The Pit Town Coronet Volume I Part 4

AT THE PANDEMONIUM CLUB.

It was Wednesday night; over forty men sat down to the house-dinner at the Pandemonium Club. As usual the dinner was _recherche_, for the Pandemonium _chef_ enjoyed a world-wide reputation. It is to be feared that the attractions of the house-dinner were not the sole inducement to many of those sitting there. A house-dinner always secured a large party in the card-room afterwards, and though the Pandemonium was a celebrated dining club, it was notoriously also a gambling one. Though the Pandemonium was a gambler's paradise, and many scandals had occurred there, yet the dirty linen had been always washed at home, and the exact details of these affairs had never leaked out. Young Spooner, of the Foreign Office, Sir John Spooner's, the Warwicks.h.i.+re baronet, eldest son, had certainly left London as fourth secretary to the Teheran Emba.s.sy, where he still remained; while Rolls, a briefless barrister, who was fond of backing himself at the whist table, had taken his name off the books, though he had honourably paid his losses, and suddenly accepted the not over-brilliant position of an a.s.sistant-Judges.h.i.+p on the Gold Coast: pay there was high and promotion rapid, but no one had ever been known to live long enough to take a pension.

Magnums of the driest and most expensive champagne seemed to be the favourite beverage. But the whisters as a rule drank claret, in antic.i.p.ation of the more serious _business_ that was sure to follow the weekly house-dinner. Captains Spotstroke and Pool were equally careful; the rest of those present drank freely. The elaborate dessert was followed by a general move. Old Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D., retired to the smoke-room, where they retailed their old, but exceedingly improper anecdotes, to a select circle of the very youngest men. In the billiard-room, pool at half sovereign lives, was commenced, and promised to run into the small hours--a sure harvest for Captains Spotstroke and Pool. In confidence it may be said that Spotstroke's little place in the south of Ireland only existed in his own imagination, his rents being entirely derived from his skill with his cue, and the certain income that he extracted from the very safe little book that he made on most of the great events of the year. A small contingent of the members hurried off to applaud the successful comic opera of the hour.

The card-room attracted its usual _habitues_, these sat down to whist; and if an unskilled unfortunate joined the fatal tables, he soon had reason to regret his temerity. Pound points were habitually played at the Pandemonium, and as the evening went on, though the points never varied, betting among the players and the "gallery" usually became extremely heavy. Discussions never arose at the whist tables of this rather fast club, for the players had Cavendish and Pole at their fingers' ends. General Pepper, C.B., had raised his eyes in unfeigned astonishment and horror, when an old Worcesters.h.i.+re baronet, his partner, once made a reference to Hoyle, and professed himself unacquainted with "the Peter." Needless to say, the Worcesters.h.i.+re baronet had returned to his ancestral acres a sadder but a wiser man. He showed his wisdom in giving the Pandemonium card-room a very wide berth for the rest of his days. He subsequently had the good sense to join the comic opera division, and to finish his evenings with the undeniable oysters, for which the Pandemonium is so celebrated. No one was ever seen at this well-known club after lunch time or before dinner, save a few miserable veterans, to whom perpetual whist was a necessity. The bulk of the servants even, only commenced their daily duties at dusk, while the steward never appeared till the dinner hour; but then he, poor man, had to be to the fore all night, for it was a stern rule in the card-room that I O U's were never seen, the play being always for ready money, in notes and gold. Mr. Levison, the amiable steward (originally from Hamburg), had a very Pactolus ready for the accommodation, for a consideration, of his numerous masters, in his iron safe. Levison's relations think he will cut up well at his death; Levison's relations are right.

It is one in the morning. Though it is in the height of summer the Pandemonium card-room is cool; they burn wax candles here, and gas is absolutely banished from this particular chamber of the club, where fortunes are sometimes lost and won. In most club card-rooms smoking is not permitted, but at the Pandemonium it is the fas.h.i.+on to smoke everywhere. One whist table only is at work; General Pepper and three old hands of the same kidney are hard at it. The four old men rub their blear old eyes at the conclusion of each deal, and then pull down their faultless cuffs over their eager and bony old hands. The card table profitably occupies some six to eight hours daily of these old fellows'

attention. There is not much harm in it after all. Probably none of them are very much the better or very much the worse at the end of the year; their sole ambition is the saving of a game, particularly when there is a good "gallery" to admire their efforts. One dreaded Nemesis awaits these men--the inevitable day when memory will begin to fail, and they shall trump their partner's best card. Or the still more horrible apprehension of dimness of sight; for a pair of wicked old eyes will not last for ever; then the unhappy old player will begin to revoke, and find himself perforce relegated to "b.u.mble-puppy," or to whiskey-and-water and solemn slumbers in the smoke-room, or, more horrible still, the prolonged society of Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D.

Rule x.x.xV. of the club states that "Cards, chess and billiards may be played. The sum played for shall not exceed one pound points; no play is permitted after two a.m." Rule x.x.xVI. says, "No game of hazard shall on any account be played in the club-house." Rule x.x.xVII. sternly goes on to a.s.sert that "any deviation from the last two rules shall be attended with expulsion." Truly good and moral regulations. But these Draconic laws are, unfortunately, a dead letter. Nothing is said in them about bets. As in all clubs, only members enter the card-room; and most of the members come to "flutter," as they term it, and to "flutter" heavily.

In the centre of the room is an oval table; some dozen men are sitting at it; as many more stand behind their chairs. Two many-branched candelabra, holding wax lights, brilliantly illuminate the game. Young Lamb, who six months ago ran a "tick" for "tuck" at Eton, and trembled _coram paedagogo_, sits, his eyes bloodshot, as, with nails driven into his palms, he watches, in an anguish of excitement, the movements of the dealer. Young Lamb's big cigar has been out long ago; but he pulls hard at it, wholly unaware of the fact. It is easy enough to distinguish, among those who smoke at least, the more innocent from the habitual gamblers; the cigars of these latter, even at the most exciting crises, are steadily smoked at a uniform rate, while the new hand is continually taking a light, as often blowing sudden vast clouds, or his cigar all unknown to him goes out, as has been described. Your young player, too, sits with his feet tucked tightly under his chair; he never moves them, and consequently suffers much from that hitherto undescribed disease--that awful pain across the knees, which, for want of a better name, may be called "gamblers' rheumatism." Are you quite sure you have never suffered from this rather common disorder, gentle reader, at least, if you be of the male s.e.x? Perhaps you may remember having occasionally walked home through the rain, utterly cleared out, without even the needful silver for a cab, with a dry throat, and finding out for the first time what "gamblers' rheumatism" really means. If so, it is to be hoped that, wise man as you are, the first attack of this disorder was also your last. But at the Pandemonium matters never went to the extremity of a member suffering the degradation of having to walk home in the rain. Was not kind Mr. Levison ever to the fore, with his neat little _rouleaux_ of sovereigns, and his fat pocket-book full of new and crisp bank-notes? Levison, as he sat at the little table in the corner, on which were writing materials and many packs of new cards, never refused a loan in so many words. "I wouldn't go on if I were you, sir; the luck's dead against you to-night; I wouldn't go on, indeed I wouldn't." This was his invariable formula. It meant that the astute Hebrew declined to do business on any terms. No one ever argued with Levison; all understood that this particular phrase was final. The unhappy applicant was naturally obliged to temporarily retire from the game, at all events for that night. No man would have been idiot enough to have asked a loan from a fellow player; that would have been quite contrary to the unwritten code of ethics of the Pandemonium Club: fathers have flinty hearts, but no fathers are so proverbially flinty-hearted as the fathers of the card-room.

Among the players were the usual club _habitues_. They are much the same everywhere, the only difference being their clothes. The _viveurs_ at the Pandemonium, in their faultless evening dress; the _gommeux_ at Monte Carlo, in their tall collars and their s.h.i.+ny boots; the Bohemians, in their tobacco-scented and eccentric garments; or the thieves playing at sixpenny loo in St. Luke's--all these people are at heart the same. But we must not cla.s.s in this unclean category Lord Spunyarn and his friend Haggard, who were both playing at the big table.

Haggard merely played for the excitement, and Spunyarn because it was a lesser bore to play than to look on.

The game was baccarat.

The table is covered with a tightly-stretched green cloth, which is divided by yellow lines into fourteen s.p.a.ces; two larger ones in the centre of the table are the places of the banker and the croupier; twelve other s.p.a.ces of a smaller size indicate the seats of the rest of the players, or "punters," as they are technically termed. The table is full, as has been stated: a bank has just been terminated, and the banker retires, having lost the whole amount of his bank. The croupier, who is, of course, a professional--a bald Frenchman, nominally one of the card-room waiters--looks round the table with the air of an auctioneer. "Fifty pounds--seventy-five--a hundred--two hundred--two hundred and fifty--three hundred; thank you, sir. Mr. Haggard takes the bank, gentlemen, at three hundred pounds."

Haggard rises with a smile, seats himself in the dealer's vacant place, opposite the croupier; he places in front of him a pile of gold and notes. With the rapidity of one of Messrs. Coutts' young men, the French croupier counts the money; he arranges the gold in little piles, and the notes in three little heaps, placing a small paper-weight on each heap.

Then the croupier tears open two packets of new cards, flinging the old ones into a waste-paper basket at his side. He invites various players to make the cards; this is done in rather a perfunctory manner. With a sort of huge paper-knife the Frenchman pa.s.ses the cards to Haggard, and as he does so, remarks in a clear, but mechanical voice: "Gentlemen, the bank is opened for three hundred pounds." Haggard takes the cards, and, dividing them into two equal parts, rapidly shuffles them, by raising a corner of each parcel simultaneously, and letting the corners slip with a rapid "brrr." Evidently, from the dexterity and precision with which this feat is accomplished, Georgie Warrender's affianced lover is no novice. He hands the cards to his right-hand neighbour, who carefully cuts them; each player puts forth his stake towards the middle of the table, in front of the s.p.a.ce allotted him. These stakes are gold only as yet, and no man's venture seems over five pounds. Haggard takes up about a sixth part of the cards. "Gentlemen," cries the croupier, "the game is made." Haggard places a card to the left, for that half of the table; another at his right, for the other half; a third one he takes himself: he repeats the process. The croupier slips the blade of his huge paper-knife underneath the two cards which are on either side of the dealer, and deposits them, unexposed, with marvellous adroitness, before the punter on either side whose turn it is to play. Court cards and tens count as nothing, the ace as one; should the player make either eight or nine he invariably rests contented, and exhibits it; if below eight, he exercises his fancy or discretion, and takes or refuses a third card.

Then Haggard turns up his own hand, doing precisely the same. He has drawn a knave and a six; he takes another card; this turns out to be an ace. "I have seven," he says. The player to his right holds eight, the player to his left has only six--the right side wins, the left side loses. In an instant the croupier, with his huge paper-knife, sweeps up the cards, and, with the rapidity of a conjuring trick, he casts them into a wooden bowl in the middle of the table; then he rapidly sweeps off all the stakes on one side of the table; with equal celerity he places each man's winnings before the players on the other side. There are no quarrels, and no mistakes. Everybody is terribly polite. And so the game goes on.

Though the amount played for is serious, a good deal of rather bald conversation and chaff goes on. There is a considerable amount of give and take. If any one has lost his temper, as well as his money, he takes good care not to show it; to do so here would be indeed bad form. Young Lamb has already paid several visits to Mr. Levison's little table.

Haggard's deal goes on, no very startling _coup_ coming off, but it has been a good bank as yet, for the pile in front of Haggard has increased to nearly six hundred pounds. Young Lamb having gnawed his extinguished cigar till it somewhat resembles a quid, and having consequently swallowed a considerable amount of nicotine, flings it away with a curse. As the last note of his last loan from Levison is swept up by the remorseless _pelle_ (for so the gigantic paper-knife is technically termed), Lamb gives an order to the waiter, and pays another visit to the smiling little Jew. Their business is rapidly transacted; Lamb redeems some half-dozen I O U's which he had previously given to the steward, hurriedly signs a formal-looking instrument, which is duly witnessed, and stuffs into his breast-pocket a big roll of notes, which he does not even stop to count. "I do hope you'll be careful, sir,"

remarks the steward to Lamb in an affectionate whisper, and in the tone of an anxious mother to her favourite child. Lamb returns to his seat at the table; he has lost eight hundred pounds already, but the bulgey lump in his breast-pocket is another five thousand pounds. The waiter places by his side a small gueridon on which is a little _carafe_ of green Chartreuse and a liqueur-gla.s.s; he also hands to the young fellow a box of big full-flavoured cigars, of the brand of _Anselmo del Valle_. Lamb fills his case, and lights this the _ne plus ultra_ of a soothing weed.

"Dutch courage, Lammy, my boy," remarked Spunyarn, as he calmly helps himself to one of the youth's cigars.

"You'd be doing the same, s.h.i.+rtings, if you'd been hit at this beast of a game as I have."

"s.h.i.+rtings" was the playful name bestowed on the n.o.ble lord, in reference to the well-known fact that the Spunyarn money had been made in a Manchester cotton mill, and with that money it was said that the Spunyarn t.i.tle had been paid for; the first gentleman in Europe not disdaining such bargains. Lamb swallows a second gla.s.s of his panacea.

The real fact is that the boy likes it because it is sweet, the after-taste indistinctly resembling the distant memories of the peppermint bull's-eyes of his early youth. But green Chartreuse unhappily is not innocent; it is more than a spirit, it is a powerful drug. Fired by this second draught, his tired eyes already a ferrety red, his mouth dry with the tobacco, the drink and the excitement, Lamb in a rasping voice shouts, "Banco."

There is a sudden hush. The whist players, who had finished for the evening, hurry to the baccarat table; the other players, some of whom had already staked their money, reluctantly withdraw their various amounts. The croupier announces, intoning as does a high-church curate, "There is seven hundred and forty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."

Lamb with shaking fingers places the required amount in front of him.

Haggard, the dealer, apparently unconcerned, continues the game. There is a dead silence. Neither dealer or punter take a third card. The cards are turned. The dealer has an eight and king, the punter a five and three. _A tie._ The perspiration stands on young Lamb's face; again his cigar goes out. The croupier pushes the seven hundred and forty pounds of the unlucky player a foot nearer to the bank. The next _coup_ will decide the matter. If Lamb wins, he will get his own money back, if he loses, then his money is gone for good. Again a dead silence, again the cards are dealt; this time the bank wins; there is a loud noise of excited talking, above which rises the monotonous chant of the croupier, "There is fourteen hundred and eighty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."

The wretched young man persistently exercises his right of crying "Banco," and so practically going double or quits each time. But "the cards never forgive," and as a rule Dame Fortune is relentless to the reckless player. Three more _coups_ are played, each of which the banker, that is to say Haggard, wins. At the end of the third _coup_, Lamb loses, at a single blow, nearly three thousand pounds; he calls the steward to his side, a short whispered conversation takes place. "Five thousand nine hundred and twenty pounds in the bank." Again the young fellow repeats his fatal "Banco," as he stakes a fresh pile of notes handed to him by the obsequious Jew. Again he loses. Haggard has won, of him alone, eleven thousand pounds. n.o.body feels inclined to go on; every one is rather scandalized, for it is apparent to all that the boy has become suddenly, thoroughly intoxicated.

"d.a.m.ned shame, I call it," growled old General Pepper, who in his heart envied Haggard his luck. "Why, the man's drunk, beastly drunk, sir."

Haggard rises, glaring at old Pepper in a menacing manner. "Am I to regard your remark as any insinuation upon me, General Pepper?" he said fiercely.

"I say it's a d.a.m.ned shame," repeated the veteran.

The hubbub became general. What was to be done? Of course, there would be a scandal, but in the eyes of most men at the Pandemonium Club, Haggard was not to be blamed, he was merely to be envied. Probably the real fact was that the weak young fellow was suddenly carried off his legs by the repeated draughts of the fiery cordial, the effect of which only became apparent to the on-lookers after the final bet had been made and the game had recommenced. Who shall cast a stone, then, at Haggard?

He merely backed his luck, as the saying is. There was nothing unfair about the matter. But the nasty part of the whole thing was, that Haggard had won eleven thousand pounds from a weak-headed boy. The society newspapers for the week alluded to the matter in veiled, but unmistakable terms. And when Haggard announced to his friend Spunyarn his intention of returning to America, to realize his property, on the termination of his wedding tour, the young lord acquiesced in that decision, casually remarking, "It would be as well if you fought shy a bit, you know, old man, for I am heartily sick of being bothered about the baccarat matter, and of looking in the paper to see if that young prig Lamb has hung himself. Ta ta, you lucky beggar. I shall be to the fore at your diggings to-morrow, in the regulation s.h.i.+ny boots." They parted.

Next day Reginald Haggard was to lead Georgina Warrender to the altar, and Spunyarn's allusion to s.h.i.+ny boots merely referred to the fact that he was to be his friend Haggard's best man.

CHAPTER VI.

GEORGIE'S WEDDING.

In newspaper descriptions of the last moments of celebrated criminals, we constantly read that "the unfortunate man did full justice to a substantial meal;" but n.o.body ever yet heard of a bridegroom who had any appet.i.te for his breakfast; his own real breakfast is meant, and not the elaborate entertainment which follows close upon the ceremony. Reginald Haggard and his friend, Lord Spunyarn, were the vicar's guests at King's Warren Parsonage, but in vain did Mrs. Dodd press upon Haggard the numerous dainties with which her hospitable board was provided. Haggard was in a state of suppressed excitement, and he couldn't eat a mouthful.

They were a cheerful enough party though, and Lord Spunyarn made up for his friend's deficiencies, for the young n.o.bleman had an almost Homeric appet.i.te. Justice Haggard, Reginald's father, and Lord Hetton, who had pa.s.sed the night at the "Dun Cow," were present, for the sporting n.o.bleman was supposed to represent the head of the family, his father, Lord Pit Town; and though he looked upon the whole matter as a very great nuisance indeed, still it was a family function at which his presence was a matter of course.

That breakfast at the Parsonage seemed interminable to Haggard, but even clerical breakfasts must have an end, and at length Mrs. Dodd rose, to the general relief of all present. There were yet two mortal hours to get through, and the men of the party sought the cool shades of the vicarage garden.

"Pull yourself together, old man," said Spunyarn to his friend, for Haggard was looking pale and miserable; "you're as sulky as a bear with a sore head. It's quite unnecessary to pose as a hero of romance.

What's up with you, man; boots too tight?"

"I'll be hanged if I can tell you what's up," said his friend, "but this I know, I'm confoundedly depressed."

"Perhaps it's your natural timidity," said the other.

"Don't chaff, s.h.i.+rtings; you're a very good fellow, you know, but I'm not in a laughing humour."

"Well, you needn't sulk all the same," said Spunyarn; "take my advice and have a gla.s.s of brandy."

Justice Haggard looked far more like a bridegroom than his son; the old gentleman, in his blue frock coat, his blue bird's-eye neckerchief, and with a flower in his b.u.t.ton-hole, was the picture of health and happiness; while his white hat, which was c.o.c.ked a little on one side, completed his festal appearance. He gave his son a hearty smack on the back.

"When I married your mother, Reginald, my boy, I was as jolly as a man could be; why, there's nothing to be alarmed about, unless you've lost the ring, you know; and the ladies wouldn't let you off with that excuse, for there's always the key of the church door in case of an emergency."

Haggard forced a smile.

"The ring's safe enough, father," he said.

"Don't worry him, gentlemen," cried the vicar; "it's only natural. I've had a good deal of experience with bridegrooms; believe me, it's the general symptom. I felt just the same when I was married myself; but it's nothing to preaching one's first sermon. It's all very well for you to talk, Haggard; but I'll be bound we were both just as miserable as our young friend, though we've forgotten all about it now. But here comes my wife with the sacrificial emblems."

There was no compromise about Mrs. Dodd, as she advanced straight to the bridegroom and proceeded to firmly secure a large white favour to his breast. The rest of the party were soon similarly decorated.

"There's one comfort, we haven't far to go," said Lord Hetton. "I feel we look rather like a parcel of fools."

"At all events, we haven't any time to lose," suggested the vicar, as he looked at his watch; "and, unless we mean to keep the bride waiting, we had better be off."

The whole party pa.s.sed through the little wicket, crossed the churchyard, which was thronged with the whole population of King's Warren in its Sunday best, and entered the church, and the bridegroom and his friends at once took their place at the altar rails.

If Georgie Warrender had acted with proper decorum, she would have wept upon her father's bosom; but this ill-regulated young person did nothing of the kind. They must have been all very glad to get rid of her at The Warren, for n.o.body shed a single tear; there was a great deal of running about; the young person from the West End milliner's, her mouth full of pins, issued innumerable orders in a m.u.f.fled whisper; and Miss Lucy Warrender and her three fellow bridesmaids appeared completely attired, at least half-a-dozen times, to submit themselves to old Warrender's inspection in the drawing-room quite half-an-hour before the carriages drew up at the door to take them to the church.