friendship, nor ungrateful for it—do you not?"
"Assuredly, dear Blanche."
"And if I were to say anything to you that might look ungrateful, you would not believe that it sprang from ingratitude? you would at once see that I was forced by circumstances, not by my own will?"
He shook slightly, as he answered,—
"I could not doubt you."
"You do not believe me to be capricious?"
"I do not."
"And if I were to beg you .... to .... if I were to say.... do not come here any more....?"
Her voice faltered, and died away in a whisper. He started as the words fell on his ear, and turned first red, then pale again.
There was a moment of embarrassed silence.
"Oh! do not believe," she passionately exclaimed, "that it comes from me; do not fancy that I should ever.... But I cannot do what my heart dictates: I owe obedience to another."
He saw at once what was in her mind; he saw that Cecil's absurd jealousy was at the bottom of her agitation: and in a low but firm tone, he said,—
"Blanche, do not continue. I understand you. I never was a favourite of his, and he naturally enough does not desire my acquaintance; in which case, of course, I must relinquish the pleasure of seeing you. Do not sob, Blanche—you cannot help this. Such cases are frequent. I shall not regard you less—shall not be less your friend, because I am not permitted to see you. Perhaps, if he knew me better, he might think otherwise of me; but sympathy is not to be commanded, and too many people dislike me, for me to be either surprised or hurt at his opinion. Besides, I have already interfered too much between you. He thinks my conduct unwarrantable—perhaps it was—and he dislikes me. There, you see I look at the matter in its true light. I do not blame you—I do not blame him. A husband is not forced to accept the friends of his wife."
At this moment Cecil returned.
Heath coloured as he saw him enter the room; Blanche turned aside her head to conceal her tears, but not before Cecil's glance had detected them; a fierce pain shot across Cecil's heart, as if a burning iron had entered it, but with a hypocritical smile he extended his hand to the captain, and expressed himself delighted to see him.
The situation was excessively uncomfortable for all three. The captain could not depart, it would have looked so pointed, yet to remain was torture. Blanche was terrified, and silent. Cecil, who in an instant saw that Heath's presence betokened a fresh assistance from him, stifled the horrible jealousy which his presence awakened, and resolved not to lose the benefit. He began a common-place conversation, and soon led it to the subject of the commissioned picture, for which he declared he had been inspired with a magnificent idea.
Heath's replies were brief and cold; but Cecil was not to be daunted. So completely had his vice corrupted him, that he had lost all sense of dignity, and only looked upon the captain as a victim from whom to draw sums of money. That Heath loved his wife he knew; and doubted not but that from such an affection he should draw golden results. That Blanche did not return the captain's love, he was firmly convinced—and yet that conviction could not allay his jealousy. Awful moral perplexity and corruption! Despicable weakness and meanness! Here was a man base enough to barter his honour, yet not strong enough to resist the petty irritation of the pettiest jealousy!
As the captain took his leave, Cecil said:—
"We are generally at home,—if you should be in this neighbourhood, pray don't forget to give us a look in. It is but a miserable place to come to—but old friends, you know."
Blanche's eye met the captain's, and most significantly expressed,—"Don't accept the invitation."
Heath merely bowed his acceptance, and departed, marvelling much whether it was corruption or irony which dictated Cecil's speech.
Cecil made no observation to Blanche respecting the captain's presence; but took up the cheque with delight, and forthwith proceeded to get it cashed, and to carry the money to Leicester-square, whence, after spending the afternoon and night at play, with various alternations of fortune, he came away a winner of thirteen pounds.
He was in excellent spirits on his return home. Blanche said nothing respecting the ten sovereigns in her possession.
I am so well acquainted with despair,I know not how to hope; I believe all.DECKAR.
Oh! press me, baby, with thy hand,It loosens something at my chest;About that tight and deadly bandI feel thy little fingers prest.WORDSWORTH.
Although the life of a gamester is full of emotion, full of successes and reverses, the incidents are all so very similar that I need not enter into more details. Suffice it, that Cecil made such frequent applications to Captain Heath, that a point blank refusal came at last; much to Blanche's satisfaction, for she deeply felt the humiliation of seeing him plundered in that shameless way to feed the gaming-table. She knew that it was for her sake Heath gave the money; and she knew that it only added fresh fuel to her husband's unhappy passion.
The last few weeks had completely banished from her heart all hope of an amendment. Not only had Cecil shamelessly applied to Heath for money in advance on a picture which he had made no attempt even to commence; but he had, by one act, opened her eyes to the extent of his reckless infatuation.
It was about a fortnight after Captain Heath's visit, when, as Cecil sat in his usual attitude over the fire, indolently smoking a cigar, Blanche said to him,—
"When are you going to paint that picture, dearest, which you have engaged for?"
"In good time."
"But why not do it at once?"
"He did not stipulate that it was to be done at once, did he?"
"No; but there can be no reason why you should not do it. You have nothing else in hand. Besides, when that is finished you can paint another; and you know how badly we want money."
"Badly enough, God knows!"
"I do not like to accept the advances he makes us, when I see you not working at the picture."
"Bah!"
"You must do it sooner or later; why not now? Come, Cecil, make an effort—begin it."
"Begin when I haven't even money to buy the necessary materials. Write to him and tell him I have a splendid subject, but that really——"
"That is unnecessary. I have money—I will go and get you all you want."
"You, Blanche! And where did you get money from?'
"Never mind," she replied playfully. "Perhaps it was a little fairy. Enough that I have some."
"Oh, I'm not curious; so that you have got money, that is all I care about. How much?"
"There again! Not curious! Why, you are as curious as a woman. Don't inquire."
"Very well. Get me the things, that's all."
She went into the next room, and he heard her unlock a drawer. He continued calmly smoking; she put on her bonnet and tripped down stairs.
No sooner did he hear the street door shut than he rose and walked into her bed-room to search for the money. He saw a drawer with a key in it, but on opening it he found nothing there. He next unlocked all the other drawers, but without result.
There was nothing now in the room likely to conceal any money, and he began to think that perhaps she had only a few shillings, which she had carried away with her. Almost mechanically he opened the small drawer of her wash-hand stand, and there he saw six sovereigns glittering in the farther corner. His face lighted up with a strange expression as they met his eye, and rapidly clutching them, and turning over the drawer to see if it concealed any more, he took his hat, and was out of the house in an instant.
When Blanche returned and found him gone, her heart misgave her; with trembling limbs she staggered into the bed-room—opened the drawer—and saw her fears confirmed. It is impossible to render the despair which seized her at this discovery. That little incident was more frightful to her, was more damning evidence of the unconquerable nature of his vice than any she had yet known; and helpless, hopeless she sank upon the bed, not to weep, but to brood upon the awful prospect of her life.
It was not grief which laid her prostrate, it was a stupor: a dull, heavy agony, like a shroud closing her from life, from hope, from happiness. Before, her heart had been wrung; she had been humiliated, she had been tortured; but in the bitterest moments, she had never been utterly prostrate,—never absolutely without gleam of hope. Now, her husband stood before her as irreclaimable,—marching with frightful rapidity to his doom, and dragging with him, a wife and child.
That child's cries on awaking, partly aroused her. She felt the necessity for an effort; she felt that another demanded she should not give way to the stupor which oppressed her. She put the child to her breast; but, alas! the shock she had received had dried up its life-giving fountains, and the disappointed infant sucked in vain. Tears gushed from her, as she became aware of this new misfortune—tears, scalding yet refreshing tears, which melted down her stubborn grief into something more like human woe; and relieved by them, she rose to make some food for the hungry babe, whose impatient cries recalled her to a sense of duties, which allowed not the passive indulgence of sorrow. Cecil, meanwhile, had lost the little treasure he had obtained possession of in so despicable a manner; and having lost it, remained sauntering about the streets, without courage to return home to face his wife. Exhausted at last by fatigue, he came back.
Not a word passed between them. He got into bed feeling humbled and exasperated, yet not having courage even to put a bullying face on the matter. She was brushing her hair, and he heard the sighs which she struggled to suppress, but he feigned sleep, andwould nothear them.
She crept into bed, anxious not to awake him; and through the long night he heard her weeping, so that it almost broke his heart: yet he feigned sleep, and dared not speak!
From that time, there was always a sort of barrier between them. A wall had grown up between their loves, formed out of shame, remorse, pity and hopelessness. They never alluded to the incident which caused it; but they both felt that it was constantly present in each other's minds.
Their existence was wretched indeed. Vyner and Julius took care that Blanche should want for no necessities—food, clothing, little articles of necessity were all regularly sent in by them; and the rent was paid by Vyner himself. But no more money could Cecil extort from them on any pretext. They knew well enough, that to give him money was only to give him opportunities of playing, and so they limited their charity to seeing that Blanche and her child, were not in absolute want.