He checked the contemptuous current of his thoughts to reflect that he himself had plunged as headlong as the most reckless of them into the game that was afoot. Had he not won a fortune ‘twixt the commencement and the abandoning of that monstrous play? His winnings amounted to something over ten thousand guineas, and at no one time in his vagrant, adventurous life had he been master of half that sum. Yet it did not follow that he was quite as they. If he had risked that night certain moneys that he scarce dared call his own, so did he hesitate to call his own the vast sum which he had won.
Ten thousand guineas! Ten times the value set by the Government upon his own poor head, he reflected whimsically.
And then Lord Pauncefort turned from the window and the sight of his lordship’s livid, distorted countenance drove all other considerations from his guest’s mind, brought a sudden cry of concern from his lips.
“My lord, are you ill?”
His lordship made a gesture of denial. “It — it is not that,” he said, and his voice was husky with emotion. He was a man of some thirty years of age, of a swarthy male beauty that was almost arresting. His large eyes were dark and liquid, his mouth delicately limned, his nose intrepidly arched, with fine sensitive nostrils. But the brow was alarmingly shallow and there was a cleft in the square — the too square — chin. He stood now, dabbing his moist brow with a flimsy kerchief that was not whiter than the hand that held it.
“Captain Gaynor,” he explained abruptly, almost fiercely, “I am a broken man. I have ruined myself this night.”
There was scarce one of the departed guests, Captain Gaynor bethought him, who had not left that house a winner, and in all his lordship’s losses must amount to almost twice the sum of the Captain’s winnings.
None the less, his lordship’s outcry jarred upon the Captain’s nice sensibilities. Such an admission made to one who was a heavy winner — and that one none so intimately admitted to his lordship’s private confidences, when all was said — seemed to Captain Gaynor an outrage on decorum. He held that the man who cannot lose with calm and grace, no matter what the game or what the stakes — even though it should be life itself — has not the right to enter into play. And this was no abstract creed. It was the one by which the Captain lived.
The sight of the stricken man before him moved him to no pity.
Rather it inspired in him a contempt that amounted almost to physical ill being, to disgust. His immediate impulse was to take his leave. If, indeed, he had lingered at all after the departure of his fellow-guests, it had been in the hope that my Lord Pauncefort might yet have something for his private ear concerning the real business that had brought him to England and to that house. And perceiving now how idle had been this hope, observing his host’s suddenly altered condition, Captain Gaynor’s inclination was to depart.
But he reflected that to depart abruptly after that confession might be to offend. On his own account this would have troubled the Captain not at all. But for the Cause’s sake, and for the sake of the service it might be Pauncefort’s to render to that Cause, he did not wish to give offence to his host if it might be avoided. He was in a quandary, and vexed thereby; for quandaries were not usual in the life of this man who lived by swift decisions and swift action.
He shifted uneasily where he stood, and his face assumed a mask of polite concern. His lordship had sunk into the nearest chair, like a man wearied to exhaustion. There was a wildness in his eyes, and he continued nervously to dab his brow — that brow whose shallowness belied the general nobility of his countenance.
“You think, maybe, that I exaggerate,” he resumed presently. “But I tell you, sir, that I have played the knave this night. I have lost four thousand guineas to Martindale, another two to Bagshot, and I have lost my honour too, for I have forfeited all chance of ever being able to pay those losses.”
The concern in the Captain’s face appeared to deepen.
“They are your friends,” he said slowly. “Surely they will be glad to wait upon your convenience.” In his own breast pocket rested his lordship’s draft upon his bankers for the eight thousand and odd guineas he had lost to the Captain.
“My convenience?” cried Pauncefort, and his white face writhed in a spasm of mocking laughter. “I tell you, man, that in all the world I cannot claim ten guineas for my own. You are a gamester, Captain Gaynor?” he ended between question and assertion.
“So rumour says of me — I confess with justice,” the Captain admitted, and the faintest of ironic smiles quivered on his firm lips.
“I am engaged at present in a game wherein I have staked my head. Has your lordship ever played as deep as that?”
“Ay, have I. Do I not tell you, man, that I have staked my honour; and honour, surely, is more than life.”
“So I have heard say,” answered Captain Gaynor, like a sceptic.
He had little comfort for his host, little encouragement for the confidences that Pauncefort insisted upon thrusting on him. Indeed, it was his deliberate aim to stifle them. He desired them not. Although his acquaintance with Lord Pauncefort was considerable, it was not an acquaintance that had ever ripened, or promised to ripen, into friendship. The link that bound them was their common devotion to the Stuart Cause, whose agent Captain Gaynor was. Beyond that they had no common interest, although, when all is said, that might be accounted interest enough to bind two men at such a time.
But, despite the Captain’s chill aloofness, his lordship was not to be repressed. In the nature of this man of so strong and noble-seeming a countenance there was a strain of weakness almost feminine. He was of those who must forever be proclaiming griefs and grievances, finding it impossible to bear in silence and in dignity the burden of their woes. He was of those who in their trouble must forever be confiding in the hope of lessening their oppression. Moreover he had at present another motive for his confidence: a faint hope that it might bear him fruit, as you shall see.
“Listen,” he said, and upon the heels of that exhortation swiftly poured out the tale of his condition. “I was broke six months ago, when the South-Sea Bubble was pricked. I gambled heavily in the stock and, like many another, woke one morning to find that a fortune had melted in my hands. This rascally Whig Government—” He was beginning upon a side issue, when he broke off abruptly to return to his main theme. “To buy that stock I raised heavy mortgages. I raised still more to clear myself after that cataclysm, and I mortgaged what was left to recoup my losses. Instead — But there! Tonight I played for my immediate needs. I played to twice the extent of the losses I could meet, and in that I played the knave. But my need was very urgent, Captain. Now — it is over.” He dabbed his brow again. His voice grew calmer with the dead calm of despair. “If I have the courage to be alive by noon tomorrow, the spunging-house awaits me.” He shivered in his splendid garments, and the jewelled buttons of his salmon-coloured waistcoat twinkled roguishly as if conscious of the irony of their presence in the apparel of a pauper.
Captain Gaynor stood considering a moment, the expression — the mask — of studied concern upon his face, increasing contempt and disgust in his heart.
Was it upon such men as this that his master counted? And he recalled the eulogistic words in which his prince had spoken of this adherent.
“Pauncefort is powerful and loyal,” he had said. “He is ours body and soul and to the last penny of his fortunes.”
That was the dream of that august man of dreams. Here, confronting Captain Gaynor, was the reality — a broken gamester who whimpered over his losses.
“Surely, surely,” said the soldier slowly, “there is one thing you have forgot.”
Pauncefort looked up quickly, his black brows contracting. “If it be aught I can raise money upon, in God’s name tell it me quickly,” said he, with a wry smile.
“I think it is,” replied the Captain. “You have forgot Miss Hollinstone.”
The contraction of his lordship’s brows grew heavier still, and the fine countenance as
sumed a something of haughtiness and of challenge. Undeterred Captain Gaynor proceeded to make plain his meaning.
“Your betrothal to Damaris Hollinstone is known to all the world, just as it is also known that she is the wealthiest heiress in England, mistress of a fortune that is colossal. Surely, sir, with such a prospect before you, your creditors—”
He was interrupted by a sharp laugh.
“You have had no dealings, sir, with the tribe of Judah. That is plain,” said his lordship bitterly. “Oh, be very sure that I have attempted it — to be met with veiled derision and open insolence. You do not know the Jew. You do not know the hatred of the Christian that underlies his dealings, the vampire spirit that actuates him. Shakespeare, sir, knew his nature when he limned his Shylock.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Captain Gaynor, “the Christian has deserved no better at his hands.”
It was a point of view so revolutionary, so subversive of all the notions upon which Lord Pauncefort had been bred, that for a moment it drove every other consideration from his mind, leaving his face blank with astonishment. But his own affairs swept back upon him in an instant to turn him from any disputing upon so wild a matter.
“You are a gamester, Captain Gaynor, and all gamesters are prone to come to such a state as mine tonight. Let me give — it is all that remains me to bestow on anyone — a piece of advice upon the subtle art of raising money. See to it ever in such affairs that betimes you raise at least twice as much as you can ever repay out of your own resources. Then your creditors, for their own purses’ sakes, will afford you every opportunity; they will handle you tenderly; they will nurse you with care; they will watch over you as never mother watched her babe at its first steps.
“Had I but had such advice given me and acted upon it, I should not be in such case as this in which you find me. Money would have flowed freely to my hands upon the prospect of my marriage, because upon the consummation of that would have depended my creditors’ reimbursement. As it is, sir, I have fallen into the error of borrowing no more than my estates can bear.
“The chief of my creditors is a Spanish Jew, one Israel Suarez, an evil rogue of fabulous wealth and destitute of mercy; one who seems to draw a Satanic joy from the torturing and breaking of such men as I. I tell you, Captain Gaynor, that I have abased myself to plead with him. I have besought him in terms I cannot recall without shame that if he will not concede me a loan upon my marriage prospects, at least to postpone his demand for settlement of my present debts until my marriage shall have taken place.
“My intercessions have been met with the sneers and insolent jests of this usurious dog. He holds my mortgages for everything that is not in the entail. That almost covers my debt to him. The balance he will recover from the interest on the entailed estates what time I am rotting in a debtors’ gaol. Frankly he tells me this — that since he can retrieve his own he will run no risks. And so, tomorrow—” He spread his hands, shrugged, and sank back scowling again into his chair.
Captain Gaynor understood, but he answered nothing. What answer could he make? He looked towards the windows, which were glowing now like moonstones in the increasing light. Again he thought of going, and vaguely he wondered why Lord Pauncefort should have chosen him for these confidences. He conceived that it was fortuitous — the result of his having lingered after the others had departed. But in his lordship’s next words he had the correct answer to his unspoken question.
“Had I refrained tonight,” his lordship was saying presently in a small unsteady voice, his fingers plucking nervously at a card which he had picked up from the floor, “all might yet have been well. By meeting a bill that is due tomorrow I might temporarily have satisfied the demands of that foul vulture, Suarez. I should have gained time, and with time salvation might have come. I have sunk money in a trading venture which may yet repay me. But for this, time is needed; time and — and the money I have lost tonight. I held it in readiness for this, but the cursed cards—”
He broke off with a bitter oath. But he had said enough. It would have been impossible to have asked more plainly for the help that it was in Gaynor’s power to render him.
The Captain understood at last the reason of these confidences.
Understanding brought with it some pity and more contempt. I fear me his nature was a little hard. He spoke out plainly, his voice crisp.
“You are inviting me, my lord, to return you this,” he said, and from his breast pocket he took Lord Pauncefort’s draft upon his bankers.
He was, as I have said, a man of swift decisions, and here he had decided swiftly, but not at all as his host conceived.
Pauncefort threw back his head under the goad of that voice. It seemed to him that it conveyed a deadly insult. For all that the matter was true enough; the manner could not, he thought, have been more outrageous.
“Sir!” said he, with a very frosty dignity, and upon the word he rose, frowning darkly. “Sir, you affront me.”
“Forgive me,” answered the soldier gently “Such was not my intent.” He replaced the draft in his pocket. “And yet,” he sighed; “I conceived that I saw a way to assist you.”
The unexpectedness of this withdrawal scattered his lordship’s fine dignity to the murmuring winds of dawn. His jaw dropped in sheer astonishment; his eyes stared foolishly; the card he had held fluttered from his nerveless fingers. He leaned against the table, and looked at his guest.
“Perhaps ...” he said, faltering on the word, “perhaps my refusal was churlish.”
“I understand it,” said Gaynor quietly But behind his imperturbable mask he was laughing at his lordship.
“When all is said,” the other resumed, “if you could — if I might so far trespass upon your patience and you would wait until a more convenient season—”
Captain Gaynor took him up at once. “Wait?” he echoed, and he frowned thoughtfully “Wait?” He laughed, a little laugh that was singularly pleasant despite the tinge of irony that invested it. “Ye have indeed mistook me,” he said.
“How?” quoth his lordship, flung back once more upon his dignity.
“Faith,” said the Captain, “you’ll agree, I think, that I am in little case to wait. If it please me to gamble upon my own life it does not please me that others should do the same — leastways without ever a stake set against so very valuable a property You forget, my lord” (and instinctively he lowered his voice), “a thousand guineas is the advertised value of this head of mine. At any moment that value may be claimed. In England here I walk amid drawn swords. If I consented to do your pleasure in this matter, at any moment one of these might liquidate the debt.” He laughed again. “It is a game in which the odds are much too heavy in your favour, and, moreover, a game in which you adventure nothing.”
“I — I had not considered that,” his lordship exclaimed with earnestness. “‘Pon honour, I had not.”
“I do not do you the injustice to suppose it. But consider it now, I beg.”
“I do. I thank you for enlightening me.” He stood erect, his handsome face pale but quite composed. “Captain Gaynor, there is no more to be said.”
“Nay, now, I think there is,” returned the other, smiling quietly.
“I do not understand.”
“Pray consider further. I am a gamester, as you have said, as every soldier of fortune is perforce. And being poor in point of worldly goods, my life is a stake for which I am well used to playing. Out of consideration for your straits, I will permit that you too play, as it were, upon it and for this eight thousand guineas that I have won. But you must set a stake against it, my lord — and a heavy one to balance all the odds that are in your favour.”
He spoke quietly, his face so calm, his glance so steady that none might have suspected the excitement within. Lord Pauncefort stared and stared. At length— “I have talked in vain, it seems,” said he. “Yet I have told you plainly that I cannot claim so much as ten guineas for my own. What, then, have I to stake?”
“Something that is hardly yours,” came the gentle answer, “and something which, if I win from you, I shall yet have to win another way and may altogether fail to win.” He smiled a wry smile, his steely eyes upon the other’s face. “You perceive, my lord, that the odds are all with you. It cannot be said that I lack generosity in the risks I take.”
“I do not understand you,” said his lordship bluntly. “What stake have you in mind?”
There was a perceptible pause before the soldier answered him.
He squared his shoulders; his face became set and stern; his glance flickered a moment to the windows and the dawn, which, from the pallor of the moonstone, was warming now to opalescent fires. Then his eyes returned to Lord Pauncefort’s impatient questioning face.
“Damaris Hollinstone,” he said quietly.
Chapter 2. THE GAME
Lord Pauncefort fell back a pace, as if before a blow. The reflections of a surge of feelings from astonishment through contempt to positive anger sped across his heavily featured face. He leaned against the card-table and surveyed his guest with eyes that from their first gape of surprise came to blaze with unmistakable malevolence.
Captain Gaynor, cool, erect, with something of defiance in his mien, waited patiently until his lordship should choose to break the brooding silence. At length came a little sneering laugh from the viscount, and on its heels the sneering words: “Blister me! You play strange games, Captain Gaynor.”
“It is true,” Gaynor admitted, “and,” he added, stung a little, “with strange players sometimes. You will admit at least my generosity in the matter of the odds?”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 249
