The Young Duke

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The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily expected. He really could
not stand them. As for Lady Afy, he execrated the greenhornism which had
made him feign a passion, and then get caught where he meant to capture.
As for Sir Lucius, he wished to Heaven he would just take it into
his head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent him at that
confounded election, to say nothing of anything else.

Then there was Burlington, with his old loves and his new dances. He
wondered how the deuce that fellow could be amused with such frivolity,
and always look so serene and calm. Then there was Squib: that man never
knew when to leave off joking; and Annesley, with his false refinement;
and Darrell, with his petty ambition. He felt quite sick, and took a
solitary ride: but he flew from Scylla to Charybdis. Mrs. Montfort could
not forget their many delightful canters last season to Rottingdean,
and, lo! she was at his side. He wished her down the cliff.

In this fit of the spleen he went to the theatre: there were eleven
people in the boxes. He listened to the 'School for Scandal.' Never
was slander more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry when it was
over, but was consoled by the devils of 'Der Freischutz.' How sincerely,
how ardently did he long to sell himself to the demon! It was eleven
o'clock, and he dreaded the play to be over as if he were a child. What
to do with himself, or where to go, he was equally at a loss. The
door of the box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must be an
acquaintance, this cub was better than any of his refined and lately
cherished companions.

'Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?'

'Oh! I don't know; just looking in for a lark. Any game?'

'On my honour, I can't say.'

'What's that girl? Oh! I see; that's little Wilkins. There's Moll Otway.
Nothing new. I shall go and rattle the bones a little; eh! my boy?'

'Rattle the bones? what is that?'

'Don't you know?' and here this promising young peer manually explained
his meaning.

'What do you play at?' asked the Duke.

'Hazard, for my money; but what you like.'

'Where?'

'We meet at De Berghem's. There is a jolly set of us. All crack men.
When my governor is here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose there
must be only one gamester in the family; eh! my covey?' Lord Bagshot,
excited by the unusual affability of the young Duke, grew quite
familiar.

'I have half a mind to look in with you,' said his Grace with a careless
air.

'Oh! come along, by all means. They'll be devilish glad to see you. De
Berghem was saying the other day what a nice fellow you were, and how he
should like to know you. You don't know De Berghem, do you?'

'I have seen him. I know enough of him.'

They quitted the theatre together, and under the guidance of Lord
Bagshot, stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There they found
collected a numerous party, but all persons of consideration. The Baron,
who had once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and now lived in
England, by choice, on his pension and private fortune, received them
with marked courtesy. Proud of his companion, Lord Bagshot's hoarse,
coarse, idiot voice seemed ever braying. His frequent introductions
of the Duke of St. James were excruciating, and it required all the
freezing of a finished manner to pass through this fiery ordeal. His
Grace was acquainted with most of the guests by sight, and to some he
even bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, with the exception
of two or three young peers like himself.

There was the Earl of Castlefort, plump and luxurious, with a youthful
wig, who, though a sexagenarian, liked no companion better than a minor.
His Lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky;
but the first was his merit, and the second was not his fault. There was
the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done his brothers out of
their miserable 5,000L. patrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinkle
that had already ruffled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and his
convulsive lip, had been thrown, we suppose, into the bargain, and, in
our opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had run
through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though only
thirty, one thing alone remained to be lost, what he called his honour,
which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Cogit, who, when
he was drunk, swore that he had had a father; but this was deemed the
only exception to _in vino Veritas_. Who he was, the Goddess of Chance
alone could decide; and we have often thought that he might bear the
same relation to her as AEneas to the Goddess of Beauty. His age was as
great a mystery as anything else. He dressed still like a boy, yet some
vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had,
and yet he contrived to live; connection he was not born with, yet he
was upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer
going. He did the honours of a _rouge et noir_ table to a miracle; and
looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a
gold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced apres. Lord
Castlefort had few secrets from him: he was the jackal to these prowling
beasts of prey; looked out for pigeons, got up little parties to
Richmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make
a noise, and yet desired a little life, and perhaps could cog a die,
arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler.

Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place
is to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerous
follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous,
sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted by
the desire of gain, or as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of
excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life which
stultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and
mortifies all our beautiful aspirations.

We know that we are broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and
which some will protest against, when we declare our belief that no
person, whatever his apparent wealth, ever yet gamed except from the
prospect of immediate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, of
ennui, of satiety; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sort
of substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a more
intense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too
anxious, too complicated, too troublesome; in a word, _too sensible_ an
affair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinite
distraction.

The fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible,
clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting;
no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the affair at all. It
is the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre-supposes in its
votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its
train are the most mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoying
of daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them
except the great object which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing
to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gaming-table in a paroxysm.
The first visit requires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stake
will make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and the
stoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter of
calculation and management, even in games of chance. Night after night
will men play at _rouge et noir_, upon what they call a system, and for
hours their attention never ceases, any more than it would if they were
in the shop or oh the wharf. No manual labour is more fatiguing, and
more degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Every gamester feels
ashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace, moralists
daily inform us, man can never escape, is just the one from which
the majority of men most completely, and most often, free themselves.
Infinite is the number of men who have lost thousands in their youth,
and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oftener
than any other, leads man to self-knowledge. Appalled by the absolute
destruction on the verge of which he finds his early youth just
stepping; aghast at the shadowy crimes which, under the influence of
this life, seem, as it were, to rise upon his soul; often he hurries to
emancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and with a ruined fortune,
and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is still
white, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweet
air of heaven.

And our young Duke, we must confess, gamed, as all other men have
gamed, for money. His satiety had fled the moment that his affairs were
embarrassed. The thought suddenly came into his head while Bag-shot was
speaking. He determined to make an effort to recover; and so completely
was it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned that, in the
present state of his affairs, a few thousands more would not signify;
that these few thousands might lead to vast results, and that, if they
did, he would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same coolness with
which he had saluted it.

Yet he felt a little odd when he first 'rattled the bones;' and his
affected nonchalance made him constrained. He fancied every one was
watching him; while, on the contrary, all were too much interested in
their own different parties. This feeling, however, wore off.

According to every novelist, and the moralists 'our betters,' the Duke
of St. James should have been fortunate at least to-night. You always
win at first, you know. If so, we advise said children of fancy and of
fact to pocket their gains, and not play again. The young Duke had not
the opportunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred pounds, and at
half-past five he quitted the Baron's.

Hot, bilious, with a confounded twang in his mouth, and a cracking pain
in his head, he stood one moment and sniffed in the salt sea breeze.
The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and her cool, beneficent light
reminded him, with disgust, of the hot, burning glare of the Baron's
saloon. He thought of May Dacre, but clenched his fist, and drove her
image from his mind.

CHAPTER VII.

_Dangerous Friends_

HE ROSE late, and as he was lounging over his breakfast, entered Lord
Bagshot and the Baron. Already the young Duke began to experience one
of the gamester's curses, the intrusive society of those of whom you
are ashamed. Eight-and-forty hours ago, Lord Bagshot would no more have
dared to call on the Duke of St. James than to call at the Pavilion; and
now, with that reckless want of tact which marks the innately vulgar,
he seemed to triumph in their unhallowed intimacy, and lounging into
his Grace's apartment with that half-shuffling, hair-swaggering air
indicative of the 'cove,' hat cocked, and thumbs in his great-coat
pockets, cast his complacent eye around, and praised his Grace's
'rooms.' Lord Bagshot, who for the occasional notice of the Duke of St.
James had been so long a ready and patient butt, now appeared to assume
a higher character, and addressed his friend in a tone and manner which
were authorised by the equality of their rank and the sympathy of their
tastes. If this change had taken place in the conduct of the Viscount,
it was not a singular one. The Duke also, to his surprise, found himself
addressing his former butt in a very different style from that which he
had assumed in the ballroom of Doncaster. In vain he tried to rally, in
vain he tried to snub. It was indeed in vain. He no longer possessed any
right to express his contempt of his companion. That contempt, indeed,
he still felt. He despised Lord Bagshot still, but he also despised
himself.

The soft and silky Baron was a different sort of personage; but
there was something sinister in all his elaborate courtesy and highly
artificial manner, which did not touch the feelings of the Duke, whose
courtesy was but the expression of his noble feelings, and whose grace
was only the impulse of his rich and costly blood. Baron de Berghem was
too attentive, and too deferential. He smiled and bowed too much.
He made no allusion to the last night's scene, nor did his tutored
companion, but spoke of different and lighter subjects, in a manner
which at once proved his experience of society, the liveliness of his
talents, and the cultivation of his taste. He told many stories, all
short and poignant, and always about princes and princesses. Whatever
was broached, he always had his _apropos_ of Vienna, and altogether
seemed an experienced, mild, tolerant man of the world, not bigoted to
any particular opinions upon any subject, but of a truly liberal and
philosophic mind.

When they had sat chatting for half-an-hour, the Baron developed the
object of his visit, which was to endeavour to obtain the pleasure of
his Grace's company at dinner, to taste some wild boar and try some
tokay. The Duke, who longed again for action, accepted the invitation;
and then they parted.

Our hero was quite surprised at the feverish anxiety with which he
awaited the hour of union. He thought that seven o'clock would never
come. He had no appetite at breakfast, and after that he rode, but
luncheon was a blank. In the midst of the operation, he found himself
in a brown study, calculating chances. All day long his imagination had
been playing hazard, or _rouge et noir_. Once he thought that he had
discovered an infallible way of winning at the latter. On the long run,
he was convinced it must answer, and he panted to prove it.

Seven o'clock at last arrived, and he departed to Brunswick Terrace.
There was a brilliant party to meet him: the same set as last night,
but select. He was faint, and did justice to the _cuisine_ of his host,
which was indeed remarkable. When we are drinking a man's good wine, it
is difficult to dislike him. Prejudice decreases with every draught.
His Grace began to think the Baron as good-hearted as agreeable. He was
grateful for the continued attentions of old Castlefort, who, he now
found out, had been very well acquainted with his father, and once even
made a trip to Spa with him. Lord Dice he could not manage to endure,
though that worthy was, for him, remarkably courteous, and grinned with
his parchment face, like a good-humoured ghoul. Temple Grace and the
Duke became almost intimate. There was an amiable candour in that
gentleman's address, a softness in his tones, and an unstudied and
extremely interesting delicacy in his manner, which in this society was
remarkable. Tom Cogit never presumed to come near the young Duke, but
paid him constant attention. He sat at the bottom of the table, and
was ever sending a servant with some choice wine, or recommending him,
through some third person, some choice dish. It is pleasant to be 'made
much of,' as Shakspeare says, even by scoundrels. To be king of your
company is a poor ambition, yet homage is homage, and smoke is smoke,
whether it come out of the chimney of a palace or of a workhouse.

The banquet was not hurried. Though all wished it finished, no one liked
to appear urgent. It was over at last, and they walked up-stairs, where
the tables were arranged for all parties, and all play. Tom Cogit went
up a few minutes before them, like the lady of the mansion, to review
the lights, and arrange the cards. Feminine Tom Cogit!

The events of to-night were much the same as of the preceding one. The
Duke was a loser, but his losses were not considerable. He retired about
the same hour, with a head not so hot, or heavy: and he never looked
at the moon, or thought of May Dacre. The only wish that reigned in his
soul was a longing for another opportunity, and he had agreed to dine
with the Baron, before he left Brunswick Terrace.

Thus passed a week, one night the Duke of St. James redeeming himself,
another falling back to his old position, now pushing on to Madrid, now
re-crossing the Tagus. On the whole, he had lost four or five thousand
pounds, a mere trifle to what, as he had heard, had been lost and gained
by many of his companions during only the present season. On the whole,
he was one of the most moderate of these speculators, generally played
at the large table, and never joined any of those private coteries, some
of which he had observed, and of some of which he had heard. Yet this
was from no prudential resolve or temperate resolution. The young Duke
was heartily tired of the slight results of all his anxiety, hopes, and
plans, and ardently wished for some opportunity of coming to closer and
more decided action. The Baron also had resolved that an end should
be put to this skirmishing; but he was a calm head, and never hurried
anything.

'I hope your Grace has been lucky to-night!' said the Baron one evening,
strolling up to the Duke: 'as for myself, really, if Dice goes on
playing, I shall give up banking. That fellow must have a talisman. I
think he has broken more banks than any man living. The best thing he
did of that kind was the roulette story at Paris. You have heard of
that?'

'Was that Lord Dice?'

'Oh yes! he does everything. He must have cleared his hundred thousand
last year. I have suffered a good deal since I have been in England.
Castlefort has pulled in a great deal of my money. I wonder to whom he
will leave his property?'

'You think him rich?'

'Oh! he will cut up large!' said the Baron, elevating his eyebrows. 'A
pleasant man too! I do not know any man that I would sooner play with
than Castlefort; no one who loses his money with better temper.'

'Or wins it,' said his Grace.

'That we all do,' said the Baron, faintly laughing. 'Your Grace has
lost, and you do not seem particularly dull. You will have your revenge.
Those who lose at first are always the children of fortune. I always
dread a man who loses at first. All I beg is, that you will not break my
bank.'

'Why! you see I am not playing now.' 'I am not surprised. There is too
much heat and noise here,' said he. 'We will have a quiet dinner some
day, and play at our ease. Come to-morrow, and I will ask Castlefort
and Dice. I should uncommonly like, _entre nous_, to win some of their
money. I will take care that nobody shall be here whom you would not
like to meet. By-the-bye, whom were you riding with this morning? Fine
woman!'

CHAPTER VIII.

_Birds of Prey_

THE young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berg-hem
for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice,
and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour.
The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet
everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual
silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone
observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely
presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and
dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was the
man for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it! Cayenne
and Burgundy and limes were ingredients, but there was a magic in the
incantation with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular care
to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as
he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked
consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never
addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, 'Take this
to the Duke;' or asking the attendant, 'whether his Grace would try the
Hermitage?'

After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding
some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to
_ecarte_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed
a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a
pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their
universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive.
Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron's
elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All
this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.

Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say,
so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for
at present his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by
the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the
delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some
cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron,
to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring
great trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to
serve him. Our hero devoured--we use the word advisedly, as fools say
in the House of Commons--he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the
Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter.

They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so
complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with
his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened.
The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace
owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the
tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but
slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the
used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the
candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a
tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened.
The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He
pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten o'clock,
owed everyone something. No one offered to give over; and everyone,
perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets
and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were
opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.

They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Duke
made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were,
nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at
all depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his
resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten
thousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; then
thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of
limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.

At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began
to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating,
he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery,
and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is
nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded
feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no
charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.

[Illustration: page338]

On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He
floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough.
Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on
each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a
gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were
prodigious.

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No
attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing
the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a
Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything
but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the
room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town
in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching
every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed their
total inability to sympathise with their fellow-beings. All forms of
society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed
about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of
occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing
one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: a false tooth
had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been
most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and
he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and
his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk.
Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep
blue eyes gleamed like a hyaena's. The Baron was least changed. Tom
Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed
rat.

On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed
to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord
Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they
were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts.
He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.

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