The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  The Bruiser played his game so well, that even the most experienced in the pugilistic science were unable to detect the fraud that was being practised upon them; and thousands were deceived into a belief that he was really doing his best to win.

  At the fortieth round he fell, apparently through sheer weakness; and it was highly ludicrous to behold the discomfited looks of those who had bet most heavily upon him.

  He stood up for three rounds more; but time was called in vain for the forty-fourth—and the Haggerstone Pet was declared to be the conqueror.

  The Bruiser seemed to be in a horrible plight: for some time he remained motionless upon the ground, obstinately resisting all the efforts that were made to recover him, until one of his friends thrust a huge pinch of snuff up his nose—and then he was compelled to sneeze.

  He was now borne to the Green Lion at Wigginton, and put to bed. A surgeon in Sir Rupert Harborough’s pay volunteered his services to attend upon him; and, although the Bruiser had nothing more serious the matter with him than a few bruises and a couple of black eyes, the medical gentlemen assured the multitudes who flocked to the Inn, that “the poor fellow could not possibly be worse.” A great deal of medicine was also purchased at the village apothecary’s shop; but it was all quietly thrown away by the surgeon, and the Bruiser was regaled, in the privacy of his chamber, with a good cut of a sirloin of beef and a bottle of Port-wine.

  Lord Dunstable, Mr. Chichester, Colonel Cholmondeley, and Sir Rupert Harborough divided equally amongst themselves the money won by this “cross;”—they racked a thousand pounds each, Egerton alone having lost fifteen hundred upon the fight.

  The five friends returned to town in his lordship’s four-in-hand, and dined that evening at Limmer’s, where Egerton speedily drowned the recollection of his heavy losses in bumpers of champagne and claret.

  The party afterwards repaired to Crockford’s; but just as they were ascending the steps, they beheld one of the waiters in altercation with a person of emaciated form, haggard countenance, and shabby attire, but who had evidently seen better—far better days; for his language was correct, and even beneath his rags there was an air of gentility which no tatters could conceal—no penury altogether subdue.

  “Come, Major, none of this nonsense—it won’t do here,” said the waiter, in an insolent tone. “Be off with you—there’s gentlemen coming in.”

  “I care not who hears me!” cried the person thus addressed: “Mr. Crockford is within—I know he is; and I must see him.”

  “No—he’s not here—and he never comes now,” returned the waiter. “If you don’t make yourself scarce, I’ll call a policeman. Pray walk in, my lord—walk in, gentlemen.”

  These last words were addressed to Lord Dunstable and his party; but, instead of entering the Club, they remained on the steps to hear the issue of the dispute.

  “Call a policeman—oh! do,” ejaculated the Major. “I wish you would—for I should at least have a roof over my head to-night; whereas I now stand the chance of wandering about the streets. But you dare not give me in charge—no, you dare not! You know that I should expose all the infamy of this den before the magistrate to-morrow morning. However—in one word, will you deliver my message to Mr. Crockford?”

  “I tell you that he is not here,” repeated the waiter, insolently.

  “Did you give him my note?” asked the Major, in an imploring tone.

  “Yes—and he said there was no answer,” replied the menial, placing his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

  “My God! no answer for me!” cried the miserable man, in a voice of bitter despair. “No answer for me—and I lost so much in his house! Surely—surely he could spare a guinea from the thousands which he has received of me! I only asked him for a guinea—and he does not condescend to answer me!”

  “Well, I tell you what it is,” said the waiter, perceiving that not only Lord Dunstable’s party lingered upon the steps, but that there was also another listener—a gentleman in a military cloak—standing at a short distance:—“if you will go away now, I’ll give you half-a-crown out of my own pocket, and I undertake that Mr. Crockford shall send you up a sovereign to-morrow.”

  “God knows with what reluctance I accept that miserable trifle from you!” exclaimed the unhappy man, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he extended his hand for the pittance offered.

  At the same instant Egerton, who was much moved by all he had just overheard, drew forth his purse with the intention of presenting five sovereigns to the poor Major: but the waiter, perceiving his intention, hastened to drop the half-crown into the miserable wretch’s palm with a view to get rid of him at once;—for the domestic wisely argued to himself that every guinea which Egerton might give away would be so much lost to his master’s bank up-stairs.

  The half-crown piece had just touched the Major’s hand, when the individual in the cloak sprang forward—seized it—threw it indignantly in the servant’s face—and, dragging the Major away from the door, exclaimed, “No—never shall it be said that a soldier and an officer received alms from an insolent lacquey! Mine be the duty of relieving your wants.”

  And, leading the Major a few paces up the street, the stranger bade him enter a carriage that was waiting, and into which he immediately followed him.

  The servant closed the door, received some whispered instructions from his master, and got up behind the vehicle, which immediately rolled away at a rapid pace.

  But to return to Lord Dunstable and his party.

  The moment that the individual in the cloak sprang forward in the manner described, and the light of the hall lamps streamed full upon his countenance, both Harborough and Chichester uttered ejaculations of surprise, and hastened precipitately into the Club, followed by Dunstable, Egerton, and Cholmondeley.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Dunstable, when the baronet and Chichester were overtaken on the stairs: “and who’s that person?”

  “The Prince of Montoni,” replied Harborough, whose countenance was very pale.

  “Yes,” said Chichester, hastily; “we know him well—and, as he is very particular in his notions, we did not wish him to see us coming here. But, enough of that—let us adjourn to the Hazard Room.”

  The conversation between the Major and the waiter, displaying as it did a fearful instance of the results of gaming, had made a deep impression upon Albert Egerton; and for some time he was thoughtful and serious.

  But Dunstable attacked him so adroitly with the artillery of flattery—the waiter offered him claret so frequently—the excitement of the play appeared so agreeable—and the fear of losing ground in the good opinion of his aristocratic acquaintances was so strong in his mind, that he seized the dice-box, staked his money, lost as usual, and was conducted home in a state of intoxication at about halt-past three in the morning.

  * * *

  In the meantime the unfortunate Major Anderson—for such was his name—had received substantial proofs of that goodness of heart which prompted the Prince of Montoni to espouse his cause against the brutal insolence of Crockford’s waiter.

  Immediately after the carriage rolled away from the corner of St. James’s Street, Richard drew forth his pocket-book, and placed a bank-note, accompanied by his card, in the Major’s hand.

  “By means of this temporary relief, sir,” he said, “you can place yourself in a somewhat more comfortable position than that in which I deeply regret to find you; and, when you feel inclined to see me again, be good enough to write me a note to that effect, so that I may call upon you. For, if it would not be impertinently prying into your affairs, I should wish to learn the sad narrative of those reverses which have so reduced a gentleman of your rank and station.”

  “Oh! sir—whoever you are,” exclaimed the Major—for it was too dark to permit him to read his benefactor’s card,—“
how can I ever sufficiently thank you for this noble—this generous conduct? But think not that your bounty will have been bestowed in vain—think not that I would risk one sixpence of this sum—whatever be its amount—at the gaming-table! Oh! my God—who would ever play again, that had been in such misery as I? No, sir—no: I would rather throw myself headlong from one of the bridges into the silent waters of the Thames, than enter the gamblers’ den!”

  “Then let me tell you frankly,” said Markham, much moved by the touching sincerity of the ruined officer’s tone and manner,—“let me tell you frankly that my object, in wishing to see you again, was to satisfy myself that you had in reality abjured the detestable vice which has beggared you, and that you are deserving of all I am prepared to do for your benefit.”

  “To-morrow afternoon, sir,” answered the Major, “I will take the liberty of writing to you; for by that time I shall once more be the possessor of some humble lodging. And now, with your permission, I will alight here.”

  Richard pulled the check-string; and the carriage stopped in Oxford Street.

  The Major alighted—pressed our hero’s hand fervently—and hurried away.

  When the carriage had disappeared, and the poor man’s feelings were somewhat composed, he stopped beneath a lamp to learn the name of his benefactor.

  “The Prince of Montoni!” he exclaimed joyfully: “oh! then I am saved—I am saved; he will never let me want again! All London rings with the fame of his goodness: his whole time seems to be passed in benefiting his fellow-creatures! Wherever poverty is known to exist, thither does he send in secret his unostentatious charity! But such good deeds cannot remain concealed; and I—I for one will proclaim to all who have spurned me in my bitter need, that a stranger has saved me—and that stranger a great Prince whose shoes they are not worthy to touch!”

  Such were the words which the grateful man uttered aloud in the open street; but when he glanced at the bank-note, and found himself suddenly possessed of fifty pounds, he burst into a flood of tears—tears of the most heart-felt joy!

  And Richard returned home with the satisfaction of having done another charitable action:—we say another, because charitable deeds with him were far more common than even promises on the part of many richer men.

  But Markham delighted in doing good. Often of an evening, would he repair into London, and, leaving his carriage at the corner of some street, wander about the immediate neighbourhood to succour the poor houseless wretches whom he might meet, and to discover new cases in which his bounty might be usefully bestowed. Without hesitation—without disgust, did he penetrate into the wretched abodes of want—go down even into the cellars, or climb up into the attics, where poverty was to be relieved and joy to be shed into the despairing heart.

  And when he returned home, after such expeditions as these, to his beloved wife and darling child,—for he was now a father—the happy father of a lovely boy, whom he had named Alberto,—he found his reward in the approving smiles of the Princess, even if he had not previously reaped an adequate recompense in the mere fact of doing so much good.

  Indeed, there was not a happier house in the world than Markham Place;—for not only was the felicity of Richard complete—save in respect to his anxiety concerning his long-lost brother Eugene,—but that of his sister was also ensured. United to Mario Bazzano, Katherine and her husband resided at the mansion—beneath the same roof where Mr Monroe and Ellen also continued to enjoy a home!

  But let us continue the thread of our narrative.

  True to his promise, Major Anderson wrote on the following day to acquaint our hero with his place of abode, and to renew the expression of his most fervent gratitude for the generous conduct he had experienced at the hands of the Prince of Montoni.

  In the evening Richard proceeded to the humble but comfortable lodging which the Major now occupied in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road; and from the lips of the individual whom his bounty had restored to comparative happiness, did our hero learn the following terrible narrative of a Gambler’s Life.

  CHAPTER CCXLIV.

  THE HISTORY OF A GAMESTER.

  “I was born in 1790, and am consequently in my fifty-third year. My father was a merchant, who married late in life, upon his retirement from business; and I was an only child. Your highness may therefore well imagine that I was spoilt by my affectionate parents, whose mistaken tenderness would never permit me to be thwarted in any inclination which it was possible for them to gratify. Instead of being sent to school at a proper age, I was kept at home, and a master attended daily to give me instruction in the rudiments of education; but as I preferred play to learning, and found that if I pleaded headach my mother invariably suggested the propriety of giving me a holiday, I practised that subterfuge so constantly, that my master’s place was a sinecure, and I could scarcely read two words correctly when I was ten years old.

  “At that period my mother died; and my father, yielding to the representations of his friends, agreed to send me to a boarding-school. The resolution was speedily carried into effect; and during the next six years of my existence, I made up for the previously neglected state of my education. At the school alluded to, and which was in a town about fifteen miles from London, there were youths of all ages between eight and eighteen; and the younger ones thought that nothing could be more manly than to imitate the elder in all shapes and ways. Thus I was scarcely twelve when I began to play pitch and toss, odd man, shuffle-halfpenny, and other games of the kind; and as my father gave me a more liberal weekly allowance of pocket-money than any other lad of my own age possessed, I was enabled to compete with the elder youths in the spirit of petty gambling. The passion grew upon me; and that which I had at first commenced through a merely imitative motive, gradually became a pleasure and delight.

  “I had just completed my sixteenth year, and was one afternoon passing the half-holiday at pitch and toss with several other boys in a remote corner of the spacious play-ground, when an usher came to inform me that my father had just arrived, and was waiting in the parlour. Thither I accordingly repaired; and in a few minutes after I had been closeted with my parent, I learnt that he had just purchased an ensign’s commission for me in the —th Regiment of Light Infantry, and that I was to return home with him that very day to prepare my outfit previously to joining the corps. Thus was I suddenly transformed from a raw school-boy into an officer in His Majesty’s service.

  “Two months afterwards I joined my regiment, which was quartered at Portsmouth. My father had intimated his intention of allowing me three hundred a-year in addition to my pay: I was therefore enabled to keep a couple of horses, and to cut a better figure in all respects than any other subaltern in the regiment. The lieutenant-colonel, who was in command of the regiment, and whose name was Beaumont, was a young man of scarcely eight-and-twenty; but his father was the member for a county, a stanch supporter of the Tories, and therefore possessed of influence sufficient to push his son on with astonishing rapidity. It was a ridiculous—nay, a cruel thing to see lieutenants of five or six-and-thirty, captains of eight-and-forty, and the major of nearly sixty, under the command of this colonel, who was a mere boy in comparison with them. But so it was—and so it is still with many, many regiments in the service; and the fact is most disgraceful to our military system.

  “Colonel Beaumont was mightily annoyed when he heard that a merchant’s son had obtained a commission in his regiment; for, aristocratic as military officers are even now-a-days in their opinions, they were far more illiberal and proud at the time when I entered the army. It was then the year 1807—during the war, and when the deaths of Pitt and Fox, which both occurred in the previous year, had left the country in a very distracted condition. When, however, the colonel learnt that my father was a rich man, that I had a handsome allowance, and was possessed of a couple of fine horses, his humour underwent an immediate change, and he re
ceived me with marked politeness.

  “I had not been many weeks in the regiment when I discovered that several of the officers were accustomed to meet in each other’s rooms for the purpose of private play; and I speedily became one of the party. The colonel himself joined these assemblies, which took place under the guise of ‘wine-parties;’ and though the pay was not high, the losses were frequently large enough to cause serious embarrassment to those officers whose means were not extensive. Thus they were very often compelled to absent themselves from the wine-parties for several weeks until they received fresh supplies from their agents or friends; whereas those who had capital sufficient to continue playing, were sometimes enabled to retrieve in the long run what they had previously lost. This was the case with the colonel, myself, and two or three others; and we soon obtained the credit of being the only winners. Such a reputation was by no means an enviable one; for though not a suspicion existed against the fairness of our play, we were looked on upon with aversion by those officers who never joined the parties, and with something like hatred by those who lost to us. We stood in the light of individuals who made use of the advantages of superior income to prey upon those of far more slender means; and although there was no open hostility towards us, yet we certainly made many private enemies. For the very atmosphere in which gamblers live is tainted by the foulness of their detestable vice!

  “One evening—when I had been about a year in the regiment—it was my turn to give the wine-party in my room; but at the usual hour of meeting no one made his appearance save the colonel. ‘Well,’ he said, laughing, ‘I suppose we cleaned the others out so effectually last night, that they have not a feather left to fly with. But that need not prevent us from having a game together.’—I readily assented, for cards and dice already possessed extraordinary fascinations in my eyes; and we sat down to écarté. At first we played for small stakes, and drank our wine very leisurely; but as I won nearly every game, the colonel became excited, and made more frequent applications to the bottle. Still he lost—and the more he lost, the more wine he took until, getting into a passion, he threw down the cards, exclaiming, ‘Curse my ill-luck to-night! I have already paid over to you a hundred and seventeen guineas at this miserable peddling work; and I will have no more of it. Damn it, Anderson, if you’ve any pluck you’ll let me set you fifty guineas at hazard?’—‘Done!’ cried I; and the cards being thrown aside, we took to the dice. My luck still continued: I won three hundred pounds—all the ready money the colonel had about him, and he then played on credit, scoring his losses on a sheet of paper. His excitement increased to a fearful pitch, and he drank furiously. Still we played on, and the grey dawn of morning found us at our shameful work. At length Beaumont started up, dashed the dice-box upon the floor, crushed it beneath his heel, and uttered a terrible imprecation upon his ill-luck. He drank soda-water to cool himself; and we then examined the account that had been kept. The colonel owed me four thousand four hundred pounds, in addition to the ready money he had already lost. Pale as death, and with quivering lip, he gave me his note of hand for the amount; and having enjoined me in a low hoarse voice not to mention the affair to a single soul, rushed out of the room. I retired to bed, as happy as if I had performed some great and honourable achievement.