 | Chapter XXVII.
The Ruined Gamester. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
27. Chapter XXVII.
The Ruined Gamester.
“IS this true, that you tell me?—a child—a daughter
still living?”
These words were spoken by Charles Richmond to the
niece of Mordecai Kolephat, as they sat together in the
saloon which was their usual place of meeting. The
man's eyes were fixed upon the face of Rebecca, with a
gaze of singular intensity, beneath which the young girl
almost trembled.
“I overheard my uncle relating all that I have told
you, Charles, and, indeed, it frightened me nearly to
death.”
“It may be a fraud, Rebecca—an effort to extort
money.”
“Oh, no, indeed. Uncle has changed so much within
a few days. He wanders up and down the house continually,
and scarcely ever speaks to me. It's true—it's all
true, Charles; and that child, I know, will be found—
probably a beggar-girl, or something of the kind! Isn't
it dreadful?”
“And your uncle is rejoiced greatly, no doubt,” said
Richmond, shading his eyes, as he looked earnestly at his
way for some coarse, low-bred girl?”
“I'm almost crazy about it. If it were not that you
love me, I should die with vexation. Dear Charles! I
thought I should be so happy in having uncle's property—
not for myself, really—no, indeed, but for you—indeed,
Charles, I” —
The lover remained silent. He was absorbed in thought,
and the low, passionate tones of Rebecca's voice appeared
to fall unheeded on his ear. It might be that a shadow
of what was to come fell across the girl's soul, as she
noticed his abstracted manner, for a sudden sigh agitated
her breast, and she paused irresolutely. Nevertheless,
whatever might be Richmond's reflections, he was too
much an adept in dissimulation to permit his countenance
to reveal them. He presently resumed the conversation,
in the light phrases of flattery and adulation which were
as music to the fond girl's ears, and thus the interview
passed, as many previous ones had, till the time for parting
came, and Rebecca hurried homeward, more than ever
a slave to the wiles of one who counterfeited all that she,
poor self-deceived, too deeply felt. Richmond left her, a
few squares from her uncle's residence, with his usual well-dissembled
reluctance; but, as he walked hurriedly away,
a frown dark as night gathered upon his forehead, and
the muscles of his full lip twitched convulsively.
“Curses!” he muttered, “have I played the fool with
this school-girl to no purpose, after all? A lost child!—
to rob me of the prize so nearly within my reach?”
He clenched his white teeth, and turning abruptly from
intersecting street, and ascended the steps of a house that
formed one of an elegant block. At a quick pull of the
bell-wire, the door was opened by a negro in livery, who,
bowing deferentially, ushered him to the interior. Apparently,
Richmond was no stranger in the house, for he at
once passed into a richly-furnished parlor, and thence to a
rear apartment, in which were several well-dressed men
grouped around a table, that they concealed from view,
while others lounged upon velvet couches, in various attitudes.
Upon a marble table in one corner stood various
liquors, in decanters of finely-cut glass. Though it was
mid-day without, the room was lit with gas, streaming
from a magnificent chandelier, and the windows were
draped with heavy curtains. Richmond nodded, as he
entered, to several whom he seemed to recognize, and
then, pausing at the table, lifted a glass, which was at
once filled with brandy by an obsequious waiter who stood
in attendance.
“Do you not play to-day, Richmond?” asked a young
man, approaching him, as he threw himself upon a sofa,
after quaffing the undiluted liquor.
“I may—presently,” he answered, absently. Then, as
if rousing himself, he said—“Have you luck?
“Indifferent,” returned the young man. “The play has
been deep all day, and I have ventured nothing of consequence.”
Richmond rose, and, with the other, approached the
group who surrounded the faro-table—men whom he knew
well, as they moved in the same circles with himself—
grey-haired men—but all more or less haggard, and with
nerves overstrung by the excitement of gaming. Only one
man at the table appeared to be unperturbed, and that
was the dealer of cards, whose countenance was wholly
expressionless in the light that fell from the gas jets
above him.
Richmond and his companion watched the changing
game for several minutes before either of them designated
a card, and then both staked largely, and both won.
“We are in the vein, perhaps,” said the former, and they
went on, winning still, and became mingled and undistinguishable
in the gambling coterie, who thronged about
the bank, under the sickly, artificial light that revealed
their set features, and disclosed, at times, what they would
fain conceal—the demoniac manifestations of avarice and
greed, of exultation, rage, and disappointment, of fear,
and often of despair.
The game went on in that quiet luxurious room—the
game in which souls were played for, even as in the life-game
of the world without. It was no new thing to
Richmond. Thither, during years, had he come, in day
and in night, to yield to that deadly fascination which, by
slow but sure degrees, had brought him to the verge of
ruin. It was no new thing; but on this day he was, as
gamesters, in their superstition, term it, “in luck,” and
resolved to tempt Fortune to her utmost. So the hours
wore away, and the play went on heavily, until Charles
Richmond, who had entered the house nearly a ruined spendthrift,
found himself the possessor of many thousands.
Many new faces took the place of others around that
faro-table, as the hours fled silently, but Charles Richmond,
infatuated with his fortune, continued his play,
until, at length, there came a reverse, and he began to
lose as heavily as he had won. The uncertain goddess
who presides over the destinies of the gamester seemed
suddenly to have withdrawn her smiles, and the heaps of
counters that had accumulated to his credit, diminished
speedily as they had swollen. With his changing fortune,
Richmond's infatuation seemed to increase. Though a
practised gamester, a fiendish excitement grew upon him,
as again and again he flung his stakes upon the losing
cards. He spoke not, save to indicate, at times, his bet,
and then his voice was hoarse and broken; but ever and
anon he beckoned to the servant for the strong drink,
which was as fuel to his appetite for play. Many there
were, among the lookers-on, who had often seen Richmond
win and lose before, but always with the placid smile of
one who could preserve to himself the advantage of calmness;
but these observers now exchanged meaning glances,
perhaps of pity, but far likelier of satisfaction; for the
bank had won largely of them all, and misfortune courts
fellowship. Thus passed the day, though, in that strange
room, day and night were unknown, save by the strokes
of a bronze clock, upon a bracket, regularly chronicling
the hours during which fortunes changed their owners,
and peace vanished from many a bosom that was henceforth
to harbor only unquiet.
But all things must have a term; and at last the pallid
features of Charles Richmond waxed haggard and unnatural,
more frequently lifted to his mouth the replenished goblet
of brandy. Therefore, none were surprised when, as the
relentless dealer swept a tall pile of his crimson counters
to the ever winning bank, the gamester suddenly dashed
his hand to his brow, and muttered in a hollow tone, “I'll
play no more;” then turned, and, staggering, would have
fallen to the floor, had not his relaxed frame been suddenly
upheld by a young man who had been for some time
regarding him intently.
“Peyton!' gasped the gamester, as he recognized his
supporter, who at once assisted him to a sofa. “Peyton,
I am ruined!” Then, overcome by the effect of his reckless
potations, he sank back unconscious.
“I looked for this,” said the young man, in a low
voice, as if addressing himself. “This, Helen, is your
husband!”
There was no exultation in the feeling with which the
spendthrift Peyton regarded the rival for whom his love,
years before, had been rejected by Helen Ellwood. Indeed,
as he had watched the desperate gamester during
the last hour, the young man's reflections had partaken
more of sorrow and pity for the poor wife than of satisfaction
in speculating upon the husband's impending ruin.
He had long known of Richmond's excesses at play, but
little dreamed he, even now, that the man before him was
not only himself impoverished, but that he had beggared
the woman who had bestowed her fortune and her love
upon one so unworthy of either.
“You must leave this place,” said Peyton, when, after
sustaining the wretched man, who, in the passiveness of
helpless intoxication, submitted to his control, he called
one of the lackeys to his assistance, and together they
supported Richmond to a carriage at the door, which he
then entered himself, ordering the driver to convey them
to that home where, his heart told him, their arrival would
bring sorrow and shame to the one who had been once too
dear to him.
It was near midnight when the coach reached Mrs.
Richmond's mansion, and to the quick summons a manservant
opened the door. Peyton had hoped that, at so
late an hour, the wife would have retired; but Helen,
anxious and alarmed, appeared upon the staircase, as her
intoxicated husband was borne into the hall. The light
from a chandclier fell upon his pale features, his disordered
hair, his sinking frame, and to the poor lady's
apprehensions, some calamity at once was presented. She
saw not her former suitor—saw nothing but the one
drooping form of her husband, as, flying down the stairs,
she flung herself upon his bosom, crying—“Charles!
beloved Charles!”
Peyton stood beside her, as she clung to the ruined
gamester, sinking on her knees beside his helpless frame,
which the servant supported. He smiled bitterly, and
said—
“Mrs. Richmond, compose yourself! Your husband is
not bodily injured; but he had better be removed to
bed.”
Helen had discovered, ere her ancient lover spoke, that
now fallen insensible at her feet. A quick flush of shame
crimsoned her face, and her voice trembled, in replying—
“Mr. Peyton, pardon me! I thank you for your attention
to Charles. “And you will”—she hesitated. “It is
so terrible a thing to be known,” she added.
Peyton divined at once all the wife would have said—
her anxiety lost the world should hear of Richmond's
errors. He took the hand which she extended to him,
half-lifted it to his lips, and then, recollecting himself,
said, hurriedly—
“I leave him in your care. Good-night, Mrs. Richmond.”
Helen answered by a mute look of gratitude, and then
Peyton departed, with the memory of his old love in his
heart, causing pity for the wife to struggle with indignation
against the husband.
“Charles! beloved Charles! awake! speak to me!”
murmured the wretched woman, as she stooped over her
husband, who lay in a swoon upon the carpet, his head
supported by the old servant, who endeavored to raise
him. With difficulty, after summoning more assistance,
Richmond was carried to his own apartment; but for a
long time, after being laid upon the bed, he remained, as
he had fallen, rigid and insensible, Helen bending over
him with sobs and prayers. Once he seemed to revive,
his breath came thickly, and a shiver ran through his
limbs, but immediately afterwards the lethargy appeared
deeper; till at length Helen, greatly alarmed, dispatched
one of the servants for a physician, who, on arriving, at
seemed to threaten death. Richmond at last opened his
eyes, but his wandering glances betokened that his mind
was as disordered as his body.
“Some sudden and extreme excitement, added to stimulus,
has induced this attack, which might, indeed, have
been fatal,” said the physician. “Has your husband's
mind been agitated, of late, Mrs. Richmond?”
“Alas! he never confided aught to me,” almost rose to
Helen's lips; but she murmured only a negative to the
doctor's question. “His health has appeared good,” she
added. “He has not complained.”
“His physical health is good, to all appearance,”
responded Dr. C—, “but some strong mental agitation
has brought on this paroxysm. He must be kept very
quiet.”
Richmond opened his eyes, and their glance flitted
restlessly from Helen to the doctor and the servants,
seemingly without recognition.
“Alas! he does not know me! Oh! this is dreadful!”
exclaimed the wife, throwing herself upon her knees
beside him. “Charles! dear Charles!”
“My dear madam, command yourself. He must be
kept very still,” said Dr. C—, in a sympathizing tone.
Then, after a few requisite directions to the servant who
attended, he took his leave. Helen, as the door closed
behind him, sobbed heavily, and leaned her head upon
her husband's breast.
Hours thus passed away, interrupted only by the entrance
and withdrawal of the attendant, with Dr. C—'s
watching his face, as he lay with closed eyes and
lips parted, breathing heavily, and, it seemed, painfully;
for, at intervals, his respiration grew thick, and his throat
was spasmodically contracted—at which times, the wife
would bend wildly forward, crying—“Charles! dear
Charles!”
Richmond reclined on his back, his hands beside him,
the fingers slightly clenched. Helen had twined one of her
delicate arms about his neck, supporting his head, while
the other rested lightly on his breast, and wiped away,
anxiously, the heavy sweat that gathered on his forehead.
The chandelier lights cast a subdued radiance through
their shaded globes, a time-piece ticked slowly in the next
apartment, and against the window-blinds pattered drops
of rain, that had begun falling since midnight.
Suddenly Richmond started from the pillow, and uttered
a sharp cry, his eyes opening, at the same time, in a wide
stare. helen threw her arms around him, but he wrestled
violently, endeavoring to release himself.
“Charles! my husband! lie down! do not excite yourself—you
are ill, dear love!—let me implore you” —
“Give me another chance! I double the stakes! I've
won—I've won!”
“Charles! husband!”
“Let the Jew take my bet—I'll play against him till
midnight. Hah! they say I murdered Helen!—it is a
lie!”
It was pitiable to behold the brilliant Charles Richmond,
tossing and struggling on his bed, as bewildered
clung to his bosom, pressed her lips to his fevered brow,
and strove, with tender words, to recall his wandering
senses. But the frenzy, instead of diminishing, seemed to
wax in power, till at length the man shook her roughly
from him, and leaping from the bed, strode violently to
and fro on the floor, beating his breast and forehead
with clenched hands. The wife followed his footsteps,
clasping momently his arm, unheeding the fury with which
he repulsed her. Still she murmured, “Charles! beloved!
it is Helen—it is your wife, who loves you better than all
the world!”
“Give me my coat—my hat!—do you hear?” cried
Richmond, abruptly, glancing, as he spoke, upon the old
servant, who trembled, in witnessing his master's fierce
derangement.
“Dear husband! lie down, lie down, I pray!” pleaded
Helen; but the maniac laughed, and muttered—
“I'll have my revenge, this time! Rebecca! you—
you shall be my fortune” —
Rebecca! the name of a woman, breathed from her
husband's lips, fell like ice upon Helen's heart; but she
still clasped Richmond's arm, and prayed that he would
lie down—that he would rest.
“For the love of Heaven, Charles, listen to your wife!”
“Wife!—I have no wife!” exclaimed the gamester.
“She is dead—and now, sweet Rebecca! we can be
married.”
Again! that woman's name! Will Helen's heart bear
all, and break not?” She pleaded still—
“Charles! you must not agitate yourself—O hear
me!”
But Richmond, in his delirium, lifted his hand, and,
ere the servant could rush forward to restrain him, struck
the clinging woman twice upon her forehead, and she fell
by his side upon the floor. Then, as the paroxysm gave
way to weakness, he staggered, and fell back upon the
bed.
| Chapter XXVII.
The Ruined Gamester. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |