Robert Grantham for a moment was undecided what to do. No one was near them; he and Billy were just then alone on the bridge. Resolving upon his course of action, he raised Billy in his arms and walked with his burden toward Rathbeal's lodging. Billy was nothing of a weight for a man to carry, being but skin and bone, and Grantham experienced no difficulty in the execution of the merciful task he had taken upon himself. He was not troubled by inquiries from the few persons he encountered. A policeman looked after them, but as Grantham made no appeal to him, and there was no evidence of the law being broken, he turned and resumed his beat. Robert Grantham was a quarter of an hour walking to the house in which Rathbeal lodged. Without hesitating, he pushed the street door open, and ascended the stairs. Rathbeal heard him coming up, and waited for him on the landing.
"What have you got there?" he asked.
"A lump of misery," replied Grantham.
Rathbeal made way for his friend, who entered the room and laid Billy on the bed. Then he examined the lad to see if any bones were broken, Rathbeal, better skilled than he, assisting him.
"Where did you find him, Robert?"
"On Westminster Bridge. He must have stumbled against someone who pushed him off into the road, where he fell fainting. I have known the poor little fellow for months, but I have not seen him for the last three or four weeks. I wondered what had become of him."
"Where do his people live?"
"Heaven knows! He has none, I believe; or at all events, none who care to look after him. He is a waif of the streets, not an uncommon growth in London."
"You have been good to him?"
"I have given him bread sometimes, when I had it to give; and the last time I met him I took him home with me, and made up a bed on the floor for him. He remained with me a week, and then he unaccountably disappeared. What is to be done? He does not recover. He is not dead, thank God! There is a faint beat of the heart."
Rathbeal produced a bottle in which there was some brandy. He moistened the lad's lips with the spirit, and poured a few drops, diluted with water, down his throat. Still the lad did not open his eyes.
"Have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked Robert Grantham.
"There is a little bread and meat," said Rathbeal.
"He looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food. Make some water hot, Rathbeal. I will go and get a packet of oatmeal; a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him."
"Wait a minute, Robert." Rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad, and added gravely: "On the opposite side of the road, half a dozen doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. Ask him to come up at once and see the boy."
"I will;" and meeting Rathbeal's eyes, he said, "Do you fear there is any danger?"
"Yes. I have some medical skill, as you know; but I do not hold a diploma. It will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy."
Robert Grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. Rathbeal handed him five shillings.
"Thank you, Rathbeal," said Grantham, and ran down the stairs. In less than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor examined the lad, Rathbeal busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove.
"Yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. Put a teaspoonful of brandy in it. A son of yours?"
"No," answered Grantham; "my friend, Mr. Rathbeal, has never seen him before. I found him in this condition in the street."
"Where are his parents?"
"I do not know, nor whether he has any."
"But you must have had some previous knowledge of him," said the doctor, looking with curiosity at Grantham.
"Oh, yes. I met him by chance some months since, when he was in want of food, and we struck up an acquaintance. Is he in danger?"
"He may not live through the night." He put up his hand; Billy was coughing, and a little pink foam gathered about his lips, which the doctor wiped away. "Exposure and want have reduced him to this state. He has been suffering a long time, and his strength is completely wasted. Had he been attended to months ago, there would have been a chance for him. Listen!" Billy was coughing again, a faint, wasting cough, painful to hear. "I can do very little. I will send you a bottle of medicine, which may give him temporary relief; and I will come again about midnight, if you wish."
"I shall feel obliged to you. We shall be here all night. Should he have brandy after he has taken the gruel?"
"A few drops now and then will do him no harm. He needs all the strength you can put into him. Endeavor to get from him some information about his relatives, and go for them."
"Would it be best to take him to a hospital?"
"He should not be removed; he will not trouble you long."
"It is more a grief than a trouble."
"I understand. See, he is coming to. How do you feel now, my little man?"
"_I_ don' know," murmured Billy. "There's somethink 'ere." He moved his hand feebly to his chest. "Is that you, Mr. Gran? Where am I?"
"With good friends, Billy."
"You've allus been that to me, sir."
"Now try and eat a little of this," said Grantham, raising the lad gently in his arms.
Billy, with a grateful smile, managed to get two or three spoonfuls down, and then sank back on the bed.
"Do not force him," said the doctor. "Where do you live, Billy?"
"I don't know--anywhere."
"But try and remember."
"I can't remember nothink--only Mr. Gran. It ain't likely I'll forgit 'im. Thank yer kindly, sir, for wot you've done for me; there ain't many like yer."
He closed his eyes, and appeared to sleep.
"I will see him again at midnight," said the doctor, and stepped softly from the room.
Rathbeal cleared the table, and arranged some manuscripts.
"We may as well work while we watch, Robert. These must be copied by the morning."
He spoke in a whisper, and, sitting down, commenced to write. Grantham lingered awhile by the bedside, and as Billy did not stir, presently joined his friend, and proceeded with his copying. He did not observe that Billy, when he left his side, slyly opened his eyes, and gazed upon him with a look of grateful, pathetic love. Every time Grantham turned to him he closed his eyes, in order that it should be supposed he was sleeping. The writing proceeded almost in silence, the friends only exchanging brief, necessary words relating to their work. Now and then Grantham rose and went to the bedside, and when the bottle of medicine arrived he laid his hand gently on Billy's shoulder.
"Yes, Mr. Gran," said the lad, "I'm awake."
"Take this, Billy; it will do you good."
"Nothink'll do me good, sir; but I'll take it. I _did_ want to see you before I went where I'm going to."
"There, there, my dear boy," said Robert Grantham, "you must not exhaust yourself by talking too much. You have taken the medicine bravely. Now try and swallow a spoonful of gruel."
He had kept it hot for the lad on the gas-stove.
"Thank you, Mr. Gran, I'll try; but I _should_ like to know where I'm going to."
"If you do not get well, Billy, you will be in a better place than this."
"Glad to 'ear it, sir; though luck's agin me. Yer didn't think it bad o' me to cut away from yer so sly, did yer?"
"No, my lad, no; but what made you go?"
"I'll tell yer 'ow it was, sir. I didn't want to take the bread out of yer mouth, and I found out I was doing it, without yer ever saying a word about it. There was the last day I was with yer, Mr. Gran; you 'ad dry bread, I 'ad treacle on mine; yer give me a cup 'o broth, and water was good enough for you. At supper you didn't take a bite of anythink, while I was tucking away like one o'clock. 'It's time for you to cut yer lucky, Billy,' I sed; and I did."
"Foolish lad! foolish lad!" said Robert Grantham, smoothing Billy's hair. "Where did you go to?"
"I don' know, Mr. Gran--into the country somewhere; but I didn't 'ave better luck there than 'ere, sir. I was took bad, and I was told I was dying; but I got better, Mr. Gran, and strong enough to walk back to London. I only come to-night, sir. When I was bad in the country, an old woman sed I was done for, and that if I didn't pray for salvation I should go to--you know where, sir. She give me a ha'penny, and sed, 'Now, you go away and pray as 'ard as yer can.' But I didn't think that'd do me any good, and ses I to myself, 'I'll toss up for it. Heads, salwation; tails, t'other.' I sent the ha'penny spinning, and down it come--tails, t'other. Jest like my luck, wasn't it, Mr. Gran?"
"Billy," said Robert Grantham earnestly, "you must drive that notion out of your head. We are all equal in the sight of God----"
"Oh, are we, Mr. Gran? That's a 'ard notion, as yer call it, to drive out o' my head, and I don't think I've got time for it. Beggin' yer pardon, sir."
Rathbeal, pen in hand, stopped in his work, and listened to the conversation.
"I tell you we are all equal in the eyes of God--rich and poor, high and low. The prayers of a poor boy reach God's ears as readily as the prayers of a rich man."
"If _you_ prayed, Mr. Gran," said Billy, "Gawd'd listen to yer. Per'aps yer wouldn't mind praying for me a bit."
Robert Grantham covered his eyes with his hand.
"'Ave I 'urt yer, sir?" moaned Billy. "Don't say I've 'urt yer!"
"No, my boy, no. If I had as little to answer for as you----" He paused awhile. "Your state is not of your own creating, Billy."
"No, sir; I don't know as it is. I couldn't 'elp bein' wot I am."
"There are many who could not say as much, who walk into sin with their eyes wide open--Billy!"
The lad was seized with a sudden paroxysm of coughing, which lasted several minutes. The fit over, he lay back exhausted, the red foam issuing from his mouth. It was no time for exhortation. Robert Grantham cleared the fatal sign from the sufferer's mouth, and patted Billy's hand and stroked his face pitifully. Billy's lips touched the consoling hand.
"Thank yer, sir. Let me lay still a bit."
The men resumed their work, and the boy was quiet. At midnight the doctor called again.
"As I feared," he said, apart to Robert Grantham; "he will last but a few hours."
Robert Grantham asked him what his fee was. The doctor shook his head, and said:
"I have done nothing; I could do nothing. Permit me to play my humble part in your kind charity. Good-night."
He shook hands with them, put Billy in an easy position, and left them.
"It isn't altogether a bad world, Robert," observed Rathbeal.
"It is what we make it," replied Robert Grantham, with a heavy sigh.
"That will not apply to the poor outcast lying there," said Rathbeal, looking at Billy.
"True, true," rejoined Grantham. "I was thinking of my own life."
Rathbeal had the intention, when Mr. Fox-Cordery left him, of saying something about his visit, but this sad adventure had put it out of his head. He thought of his intention now, when Robert Grantham said the world was what we made it; and he resolved that before many days had passed he would invite his friend's confidence in a direct way. In the presence of death he could not do so, and he set the matter aside for the present.
Their copying was finished at three o'clock, and Rathbeal gathered the pages, and put them in order. There had been no apparent change in the lad, but the solemnity of the scene impressed the men deeply. The house was very quiet, and no sound came to them from the street. They had endeavored, without success, to obtain from Billy some information of his relations. Either he did not or would not understand them, for he gave them no intelligible replies to their questions. They decided to make another effort during the next interval of consciousness, and, sitting by his bedside, they watched their opportunity. It came as Rathbeal's watch pointed to the hour of four. Billy raised his lids; his hands moved feebly. The men inclined their ears. Rathbeal left it to Robert Grantham to speak.
"Billy!"
"Yes, Mr. Gran; yes, sir."
"I want you, for my sake, to try and remember. You had a father and mother?"
"Yes, Mr. Gran, a long time ago."
"Where are they?"
"I don' know, sir."
"Is it very long since you saw them?"
"Oh, ever so long!"
"But there must be someone--an aunt or uncle."
"Nobody, nobody!"
"Try, Billy; try to recollect--for my sake, remember."
"Yes, sir; yes, Mr. Gran, I'll try."
But he seemed to forget it immediately, for he said nothing more.
It must have been half-an-hour after this that Rathbeal touched Robert Grantham's arm impressively. The dews of death were on Billy's forehead, and his lips were moving.
"Prue, little Prue!" he murmured.
"A girl's pet name, probably," whispered Rathbeal in Robert Grantham's ear.
"Yes, Billy, yes," prompted Grantham; "who is little Prue?"
"Sweethearts we wos. Little Prue! little Prue!"
At this dying boy's mouth Fate was weaving its web; and some miles away Mr. Fox-Cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend he had ruined.
"Where does she live, Billy?"
"We wos sweethearts. I liked little Prue."
"Try and remember where she lives, Billy."
"Is that you speaking, Mr. Gran?"
"Yes, my boy. Do you understand what I say?"
"I don' know. 'Now you go away and pray as 'ard as ever yer can,' the old woman ses, and I goes away and tosses up for it. 'Eads, salwation; tails, t'other. And down it comes--tails. Just like my luck. But there's something I _do_ want to pray for! It's all I can do for 'im, and he ses Gawd'll 'ear a pore boy. So 'ere goes. Where's my ha'penny to toss with? No, I don't mean that. I mean Gawd, are yer listenin'?"
"Say your prayer, Billy," whispered Grantham, seeing that the lad's last moments had come; "God is listening to you."
"O Lawd Gawd!" prayed Billy, pausing painfully between each word; "give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over. Look out! I am going to turn the corner."
A few moments afterward Billy had turned the corner, and was traveling on the road of Eternity, with angels smiling on him.
"You have asked me two or three times lately, my dear Rathbeal," wrote Robert Grantham, "to relate to you the story of my life, and you have mysteriously hinted that it might be in your power to render me a valuable service, and perhaps to restore the happiness which it was evident to you I had lost. I did not respond to your friendly advances, in which there was a note of affection which touched me deeply; but it seems to me now churlish to refuse the confidence you ask for. It was not because I doubt you that I remained silent. I have long known that I possess in you a friend whose feelings for me are truly sincere, and who would be only too willing to make any personal sacrifice in his power to console and comfort me in my misery. That, indeed, you have already done; and although I can never repay the debt of gratitude I owe you, rest assured, dear friend, that I am deeply sensible of your sympathetic offices. But you can go no farther than this. All your wisdom and goodness would not avail to fulfill the hopes you entertain for my future. So far as I am personally and selfishly concerned I have no earthly future. I shaped my course, and marched straight on--deaf to the dictates of conscience, blind to virtue and suffering--so steeped in the vice that enslaved me, that it was only when the fell destroyer Death took from me the treasures which should have been my redemption, that the consciousness of my wrong-doing rushed upon me, and stabbed me to the heart. It was then too late for repentance, too late to fall upon my knees and pray for mercy and forgiveness. I deserved my punishment, and I bowed my head to it, not with meekness and resignation, but with a bitterness and scorn for myself which words are powerless to portray.
"I cannot recall when it was that I first became a gamester, but it was during my school-days that my evil genius obtained a mastery over me that I did not shake off until it had compassed my ruin and the ruin of innocent beings I should have cherished and protected. In the school I went to I had a friend and comrade, a lad of amiable parts and qualities, with whom I chiefly associated; and somehow it happened that he and I fell into the habit of playing cards for our pocket-money. I was not even then a fortunate player, but the loss of my few shillings was amply repaid by the delight I took in these games of chance. There were occasions when my friend reproved me for my infatuation, but I would not listen to him, and I made it a point of honor with him that he should give me opportunities of regaining the money I had lost. Not that I had any great desire to win my money back; it was play I craved for. He was much more concerned at my losses than myself; and I remember once that he offered to return all he had won, which, of course, I would not listen to.
"When, school-days over, I commenced to live the life of a man, I sought places and opportunities for pursuing my favorite pastime. I became a member of private clubs established for the gratification of enthusiasts like myself, and there I lost my money and enjoyed myself to my heart's content. I never questioned myself as to the morality of my passion, and whether I won or lost was almost a matter of indifference to me, so far as the actual value of the money I left behind me, or took away with me, was concerned. I had ample means, for more than one fortune was bequeathed to me; and I continued on the fatal road I had entered with so much zeal, and never once thought of turning back. At this period of my life the vice harmed no one but myself. If it had, I might have reflected; but how dare I make this lame excuse for my sinful conduct when I know that in after times it did affect others, and that even then I did not turn back?
"My friendship and intimacy with my schoolmate continued, and he often accompanied me to my favorite haunts, and gambled a little, but not to the same extent as I did, and with better luck. He accompanied me to France and Italy, where I found ample scope for indulgence in my besetting vice. By this time my schoolmate and I were bosom friends and inseparable; and when he remonstrated with me on my last night's losses, I used to laugh at him, and to challenge him there and then to sit down with me to a game of chance, saying, 'Someone must win my money, why not you?' And our intimacy was of such a nature that he could not refuse, though his compliance was not too readily given. At the Continental gaming-tables he would be my banker when I was cleaned out, and one day he suggested that he should act as a kind of steward of my fortune, which was still considerable. I consented gladly enough, for I had no head for figures, and he saved me a world of trouble. Then something took place which ought to have saved me, had not my besetting vice taken such absolute possession of me as to deprive me completely of moral control. I met a young and beautiful girl, and fell in love with her. My love was returned, and in a few months afterward she became my wife.
"Surely that should have opened my eyes to my folly, if anything could. A sweet and pure influence was by my side; and it is true that for a little while my mad course was checked. I was happy in my wife's society, as no man could fail to be who enjoyed the heaven of her love. A sweeter, nobler lady never drew breath. I tremble with shame as I write of her; I shudder with remorse as I think of the fate to which I brought her. For we had not been married many months before my evil genius began to haunt and tempt me. Understand that I should not then have spoken of my vice as an evil genius. I saw no evil in it, and I thought I had a right to pursue my pleasure; and so I began gradually to neglect my home, and to resume my old pursuit.
"My angel wife did not complain; she bore my neglect with sweetness and patience--smiling upon me when I left her side, smiling upon me when I returned. She had no knowledge of my secret; she did not see her fatal rival at my elbow wooing me away from her pure companionship. Some unrecognized feeling of shame kept me from exposing my degrading weakness to her. She devoted herself to her child, and by a thousand innocent arts--they make my heart bleed as I think of them--strove to win me more constantly to her side.
"Yes, Rathbeal, we had a child, a sweet flower from heaven, whose grace and beauty should have opened my eyes to my sin. Do not think that I did not love them. When I was with them, when I held my sweet little girl on my lap and felt her little hands upon my face, I thanked God for giving me a treasure so lovely and fair. Then my wife would timidly ask me whether I would not remain at home that night, and my evil genius would tempt me so sorely that I had not the strength to resist. It is a shameful confession, but having commenced I will go through with it to the bitter end; and if it lose me your friendship, if you turn from me in scorn for my folly and weakness, I must accept it as a part of my punishment.
"My angel wife suffered, and her sufferings increased as time went on. I did not see it then; I do now. She grew thin and pale, believing that I no longer loved her, believing that I repented my union with her. What else could she believe as she saw the ties of home weakening day by day? There are women who, in such a strait, would have challenged the man boldly, but she was not one of these. Her nature was too pliant and gentle, and terrible must have been her grief as she felt the rock she depended upon for protection and support crumbling away at her touch.
"My luck never varied. Occasionally, it is true, I won small sums, but these were invariably counterbalanced shortly afterward by heavier losses. The consequence was that the inroads upon my fortune became too serious to be overlooked. I asked my friend and steward for a large sum of money to pay a gambling debt; he looked grave. I inquired why he was so serious, and he invited me to look over the accounts. I did so; and though I could not understand the array of figures he placed before me, I saw clearly that my large fortune was almost entirely gone.
"'I have warned you,' said my friend, 'time after time; I could do no more.'
"'Spare me your reproaches,' I said. 'You have been a good friend, and I have paid no heed to your warnings. Wind up my affairs, and tell me how much I have left.'
"The following day he informed me that I still had three thousand pounds I could call my own.
"'Would you like a check for it?' he asked.
"I answered, 'Yes,' and he gave it to me.
"'And here,' he said, 'my stewardship ends. You must give me a full quittance of all accounts between us.'
"I drew up the paper at his dictation. He preferred, he said, that the quittance should be in my own handwriting; and when he had done I added words of thanks for the services he had rendered me, and signed the document.
"That night he accompanied me to a club, and watched my play. I won five hundred pounds, and we walked away together, late in the morning, in the highest spirits. He parted from me at the door of my house.
"'Will you play to-morrow night?' he asked.
"'Of course I shall play to-morrow night," I replied, 'and every night after that. I will get back every shilling I have lost. Look at what I have done already; I have won five hundred pounds.'
"'It is your only chance of saving your wife and child from beggary,' he said.
"I thought of his words as I stepped softly into the house: 'My only chance of saving my wife and child from beggary.' It was true. It was a duty I owed to them to continue to play and win back the fortune I had lost. It was not my money; it was theirs. I was their only dependence. Yes, they should not say in the future that I had ruined their lives. Luck must change; it had commenced to smile upon me. There entered into my soul that night, Rathbeal, the spirit of greed. I had been too careless hitherto, too unmindful as to whether I won or lost. Hereafter I would be more careful; I would be cunning, as the men I played with were. I would invent a system which would break them and every man I played with. Tired as I was, I sat down and began to calculate chances. A newspaper was on the table, and when I had jotted down some columns of figures, and, aided by my recollection of certain bets I had made a night or two before, proved that had I played wisely I ought to have won instead of lost, I took up the newspaper, and carelessly ran my eyes down its columns. They stopped at an account of an Englishman's marvelous winnings at Monte Carlo--forty thousand pounds in three days. I pondered over it. If he, why not I? I would go and get my money back there. Sometimes in the haunts I frequented money ran short; men, winning, would leave with their gains, and there was no one left to play with except the losers, and I knew from experience how desperate that chance was. At Monte Carlo there was unlimited money. You could continue playing as long as you liked, and go away with your winnings in your pockets in hard cash. Witness this Englishman with his forty thousand pounds in three days. But it would be as well to take a large sum of money with me. I had over three thousand pounds; I would make it into ten here, and then would go to Monte Carlo to wrest back my fortune. My mind made up, I crept to my bedroom. My wife was there, sleeping as I thought. In an adjoining room slept my little girl, Clair. Standing at the bedside of my wife I observed--shame upon me! for the first time with any consciousness that I was the cause of the change--how white and thin she had become. The sight of her wan face, and of her lovely lashes still moist with the tears she had shed, cut me like a knife. I did not dare to kiss her; I feared that she would awake and see my face, for I had looked at it in the glass, and was shocked at my haggard appearance. I stepped softly into the adjoining room where our little Clair was sleeping. She was rosy with health and young life, her red lips parted, showing her pearly teeth, her hair in clustering curls about her brow. Her I did not fear that I should awake, her slumbers were so profound, and I stooped and kissed her.
"'Robert!' said my wife.
"She had been awake when I entered her room, but had not opened her eyes lest she should offend me. Hearing me go into our child's bedroom, she had risen quietly and followed me.
"'Lucy!' I replied, my hands upon her shoulders.
"She fell into my arms, weeping, but no sound escaped her. Clair slept and must not be disturbed.
"I drew her into our bedroom, and closed the door upon Clair.
"'What is the matter, Lucy?' I asked. 'Are you not well?'
"She lifted her wet eyes with a sad wonder in them.
"'Did you not know, Robert?'
"'Know! What?'
"'That the doctor has been attending me lately,' she answered. 'Do not let it trouble you, dear. You also are not well. How changed you are! how changed! There is something on your mind, my dear."
"She did not say this in reproach, but in loving entreaty and pity; and though she did not directly ask me to confide in her, I understood her appeal. But I did not dare to confess my folly and my shame. I had kept my secret well, and she did not suspect it. No, I would not expose my degradation to her and my child. Perhaps, when I had won back the fortune I had lost, when I could say, 'I have not completely ruined your future,' then I might find courage to tell her all. But now, when I was nearly beggared and fortune was in my grasp, I must be silent; my secret must be kept from her.
"'It is nothing, Lucy,' I said; 'nothing. What does the doctor say?'
"She withdrew from my embrace, and said, coldly I thought:
"'I am not very well; that is all, Robert.'
"Nothing more passed between us that night. I believed--because I wished to believe--that there was nothing serious the matter with her; and if I was right in my conjecture that she was cold to me, it sprang probably because I would not confess what was weighing on my mind.
"How shall I describe the events of the next few weeks? Night after night I went from my home and kept out, often till daylight, endeavoring to wrest my losses from my fellow-gamesters. My wife did not ask me now to remain with her; she did not complain, and no further reference was made to the doctor. This was a comfort to me. If there had been anything to be really alarmed at I should not have been kept in ignorance of it. So I went blindly on, greedy now for money, chafing at my losses, suspecting all around me, and yet continuing to play till I had completely beggared myself. My companions did not know. It was not likely I was going to confess to them that if I lost I had not the means of paying. They continued to play with me, and I got in their debt, inventing excuses for being short of money. It was only temporary, I said; I should be in funds very soon. Do you see, Rathbeal, how low I had fallen?
"A sharper experience was to be mine. I lost a large sum and my paper was out for two thousand pounds. It was a debt of honor and must be paid. The misery of it was that I had perfected a system at roulette, which, with money at my command, could not possibly fail; and I had no means at my disposal to go to Monte Carlo, where unlimited wealth was awaiting me. It would be necessary to break up my home, but even that would not supply me with sufficient funds to pay my debts of honor and go to Monte Carlo. There was but one course open to me. My wife had a small private fortune of her own; I would ask her to advance me a portion of it as a loan which I would soon repay. I broached the subject to her.
"'It is only temporary,' I said, annoyed with myself that they should be the same words I had used to the men who held my paper.
"'You know how much I have, Robert,' she said, averting her eyes from me. 'It is Clair's more than mine. She must not be left penniless. I do not think you ought to ask me for so large a sum.'
"I mentioned a lower sum, and she said:
"'Yes, Robert, you can have that. Do not ask me for more.'
"I felt humiliated at this bargaining, and angry with her for her coldness and want of sympathy with me. I summoned up a false courage, and said it was likely that I should have to break up our home. She expressed no surprise.
"'In a little while, Lucy,' I said,' I will provide you with a better.'
"She did not wish for a better, she said; she could be happy in the humblest cottage, if---- And then she paused and sighed, and I saw the tears in her eyes. I took her hand; she gently withdrew it.
"'I intended to tell you something to-day,' she said. 'My health has broken down. The doctor says I must leave England as soon as possible if I wish to live. I do wish to live, for my dear Clair's sake.'
"'Not for mine, Lucy?'
"I saw a struggle going on within her, but she sighed heavily again, and did not reply.
"'I am grieved to hear the doctor's report,' I said. 'May he not be mistaken?'
"'He is not mistaken. If I remain here I shall die.'
"'Where does he tell you to go to?'
"'To some village in the south of France, near the sea, where there is perfect quiet, where there are few people and no excitement.'
"Such a place, I thought, would be death to me, with the plan I had in my head of my projected venture at Monte Carlo.
"'Very well, Lucy,' I said; 'if it must be, it must be. I will join you there.'
"'You cannot go with us?'
"'Not immediately. I have something of the utmost importance to attend to elsewhere. It will not occupy me long, and then I will come to you.'
"'I did not expect you would accompany us,' she said.
"Not once had she looked at me or turned toward me. The impression her conduct made upon me was not so strong then as afterward, when I awoke from my dream of wealth, and when Fate dealt me the fatal stroke.
"We parted. I received the money I asked her to lend me from her little fortune, and we parted. I stood on the platform with her and our Clair; my faithful friend and once steward stood a little apart from us. He had offered to go with them to Dover, and his services had been accepted. It was impossible for me to go even so far. My creditors were clamoring, and I had arranged to meet a broker at my house, to sell him everything in it, and to get the money immediately from him. If my debts of honor were not paid that evening, I was threatened with public exposure. Therefore it was imperative that I should stay in London. It was then my intention to proceed immediately to Monte Carlo, to commence operations; and, my fortune restored to me, to join my dear wife, and commence a new life.
"Of all this she, of course, knew nothing. Ignorant of the real cause of my downfall, how could she have divined the truth? Had there been that confidence between us which should exist between man and wife, I might at this moment be different from what I am. I should not be, as I am, bowed down with a sense of guilt from which my soul can never be cleansed. It was not she who was at fault, but I. Had I confided to her, had she been really aware where and in what company I spent my nights, she would have been spared the agony of a belief which, out of charity to me, she would not shame me and herself by revealing. So we two stood on the platform bidding a cold farewell to each other, each tortured by a secret we dared not confess. I kissed her, and kissed my sweet Clair.
"'Do come with us, papa!' said Clair, nestling in my arms.
"My wife looked up into my face appealingly. In that one moment, had I seized the opportunity, there was still a chance of redemption.
"'Robert!' she said, involuntarily raising her hands and clasping them.
"Ah, if I had met her appeal! If I had said: 'Do not go by this train; I will confess everything to you!' But the prompting did not come to me; if it had, I should have disregarded it.
"'I cannot come with you, Clair,' I said; 'I have such a deal to do before I leave London.'
"'Poor papa!' she said. 'That is why you keep out so late at night. Poor papa!'
"My wife turned her head from us, but I saw the scarlet blush on her face, which I attributed to her displeasure at my refusal. Or was it that she suspected my secret?
"'You have not betrayed me?' I said apart to my friend. 'She does not know how I have lost my fortune, and what has brought me to this?'
"'On my honor, no,' he answered. 'She has not the least suspicion of your stupid infatuation.'
"'You will not call it stupid in three or four weeks,' I said.
"'It is not possible for your system to fail?' he questioned.
"'There isn't the remotest possibility of it,' I replied. 'Clever people think that everything has been found out about figures and chances. I am going to show them something new.'
"The whistle sounded; the guard bade the passengers take their places. I walked along the platform as the train moved away. Clair waved her handkerchief to me; my friend nodded good-by; my wife did not raise her head to look at me.
"I hastened back to my house, and found the broker there. He was a wealthy dealer, and was going through the rooms when I entered, appraising everything and putting down figures. I accompanied him from one room to another, and we smoked as he made his calculations. I was impatient and unhappy, but he would not be hurried. He opened the door of my wife's morning-room; I pulled him back.
"'Not this room?' he asked.
"'Pshaw!' I said. 'Everything must go.'
"There were some small things in the room which seemed to me to have so close a personal relation to my wife that I was angry to see him handle them. Why had she not taken these things away with her? She might have spared me the reproach. I walked out of the room while he valued them.
"At length his catalogue was ended.
"'You want the money immediately?' he asked.
"'Immediately,' I replied.
"'A check will do, of course.'
"'No, I must have cash.'
"'That will make a slight difference,' he said, and he named the amount he was willing to give me. It was less than I anticipated, but the business worried me, and I agreed. Saying he would return in an hour and complete the bargain, he left me.
"I was alone in the house to which I had brought my wife, a bride. All the servants had been paid off, and had left. I had arranged this because I could not endure that they should see the sacrifice I was making. Memories of the past rushed upon me--of my young wife's delight as I took her through the rooms, of the fond endearments at my cleverness and forethought, of the happy evening we passed, sitting in the gloaming and talking of the future. Alas, the future! How fearful the contrast between my young bride's fond imaginings and the reality! In solitary communing I strolled through the rooms and marked each spot and each article hallowed by some cherished recollection. The piano at which she used to sit and sing in the early days of our marriage, the window from which we used to watch the sunset, the small articles on her dressing-table--there seemed to be a living spirit in them that greeted me reproachfully, and asked, 'Why have you done this? Why have you blighted that fair young life?' Our Clair was born in the house. The cot in which she slept was there, her favorite child-pictures hung upon the wall. What pangs went through me as I surveyed the wreck of bright hopes! 'But I will atone for it,' I said inwardly. 'When fortune is mine once more I will confess all, and ask my dear wife's forgiveness. Then, then for the happy future!' No warning whispers reached me. No voice cried,' Sinner and fool! You have done what can never be undone. Not only fortune, but love, is lost forever!'
"If I dwell upon these small matters, Rathbeal, it is because the impressions of that lonely hour are as strong within me now as then, and because they are pregnant with an awful lesson.
"The hour over, the broker returned with wagons and men. As he paid me the money his workmen commenced to remove the furniture. I left the house to their mercies, and went to meet the men to whom I was indebted. I paid them to the last shilling, and, honor satisfied, was master of a sum sufficiently large, I thought, to carry on my operations at Monte Carlo. I played at the club that night, and lost a few pounds. It did not affect me; I was rather glad, indeed, for it pointed to the road where wealth awaited me. I had taken a bed in a hotel, but an impulse seized me to visit my house once more. It was two in the morning when I turned the key and lit the hall gas. My footsteps resounded on the dusky passages. The broker had been expeditious; everything in the house was removed, and I seemed to be walking through a hollow grave--but it was a grave, haunted by ghostly shadows, eloquent with accusing voices. I shut my eyes, I put my hands to my ears, but I still saw the ghostly shadows and heard the accusing voices. I rushed from the house, conscience-stricken and appalled.
"The next morning my courage returned; the sun shone brightly, and I had money, and my system, in my pocket. Away, then, to Monte Carlo, to redeem the past!
"I did not commence immediately; I studied the tables, the croupiers, the players, and I spent several hours in going over the figures and combinations I had prepared. Then I took the plunge.
"As is frequently the case, I was successful at first; in four days I doubled my capital. My friend came to see me, as I had requested him to do, to give me news of my wife. She had not written to me, and I asked him the reason; he said he was not acquainted with the reason, and he asked me how I was progressing. I showed him, exultingly, what I had done; he expressed surprise and satisfaction.
"'How long will it take you to accomplish your aim?' he asked.
"'If I play as I am playing now," I replied, 'some two or three weeks. If I play more boldly, a week may accomplish it.'
"'Why not play boldly?' he suggested.
"I had half intended to do so, and his words encouraged me. We went to the tables together, and I began to plunge. Before I left the rooms I had lost all I had won, and some part of the money I had brought with me. I pretended to make light of it.
"'These adverse combinations occasionally occur," I said, 'but they right themselves infallibly if you hold on. It is only a temporary repulse.'
"But though I spoke confidently my heart was fainting within me. Theory is one thing, practice another. We can be very bold on paper, but when we are fighting with the enemy we feel his blows.
"The next day my friend accompanied me again to the tables, With all my boasting I had not the daring to risk my capital in half-a-dozen bold coups; I put on much smaller sums, and I had the mortification of learning that my want of courage prevented me from winning what I ought to have done.
"'You see,' I said to my friend. 'Faint heart never succeeded yet. But it is only a little time lost, and it proves the certainty of my calculations.'
"He had to leave me that evening, and he made me promise that I would write to him daily of my progress. As he was going to see my wife, I gave him a letter to her, in which I begged her to write to me at Monte Carlo. He said he would deliver the letter, and it was not until some time afterward that I recalled his manner as being somewhat strained.
"The story of the next few days is soon told. Hope, despair; hope again, followed by despair. I came down to my last hundred pounds. Over and over again, in the solitude of my room, I proved to myself how weak I had been in not doing this or that at the right moment; over and over again I proved to my own misery that it was due to my own lack of courage that I had not won back my fortune. I conned the numbers I had written down as they were called out. 'Fool, fool, fool!' I cried, striking my forehead. 'Wretched, contemptible coward!' I rose in the morning haggard and weary; I had not slept a moment all the night. There was still a chance left: I had a hundred pounds; I would play on a lower martingale, and as I won I would increase it. I did so. That day I remained at the tables ten hours without rising from the seat I had secured. I won, I lost, I won again, I lost again. A few minutes before the rooms closed I had followed my system to a point whereat, after a series of losses, it needed but a large amount to be staked to get all back again. I had this amount before me. On previous occasions I had drawn back at such a critical juncture, and had suffered for it by hearing the number called which, in its various winning chances, would have recouped, with large profit, all that had been lost in the series. I would not be guilty of this cowardice again. With a trembling hand I put every franc I had on the various chances which were certain this time to win. The number was called. Great God! I was beggared! Without a word I rose and went to my hotel.
"Can you imagine the torments of hell, Rathbeal? I suffered them then. But there was worse in store for me.
"Figures, figures, figures, red and black, living figures that moved, that spoke, that glared and mocked me--the voices of the croupiers, the exclamations of the gamesters, the rattle of the money--curses and benedictions--now surrounded by a blaze of light, now plunged into black darkness--painted women, men with hideous faces, lips that smiled and derided--these were the images that haunted me in the night. I had drunk brandy, contrary to my usual habit, for I was never fond of drink, and my brain was burning. From time to time I dozed, and scarcely knew whether I was awake or asleep, whether what I saw were phantoms or actual forms of things. Was that a knock at my door? Was that the voice of a waiter speaking to me outside? I did not answer; I did not move. What mattered anything now? If the door opened, it could signify nothing to me; if some person entered and went away, there was no interest in the movements to beguile me from the tortures I was suffering. Ruin and I were company enough.
"The sun was streaming into my room long before I rose; when I got out of bed I staggered like a drunken man, though, except for the delirium of my senses, I was perfectly sober. It was not till I had washed and dressed that I observed a letter upon my table. Taking it up, I saw that it was in the handwriting of my wife.
"I hardly dared to open it; by my own act I had destroyed any claim to her affection. I had brought deep unhappiness upon her; I had systematically neglected her; I had lost the home which should have been hers; I had taken our child's money, and could not return it. But the letter must be read. With trembling hands I unfastened the envelope, and drew forth the sheet.
"It bore neither date nor address. I have the letter by me now, and I copy it word for word: