CHAPTER XXII

October 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a

bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may

try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it

a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there,

and I cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults;

and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that

I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At

least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to

merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were

accompanying Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding

by my side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little

before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in tender and

confidential discourse.

“Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look sharp,”

observed Huntingdon. “They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be.

That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll find himself in a fix when

he’s got her, I doubt.”

“And she’ll find _her_self in a fix when she’s got _him_,” said I, “if

what I’ve heard of him is true.”

“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about; but he, poor fool,

deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a good wife, and

because she has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank

and wealth in matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that

she’s devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his

poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for himself

alone.”

“But is not _he_ courting _her_ for her fortune?”

“No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has

quite lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely

as an essential without which, for the lady’s own sake, he could not

think of marrying her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he never

could be again, but he’s in for it once more. He was to have been

married before, some two or three years ago; but he lost his bride by

losing his fortune. He got into a bad way among us in London: he had an

unfortunate taste for gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an

unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained once. That’s a

mode of self-torment I never was much addicted to. When I spend my

money I like to enjoy the full value of it: I see no fun in wasting it

on thieves and blacklegs; and as for _gaining_ money, hitherto I have

always had sufficient; it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I

think, when you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have

sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of

those mad votaries of chance—a very interesting study, I assure you,

Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the

boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not willingly,

but of necessity,—he was always resolving to give it up, and always

breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the “just once more:” if he

gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he

lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till

he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not

last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of

better times, till experience proved the contrary. At length he grew

desperate, and we were daily on the look-out for a case of

_felo-de-se_—no great matter, some of us whispered, as his existence

had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came

to a check. He made a large stake, which he determined should be the

last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before, to be

sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was this time.

He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away the stakes, he

turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his forehead. I

was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms and eyes

fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to him.

“‘The last but ONE,’ he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing

back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice

high above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and

curses in the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what

would, THIS trial _should_ be the last, and imprecated unspeakable

curses on his head if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a

dice-box again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any

one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly presented himself.

Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as celebrated

for his luck as _he_ was for his ill-fortune. However, they fell to

work. But Grimsby had much skill and little scruple, and whether he

took advantage of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal

unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost again,

and fell dead sick.

“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning across the table.

And then he winked at me.

“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile.

“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other.

“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet

despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him into the

street.

“‘The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took

him home—that is, to our club—for he was as submissive as a child—and

plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather

brighter—rather more alive, at least.

“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third glass from my

hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence.

“‘Not you,’ said I. ‘You’ll find a man can live without his money as

merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.’

“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. And I can never, _never_ get

out of it.’

“‘Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in

debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a

peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler.

“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I wasn’t born for it, and I

cannot _bear_ it.’

“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning to mix the

fifth.

“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel then, for

the brandy had softened his heart.

“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the world than

one.’

“‘There’s only one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. ‘And if

there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?’

“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your

family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’

“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered.

“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you can _try again_,

you know. I _would_ have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never

stop here.’

“‘I _won’t_, I tell you!’ shouted he. And he started up, and left the

room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head.

He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly

to solace his cares.

“He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us

all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now

he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for

he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of

play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends

did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable

cravings.”

“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my

indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to

tempt him.”

“Well, what could we do?” replied he, deprecatingly.—“We meant it in

kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and

besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum,

when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his

sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost

night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not

merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even

Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more

than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening,

when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and

all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and

hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did

not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence,

sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his

lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with

our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us

in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,—

“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me _that_

now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose.

“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to

give us a speech!’

“He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses

had ceased, and then proceeded,—‘It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I

think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.’

“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley—

‘Stop poor sinner, stop and think

Before you farther go,

No longer sport upon the brink

Of everlasting woe.’

“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. ‘And if

_you_ choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must