Chapter XI: Deeper, and Deeper Still

Elle s'efforça de lui éviter la souffrance en lui cachant la sienne; elle s'habitua à souffrir seule, à n'avoir ni appui, ni consolation, ni conseil.

GEORGE SAND.--_André._

The discovery of her husband's pursuits was made too late. Cecil had become a confirmed gambler; and although he saw--saw with anger and remorse--that his wife was heartbroken at the discovery, and could not be deluded by the fluent sophisms with which he tried to persuade her that he had no other career left--could not believe his present pursuits were only temporary, to be given up as soon as he had won sufficient money to be independent; yet his remorse only tormented, it did not cure him. It made him uneasy at home; made him seek excitement elsewhere, in which to intoxicate his conscience. And he continued to win!

Perhaps, had Violet been his wife, instead of the meek, resigned Blanche, the greater force of her will, and directness of her mind might have cowed him. Violet might have shamed him into honour. Her courage and her inflexible will, by braving his anger, by enduring scenes of domestic misery, but by unflinchingly keeping to the point, might, with one so weak, so impressionable, and so affectionate, have rescued him from perdition. But Blanche was ill suited to such a task. Her spirit, never strong, had been early broken. She had learned to endure evils, not to combat them. She bowed her head to the stroke, and exerted all her strength in gaining fortitude to endure.

Violet would have acted energetically, where Blanche only wept in silence.

Her tears distressed and irritated him; they made him impatient at her "folly," by bringing painfully home to him the sense of his own. Yet, inasmuch as he loved her, he could not see her constant melancholy without anguish; and in moments of contrition he had several times solemnly assured her that he would never again touch a card. The assurance made her deliriously happy for a day or two; but it never lasted long: he broke his vow, made it again, and again broke it. In fact, the fascination of the gaming-table was irresistible; and Frank Forrester was always at his elbow, like a tempter. So often had he deceived her, that she only smiled a melancholy smile, when he now promised never to play again. She had resigned herself to her fate as hopeless!

"Damn it, Cis," said Frank one day, "when are you going to play scientifically? You might try the martingale now: you've got the capital."

"My dear Frank, I lost six hundred pounds last night--and that, too, in trying your famous martingale."

"The devil you did!"

"Yes, and heartily I cursed you for having told me of it."

"Justice, Cis, damme, justice! If you lost money by my martingale, it must be because you didn't play it, for I'll stake my honour--or anything equally valueless upon it, that my plan is infallible."

"Perhaps so; if one could play it. But the fact is, one had need be a machine to play it."

"Of course--of course. That's why you should have let me play: I'm cast-iron. You could not resist the temptation of risking now and then, and in that risk you lost."

"Don't tell me, Frank. No man can sit playing all night, and winning paltry stakes, when every time he wins he reproaches himself for not having staked higher."

"So you lost?"

"I'm cleaned out. I don't believe there is eight pounds in my purse."

"Humph! I came to borrow."

"I'll accept a bill, if you will get it discounted, and we'll share."

"Bravo!"

"Have you a stamp about you?"

"Have I? ... My dear Cis, what a question! Why bill-stamps are my stock-in-trade; when the day--distant yet, I hope--shall arrive that is to find me without a stamp, and without a friend to go through the matter of form, then will Francis Forrester gracefully bid adieu to this dung-heap of civilization, and waft his charming person into other regions. Here you are, old fellow! just scrawl your name across that: your coachmaker will discount it."

Having settled this little matter of business, Cecil drove to Hester's.