the hell—gordon chancey—luck—frenzy and a resolution.
the night which followed this day found young henry ashwoode, his purse replenished with bank-notes, that day advanced by craven, to the amount of one thousand pounds, once more engaged in the delirious prosecution of his favourite pursuit—gaming. in the neighbourhood of the theatre, in that narrow street now known as smock alley, there stood in those days a kind of coffee-house, rather of the better sort. from the public-room, in which actors, politicians, officers, and occasionally a member of parliament, or madcap irish peer, chatted, lounged, and sipped their sack or coffee—the initiated, or, in short, any man with a good coat on his back and a few pounds in his pocket, on exchanging a brief whisper with a singularly sleek-looking gentleman, who sate in the prospective of the background, might find his way through a small, baize-covered door in the back of the chamber, and through a lobby or two, and thence upstairs into a suite of rooms, decently hung with gilded leather, and well lighted with a profusion of wax candles, where hazard and cards were played for stakes unlimited, except by the fortunes and the credit of those who gamed. the ceaseless clang of the dice-box and rattle of the dice upon the table, and the clamorous challenging and taking of the odds upon the throwing, accompanied by the ferocious blasphemies of desperate losers, who, with clenched hands and distracted gestures, poured, unheeded, their frantic railings and imprecations, as they, in unpitied agony, withdrew from the fatal table; and now and then the scarcely less hideous interruptions of brutal quarrels, accusations, and recriminations among the excited and half-drunken gamblers, were the sounds which greeted the ear of him who ascended toward this unhallowed scene. the rooms were crowded—the atmosphere hot and stifling, and the company in birth and pretensions, if not in outward attire, to the full as mixed and various as the degrees of fortune, which scattered riches and ruin promiscuously among them. in the midst of all this riotous uproar, several persons sate and played at cards as if (as, perhaps, was really the case), perfectly unconscious of the ceaseless hubbub going on around them. here you might see in one place the hare-brained young squire, scarcely three months launched upon the road to ruin, snoring in drunken slumber, in his deep-cushioned chair, with his cravat untied, and waistcoat loosened, and his last cup of mulled sack upset upon the table beside him, and streaming upon his velvet breeches and silken hose—while his lightly-won bank notes, stuffed into the loose coat pocket, and peeping temptingly from the aperture, invited the fingers of the first chevalier d'industrie who wished to help himself. in another place you might behold two sharpers fulfilling the conditions of their partnership, by wheedling a half-tipsy simpleton into a quiet game of ombre. and again, elsewhere you might descry some bully captain, whose occupation having ended with the irish wars, indemnified himself as best he might by such contributions as he could manage to levy from the young and reckless in such haunts as this, busily and energetically engaged in brow-beating a timid greenhorn, who has the presumption to fancy that he has won something from the captain, which the captain has forgotten to pay. in another place you may see, unheeded and unheeding, the wretch who has played and lost his last stake; with white, unmeaning face and idiotic grin, glaring upon the floor, thought and feeling palsied, something worse, and more appalling than a maniac.
the whole character of the assembly bespoke the recklessness and the selfishness of its ingredients. there was, too, among them a certain coarse and revolting disregard and defiance of the etiquettes and conventional decencies of social life. more than half the men were either drunk or tipsy; some had thrown off their coats and others wore their hats; altogether the company had more the appearance of a band of reckless rioters in a public street, than of an assembly of persons professing to be gentlemen, and congregated in a drawing-room.
by the fireplace in the first and by far the largest and most crowded of the three drawing-rooms, there sate a person whose appearance was somewhat remarkable. he was an ill-made fellow, with long, lank, limber legs and arms, and an habitual lazy stoop. his face was sallow; his mouth, heavy and sensual, was continually moistened with the brandy and water which stood beside him upon a small spider-table, placed there for his especial use. his eyes were long-cut, and seldom more than half open, and carrying in their sleepy glitter a singular expression of treachery and brute cunning. he wore his own lank and grizzled hair, instead of a peruke, and sate before the fire with a drowsy inattention to all that was passing in the room; and, except for the occasional twinkle of his eye as it glanced from the corner of his half-closed lids, he might have been believed to have been actually asleep. his attitude was lounging and listless, and all his movements so languid and heavy, that they seemed to be rather those of a somnambulist than of a waking man. his dress had little pretension, and less neatness; it was a suit of threadbare, mulberry-coloured cloth, with steel buttons, and evidently but little acquainted with the clothes-brush. his linen was soiled and crumpled, his shoes ill-cleaned, his beard had enjoyed at least two days' undisturbed growth; and the dingy hue of his face and hands bespoke altogether the extremest negligence and slovenliness of person.
this slovenly and ungainly being, who sate apparently unconscious of the existence of any other earthly thing than the fire on which he gazed, and the grog which from time to time he lazily sipped, was gordon chancey, esquire, of skycopper court, whitefriar street, in the city of dublin, barrister-at-law—a gentleman who had never been known to do any professional business, but who managed, nevertheless, to live, and to possess, somehow or other, the command of very considerable sums of money, which he most advantageously invested by discounting, at exorbitant interest, short bills and promissory notes in such places as that in which he now sate—one of his favourite resorts, by the way. at intervals of from five to ten minutes he slowly drew from the vast pocket of his clumsy coat a bulky pocket-book, and sleepily conned over certain memoranda with which its leaves were charged—then having looked into its well-lined receptacles, to satisfy himself that no miracle of legerdemain had abstracted the treasure on which his heart was set, he once more fastened the buckle of the leathern budget, and deposited it again in his pocket. this procedure, and his attentions to the spirits and water, which from time to time he swallowed, succeeded one another with a monotonous regularity altogether undisturbed by the uproarious scene which surrounded him.
as the night wore apace, and fortune played her wildest pranks, many an applicant—some successfully, and some in vain—sought chancey's succour.
"come, my fine fellow, tip me a cool hundred," exclaimed a fashionably-dressed young man, flushed with the combined excitement of wine and the dice, and tapping chancey on the back impatiently with his knuckles—"this moment—will you, and be d——"
"oh, dear me, dear me, captain markham," drawled the barrister in a low, drowsy tone, as he turned sleepily toward the speaker, "have you lost the other hundred so soon? oh, dear!—oh, dear!"
"never you mind, old fox. shell out, if you're going to do it," rejoined the applicant. "what is it to you?"
"oh, dear me, dear me!" murmured chancey, as he languidly drew the pocket-book from his pocket. "when shall i make it payable? to-morrow?"
"d——n to-morrow," replied the captain. "i'll sleep all to-morrow. won't a fortnight do, you harpy?"
"well, well—sign—sign it here," said the usurer, handing the paper, with a pen, to the young gentleman, and indicating with his finger the spot where the name was to be written.
the roué wrote his name without ever reading the paper; and chancey carefully deposited it in his book.
"the money—the money—d——n you, will you never give it!" exclaimed the young man, actually stamping with impatience, as if every moment's absence from the hazard-table cost him a fortune. "give—give—give them."
he seized the notes, and without counting, stuffed them into his coat-pocket, and plunged in an instant again among the gamblers who crowded the table.
"mr. chancey—mr. chancey," said a slight young man, whose whole appearance betokened a far progress in the wasting of a mortal decline. his face was pale as death itself, and glittering with the cold, clammy dew of weakness and excitement. the eye was bright, wild, and glassy; and the features of this attenuated face trembled and worked in the spasms of agonized anxiety and despair—with timid voice, and with the fearful earnestness of one pleading for his life—with knees half bent, and head stretched forward, while his thin fingers were clutched and knotted together in restless feverishness. he still repeated at intervals in low, supplicating accents—"mr. chancey—mr. chancey—can you spare a moment, sir—mr. chancey, good sir—mr. chancey."
for many minutes the worthy barrister gazed on apathetically into the fire, as if wholly unconscious that this piteous spectacle was by his side, and all but begging his attention.
"mr. chancey, good sir—mr. chancey, kind sir—only one moment—one word—mr. chancey."
this time the wretched young man advanced one of his trembling hands, and laid it hesitatingly upon chancey's knee—the seat of mercy, as the ancients thought; but truly here it was otherwise. the hand was repulsed with insolent rudeness; and the wretched suppliant stood trembling in silence before the bill-discounter, who looked upon him with a scowl of brute ferocity, which the timid advances he had made could hardly have warranted.
"well," growled chancey, keeping his baleful eyes fixed not very encouragingly upon the poor young man.
"i have been unfortunate, sir—i have lost my last shilling—that is, the last i have about me at present."
"well," repeated he.
"i might win it all back," continued the suppliant, becoming more voluble as he proceeded. "i might recover it all—it has often happened to me before. oh, sir, it is possible—certain, if i had but a few pounds to play on."
"ay, the old story," rejoined chancey.
"yes, sir, it is indeed—indeed it is, mr. chancey," said the young man, eagerly, catching at this improvement upon his first laconic address as an indication of some tendency to relent, and making, at the same time, a most woeful attempt to look pleasant—"it is, sir—the old story, indeed; but this time it will come out true—indeed it will. will you do one little note for me—a little one—twenty pounds?"
"no, i won't," drawled chancey, imitating with coarse buffoonery the intonation of the request—"i won't do a little one for you."
"well, for ten pounds—for ten only."
"no, nor for ten pence," rejoined chancey, tranquilly.
"you may keep five out of it for the discount—for friendship—only let me have five—just five," urged the wasted gambler, with an agony of supplication.
"no, i won't; just five," replied the lawyer.
"i'll make it payable to-morrow," urged the suppliant.
"maybe you'll be dead before that," drawled chancey, with a sneer; "the life don't look very tough in you."
"ah! mr. chancey, dear sir—good mr. chancey," said the young man, "you often told me you'd do me a friendly turn yet. do not you remember it?—when i was able to lend you money. for god's sake, lend me five pounds now, or anything; i'll give you half my winnings. you'll save me from beggary—ah, sir, for old friendship."
mr. gordon chancey seemed wondrously tickled by this appeal; he gazed sleepily at the fire while he raked the embers with the toe of his shoe, stuffed his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and indulged in a sort of lazy, comfortable laughter, which lasted for several minutes, until at length it subsided, leaving him again apparently unconscious of the presence of his petitioner. emboldened by the condescension of his quondam friend, the young man made a piteous effort to join in the laughter—an attempt, however, which was speedily interrupted by the hollow cough of consumption. after a pause of a minute or two, during which chancey seemed to have forgotten his existence, he once more addressed that gentleman,—
"well, sir—well, mr. chancey?"
the barrister turned full upon him with an expression of face not to be mistaken, and in a tone just as unequivocal, he growled,—
"i'm d——d if i give you as much as a leaden penny. be off; there's no begging allowed here—away with you, you blackguard."
having thus delivered himself, chancey relapsed into his ordinary dreamy quiet.
every muscle in the pale, wasted face of the ruined, dying gamester quivered with fruitless agony; he opened his mouth to speak, but could not; he gasped and sobbed, and then, clutching his lank hands over his eyes and forehead as though he would fain have crushed his head to pieces, he uttered one low cry of anguish, more despairing and appalling than the loudest shriek of horror, and passed from the room unnoticed.
"jeffries, can you lend me fifty or a hundred pounds till to-morrow?" said young ashwoode, addressing a middle-aged fop who had just reeled in from an adjoining room.
"cuss me, ashwoode, if the thing is a possibility," replied he, with a hiccough; "i have just been fairly cleaned out by snarley and two or three others—not one guinea left—confound them all. i've this moment had to beg a crown to pay my chair and link-boy home; but chancey is here; i saw him not an hour ago in his old corner."
"so he is, egad—thank you," and ashwoode was instantly by the monied man's side. "chancey, i want a hundred and fifty—quickly, man, are you awake?" and so saying, he shook the lawyer roughly by the shoulder.
"oh, dear! oh, dear!" exclaimed he, in his usual low, sleepy voice, "it's mr. ashwoode, it is indeed—dear me, dear me; and can i oblige you, mr. ashwoode?"
"yes; don't i tell you i want a hundred and fifty—or stay, two hundred," said ashwoode, impatiently. "i'll pay you in a week or less—say to-morrow if you please it."
"whatever sum you like, mr. ashwoode," rejoined he—"whatever sum or whatever date you please; i declare to god i'm uncommonly glad to do it. oh, dear, but them dice is unruly. two hundred, you say, and a—a week we'll say, not to be pressing. well, well, this money has luck in it, maybe. that's a long lane that has no turn—fortune changes sides when it's least expected. your name here, mr. ashwoode."
the name was signed, the notes taken, and ashwoode once more at the table; but alack-a-day! fortune was for once steady, and frowned with consistent obdurateness upon henry ashwoode. five minutes had hardly passed, when the two hundred pounds had made themselves wings and followed the larger sums which he had already lost. again he had recourse to chancey: again he found that gentleman smooth, gracious, and obliging as he could have wished. still his luck was adverse: as fast as he drew the notes from his pocket, they were caught and whirled away in the eddy of ruin. once more from the accommodating barrister he drew a larger sum,—still with a like result. so large and frequent were his drafts, that chancey was obliged to go away and replenish his exhausted treasury; and still again and again, with a terrible monotony of disaster, young ashwoode continued to lose.
at length the grey, cold light of morning streamed drearily through the chinks of the window-shutters into the hot chamber of destruction and debauchery. the sounds of daily business began to make themselves heard from the streets. the wax lights were flaring in the sockets. the floor strewn with packs of cards, broken glasses, and plates, and fragments of fowls and bread, and a thousand other disgusting indications of recent riot and debauchery which need not to be mentioned. soiled and jaded, with bloodshot eyes and haggard faces, the gamblers slunk, one by one, in spiritless exhaustion, from the scene of their distracting orgies, to rest the brain and refresh the body as best they might.
with a stunning and indistinct sense of disaster and ruin; a vague, fevered, dreamy remembrance of overwhelming calamity: a stupefying, haunting consciousness that all the clatter, and roaring, and stifling heat, and jostling, and angry words, and smooth, civil speeches of the night past, had been, somehow or other, to him fraught with fearful and tremendous agony, and delirium, and ruin—ashwoode stalked into the street, and mechanically proceeded to the inn where his horse was stabled.
the ostler saw, by the haggard, vacant stare with which ashwoode returned his salutation, that something had gone wrong, and, as he held the stirrup for him, he arrived at the conclusion that the young gentleman must have gotten at least a dozen duels upon his hands, to be settled, one and all, before breakfast.
the young man dashed the spurs into the high-mettled horse, and traversing the streets at a perilous speed, without well thinking or knowing whitherward he was proceeding, he found himself at length among the wild lanes and brushwood of the royal park, and was recalled to himself by finding his horse rearing and floundering up to his sides in a slough. having extricated the animal, he dismounted, threw his hat beside him, and, kneeling down, bathed his head and face again and again in the water of a little brook, which ran in many a devious winding through the tangled briars and thorns. the cold, refreshing ablution, assisted by the sharp air of the morning, soon brought him to his recollection.
"the fiend himself must have been by my elbow last night," he muttered, as he stood bare-headed, in wild disorder, by the brook's side. "i've lost before, and lost heavily too, but such a run, such an infernal string of ruinous losses. first, a thousand pounds gone—swallowed up in little more than an hour; and then the devil knows how much more—curse me, if i can remember how much i borrowed. i am over head and ears in chancey's books. how shall i face my father? and how, in the fiend's name, am i to meet my engagements? craven will hand me no more of the money. was i mad or drunk, to go on against such an accursed tide of bad luck?—what fury from hell possessed me? i wish i had thrust my hand between the bars, and burnt it to the elbow, before i took the dice-box last night. what's to be done?"—he paused— "yes—i must do it—fate, destiny, circumstances drive me to it. i will marry the woman; she can't live very long—it's not likely; and even if she does, what's that to me?—the world is wide enough for us both, and once married, we need not plague one another much with our society. i must see chancey about those d——d bills or notes: curse me, if i even know when they are payable. my brain swims like a sea. lady stukely, lady stukely, you are a happy woman: it's an ill wind that blows nobody good—i am resolved—my course is taken. first then for morley court, and next for the wealthy widow's. i don't half like the thing, but, d——n it, what other chance have i? then away with hesitation, away with thought; fate has ordained it."
so saying, the young man donned his hat, caught the bridle of his well-trained steed, vaulted into the saddle, and was soon far on his way to morley court, where strange and startling tidings awaited his arrival.
