 | THE BILLIARD TABLE. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE BILLIARD TABLE.
On one of those clear nights in December, when
the cloudless, blue sky is studded with millions of
brilliant luminaries, shining with more than ordinary
lustre, a young gentleman was seen rapidly pacing
one of the principal streets of Pittsburgh. Had he
been a lover of nature, the beauty of the heavens
must have attracted his observation; but he was
too much wrapt up in his thoughts—or in his cloak
—to throw a single glance towards the silent orbs,
that glowed so beauteously in the firmament. A
piercing wind swept through the streets, moaning
and sighing, as if it felt the pain that it inflicted. The
intense coldness of the weather had driven the usual
loiterers of the night from their accustomed lounging
places. Every door and shutter was closed
against the common enemy, save where the
Black spirits and grey,”
their hues with the shadows of the night; or where
the window of the confectioner, redolent of light,
and fruit, and sugar plumbs, shed its refulgence upon
the half petrified wanderer. The streets were
forsaken, except by a fearless, or necessitous few,
who glided rapidly and silently along, as the spectres
of the night. Aught else than love or murder
would scarcely have ventured to stalk abroad on
such a night; and yet it would be hardly fair to set
down the few, unfortunate stragglers, who faced the
blast on this eventful evening, as lovers or assassins.
Pleasure sends forth her thousands, and necessity
her millions, into all the dangers and troubles of
this boisterous world.
On reaching the outlet of an obscure alley, the
young gentleman paused, cast a suspicious glance
around, as if fearful of observation, and then darted
into the gloomy passage. A few rapid steps brought
him to the front of a wretched frame building, apparently
untenanted, or occupied only as a warehouse,
through whose broken panes the wind whistled,
while the locked doors seemed to bid defiance
to any ingress, but that of the piercing element. It
was in truth a lonely back building, in the heart of
the town; but so concealed by the surrounding
houses, that it might as well have been in the silent
bosom of the forest. A narrow flight of stairs, ascending
the outside of the edifice, led to an upper
story. Ascending these, the youth, opening the
emerged from the gloom of the night, into the light
and life of the Billiard Room.
It was a large apartment, indifferently lighted,
and meanly furnished. In the centre stood the
billiard table, whose allurements had enticed so
many on this evening to forsake the quiet and virtuous
comforts of social life, and to brave the biting
blast, and the not less “pitiless peltings” of parental
or conjugal admonition. Its polished mahogany
frame, and neatly brushed cover of green cloth,
its silken pockets, and party-coloured ivory balls,
presenting a striking constrast to the rude negligence
of the rest of the furniture; while a large
canopy suspended over the table, and intended to
collect and refract the rays of a number of well
trimmed lamps, which hung within its circumference,
shed an intense brilliance over that little spot,
and threw a corresponding gloom upon the surrounding
scene. Indeed if that gay altar of dissipation
had been withdrawn, the temple of pleasure
would have presented rather the desolate appearance
of the house of mourning.
The stained and dirty floor was strewed with
fragments of segars, play-bills, and nut shells; the
walls blackened with smoke, seemed to have witnessed
the orgies of many a midnight revel. A
few candles, destined to illumine the distant recesses
of the room, hung neglected against the walls—
bowing their long wicks, and marking their stations
accumulate through many a long winter night. The
ceiling was hung with cobwebs, curiously intermingled
with dense clouds of tobacco smoke, and
tinged by the straggling rays of light, which occasionally
shot from the sickly tapers. A set of
benches, attached to the walls, and raised sufficiently
high to overlook the table, accommodated
the loungers, who were not engaged at play, and
who sat or reclined—solemnly puffing their segars,
idly sipping their brandy and water—or industriously
counting the chances of the game; but all
observing a profound silence, which would have
done honour to a turbaned divan, and and was well
suited to the important subjects of their contemplation.
Little coteries of gayer spirits laughed and
chatted aside, or made their criticisms on the players
in subdued accents;—any remarks on that subject
being forbiden to all but the parties engaged;
while the marker announced the state of the game,
trimmed the lamps, and supplied refreshments to
the guests.
Mr. St. Clair, the gentleman whom we have
taken the liberty of tracing to this varied scene,
was cordially greeted on his entrance by the
party at the table, who had been denouncing the
adverse elements which had caused the absence
of several of their choicest spirits. The game at
which they were then playing being one which admitted
of an indefinite number of players, St. Clair
with ardour in the fascinating amusement, was soon
lost to all that occurred beyond the little circle of
its witchery.
The intense coldness of the night was so severely
felt in the badly warmed apartment which we
have attempted to describe, that the party broke
up earlier than usual. One by one they dropped
off, until St. Clair and another of the players were
left alone. These, being both skilful, engaged
each other single-handed, and became so deeply
interested, as scarcely to observe the defection of
their companions, until they found the room entirely
deserted. The night was far spent. The marker,
whose services were no longer required, was
nodding over the grate; the candles were wasting
in their sockets, and although a steady brilliance
still fell upon the table, the back ground was as
dark as it was solitary.
The most careless observer might have remarked
the great disparity of character exhibited in the
two players, who now matched their skill in this
graceful and fascinating game. St. Clair was a
genteel young man of about five and twenty. His
manners had all the ease of one accustomed to the
best society; his countenance was open and prepossessing;
his whole demeanour frank and manly.
There was a careless gaiety in his air, happily
blended with an habitual politeness and dignity of
carriage, which added much to the ordinary graces
no trace of thought or genius; for Mr. St. Clair
was one of that large class, who please without design
and without talent, and who, by dint of light
hearts, and graceful exteriors, thrive better in this
world, than those who think and feel more acutely.
Feeling he had, but it was rather amiable than
deep; and his understanding, though solid, was of
that plain and practical kind, which, though adapted
to the ordinary business of life, seldom expands
itself to grasp at any object beyond that narrow
sphere. It was very evident that he had known
neither guile nor sorrow. In his brief journey
through life, he had as yet trod only in flowery
paths; and having passed joyously along, was not
aware that the snares which catch the feet of the
unwary, lie ambushed in the sunniest spots of our
existence. He was a man of small fortune, and
was happily married to a lovely young woman, to
whom he was devotedly attached; and who, when
she bestowed her hand, had given him the entire
possession of a warm and spotless heart. They
had lately arrived at Pittsburg, and being about to
settle in some part of the western country, had determined
to spend the ensuing spring and summer
in this city, where Mrs. St. Clair might enjoy the
comforts of good society until her husband prepared
their future residence for her reception.
His opponent was some ten years older than
himself; a short, thin, straight man—with a keen
persons who may be seen in shoals at the taverns
and gambling houses of a large town, and who
mingle with better people in stage coaches and
steam boats. He had knocked about the world, as
his own expression was, until, like an old coin
whose original impression has been worn off, he
had few marks left by which his birth or country
could be traced. But, like that same coin, the surface
only was altered, the base metal was unchanged.
He aped the gentility which he did not possess,
and was ambitious of shining both in dress and
manners;—but nature, when she placed him in a
low condition, had never intended he should rise
above it.
It is unfortunate for such people, that, like hypocrites
in religion, demagogues in politics, and empirics
of all sorts, they always overact their parts,
and by an excessive zeal betray their ignorance or
knavery. Thus the person in question, by misapplying
the language of his superiors in education,
betrayed his ignorance, and by going to the extreme
of every fashion, was always too well dressed
for a gentleman. In short, he was a gambler—
who roamed from town to town, preying upon
young libertines, and old debauchees; and employing
as much ingenuity in his vocation, as would set
up half a dozen lawyers, and as much industry as
would make the fortunes of half a dozen mechanics.
Such were the players who were left together,
like the last champions at a tournament—who,
after vanquishing all their competitors, now turned
their arms against each other. For a while they
displayed a courtesy, which seemed to be the effect
of a respect for each other's skill. It was natural
to St. Clair; in the gambler it was assumed. The
latter having found the opportunity he had long eagerly
sought, soon began to practise the arts of his
profession. The game of billiards, requiring great
precision of eye, and steadiness of hand, can only
be played well by one who is completely master of
his temper; and the experienced opponent of St.
Clair essayed to touch a string, on which he had
often worked with success.
“You are a married man, I believe?” said he.
“Yes, sir,—”
“That was bad play—you had nearly missed the
ball.”
“You spoke to me just as I was striking,” said
St. Clair good humouredly.
“Oh! I beg pardon. Where did you learn to
play billiards?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Do they understand the game?”
“I have seen some fine players there.”
“Very likely. But I doubt whether they play
the scientific game. New Orleans is the only place.
There they go it in style. See there now! That
wrong ball.”
“No, sir, I was right.”
“Pardon me, sir. I profess to understand this
game. There was an easy cannon on the table,
when you aimed to pocket the white ball.”
“You are mistaken,” said St. Clair.
“Oh, very well! I meant no offence. Now mark
how I shall count off these balls. Do you see that?
There's play for you! You say you are a married
man?”
“I said so. What then?”
“I thought as much by your play.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Why, you married men are accustomed to early
hours, and get sleepy earlier than we do.”
“I did not think I had shown any symptoms of
drowsiness.”
“Oh, no! I meant no allusion. There's another
bad play of yours.”
“You will find, I play sufficiently well, before
we are done.”
“Oh! no doubt. I meant nothing. You play an
elegant game. But then, you married men get
scared, when it grows late. No man can play billiards,
when he is in a hurry to go home. A married
gentleman can't help thinking of the sour looks,
and cross answers, he is apt to get, when he goes
home after midnight.”
“I will thank you to make no such allusions to
but able to beat you as long as you please.”
“Oh, very well! I don't value myself on my
playing. Shall we double the bet? and have another
bottle of wine?”
“If you please.”
“Agreed. Now do your best—or I shall beat
you.”
Pestered by this impertinence, St. Clair lost several
games. His want of success added to his impatience;
and his tormenter continued to vex him
with taunting remarks until his agitation became
uncontrollable. He drank to steady his nerves; but
drink only inflamed his passion. He doubled, trebled,
quadrupled the bet to change his luck; but in
vain. Every desperate attempt urged him towards
his ruin; and it was happy for him, that his natural
good sense enabled him to stop, before his fate was
consummated—though not until he had lost a large
sum.
Vexed with his bad fortune, St. Clair left the
house of dissipation, and turned his reluctant steps
towards his own dwelling. His slow and thoughtful
pace was now far different, from the usual lightness
of his graceful carriage. It was not, that he
feared the frown of his lovely wife; for to him her
brow had always been unclouded, and her lips had
only breathed affection. She was one of those
gentle beings, whose sweetness withers not with the
hour or the season; but endures through all vicissitudes.
It was the recollection of that fervent and forbearing
love, that now pressed like a leaden weight
upon the conscience of the gambler, when he reflected
upon the many little luxuries, and innocent
enjoyments, of which that lovely woman had deprived
herself, while he had squandered vast sums
in selfish dissipation. Having never before lost so
much at play, this view of the case had not occurred
to him; and it now came home to his bosom
with full force—bringing pangs of the keenest self-reproach.
He recalled the many projects of domestic
comfort they had planned together, some of
which must now be delayed by his imprudence.
That very evening they had spoken of the rural
dwelling they intended to inhabit; and Louisa's
taste had suggested a variety of improvements, with
which it should be embellished. When he left her,
he promised to return soon;—and now, after a long
absence, he came, the messenger—if not of ruin—
at least of disappointment. The influence of wine,
and the agitation of his mind, had wrought up the
usually placid feelings of St. Clair, into a state of
high excitement. His imagination wandered to the
past and to the future; and every picture, that he
contemplated, added to his pain.
“I will go to Louisa,” said he. “I will confess
all. Late as it is, she is still watching for me. Poor
girl! She little thinks, that while she has been counting
the heavy hours of my absence, I have been
the bitter cup of affliction for her.”
In this frame of mind, he reached his own door,
and tapped gently for admittance. He was surprised
that his summons was not immediately answered;
for the watchful solicitude of his wife had
always kept her from retiring in his absence. He
knocked again and again—and at last, when his
patience was nearly exhausted, a slip-shod house-maid
came shivering to the door. He snatched the
candle from her hand, and ascended to his chamber.
It was deserted!
“Where is Mrs. St. Clair?” said he to the maid
who had followed him.
“Gone”—“Gone! Where?”
“Why, sir, she went away with a gentleman.”
“Away with a gentleman! Impossible!”
“Yes, sir, indeed she went off with a gentleman
in a carriage.”
“When?—Where did she go?”
“I don't know where she went, sir. She never
intimated a word to me. She started just after you
left home.”
“Did she leave no message?
“No, sir, not any. She was in a great hurry.”
St. Clair motioned the girl to retire, and sunk
into a chair.
“She has left me,” he exclaimed, “cruel, faithless
Louisa! Never did I believe you would have
forsaken me! No, no—it can not be. Louisa
human beings? Impossible!”
He rose, and paced the room—tortured with
pangs of unutterable anguish. He gazed round the
apartment, and his dwelling, once so happy, seemed
desolate as a tomb. He murmured the name of
Louisa, and a thousand joys rose to his recollection.
All—all were blasted! For she, in whose love he had
confided, that pure, angelic being, whose very existence
seemed to be entwined with his own, had
never loved him! She preferred another! He
endeavoured to calm his passions, and to reason deliberately;—but
in vain. Who could have reasoned
at such a moment? He mechanically drew out his
watch;—it was past two o'clock. Where could
Louisa be at such an hour? she had no intimates,
and few acquaintances, in the city. Could any one
have carried her away by force? No, no—the truth
was too plain! Louisa was a faithless woman—
and he a forsaken, wretched, broken-hearted man!
In an agony of grief, he left his house, and wandered
distractedly through the streets, until, chance directed,
he reached the confluence of the rivers. To
this spot he had strolled with his Louisa in their
last walk. There they had stood, gazing at the
Monongahela and the Alleghany uniting their streams
and losing their own names in that of the Ohio; and
Louisa had compared this “meeting of the waters”
to the mingling of two kindred souls, joining to part
no more—until both shall be plunged in the vast
was still a fervent lover—there is no remembrance
so dear, as the recollection of a tender and poetic
sentiment, breathed from the eloquent lips of affection;
and the afflicted husband, when he recalled
the deep and animated tone of feeling, with which
this natural image was uttered by his wife, could
not doubt but that it was the language of her heart.
All his tenderness and confidence revived; and he
turned mournfully, with a full but softened heart,
determined to seek his dwelling, and wait, as patiently
as he could, until the return of day should
bring some explanation of Louisa's conduct.
At this moment, a light appeared, passing rapidly
from the bank of the Alleghany towards the town.
In an instant it was lost—and again it glimmered
among the ancient ramparts of Fort du Quesne—
and then disappeared. He advanced cautiously
towards the ruined fort, and, clambering over the
remains of the breast-work, entered the area—carefully
examining the whole ground by the clear moonlight.
But no animate object was to be seen. A
confused mass of misshapen ridges, and broken
rocks were alone to be discovered—the vestiges of
a powerful bulwark, which had once breasted the
storm of war.
“It is deserted,” said the bereaved husband, “like
my once happy dwelling. The flag is gone—the
music is silent—the strong towers have fallen, and
all is desolate!”
Perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the
light, and indulging a vague suspicion that it was in
some way connected with his own misfortune, he
continued to explore the ruins. A faint ray of light
now caught his eye, and he silently approached it.
He soon reached the entrance of an arched vault,
formerly a powder magazine, from which the light
emanated. The doorway was closed by a few
loose boards, leaned carefully against it, and evidently
intended only to afford a brief concealment; but
a crevice, which had been inadvertently left, permitted
the escape of that straggling beam of light,
which had attracted his attention, and which proceeded
from a small taper placed in a dark lantern.
Two persons sat before it, in one of whom, the astonished
St. Clair recognised his late companion,
the gambler! The other was a coarse, ill-dressed
ruffian, with a ferocious and sinister expression of
countenance, which, at once, bespoke his character.
They were busily examining a number of large keys,
which seemed newly made.
“Bad, awkward, clumsy work!” said the gambler;
“but no odds about that, if they do but fit.”
“It's ill working in the night, and with bad tools,”
rejoined the other. “Me and Dick has been at 'em
for a week, steady—and if them keys won't do, I'll
be hanged, If I can make any better.”
“Hav'n't I been working in the night too, my
boy?” said the gambler. “I have made more money
could earn in a month.”
“Clumsy or no, you put us into the danger always,
and play gentleman yourself.”
“Well, that's right. Don't I always plan every
thing? And don't I always give you a full share?
Come, don't get out of heart. That key will do—
and so will that.—”
St. Clair could listen no longer. Under any
other circumstances, the scene before him would
have excited his curiosity;—but the discovery, that
he had been duped by a sharper—a mere grovelling
felon—added to the sorrows that already filled his
bosom, stung him so keenly, that he had not patience
nor spirits to push his discoveries any further.
“It was for the company of such a wretch,” said
he, as he again mournfully bent his steps homeward,
“that I left my Louisa! Perhaps she may have
guessed the truth. Some eaves-droppers may have
whispered to her, that I was the associates of gamblers
and house-breakers! Shocked at my duplicity
and guilt, she has fled from contamination!—No,
no! She would not have believed it. She would
have told me. She would have heard my explanation.
Her kind heart would have pitied and forgiven
me. Perhaps my neglect has alienated her affection.
I have left her too often alone, and in doubt.
She has suffered what I have felt to-night, the pangs
of suspense and jealousy. She could bear it no
longer, my cruelty has driven her for ever from me!”
He again entered his habitation. How changed!
No hand was extended to receive him; no smile to
welcome him. All was cheerless, cold, and silent.
A candle, nearly exhausted to the socket, was burning
in the parlour, shedding a pale light over the
gloom of the apartment: but that bright, peculiar
orb, that had given warmth and lustre to this little
world, was extinguished! St. Clair shuddered, as
he looked round. Every object reminded him of
the happiness he had destroyed; and he felt himself
a moral suicide. Half dead with cold, fatigue,
and distress, he approached the fire—when a note,
which had fallen from the card-rack to the floor,
caught his eye. The address was to himself, and in
Louisa's hand writing. He tore it open and read as
follows:—
“That agreeable woman, Mrs. B. who has paid
us so many kind attentions, has just sent for me.
She is very ill, and fancies that no one can nurse
her so well as myself. Of course, I can not refuse,
and only regret, that I must part with my dear
Charles for a few hours. Good night.
The feelings of St. Clair can be better imagined
than described, as he thus suddenly passed from a
state of doubt and despair, to the full tide of joy.
He kissed the charming billet, and enacted several
other extravagances, which our readers will excuse
—where his exhausted frame soon sunk to repose.
He rose early the next morning. Louisa was
already in the parlour to welcome him with smiles.
He frankly related to her all that had happened on
the preceding night. Louisa's affectionate heart
sympathised in the pain he had suffered, and tears
stole down her cheek which was pale with watching.
“Do not tell me,” said St. Clair, “that I have
only suffered that which you have often endured.
No—you will not reproach me—but I know it, I
feel it; and I here renounce gaming for ever! Never
again shall you have cause to complain of my dissipation
or neglect.”
He kept his word; and acknowledged that the
peace and joy of his after days were cheaply purchased
with the miseries of that eventful night.
| THE BILLIARD TABLE. The soldier's bride and other tales | |