Chapter IX: Cecil Succumbs

Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
How mar the fate of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose.
LEIGH HUNT.--_Rimini._

Ever since that night when Cecil had first entered a gambling-house, and lost the few pounds Frank had lent him, the image of the joyous winner huddling the notes and gold into his pocket pursued him like a phantom. He had resolved to play no more; he could not afford to lose; and his first venture had been so unfortunate, that he could not hope hazard would be in his favour. Men have extraordinary practical belief or disbelief in their own "luck." Ask a man if he seriously, theoretically believes in anything of the kind, and he will answer, No. Yet that very man puts his name down in a raffle, or cuts cards against an adversary, or stakes large sums on any game of chance, "because he always wins"--because "he is so lucky."

Cecil believed himself to be "unlucky." He was therefore averse to gambling. He had played, and--"it was so like his luck"--although the first time, yet he lost.

In spite of this conviction, the image of that fortunate winner with his file of notes and sovereigns, _would_ force itself upon him. While he was painting--while he was reading--at his meals--during his walks--while dozing in bed--that figure stood before him crumpling the notes, calling joyously for the champagne, and sauntering down stairs in thorough self-content. In his imagination he followed that young man through a series of fortunate nights, during which he had amassed a large sum, with which he purchased a charming little house in the country, and foreswore the gaming-table for ever. It was a most coherent story, coherent as imagination loves to be.

The real story may be told in few words: three weeks after that prosperous night, the winner, utterly ruined, poisoned himself!

Had Cecil known the real story it might have made him pause; but he only knew what he had seen, and fancy supplied the rest.

Like a tempting fiend did this image of the winner pursue him--seductive, irritating; he tried to banish it by thinking of his constant ill-luck, but it would return, and his present discouragement made the temptation stronger. By art he could not live. The age was too material; the country too commercial. Why should he struggle and starve when the gaming-table offered its facile resources?

"Frank," said he, "I wish you would take me again to Jermyn-street."

"What! you want to try another _coup_?"

"Yes; I have a presentiment I shall win. At any rate, it is worth risking a few pounds."

"I am going there this evening. Dine with me at the club. I will explain to you an infallible martingale by which we _must_ win. Damme, I'll break all the banks in London."

"How? how?"

"You know enough, Cis, of the game to understand my explanation. The martingale is this: always to back the winning colour, and double your losses till you win. Look'ye here--Suppose I place a pound on the red, and black wins; black is then the winning colour and I back it; but having lost, I must double my stake: so I put two pounds on the black. Well, red wins, damme its eyes! I have lost three pounds. What do I? place _four_ pounds on the red, which is then the winning colour. If red wins again, I have recovered my three pounds staked, and one pound over. I back red again, and again, so long as red continues to win. Directly black wins, I double my stake, and regain my loss."

"I see, I see!"

"It's as clear as day. The only possibility of losing is, that red and black should alternately win all the night through; but as that never has been known, we must not think of such a chance."

"But then you only win your original stake each time?"

"Of course; but you are _sure_ to win it. The only objection to our putting our scheme in practice is the absolute necessity for a large sum of money to begin with."

"How so, Frank?"

"Why, my dear fellow, you've no idea how doubling your stake mounts up. To stake a sovereign, and lose ten _coups_, you must have at least six hundred pounds in hand; for the stakes run one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred and twenty-eight, two hundred and fifty-six, five hundred and twelve, and so on."

"Whew!"

"That's it."

"And we stake five hundred pounds to win a sovereign?"

"Just so. Unless you play the martingale strictly, you cannot be certain of winning: but you _must_ win if you play it."

"Ah! well, then I must give up the idea, for I cannot raise the money. Never mind, I'll let chance play for me; martingale or no martingale."

That night they went to the house in Jermyn-street, where Cecil had first played.

Frank won five and forty pounds.

Cecil lost every penny.

"Frank, lend me five pounds: I am desperate."

"Here they are, old boy. Play cautiously."

Cecil seized them with a greedy clutch.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dull-eyed dealer.

Cecil threw the five sovereigns on the red.

The cards were dealt with leisurely precision.

"_Après_," said the dealer.

The croupiers, in accordance with the laws of the same, deducted half the stakes on the table.

"Is that your caution, Cis?" whispered Frank.

"It is my desperation," he said between his teeth.

"Make your game, gentlemen!"

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

The perspiration burst from Cecil's pores, the tightening suffocation in his breast was relieved. He allowed the money to remain in its place again to take its fortune.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer in his unvarying voice.

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

There were now ten pounds upon the red belonging to Cecil.

"Take up five," suggested Frank.

"No: hit or miss: I risk all."

The gambler's recklessness possessed him; he was in such a state of excitement that he knew not what he did.

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

Twenty pounds were now heaped upon the red.

"Shall you keep the stake there, sir?" asked a smiling gentleman with bushy whiskers, who had taken great interest in the game.

"Yes," said Cecil, resolutely.

"Then I shall back against you," said the smiling gentleman, twirling a whisker round his finger, and throwing half a crown upon the black, with the air of a man undertaking an important enterprise.

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

"There's a run upon the red," sighed the bushy-whiskered gentleman, as his half-crown was raked away, and forty pounds stood there as Cecil's winnings. "I shall back you this time, sir; you are fortune's favourite, sir. Take a pinch of snuff, sir."

And with recovered hilarity he offered the box to Cecil, who bowed coldly, and took a pinch.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer.

"Try the red again, Cis," said Frank, "but take up five pounds to guard against accident." He staked twenty pounds himself upon the red.

Cecil followed his advice: he had now five and thirty pounds staked.

"The game is made."

"Wait a minute," said the bushy-whiskered gentleman; "I have not yet staked."

He threw down a half-crown upon the red. These three were the only players who backed the red; upwards of two hundred pounds were on the black; and the coup was watched with breathless anxiety.

With unimpassioned, inexpressive face did the dealer throw down the cards, as if all the chances of the game which so excited the players were powerless upon him.

"Red wins," he again said, in his hollow indifferent voice.

Cecil raked the seventy pounds towards him in a sort of delirium: the sight of the gold was to him like a vision of fairy land.

The smiling snuff-taker snatched up his five shillings, and again requested him to take a pinch.

"Pretty game, sir; very pretty, when fortune takes you in hand."

"We had better cut now," said Frank.

"Not yet."

"Yes, Cis; come while you've got the money. Don't tempt your luck too far."

"I must--I will play another coup. I'll try the red once more."

"Don't: be advised, Cis, don't."

"I must."

"Well, then, wait till the next. Let this deal go by, and try the next."

Cecil did so.

"Black wins," said the dealer.

Frank looked at Cecil as much as to say, "you see I was right."

Cecil smiled.

His smiling friend was glum, for he had lost two crowns on the red. He threw down another couple of crowns again upon the red.

"Back the winning colour," said Frank, staking twenty pounds upon the black.

Cecil made a pile of fifty sovereigns, and placed it also on the black.

He won again.

"Now, Frank, I'm ready to go."

"That's right."

"Waiter, some champagne!"

"And a cigar, waiter!"

Cecil having called for the champagne, placed the gold in his purse, and seemed to have realized his dream: glimpses even of the country house sparkled on the froth of the wine!

His brain was in a whirl, and the chink of money, the rattle of the dice, the unvarying phrases of the dealer, the brief remarks of the players, all sounded like fairy music in his ears. He was impatient to begone, for he felt that he was succumbing to the fascinations of the place, rightly named a 'Hell.'

As he went to the side table for his hat, he espied his smiling neighbour standing looking into the glass, with one hand under his chin, fiercely pushing his whiskers forward so as almost to cover his face, while with the other hand he made terrific menaces at the reflection of that face in the glass.

"Ugh! you old fool!" he vituperated his own image, at the same time shaking his fist at it. "Did I not _tell_ you so? Did I not say you would lose? You ass! you ass! _Five_ and _forty_ shillings have you thrown away _this blessed night_! Five and forty _shillings_? Will you _never_ learn wisdom--will you never _leave off play_? Ass! fool! Ass!"

Cecil with difficulty restrained his laughter, and advanced saying:--

"I'm sorry you have not been fortunate, sir."

"_You_ are sorry, are you," fiercely replied the little man, sharply turning round upon him, delighted at having some one else on whom to vent his wrath. "And pray sir, who are _you_? Who are you, sir, that _presumes_ to be _sorry_ for _me_! Am I an _ass_, sir? am I a _boy_? am I a _noodle_? to be pestered by the pity of a _puppy_ like _you_. Do you wish to _quarrel with me_, sir? do you wish to quarrel? If so, say the _word_. I am not quarrelsome, myself; not I; but I _am not to be bullied_, sir; you shall find that I am not to be bullied. _You may try it on_, sir--you will find it _no go_! And since you are _determined to fight me_, sir, fight you _shall_. You force me to it, but I am not _one_ to back out of it."

Cecil looked at him for a moment in surprise, and then quietly turning on his heel, put an arm within Frank's, and went down stairs.

The little fiery gentleman ran his fingers several times through his whiskers, and then turned again to vituperate his own repentant face in the glass. Having relieved his choler thus, he called for some wine, and went home to bed, pathetic and moralizing.

Cecil and Frank supped joyously that night, and threw about their money with the lavish recklessness of those to whom money so gained loses its proper value.

Cecil came home exhausted with excitement, and on his way ruminated how he should deceive Blanche as to the source of his new gains:--

"I will tell her I have sold my Nero for three hundred pounds to a dealer, and this hundred and twenty-five is the sum paid down. That will open the door for fresh winnings!"

How happy did this falsehood make his little wife! At last, then, her Cecil admitted that something was to be done by art. Their future was secured.

Yet happiness grounded on such falsehoods must be fragile; and far wiser would it have been for Cecil to have told her the painful truth. She would have been shocked, terrified; she would have entreated him to gamble no more; there would have been "a scene," but who knows what good might not have resulted from it?

Cecil, like all weak men, sought refuge in a falsehood from the reproaches which he knew must follow an avowal.