mr. grey returned to london after staying but one night, having received fresh instructions as to the will. the will was to be prepared at once, and mr. barry was to bring it down for execution. "shall i not inform augustus?" asked mr. grey.
but this did not suit with mr. scarborough's views of revenge. "i think not. i would do by him whatever honesty requires; but i have never told him that i mean to leave him anything. of course he knows that he is to have the estate. he is revelling in the future poverty of poor mountjoy. he turned him out of his house just now because mountjoy would not obey him by going to—brazil. he would turn him out of this house if he could because i won't at once go—to the devil. he is something overmasterful, is master augustus, and a rub or two will do him good. i'd rather you wouldn't tell him, if you please." then mr. grey departed, without making any promise, but he determined that he would be guided by the squire's wishes. augustus scarborough was not of a nature to excite very warmly the charity of any man.
harry remained for two or three days' shooting with mountjoy, and once or twice he saw the squire again. "merton and i have managed to concoct that letter," said the squire. "i'm afraid your uncle will find it rather long. is he impatient of long letters?"
"he likes long sermons."
"if anybody will listen to his reading. i think you have a deal to answer for yourself, when you could not make so small a sacrifice to the man to whom you were to owe everything. but he ought to look for a wife in consequence of that crime, and not falsely allege another. if, as i fear, he finds the wife-plan troublesome, our letter may perhaps move him, and mountjoy is to go down and open his eyes. mountjoy hasn't made any difficulty about it."
"i shall be greatly distressed—" harry begun.
"not at all. he must go. i like to have my own way in these little matters. he owes you as much reparation as that, and we shall be able to see what members of the scarborough family you would trust the most."
harry, during the two days, shot some hares in company with mountjoy, but not a word more was said about the adventure in london. nor was the name of florence mountjoy ever mentioned between the two suitors. "i'm going to buston, you know," mountjoy said once.
"so your father told me."
"what sort of a fellow shall i find your uncle?"
"he's a gentleman, but not very wise." no more was said between them on that head, but mountjoy spoke at great length about his own brother and his father's will.
"my father is the most singular man you ever came across."
"i think he is."
"i am not going to say a good word for him. i wouldn't let him think that i had said a good word for him. in order to save the property he has maligned my mother, and has cheated me and the creditors most horribly—most infernally. that's my conviction, though grey thinks otherwise. i can't forgive him,—and won't; and he knows it. but after that he is going to do the best thing he can for me. and he has begun by making me a decent allowance again as his son. but i'm to have that only as long as i remain here at tretton. of course i have been fond of cards."
"i suppose so."
"not a doubt of it. but i haven't touched a card now for a month nearly. and then he is going to leave me what property he has to leave. and he and my brother have paid off those jews among them. i'm not a bit obliged to my brother. he's got some game of his own which i don't quite clearly see, and my father is doing this for me simply to spite my brother. he'd cut down every tree upon the place if grey would allow it. and yet, to give augustus the property, my father has done this gross injustice."
"i suppose the money-lenders would have had the best of it had he not."
"that's true. they would have had it all. they had measured every yard of it, and had got my name down for the full value. now they're paid."
"that's a comfort."
"nothing's a comfort. i know that they're right, and that if i got the money into my own hand it would be gone to-morrow. i should be off to monte carlo like a shot; and, of course it would go after the other. there is but one thing would redeem me."
"what's that?"
"never mind. we won't talk of it." then he was silent, but harry annesley knew very well that he had alluded to florence mountjoy.
then harry went, and mountjoy was left to the companionship of mr. merton, and such pleasure as he could find in a daily visit to his father. he was, at any rate, courteous in his manner to the old man, and abstained from those irritating speeches which augustus had always chosen to make. he had on one occasion during this visit told his father what he thought about him, but this the squire had taken quite as a compliment.
"i believe, you know, that you've done a monstrous injustice to everybody concerned."
"i rather like doing what you call injustices."
"you have set the law at defiance."
"well, yes; i think i have done that."
"according to my belief, it's all untrue."
"you mean about your mother. i like you for that; i do, indeed. i like you for sticking up for your poor mother. well, now you shall have fifty pounds a month,—say twelve pounds ten a week,—as long as you remain at tretton, and you may have whom you like here, as long as they bring no cards with them. and if you want to hunt there are horses, and if they ain't good enough you can get others. but if you go away from tretton there's an end of it. it will all be stopped the next day." nevertheless, he did make arrangements by which mountjoy should proceed to buston, stopping two nights as he went to london. "there isn't a club he can enter," said the squire, comforting himself, "nor a jew that will lend him a five-pound note."
mountjoy had told the truth when he had said that nothing was a comfort. though it seemed to his father and to the people around him at tretton that he had everything that a man could want, he had, in fact, nothing,—nothing to satisfy him. in the first place, he was quite alive to the misery of that decision given by the world against him, which had been of such comfort to his father. not a club in london would admit him. he had been proclaimed a defaulter after such a fashion that all his clubs had sent to him for some explanation; and as he had given none, and had not answered their letters, his name had been crossed out in the books of them all. he knew himself to be a man disgraced, and when he had fled from london he had gone under the conviction that he would certainly never return. there were the pistol and bullet as his last assured resource; but a certain amount of good-fortune had awaited him,—enough to save him from having recourse to their aid. his brother had supplied him with small sums of money, and from time to time a morsel of good luck had enabled him to gamble, not to his heart's content, but still in some manner so as to make his life bearable. but now he was back in his own country, and he could gamble not at all, and hardly even see those old companions with whom he had lived. it was not only for the card-tables that he sighed, but for the companions of the card-table. and though he knew that he had been scratched out from the lists of all clubs as a dishonest man, he knew also, or thought that he knew, that he had been as honest as the best of those companions. as long as he could by any possibility raise money he had paid it away, and by no false trick had he ever endeavored to get it back again.
had a little time been allowed him all would have been paid; and all had been paid. he knew that by the rules of such institutions time could not be granted; but still he did not feel himself to have been a dishonest man. yet he had been so disgraced that he could hardly venture to walk about the streets of london in the daylight. and then there came upon him, when he found himself alone at tretton, an irrepressible desire for gambling. it was as though his throat were parched with an implacable thirst. he walked about ever meditating certain fortunate turns of the cards; and when he had worked himself up to some realization of his old excitement he would remember that it was all a vain and empty bubble. he had money in his pocket, and could rush up to london if he would, and if he did so he could, no doubt, find some coarse hell at which he could stake it till it would be all gone; but the gates of the a—— and the b—— and the c—— would be closed against him; and he would then be driven to feel that he had indeed fallen into the nethermost pit. were he once to play at such places as his mind painted to him he could never play at any other; and yet when the day drew nigh on which he was to go to london, on his way to buston, he did bethink himself where these places were to be found. his throat was parched, and the thirst upon him was extreme. cards were the weapons he had used. he had played ecarte, piquet, whist, and baccarat, with an occasional night of some foolish game such as cribbage or vingt-et-un. though he had always lost, he had always played with men who had played honestly. there is much that is, in truth, dishonest even in honest play. a man who can keep himself sober after dinner plays with one who flusters himself with drink. the man with a trained memory plays with him who cannot remember a card. the cool man plays with the impetuous; the man who can hold his tongue with him who cannot but talk; the man whose practised face will tell no secrets with him who loses a point every rubber by his uncontrolled grimaces. and then there is the man who knows the game, and plays with him who knows it not at all. of course, the cool, the collected, the thoughtful, the practised,—they who have given up their whole souls to the study of cards,—will play at a great advantage, which in their calculations they do not fail to recognize. see the man standing by and watching the table, and leaving all the bets he can on a and b as against c and d; and, however ignorant you may be, you will soon become sure that a and b know the game, whereas c and d are simply infants. that is all fair and acknowledged; but looking at it from a distance, as you lie under your apple-trees in your orchard, far from the shout of "two by honors," you will come to doubt the honesty of making your income after such a fashion.
such as it is, mountjoy sighed for it bitterly,—sighed for it, but could not see where it was to be found. he had a gentleman's horror of those resorts in gin-shops, or kept by the disciples of gin-shops, where he would surely be robbed,—which did not appal him,—but robbed in bad company. thinking of all this, he went up to london late in the afternoon, and spent an uncomfortable evening in town. it was absolutely innocent as regarded the doings of the night itself, but was terrible to him. there was a slow drizzling rain; but not the less after dinner at his hotel he started off to wander through the streets. with his great-coat and his umbrella he was almost hidden; and as he passed through pall mall, up st. james's street, and along piccadilly, he could pause and look in at the accustomed door. he saw men entering whom he knew, and knew that within five minutes they could be seated at their tables. "i had an awfully heavy time of it last night," one said to another as he went up the steps; and mountjoy, as he heard the words, envied the speaker. then he passed back and went again a tour of all the clubs. what had he done that he, like a poor peri, should be unable to enter the gates of all these paradises? he had now in his pocket fifty pounds. could he have been made absolutely certain that he would have lost it, he would have gone into any paradise and have staked his money with that certainty.
at last, having turned up waterloo place, he saw a man standing in the door-way of one of these palaces, and he was aware at once that the man had seen him. he was a man of such a nature that it would be impossible that he should have seen a worse. he was a small, dry, good-looking little fellow, with a carefully preserved mustache, and a head from the top of which age was beginning to move the hair. he lived by cards, and lived well. he was called captain vignolles, but it was only known of him that he was a professional gambler. he probably never cheated. men who play at the clubs scarcely ever cheat,—there are so many with whom they play sharp enough to discover them; and with the discovered gambler all in this world is over. captain vignolles never cheated; but he found that an obedience to those little rules which i have named above stood him well in lieu of cheating. he was not known to have any particular income, but he was known to live on the best of everything as far as club life was concerned.
he immediately followed mountjoy down into the street and greeted him. "captain scarborough as i am a living man!"
"well, vignolles; how are you?"
"and so you have come back once more to the land of the living! i was awfully sorry for you, and think that they treated you uncommon harshly. as you've paid your money, of course they'll let you in again." in answer to this, mountjoy had very little to say: but the interview ended by his accepting an invitation from captain vignolles to supper for the following evening. if captain scarborough would come at eleven o'clock captain vignolles would ask a few fellows to meet him, and they would have—just a little rubber of whist. mountjoy knew well the nature of the man who asked him, and understood perfectly what would be the result; but there thrilled through his bosom, as he accepted the invitation, a sense of joy which he could himself hardly understand.
on the following morning mountjoy was up, for him, very early, and taking a return ticket went down to buston. he had written to mr. prosper, sending his compliments, and saying that he would do himself the honor of calling at a certain hour.
at the hour named he drew up at buston hall in a fly from buntingford station, and was told by matthew, the old butler, that his master was at home. if captain mountjoy would step into the drawing-room mr. prosper should be informed. mountjoy did as he was bidden, and after half an hour he was joined by mr. prosper. "you have received a letter from my father," he began by saying.
"a very long letter," said the squire of buston.
"i dare say; i did not see it, and have in fact very little to say as to its contents. i do not know, indeed, what they were."
"the letter refers to my nephew, mr. henry annesley."
"i suppose so. what i have to say refers to mr. henry annesley also."
"you are kind,—very kind."
"i don't know about that; but i have come altogether at my father's instance, and i think, indeed, that, in fairness, i ought to tell you the truth as to what took place between me and your nephew."
"you are very good; but your father has already given me his account,—and i suppose yours."
"i don't know what my father may have done, but i think that you ought to desire to hear from my lips an account of the transaction. an untrue account has been told to you."
"i have heard it all from your own brother."
"an untrue account has been told to you. i attacked your nephew."
"what made you do that?" asked the squire.
"that has nothing to do with it; but i did."
"i understood all that before."
"but you didn't understand that mr. annesley behaved perfectly well in all that occurred."
"did he tell a lie about it afterward?"
"my brother no doubt lured him on to make an untrue statement."
"a lie!"
"you may call it so if you will. if you think that augustus was to have it all his own way, i disagree with you altogether. in point of fact, your nephew behaved through the whole of that matter as well as a man could do. practically, he told no lie at all. he did just what a man ought to do, and anything that you have heard to the contrary is calumnious and false. as i am told that you have been led by my brother's statement to disinherit your nephew—"
"i have done nothing of the kind."
"i am very glad to hear it. he has not, at any rate, deserved it; and i have felt it to be my duty to come and tell you."
then mountjoy retired, not without hospitality having been coldly offered by mr. prosper, and went back to buntingford and to london. now at last would come, he said to himself through the whole afternoon, now at last would come a repetition of those joys for which his very soul had sighed so eagerly.
