The Marrow of Tradition

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  XVII

  THE SOCIAL ASPIRATIONS OF CAPTAIN McBANE

  It was only eleven o'clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, andfeeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon'sdebauch and the snubbing he had received at Clara's hands, directed themajor's coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, todrive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to thestable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house,which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant courtesy aswas possible without an open rupture.

  Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction to fill inan hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing inhis way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in anarmchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. UponDelamere's making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed asmall game of poker in his own room.

  McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We havealready seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, whichhe had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired byassociation with men about town. He had determined to assault society inits citadel by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which mostgentlemen of the best families of the city were members.

  The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership asocial cult, the temple of which was located just off the main street ofthe city, in a dignified old colonial mansion which had housed it forthe nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained itsexistence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions andspecial usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the _sine qua non_ ofhigh social standing, and was conditional upon two of threethings,--birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential,but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money.

  Having decided, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum,the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of theClarendon's membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it,looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object ofhis desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection,having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, andhaving long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man ofsuperficially amiable disposition, vicious instincts, lax principles,and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a memberof the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirelyopposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and hadsmoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once.

  Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheathim at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merelynoted it as something which at some future time might prove useful. Thecaptain had not suffered by Delamere's deviation from the straight lineof honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might beexpected of a young man who had devoted most of his leisure for severalyears to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation.During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and hadescaped few sorts of defilement.

  The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearingupon his countenance an expression in which the captain read aright thecraving for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity forwhich he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose anopportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither wasit necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to pressupon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the tablewithin convenient reach.

  The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts,after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.

  Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match forMcBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost allhis money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notesof hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in hisapartment.

  When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gamingtable at two o'clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane aconsiderable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, whowas entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits ofpaper to which Delamere had attached his signature. "Just one thousanddollars even," he remarked.

  The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamereas though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water. Fora moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world withwhich to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance fromhis grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day,he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.

  "I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose."Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling to take advantage of aclever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes ofhand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper.Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if youare around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you uponanother subject."

  "Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.

  Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had trieddesperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane haddiscovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain'splay had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit,and could not complain of the outcome.

  The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntlyrequested the latter to propose him for membership in the ClarendonClub.

  Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at thepresumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts.McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, butnot good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He wouldinstinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some oneelse; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor forthis impossible social aspirant? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar,cold-blooded attempt on McBane's part to use his power over him for apersonal advantage.

  "Well, now, Captain McBane," returned Delamere diplomatically, "I'venever put any one up yet, and it's not regarded as good form for soyoung a member as myself to propose candidates. I'd much rather you'dask some older man."

  "Oh, well," replied McBane, "just as you say, only I thought you had cutyour eye teeth."

  Delamere was not pleased with McBane's tone. His remark was notacquiescent, though couched in terms of assent. There was a sneeringsavagery about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure,in McBane's power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fellfrom heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare goto his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that hisgrandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman'sgame, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well,have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous sum to be lost atcards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr.Delamere's creed that a gentleman should not make debts that he was notreasonably able to pay.

  There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to agentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr.Delamere's perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might haverisked a confession and thrown himself on his grandfather's mercy; buthe owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbedimagination, loomed up in alarming number and amount. He had recentlyobserved signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of theclub. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice, he was addictedto several subsidiary forms of iniquity, which in case of a scandal weremore than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeablycaught in the net of his own hypocrisy. His grandfather believed him amodel of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have hisgrandfather undec
eived.

  He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she couldgive him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of makinghim wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for alegacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhaustedif she lived long enough,--some old people were very tenacious of life!She was a careless old woman, too, he reflected, and very foolishly kepther money in the house. Latterly she had been growing weak and childish.Some day she might be robbed, and then his prospective inheritance fromthat source would vanish into thin air!

  With regard to this debt to McBane, if he could not pay it, he could atleast gain a long respite by proposing the captain at the club. True, hewould undoubtedly be blackballed, but before this inevitable event hisname must remain posted for several weeks, during which interval McBanewould be conciliatory. On the other hand, to propose McBane would arousesuspicion of his own motives; it might reach his grandfather's ears, andlead to a demand for an explanation, which it would be difficult tomake. Clearly, the better plan would be to temporize with McBane, withthe hope that something might intervene to remove this cursedobligation.

  "Suppose, captain," he said affably, "we leave the matter open for a fewdays. This is a thing that can't be rushed. I'll feel the pulse of myfriends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair canbe accomplished much more easily."

  "Well, that's better," returned McBane, somewhat mollified,--"if you'lldo that."

  "To be sure I will," replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, ifnot too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity.

  McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicableterms.

  "We'll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom," said McBane,with significant emphasis, when they separated.

  Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moraldeterioration where, while principles were of little moment, theexternals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance.McBane had never before been so personal.

  He had addressed the young aristocrat first as "Mr. Delamere," then, astheir acquaintance advanced, as "Delamere." He had now reached theabbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lowerdepth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname bywhich to address him. He did not like McBane's manner,--it wascharacterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. Hewould go over to the club and try his luck with some honestplayer,--perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from hisembarrassment.

  He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,--and found it empty! In thepresent state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.

  A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where hefound Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr.Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about twoo'clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.

  "Hello, Sandy," exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he wasvery far from feeling, "what are you doing with those gorgeousgarments?"

  "I'm a-dustin' of 'em, Mistuh Tom, dat's w'at I'm a-doin'. Dere'ssomethin' wrong 'bout dese clo's er mine--I don' never seem ter be ableter keep 'em clean no mo'. Ef I b'lieved in dem ole-timey sayin's, I'd'low dere wuz a witch come here eve'y night an' tuk 'em out an' wo' 'em,er tuk me out an' rid me in 'em. Dere wuz somethin' wrong 'bout datcakewalk business, too, dat I ain' never unde'stood an' don' know howter 'count fer, 'less dere wuz some kin' er dev'lishness goin' on datdon' show on de su'face."

  "Sandy," asked Tom irrelevantly, "have you any money in the house?"

  "Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter takeout ter Belleview in de mawnin."

  "I mean money of your own."

  "I got a qua'ter ter buy terbacker wid," returned Sandy cautiously.

  "Is that all? Haven't you some saved up?"

  "Well, yas, Mistuh Tom," returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, "dere'sa few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,--notmuch, suh."

  "I'm a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money rightaway. Grandfather isn't here, so I can't get any from him. Let me takewhat you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I'll return it with goodinterest."

  "Now, Mistuh Tom," said Sandy seriously, "I don' min' lettin' you takemy money, but I hopes you ain' gwine ter use it fer none er demrakehelly gwines-on er yo'n,--gamblin' an' bettin' an' so fo'th. Yo'grandaddy 'll fin' out 'bout you yit, ef you don' min' yo' P's an' Q's.I does my bes' ter keep yo' misdoin's f'm 'im, an' sense I b'en tu'nedout er de chu'ch--thoo no fault er my own, God knows!--I've tol' lies'nuff 'bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain't right, Mistuh Tom, itain't right! an' I only does it fer de sake er de fam'ly honuh, dat MarsJohn sets so much sto' by, an' ter save his feelin's; fer de doctuh sayshe mus'n' git ixcited 'bout nothin', er it mought bring on anotherstroke."

  "That's right, Sandy," replied Tom approvingly; "but the family honor isas safe in my hands as in grandfather's own, and I'm going to use themoney for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuinedistress; and I'll hand it back to you in a day or two,--perhapsto-morrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy,--that's a good darky!"

  "All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tellyou, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo'ked fer yo' gran'daddy, he hasnever called me a 'darky' ter my face, suh. Co'se I knows dere's w'itefolks an' black folks,--but dere's manners, suh, dere's manners, an'gent'emen oughter be de ones ter use 'em, suh, ef dey ain't ter befergot enti'ely!"

  "There, there, Sandy," returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, "I beg yourpardon! I've been associating with some Northern white folks at thehotel, and picked up the word from them. You're a high-toned coloredgentleman, Sandy,--the finest one on the footstool."

  Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was inthe house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returnedwith a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock,from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills andcoins.

  "You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I'll know how much I'm lettin' you have."

  "This isn't worth anything," said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills."It's Confederate money."

  "So it is, suh. It ain't wuth nothin' now; but it has be'n money, an'who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills isgreenbacks,--dey'll pass all right, I reckon."

  The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrusteagerly into his pocket.

  "You won't say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy," hesaid, as he turned away.

  "No, suh, co'se I won't! Does I ever tell 'im 'bout yo' gwines-on? Ef Idid," he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street,"I wouldn' have time ter do nothin' e'se ha'dly. I don' know whetherI'll ever see dat money agin er no, do' I 'magine de ole gent'emanwouldn' lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain' gwine ter tell him,whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes' so wrop' up in dat boydat I b'lieve it'd jes' break his hea't ter fin' out how he's be'ngwine on. Doctuh Price has tol' me not ter let de ole gent'eman gitixcited, er e'se dere's no tellin' w'at mought happen. He's be'n goodter me, he has, an' I'm gwine ter take keer er him,--dat's w'at I is,ez long ez I has de chance."

  * * * * *

  Delamere went directly to the club, and soon lounged into the card-room,where several of the members were engaged in play. He sauntered here andthere, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that thegreetings he received were less cordial than those usually exchangedbetween the members of a small and select social club. Finally, whenAugustus, commonly and more appropriately called "Gus," Davidson cameinto the room, Tom stepped toward him.

  "Will you take a hand in a game, Gus?"

  "Don't care if I do," said the other. "Let's sit over here."

  Davidson led the way to a table near the fireplace, near which stood atall screen, which at times occup
ied various places in the room.Davidson took the seat opposite the fireplace, leaving Delamere with hisback to the screen.

  Delamere staked half of Sandy's money, and lost. He staked the rest, anddetermined to win, because he could not afford to lose. He had justreached out his hand to gather in the stakes, when he was charged withcheating at cards, of which two members, who had quietly entered theroom and posted themselves behind the screen, had secured specificproof. A meeting of the membership committee was hastily summoned, itbeing an hour at which most of them might be found at the club. To avoida scandal, and to save the feelings of a prominent family, Delamere wasgiven an opportunity to resign quietly from the club, on condition thathe paid all his gambling debts within three days, and took an oath neverto play cards again for money. This latter condition was made at thesuggestion of an elderly member, who apparently believed that a man whowould cheat at cards would stick at perjury.

  Delamere acquiesced very promptly. The taking of the oath was easy. Thepayment of some fifteen hundred dollars of debts was a different matter.He went away from the club thoughtfully, and it may be said, in fulljustice to a past which was far from immaculate, that in his presentthoughts he touched a depth of scoundrelism far beyond anything of whichhe had as yet deemed himself capable. When a man of good position, ofwhom much is expected, takes to evil courses, his progress is apt toresemble that of a well-bred woman who has started on the downwardpath,--the pace is all the swifter because of the distance which must betraversed to reach the bottom. Delamere had made rapid headway; havinghitherto played with sin, his servant had now become his master, andheld him in an iron grip.