University of Virginia Library

22. XXII
THE LONG GAME.

It was a clear, cold evening in the first week in December,
some two months before Warren Hereford was
admitted to the bar. Simon Goldthwaite sat alone in
his private counting-room, when Harry Cunningham
pushed open the door, and walked hesitatingly to his
side. “Mr. Goldthwaite,” he said, in a tone as if the
request was one he scarcely cared to make, “could
you just as well pay me the rest of my year's salary
to-night?”

“Why, you had fifty dollars a week since; there is
only one hundred and fifty more to come, and it isn't
all due till the first of January.”

“I know it,” the young man answered, carelessly.
“I suppose I may as well leave the last fifty in your
hands till New Year's, but I want a hundred to-night
pretty badly. This housekeeping is expensive business.”

“So it is;” Simon smiled the cheerful, benevolent
smile that had become habitual to him of late. “I

suppose we must let you have the money,” and he
placed the amount in his hands. The young man
seized it eagerly, and was turning away. “Wait a
moment,” said the indefatigable accountant—“here is
the receipt to sign.”

“So there is, I beg your pardon. I had quite forgotten
it.” As he left the store, the bells rung for
nine. He had persuaded his sister Kate, as he had
done many times of late, to sleep at Brooklyn with her
friend Emmie Hereford. On these occasions his excuse
had been, that he would be engaged until very late,
and it was too lonely for her to remain alone. A passing
wonder as to the nature of these engagements
sometimes crossed Dick's mind, but their result was
so very pleasant, that he forbore to ask any questions.
Not a word of love had Dick ever uttered to the
beautiful Kate Cunningham, and yet she knew as fully
that she was the one joy and hope of his life, as he
exulted in the consciousness that he was beloved in
return. No words had been needed. His duty to his
family forbade him to think of marriage for the present,
and the day when he could ask her to share his
future might be very far distant. And yet they were
both satisfied. For more than three years he had seen
her almost daily. She went in and out of his mother's
house like a daughter, and he well knew that his
faintest tone could call a blush to that eloquent cheek,

his lightest look cause the fringed eyelids to droop
over those hazel eyes.

Harry Cunningham did not turn his footsteps in
the direction of his own home. Standing for a
moment in front of the store, he buttoned his overcoat,
and drew on his gloves, and then walked hurriedly
up the street. “I cannot fail this time,” he
muttered to himself. “I'll stake so little, I'll be so
prudent. If I do win back what I have lost, I'll
never set foot inside those accursed doors again.
Poor Kate, she mustn't suffer for my fault. She little
dreams why she has been sent from home. That
would be worst of all to her pure nature.” He paused
at length before the door of what appeared to be an
elegant private mansion, and rung the bell. He spoke
in a low tone to the man who answered his summons,
and was instantly admitted. There was nothing save
the exquisitely carved faro table in the centre of the
apartment which he sought, to distinguish it from the
drawing-room of any fashionable mansion. Imperial
carpets, sumptuous divans of crimson brocade, massive
mirrors, pictures, chandeliers, girandoles, every thing
was there to minister to the refined habits of the most
luxurious. Six weeks ago, he had been introduced for
the first time into this scene of enchantment, by a
fashionable friend. He had been dazzled by the
unaccustomed splendor which surrounded him. Contrary
to the remonstrances of his friend, a really kindhearted

fellow, who having plenty of money, could
afford to play with a good grace his usual part of
loser, Harry had persisted in learning the game. He
had the fullest confidence that he could scheme more
wisely, nor was this confidence one whit abated, though
he had already lost two hundred dollars of the hard
earned money which was to have secured the next
year's comforts of his orphan sister. He would win
that back, he said hopefully to himself, and then play
no more. “Hallo, Cunningham,” “How are you, my
fine fellow?” “Good evening, mon ami,” came in
varied tones from the men surrounding the table.
They were some half-dozen in number, and all what
the world calls gentlemen; rich men, who considered
the loss of a few hundreds a mere pastime. It was yet
early in the evening. Several members of the club
had not as yet reached their place of rendezvous, and
there had been no very heavy playing. The banker
stood over the table shuffling the cards. He was tall
and slender, really fashionable-looking, with a face that
would have been handsome, but for the sinister expression
which disfigured it. “Well, gentlemen,” he said,
lifting his cold gray eyes, “who bets?”

“I,” exclaimed one whom his companions addressed
as “Slingsby,” and whom they seemed to consider
their “crack” player. “I go five dollars on the queen
of hearts.” He laid the amount on the table, and
silently Harry Cunningham laid an equal amount

beside it. “What, you bet against me, do you?”
cried Slingsby, with an assured air.

“No, I am going to back you.”

“And I, it seems, gentlemen, am to have the honor
of betting against both of you, for want of a better opponent,”
said the banker, in his most deferential tones.
He placed ten dollars upon the table. “Lost, gentlemen,”
he said, with a sweet smile, raking the money
towards him, as the winning card proved to be the ace
of spades.

“Bah,” exclaimed Slingsby, in nowise daunted,
“no wonder I lost. Dame Fortune was ashamed of
me, for staking such a paltry sum. I'll go twenty, this
time, on the same lady.”

“And I will back you once more.” Mr. Goldthwaite
had paid Harry twenty five dollar bills. He
drew the roll from his pocket, and separated four from
the rest with nervous eagerness. Again they lost.
“Fifty on the same card,” exclaimed Slingsby, with
imperturbable coolness; then, turning to a companion,
he said, in a low tone, “look now, I will bet on that card
till it wins, or I lose every dollar in my possession.”

As if in some sort fascinated by this resolute daring,
young Cunningham took five more bills from his
pile, and placed them on the board. “I'll try twenty-five
this time,” he said, with a hollow laugh. The
banker placed seventy-five beside it, covering both
stakes, and the king of hearts fell upon the table.

Slingsby took it up with a light laugh. “They twain,
of course his wife can't be far behind him. I'll try a
hundred this time, and see if she'll think that worth
coming for.” Cunningham staked his remaining fifty,
his last dollar, and once again they lost. Harry grew
pale as death. He leaned silently over the back of
a chair, with his glittering eyes fixed on the cards.
Even Slingsby became somewhat excited. “I've said
it, and I'll do it,” he muttered in a low tone, “here
are two hundred on the queen of hearts.”

“Again?” queried the banker, politely; “it seems
rather a losing card this evening.” He covered it with
a half mocking smile,—and Slingsby won. “If I
had had only two hundred dollars I might have won
all back,” thought Harry Cunningham, bitterly, as he
turned to the door. “Going,” cried several voices.

“Yes, unless some one has some money he wants
to lend.”

“Hardly, to one so much in luck as yourself,” was
the reply, and he passed out into the night. Dark,
repining thoughts were in his mind as he walked along.
He cursed himself, he cursed fortune, he almost cursed
God. He reached his home at length. He knew
Kate had left it not many hours before. There was
still a cheerful fire in the grate. An easy chair was
drawn before it, and there were his slippers which she
had worked. On the table stood some simple refreshment
that she had prepared, and on the little stand

beside her work-table lay a Bible. It had been their
mother's once, and for her sake his father had preserved
it with almost superstitious care. At his death
it had been given to Kate. A folded paper lay between
the leaves; she had evidently been reading it. Not for
worlds would he have opened those pages. He knew
that every line would fall on his heart like an accusation,
but by some indescribable magnetism the cover
fascinated his eyes, and he sat there, and looked at it.
“She is an angel,” fell from his lips at length. “That
girl is too good for earth; oh God, why am I not more
worthy to take care of her? Only fifty dollars left,
and I agreed to pay rent in advance—what will become
of us?” Then he rose and paced the small room
backward and forward, now and then groaning aloud
in his agony. Once he sank on his knees, but he
sprang up again, and cried with a bitter sneer, “Yes,
you had better pray, Harry Cunningham; as well
might the Arch-Fiend preach sermons. As if God
would hear you!” After a time, his features kindled
as if with a new thought. He drew his chair to the
table, and sat down, bowing his face upon his folded
arms. For a full hour he remained motionless. The
spirits of good and evil were battling in his soul. The
good spirit said, “Go to Kate, confess all; promise
never to enter again that place of gilded infamy. She
will pity and forgive you; you need fear no reproach
from her loving heart. Then borrow money of Mr.
Goldthwaite; he is good and generous; and when he
knows the circumstances, he will lend it freely. Live
frugally, till you are once more free from debt.” Over
and over again, the good spirit pleaded thus, and every
time the bad spirit answered, “But only consider the
shame, the humiliation of making such a confession;
fancy yourself obliged to submit to the reproof of
every man more fortunate than yourself. Think how
Kate will grieve; think how long before you can recover
the lost confidence of those you value most. If
you could only try it once more, with money enough,
you could not fail to win.”

That was the strongest thought after all, that with
one more trial he should be sure to succeed. He
could not lose always; no one did. Had he not failed
this time, merely for want of a little more gold?
another hundred would have surely saved him. If he
could only borrow it, but no one would lend him the
large amount he needed. Then the bad spirit suggested,
faintly, “You have had papers from the firm
to copy, you know their signature. Many another in
your place would sign their name to a note, and get it
discounted.” Again and again the thought recurred
to him. He persuaded himself at first that he was
quite a hero not to yield to the temptation. Then he
thought discontentedly that they ought to be willing;
that it would be his salvation, and it could never do
them any hurt, for he was sure to restore it; there

could be no doubt of that; sure as the sun. Finally
he ended by taking a sheet of paper, and commencing
to imitate their signature. After a few attempts, the
counterfeit was so successful that the firm themselves
could scarcely have detected the difference. After a
while he took from his desk some unfilled notes which
chanced to be in his possession. His hand was very
like Dick Hereford's since those lessons in penmanship
he had taken. That would be another thing in his
favor, he thought, suppose he were going to forge a
note. Dick prepared such things nearly always for
the firm's signature, and if he were to go to a broker
with whom they were accustomed to deal, the familiar
handwriting would aid to deceive them. Of course
he would do nothing of the kind, and yet, if he did,
he could take it up long before it fell due. He filled
up one of the notes. “If I were going to have any
thing,” he said to himself, “I would like a thousand
dollars. Then before trying what I could do even,
I'd pay the rent here for Katie, pay up all our little
debts, and get her a good stock of provision, and then
I'd have seven hundred left. With that, why with
that I could make my fortune.” He had been writing
as he spoke, and now he read—“Ninety days after
date we promise to pay to the order of John A. Wilson,
one thousand dollars.”

“Humph, I'll sign it; no harm in seeing how it
will look,” and now signed and dated, it lay before him,

as authentic and honest a looking note as one could
desire to see. He folded it carefully, after a critical
examination, and put it in his pocket-book, all the
while persuading himself that he did not intend to use
it. It was nearly morning. He threw himself on the
bed, and slept a troubled sleep. At first he dreamed
a fearful dream, which was yet too much like reality.
He thought he had lost every thing in the mad excitement
of play, and he seemed to see his gentle sister,
the last legacy of his dead father, suffering, aye dying
of cold and hunger. He started up shuddering.
Then he closed his eyes, and the scene changed. He
seemed standing by the faro table. The lights were
bright above, and the song and jest were gay around,
and then a being fair as a houri approached and whispered,
“Bet on the diamonds.” Once, twice, thrice,
he was unsuccessful, and each time he doubled his
venture, but the fourth time he won, and recovered all
he had lost. He awoke in a perfect fever of excitement.
It was morning. He threw on his clothes, and
rushed out into the fresh air.

That day, at half-past eleven, he entered the broker's
office of John A. Wilson. “Can you accommodate us
this morning?” he said to that gentleman, with a tone
and manner as assured as if he were one of the firm; “we
are making out some heavy payments, and are a little
short. We shall probably want to take it up some
time before it falls due.” The office was full, just then,

of customers, and merely glancing at the well-known
signature, the broker counted out the money, and Harry
left the building. For that day he could do no more,
for his resolve was fixed to provide for his sister's
necessities before hazarding the venture, which all the
time he never once doubted would prove successful.

The next morning he rose early, called upon
his landlord, and paid in advance the rent for the
next year, taking a receipt with unwonted carefulness.
Then to the grocer's, and once more he took a receipt
for his large order. Going home he threw both papers
in his sister's lap. “Take care of them, Katie, housewife,”
he said, playfully, “and there,” giving her
thirty dollars, “is money for any notions you may
want to buy.” Had her confidence in him been less
perfect, she might have been surprised at his being in
possession of so much money; but she had long been
accustomed to trust every thing to his care, so she
thanked him smilingly, thinking what a dear, kind
brother he was, and fancying that he must have got
at least half his next year's salary in advance.

After she had supposed him gone, he came back
again to tell her not to trouble if he did not get home
early; he might have something to do that would
keep him, she mustn't sit up for him, and she sprang
after him to the door, and throwing her arms around
his neck, kissed him with an unaccountable presentiment
of evil. When he was gone, she children herself

for it, and strove to cast it off, but it rested all day
like an incubus upon her spirits.

That evening Harry Cunningham left the store at
an early hour, and walked with an air of resolute
determination toward the clubroom, where he had
already lost three hundred dollars. Confident that his
former failures had arisen merely from want of funds,
and trusting most implicitly to the direction given him
in his dream, he was positive of success. He determined
to commence very cautiously, and to be guided only
by his own judgment. He had seven hundred dollars
in his possession now; he was determined to bring
away a thousand. He replied very carelessly to the
salutations which greeted his entrance, then drawing a
chair to the table, he deliberately sat down. “Who
wants to play against me,” he said, “I have had a
dream, and I am sure to win.” He spoke with a tone
of assurance as calm and decided as if he had said,
“it is beginning to rain out of doors.” For a moment
they all seemed to hesitate, and then a man named
Luke drew a chair opposite to him and sat down, with
an air careless and yet resolute as his own. This
man was known as the highest and boldest player
connected with the club; and yet he almost always
lost. He was evidently of Jewish descent. It was
indicated by his dark olive complexion, and oriental
eye, as well as by his raven hair, and the whole cast

of his features. His wealth was apparently boundless,
for he had several times lost thousands in a single
night, and yet no one had ever known him in the
slightest degree agitated or discomposed. For the first
hour their stakes were very light, and fortune seemed
alternating between them almost equally. Now each
had staked a hundred dollars. “It is a fearful night,”
said Slingsby, entering; “hark a moment, and you can
hear the storm hurtle against the windows.” At that
instant the bet was decided; Harry Cunningham had
lost. “There is no hope,” said the still small voice of
the good spirit in his heart. “Pause, go to Mr.
Goldthwaite; he will befriend you. You have five
hundred dollars left yet, of the ill-gotten gold.” And
then the bad spirit answered,—“What, are you then
so cowardly? would you give up now, when the means
of recovering all your losses are in your hands? Did
you not lose in the dream, once, twice, thrice?” and
so he played on. At half an hour before midnight,
his last dollar was on the table. It was a stake of two
hundred. There was a moment's pause in the game,
for the storm beat against the windows, and rattled on
the pavement, like the tramp of an armed host.
“Mr. Luke, why don't you take up your money?
Mr. Cunningham, do you perceive you have lost?”
said the banker's calm voice.

“Lost; yes, I am lost!” he cried wildly, rousing
himself from the apathy into which he had fallen—

“you knew I should be. Why didn't you tell me
that before?” His tone was so wild, so hopeless, so
despairing, that the hearts of his listeners almost
stood still to hear it. His face was pale as death,
only there was a spot of burning red in the centre of
each cheek, glowing like a live coal. He seized his
hat, and rushed to the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,”
he said, turning round with mocking politeness
when he had reached it. For a moment after he left
there was silence. It was a genteel house. They
were not used to the life and death excitement of men
staking their last farthing on a desperate hope. His
pale face and despairing words had struck terror to
the hearts of the bravest. “Go after him; surely
some one ought to go after him,” cried one of their
number, starting from the terrified attitude in which
they had sat, looking at each other's faces.

“No, it is no use,” muttered Slingsby, “go on
with the game. He is far enough off by this time.
The storm will cool him down pretty effectually.”

And so the wretched wanderer hurried on. But
the fever in his veins was not one to be allayed by
the wild night blowing in his face. There seemed a
thousand voices on the blast, and each one shrieked
in his ear, “Forger! forger!” He had never once
doubted that he should win, and feeling so sure he
should recover all he had lost, he had scarcely given a
thought to his fearful crime. But now, alas, there was

no hope. What better could he do, than bury his
sorrow and his shame from human ken in the boiling
waves. He stood upon the pier, and swollen by the rain
they were surging like mad beneath his feet. One
leap, and then rest! It was a sweet thought, and he
stooped forward. The first stroke of the midnight
chimes fell upon his ear. He paused, and counted
each one. Then a vision came before him. He stood
a boy of five before his mother's death-bed. His
father bent weeping over her, his baby sister lay
beside her. Her thin hand rested upon his hair.
“Mother's little Harry must be good,” said her faint,
sweet tones, “very good, and then some day he will
come to mamma. He must take good care of little
sister,” and then he remembered how passionately she
snatched him to her heart with one last effort of her
failing strength, and covering his face with tears and
kisses murmured, “Oh God keep thee, darling, darling.
You will have no mother's love to guide you, and the
world is very wicked. But after death comes the
judgment; oh, I must watch over you, I shall, I feel
it, God will let me,” and the clasping arms grew very
stiff, holding him there, his mother's eyes closed
wearily; she was dead. Young as he was, he had
always remembered her words, and now they came to
him, as if borne on the wings of the storm, with a
strange and fearful distinctness. Was he ready for
that judgment of which she had spoken? He thought
how bright the smile had been on that cold, dead face,
but she died the death of a Christian. Was she watching
him now? The storm subsided into a low, tearful,
sobbing wail, which sounded to his excited fancy
like the tones of her voice. He turned away, putting
his fingers in his ears to shut out the accusations
which seemed borne on every gale, and ran as if for
life.

It was two o'clock when he silently turned his
night-key in the lock and entered his own door. Kate
was sitting by the fire, pale, but tearless. She sprang
up, and threw her arms around his neck. “Not yet
in bed?” he asked, kissing her.

“No, I could not have slept, the storm was so
fearful. But oh, Harry, how wild you look! You are
wet to the skin. Come, you must put on some dry
clothes, and go to bed instantly, and I'll bring you
something hot to take. Do.”

He had no choice but to obey her pleading tones.
She hovered around him like an angel of mercy,
bringing him hot drinks, covering him with heaps of
clothes, and now and then laying her cool, moist
fingers on his flushed and throbbing brow. The next
morning he was not able to rise from the bed. Kate
was almost beside herself with terror, but she had the
presence of mind of a true woman. She attended to
all his little comforts, and then hurrying to a next door
neighbor's who she happened to know was blest with

plenty of boys, she despatched one messenger to his
employers, and sent another for a physician. During
a whole week he lay in a dull, heavy fever—scarcely
speaking during the time. But his thoughts were
very busy. Kate watched over him like a guardian
angel. Her loving forethought seemed to anticipate his
every wish, and more and more intense became every
moment the burning, passionate desire to shield her
from disgrace. It would do no good to confess now,
he thought, not one whit. He had no money to restore
what he had taken, and they would think he only confessed
for fear of detection and punishment. They
surely would never suspect him, and if he were not
discovered, he would be rich enough some time to
make restoration, penny for penny. Oh for this, he
could deny himself every thing, only Kate must not
suffer. His love for her was fast becoming idolatry.
Day after day, night after night, he lay contriving how
he could best escape from the neighborhood of his
crime. And by and by, through the kindness of the
very man whom he had wronged, the opportunity
came. His frank, open face, and remarkable business
tact, had already made him a great favorite with his
employers, in the three years he had been with them,
and during his illness, one or another of the firm
called to inquire for him almost daily.

One day, after he had been ill a week, the senior
member of the firm chanced to be present during the

Doctor's daily visit. “You are getting better fast,”
said that worthy functionary; “I only fear the winter
will prove too hard for you. Nothing would set you
up quite as quick as to go South.”

“Doctor,” exclaimed Mr. S., calling him back as
he was leaving the room, “do you think Cunningham
will be able to travel, and do business by the first of
January?”

“I am sure he will, and before too, if he gets on
as nicely as present appearances seem to indicate
That is nearly two weeks, and he ought to be on his
feet now in three or four days.”

When the M. D. had departed, Mr. S. thoughtfully
drew his chair to Harry's bedside. “We have some
business affairs in New Orleans just now, that require
close attention. We had thought of sending young
Hereford to look after them. He has been with us
from a boy, we trust him thoroughly, and the trip
could hardly fail to give him pleasure. But you
seem to need it most. Will you undertake the commission?”

“Thank Heaven!” was the fervently uttered reply.
“I have not deserved such kindness: I will be ready
to start at any moment.” His great earnestness of
manner struck Mr. S. as singular at the time, but he
attributed it to the weakness of his nerves, so severely
tried by the heavy, nervous fever.

“Come here, Katie,” said the brother, when they

were again alone. “You know you are going with
me?”

“Can I?”

“Yes, surely; you don't think I would leave you.
They will provide liberally for my expenses, and we
can get along easily enough. You must never go out
of my sight any more, little Kate. They say every
life has its guardian angel. I am more fortunate than
others. I can see mine; she is my sister.”

New Year's day brought with it several changes.
The head bookkeeper left the firm to go into business
for himself, and his vacant place would of course fall
to the lot of one of his two assistants, Dick Hereford
and Mr. Ezekiel Sharpe. Mr. Sharpe was a character
after the Uriah Heep order, and he had made application
for the post in the most “umble” manner. Dick
had been quite contented to leave it to the judgment
of his employers, though he had a powerful friend in
Mr. Goldthwaite. Ezekiel was the elder, and had
been two years longer in the store, and he certainly
resented it as a bitter injury when Dick received the
situation, being, as he expressed it, “promoted over
his head.” Fifteen hundred dollars was the salary
attached to the post, and Dick's first glad thought,
after his hearty expression of gratitude, was of marriage
and Kate Cunningham. Somewhat to his dismay,
he learned that she was to start for New Orleans

with her brother the next morning. She spent that
evening with his sister, but Harry came with her, and
accompanied her home, and he had no opportunity to
give utterance to the love, earnest yet tender, which
for three long years had so patiently bided its time.