Chapter X: Effects of Dining Well

After a dinner at the Thatched House, limited in the number of dishes, but selected with the skill of a Frank Forrester, and assisted by a bottle of Barsac, two bottles of Æil-de-perdrix, and a bottle of Romané, the two friends were seated at the table in that state of indolent beatitude which succeeds a scientifically-chosen repast. The pulse is heightened, but digestion is light; the brain is active, yet somewhat dreamy; the will seems lulled, and anything like an effort seems impossible.

Sipping their Burgundy, Frank and Cecil sat talking over the various experiences of their lives, especially with women--a subject on which men are usually communicative during such hours. Frank was inexhaustible in stories, which made Cecil roll with laughter, or listen with breath-suspended interest. Meanwhile the lights grew dimmer, and their brains grew heavier: the Burgundy was steadily overcoming them. Frank perceiving it, made a movement to go. Cecil tried to persuade him to have another bottle, but he was resolute; and having paid the bill, they departed.

The fresh air somewhat dissipated the effect of the wine, but Cecil was now in a state of craving for a fresh sensation; and when Frank announced his intention of trying his luck with the sovereign he had borrowed, Cecil noisily declared he would go with him.

"Not that I intend to play, though. No, no, I've given that up; that won't do. But come along, Frank; anything for a lark. Lalla-liety! Lalla-liety!" he shouted, in a feeble falsetto, as if announcing to the universe that he was not the boy to go home till morning did appear.

When they entered the gaming-house, Cecil, though perfectly aware of everything he did and said, was still what is called "far gone"; and the dazzling lights, the well-known cries, the chink of the money, the click of the rake against the coin, the murmur of conversation, all conspired to intoxicate him.

While Frank played, he walked about the room, observing the various countenances of the players. In one corner sat a young man of about three and twenty, haggard and pale: he was weeping silently, the tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, and falling upon the ground, while every now and then a stifled sob seemed to tear his breath. He had lost all.

There was something so painful in this retired sorrow; that Cecil, who was contemplating him with a sort of drunken compassion, went up to him, and said,--

"Do not be downcast, sir, fortune may change. Have you lost much?"

"Seventeen pounds," sobbed the young man; "but it was my all--I am ruined! utterly ruined! Fortune cannot change for me, for I shall never have another sixpence, to tempt her with. O my poor mother! my poor mother!"

A tear stood in Cecil's eye, and he hiccupped. He was debating with himself whether he should give the unhappy youth a chance of recovering his gains. At last, slipping a half sovereign into his hand, he said,--

"There--risk that. But if you win back your money, promise me solemnly never to play again. You may not another time find one to give you a chance."

The bloodshot eyes of the youth flashed fire as he saw the piece of gold in his hand. He tried to utter his thanks, but a sort of gurgling murmur was all that escaped. He instantly went to the table and began to play. Cecil, interested in his fate, stood beside him.

He won, and won, and won. In a quarter of an hour, in spite of several losses, he had recovered his seventeen pounds, and five more with them. He repaid Cecil the half sovereign, and clasping his hand, said fervently:--"God bless you! you have saved a fellow-creature!" and ran rather than walked out of the house.

No sooner had he departed than, strange inconsistency! Cecil began to play.

The young man's presence had been a restraint on him, which not even the intoxicating sight of the gold could overcome. He had presented himself as a Mentor to that young man, and could not in his presence descend from the pedestal; accordingly he was irritably anxious for his protégé to win, and to depart. All the time he had been standing at the table, a sort of fever of cupidity possessed him. He staked imaginary sums, and always, or almost always, won. Yes, even with the game played before him, he juggled with himself almost as much as when alone in his _atélier_ he played those successful games. Whoever has stood at a table where a game of chance is being played, and has, in imagination only, participated, must remember this:--We choose a side; if it is victorious, we reflect how great would have been our gain; if it is unsuccessful, we say to ourselves, "There would have been a loss;" but we do not, to our minds, realize that loss with anything like the vividness with which we realize the gain; and, moreover, we constantly shelter ourselves under the idea that "most likely we should not, after all, have chosen that side."

This was the process going on in Cecil's mind as he stood by that table, and saw the game played; and he was impatient for his protégé to begone: so impatient that he cared not whether the youth won or lost; and indeed at one period when the losses were frequent, he was rather disappointed to see a gain follow them, because it deferred the youth's exit. Such is human egotism!

No sooner was he freed from this restraint than, heedless of the whispers of his conscience, he flung down a sovereign, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Frank presently came round to him, having lost back twenty pounds which he had won, and now begged another loan. Cecil took up a dozen sovereigns from the heap before him, and handed them to him with a caution to be careful.

Till deep in the night they played, and Cecil left the house a winner of sixty pounds. Frank had lost the twelve lent him, and was savage against fate. Cecil, half intoxicated as he was, and glorying in his winnings, still felt a pressing sense of remorse, at having been seduced. But he vowed that it should never recur again; and told Frank if ever he proposed to go into another gaming-house, from that instant their friendship would be at an end.

"I have been led astray to-night," he said, "but I dare not repeat it. I know what the end must be; and nothing shall make me forget my oath; so remember, Frank, the first word with which you tempt me, is the word that parts us for ever!"

"I tempt you, indeed! I didn't propose it to-night, did I? Besides, I have abjured the fickle goddess myself. I touch no more cards. Damn my whiskers!"

Cecil rose the next morning with a fearful consciousness of having broken his oath, and of having again plunged into the mire from which he had been extricated. He was ashamed of his weakness, but tried to convince himself that it was a moment of intoxication, and would not recur.

That night he took Blanche to her father's; the next night he invited Rose to come to them, which invitation, as Julius was included in it, was accepted.

Thus were two days placed as barriers between him and temptation. He felt the desire so strong within him to return to the gaming-table, that he was obliged to place himself in a position which would make that return almost impossible. But the third night, he had no engagement. The passion had grown stronger from the restraint: it subdued him! He struggled with it; he tried to gain courage in reflecting on the miseries which would ensue; but the "still small voice," though heard, was impotent. Passion bullied Reason into silence; unable to answer its arguments it gagged them with a reckless "don't care!"

Struggles were vain: the gamester would fulfil his destiny.