Gambler — 03 - Part 1, Chapter 8; Part 2, Chapters 1 through 3
CHAPTER VIII
It would be futile to deny that the unexpected sound of Asshlin's voice brought a tremor to the mind of his guest.
It is disconcerting to the most valiant to be confronted with his antagonist in the very moment that he has laid down his challenge; and at best Milbanke was no hero.
Nevertheless he recovered his equanimity with creditable speed, and exchanging a quick glance with Clodagh, scrambled hastily over the remaining stones and reached the road.
As he gained it, Asshlin pulled up sharply and dismounted from his big, bony horse with all the dexterity of a young man.
With a loud laugh of greeting, he slipped the bridle over one hand and linked the other in Milbanke's arm.
"Hullo!"
he cried.
"Now who'd have dreamt that I'd meet you like this?
I'm ashamed of you, James.
'Pon my word I am.
Philandering across the strand in the fall of the evening as if you were still in the twenties.
It's with me you should have been.
We had the deuce of a fine run!"
He paused to push his hat from his hot forehead and to rearrange the bridle.
Clodagh, who had followed Milbanke slowly, stepped eagerly forward as she caught the last words.
"Oh, father," she cried, "tell us about it!
Who was there?
Was the sport good?
Did the bay carry you well?"
In her suddenly awakened interest it was clear to Milbanke that the vital question she had been discussing with him--the opinions he had expressed upon it--his very existence even, were obliterated from her mind, her natural, youthful exuberance responding to the idea of any physical action as unfailingly as the needle answers to the magnet.
And again the faintly poignant sense of aloofness and age fell upon him as he listened uncomprehendingly to Asshlin's excited flow of words, and watched the bright, ardent face of the girl glowing out of the shadows.
They made a curious trio as they covered the stretch of road that led to Orristown and passed between the heavy moss-grown piers of the big gate, entering the deep shade of the avenue.
With an instinctive care for his horse, Asshlin went first, cautiously guiding the animal over the ruts that time and the heavy rains had ploughed in the soft ground.
Behind him came Clodagh, Milbanke, and their following of dogs.
Once again the thought of what the evening held came unpleasantly to Milbanke's mind as the shadow of the gaunt beech trees and the outline of the great square house brought the position home to him afresh.
Lack imagination as he might, he realised that it was no light task to thwart a man whose faults had been cultivated and whose peculiarities--racial and personal--had been accentuated by a quarter of a century of comparative isolation.
But instinctively as the thought came to him, he turned to the girl, whose erect figure had grown indistinct in the gathering gloom.
"Miss Clodagh," he whispered, "though I may not understand, are you satisfied to trust me?"
There was a pause; then, with one of the sudden impulses that formed so large a part of her individuality, Clodagh put out her hand; and for an instant her fingers and Milbanke's touched.
To every one but Asshlin, the dinner that evening was a strain.
But the silence or the uneasiness of the others was powerless to damp his enthusiasm.
His appetite was tremendous; and as he ate plentifully and swallowed glass after glass of sherry, his excitement and his spirits rose.
With the ardour of the born sportsman, he recounted again and again the details of the day's hunt--dwelling lovingly on the behaviour of the dogs and horses, and the prowess of his own mount in particular.
Finally, he rose from the table with a flushed face, though a perfectly steady gait, and, crossing the room, pulled the long bell-rope that hung beside the fireplace.
"Now for our night, James!"
he cried.
"Now for my revenge!
"Clear the table, Burke," he added, as the old man appeared in answer to the summons.
"Get out the cards, and bring enough candles to light us all to glory!"
He gave a boisterous laugh; and, turning with a touch of bravado, stood facing the picture of his great-grandfather.
Instinctively, as he turned his back upon the party, little Nance drew nearer to her sister, and Clodagh glanced at Milbanke.
As their eyes met, he involuntarily stiffened his small, spare figure, and with a quick, nervous manner nodded towards the door.
For a moment Clodagh hesitated, her fear for her father's self-control dominated by her native interest in an encounter; then Nance decided the matter by plucking hurriedly at her sleeve.
"Don't stop, Clo!"
she whispered almost inaudibly, her small, expressive face puckered with anxiety--"don't stop!
I'm frightened."
The appeal was instantly effective.
Clodagh rose at once, and with one arm passed reassuringly round the child's shoulder, slipped silently from the room.
For some moments after the two had departed, Asshlin retained his position: and Milbanke, intently watchful of his tall figure, held himself nervously in hand for the coming encounter.
At last, when the cloth had been removed, the candles renewed, and the cards placed upon the table, Asshlin turned--his face flushed with anticipation.
"That's good!"
he exclaimed.
"That's good!
With a bottle of port and a pack of cards a man could be happy in Hades!
Not that I'm forgetting the good comrade that gives a flavour to the combination, James.
Not that I'm forgetting that."
His smile had much of the charm, his voice much of the warmth that had marked them long ago, as he drew his chair to the table and picked up the cards.
Milbanke straightened himself in his seat.
"Come along, man!
Draw up!
--draw up to the table!
What shall it be?
Euchre again?
Are you agreeable to the same stakes?"
Asshlin talked on, heedless of the strangely unresponsive demeanour of his guest.
As he ceased to speak, however, Milbanke took the plunge he had been contemplating all day.
In the silence of the room, broken only by the faint, comfortable hissing of the peat in the fireplace and the rustling of the cards as Asshlin mechanically shuffled them, he pulled his chair forward and laid his clasped hands on the table.
"Denis," he said in his thin, quiet voice, "I am sorry--very sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot play."
Asshlin paused in the act of shuffling and laid the cards down.
"What in the name of fortune are you talking about?"
he asked.
His tone was indulgent and amused; it was evident that the meaning in the other's words had not definitely reached him.
"It is not a joke," Milbanke interposed quickly.
"I cannot--I do not intend to play."
Then for the first time a shadow of comprehension crossed Asshlin's face--but it was only a shadow.
With a boisterous laugh, he leant forward and filled the empty glasses that stood upon the table, pushing one across to Milbanke.
"Have a drop of port, man!"
he cried.
"Twill give you courage to cut."
He lifted and drained his own glass, and setting it back upon the table, refilled it.
But Milbanke remained immovable.
His thin hands were still clasped, his pale face looked anxious.
"Go on, James!
You're not afraid of a drop of wine?"
Again Asshlin laughed, but this time there was an unpleasant ring audible in his voice.
Mechanically Milbanke lifted his glass to his lips.
"No," he said with embarrassed deprecation, "no, I'm more afraid of your displeasure.
I--I'm exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."
But once more his host laughed.
"Nonsense, man!
I know your little scruples and your little conscience, and I'm not scared of either.
Never meet the devil half way!
He covers the ground too quickly as it is."
He caught up the cards again, and forming them into a pack, held them out.
"Cut!"
he said laconically.
Milbanke drew back, and his lips came together, in a thin line.
"Come on!
Cut!"
The colour of Asshlin's face became a shade deeper.
Still the other sat rigidly still.
For a moment their eyes held each other; then suddenly the blood surged into Asshlin's neck and face.
"Do you mean to say that you refuse to play?"
he asked slowly.
"That you refuse to give me my revenge?"
Milbanke met the attack unsteadily.
"My dear Denis----" But before the words had left his lips, Asshlin flung the cards upon the table with a force that sent a score of them flying across the room.
"And may I ask you for your reasons?"
he demanded with alarming calm.
Milbanke fenced.
"I do not wish to play."
"And I don't wish to be treated as a fool."
The other altered his attitude.
"My dear Denis, you surely acknowledge the right of free will?
I do not wish to play cards, and therefore beg to be excused.
What could be simpler?"
His manner was slightly perturbed, his speech hasty.
There was the suggestion of a sleeping volcano in his host's unnatural calm.
In the silence that followed, Asshlin lifted his glass and emptied it slowly.
"I don't know about that," he said as he set it down.
"There are unwritten codes that all the free will in the world won't dispose of.
One of them is that a gentleman who wins at cards cannot refuse his opponent the satisfaction of his revenge.
But perhaps the etiquette has changed since my time."
His manner was still controlled, but his eyes glittered.
Milbanke cleared his throat.
"My dear Asshlin," he said, "we are surely friends of too long standing to split hairs in this fashion.
What is this revenge that you talk of?
Nothing--a myth--an imaginary justification of honour."
A quick sound of contempt escaped Asshlin.
"And what is every code and every sentiment in the world but an outcome of imagination?"
he cried.
"What is it but imagination that herds us off from the beasts?
I'm satisfied to call it imagination.
It tells me that I was worsted last night, and that I'm capable of better things if I try my luck again.
I'm satisfied to follow its promptings--and demand my revenge!"
For a while Milbanke sat miserable and undecided; then under the goad of the other's eyes, he did an ill-judged thing.
Fumbling nervously for his letter-case, he rose from his seat and walked across to the fireplace.
"There is nothing for you to revenge," he said agitatedly.
"There was no play last night.
It's cancelled.
I cancel it."
With tremulous haste, he pulled out the letter-case, extricated Asshlin's cheque, and dropped it into the fire.
There was a pause--a pause of tremendous moment--in which he stood aghast at his own deed.
Then Asshlin turned on him, his face purple and convulsed with rage.
"You dare to insult me?
You dare to insult me in my own house?
You dare to imply that it was the money--the damned money, that I wanted to win back?"
Milbanke looked up sharply.
"Good God, no!"
he exclaimed with unwonted vehemence.
"Such a thought never entered my mind."
"Then what's the meaning of all this?
What is it all driving at?"
Asshlin's hard, handsome face was contorted by passion and his hands shook.
"Nothing.
It's driving at nothing.
It is simply that I do not wish to play."
"And why not?"
He suddenly rose, his great body towering above the other's. "Why not?
By God, I'll have an answer!"
"There is no answer."
"No answer?
We'll see about that.
Who's been lying to you about me?
Who's been carrying scandals about me?
Out with it!
--out with it!"
Then unexpectedly Milbanke's trepidation forsook him.
He suddenly straightened himself.
"No one," he answered.
"No one?
Are you quite sure?"
"No-one!"
"Then what do you mean by this?
What do you mean by meddling in my affairs?"
He took a menacing step forward.
[Illustration: With a fierce gesture he took another step forward.
] Milbanke stood firm.
"I have my reasons," he said quietly.
"Your reasons, have you?"
Asshlin laughed harshly.
"Then I'll have my answer.
What do you mean by it?"
For a second the older man remained silent and unmoved; then a light gleamed in his colourless eyes.
"All right!"
he said.
"You shall have it.
Perhaps it is as well.
I came here expecting to see the boy I had known grown into a genial, hospitable, honourable gentleman; instead, I find him an undisciplined, tyrannical egotist."
He said it quickly in a rush of unusual vehemence.
All his anticipations, all his suspicions, and their subsequent justification--coupled with the new sense of protection towards the children of his early friend--found voice in these words.
"You are an egotist, Denis," he repeated distinctly.
"A weak, worthless egotist--not fit to have children--not fit to have a friend----" Asshlin stared at him for a moment in speechless surprise; then indignation surmounted every other feeling.
With a fierce gesture he took another step forward, his eyes blazing, his hand menacingly clenched.
"How--how dare you?"
he stammered.
"How dare you?
By God, if you were a bigger man I'd--I'd----" He paused, choked by his fury.
"I know--I know.
But I'm not afraid of you.
I'm not to be bullied into subjection."
Milbanke's temper, difficult to rouse, was stirred at last.
He gave his host glance for glance.
"You realise what you have said?"
Asshlin's dark face was distorted, his voice came unsteadily.
"Yes.
I regret that I have to say it, but I do not regret saying it.
It is wholesome for a man to hear the truth."
"Oh, it's wholesome to hear the truth, is it?"
"Yes; and I won't see you go to pieces for want of a word.
You are a man with obligations, and you are neglecting your obligations.
There are other things in life besides cards and horses----" Asshlin suddenly threw back his head.
"By God, you're right!"
he cried.
"And the other things are a damn sight worse.
I'd put a good horse before a self-righteous preacher any day."
Milbanke's usually pallid face flushed.
"You mean that for me?"
he asked quietly.
Asshlin shrugged his shoulders.
"If you like," he said.
"If the cap fits----" For a moment Milbanke said nothing; then once again he straightened his small, thin figure.
"Very well, Denis," he said, "I quite understand.
With your permission I will say good-bye to you now, and to-morrow morning I will catch the earliest train from Muskeere."
He looked at his host steadily.
Then, through the temper that still mastered him, a twinge of regret, a sense of parting and loss obtruded themselves.
With all his intolerable faults, Asshlin still stood within the halo and glamour of the past.
"Denis!"
he exclaimed suddenly.
But the appeal was made too late.
Uncontrollable fury--the one power which could efface his sense of hospitality--possessed Asshlin.
His pulses pounded; his senses were blurred.
With a seething consciousness of insult and injury, he turned again upon his guest.
"You can go to hell for all I care!"
he cried savagely.
For a second Milbanke continued to look at him; then without a word he turned, crossed the room, and passed into the hall.
_PART II_
CHAPTER I
It was on a windy March morning three years after his summarily ended visit to Ireland, that James Milbanke stood in the bedroom of his London flat.
A perturbed frown puckered his forehead and he held an open letter in his hand.
Outside, the dark sky and cold searching breeze proclaimed the raw English spring; inside, the partly dismantled walls of the room, the emptied drawers and wardrobe, the trunks, bags, and rugs standing ready strapped, all suggested another and more inviting climate.
Milbanke was bound for the south.
Three months earlier he had come to the momentous conclusion that a solitary life in London--spent no matter how comfortably--becomes a colourless and somewhat empty thing after a thirty-three years' experience.
He had his club and his friends, but he was not a clubman born, and friends must be very intimate to be all-sufficing.
The restlessness that sometimes unexpectedly attacks the middle-aged bachelor had fallen upon him.
The suggestion that he craved new surroundings and new fields of interest had been slow in coming, and his acceptance of it had been slow.
But steadily and inevitably it had grown into his consciousness, maturing almost against his will, until at last the day had dawned on which he had admitted to himself that a change was indispensable.
The subsequent events had followed in natural order.
His hobby had urged him to leave his own country for one richer in association; the damp cold of the English winter, coupled with the chilled blood of advancing age, had inclined him to the idea of Southern Europe.
The result of his triple suggestion was that he stood in his room on that spring morning in the last stages of preparation for a journey to Italy.
He stood there, with the discomfort of packing pleasantly accomplished, and his belongings neatly surrounding him; yet his attitude and expression were those of a man who is faced by an unlooked-for difficulty.
With a nervous gesture, he shook out the letter that he held, and began to read it hastily for the fourth time.
It was a long letter, written in a careless, almost boyish hand on thin paper, and bore the address of "Orristown, Ireland."
It was dated two days earlier, and began: "DEAR MR. MILBANKE,--
"You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for father, not for myself.
He had a bad accident yesterday while out riding, and is terribly hurt and ill.
The doctor from Carrigmore is with him all the time, and my aunt--as well as Nance and I; so he is well cared for.
But he seems to get worse instead of better, and we are dreadfully frightened about him.
"There is one thing he constantly craves for--and that is to see you.
Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about you.
Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has ever forgotten that he treated you badly.
"This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like to see you.
The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour.
"Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently.
I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing you to him.
And if you are in London, please do come, if only for one night.
Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad.
Any time you send me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven.
"This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and scarcely know what I am writing.
"Answer as soon as possible, "Yours, "CLODAGH ASSHLIN."
Milbanke scanned the letter to the last line; then, as he reached the signature, the inertia that had pervaded his mind was suddenly dispersed.
His own shock of sorrow and dismay, his own interrupted plans faded from his consideration; and in their place rose the picture of a great white house on the lonely Irish coast; of a sick--perhaps a dying--man; of two frightened children and a couple of faithful, inefficient servants.
With an energy he had not evinced for years he crossed the room, stumbling over straps and parcels, and rang the bell with imperative haste.
When a surprised maid appeared at the door he turned to her with unwonted excitement.
"I have a telegram to send," he said; "one that must go at once."
The rest of that day, with its suddenly altered plans, its long railway journey from Paddington to New Milford, and its stormy night crossing from the latter point to the town of Waterford, was too beset with haste and confusion to contain any definite recollections for Milbanke.
It was not until he had taken his seat at eight o'clock next morning in the small and leisurely train that transports passengers from Waterford to the seaport of Dunhaven that he found time to realise the significance of his journey; and not until he descended from his carriage at this latter station and was greeted by old Burke, the Orristown retainer, that he fully appreciated the gravity of the incident that had occasioned it.
There was no change apparent in Burke's familiar face save the gloom that overhung his expression.
But this was obvious to Milbanke at a first glance.
"You're welcome, sir!"
were his opening words; then the underlying bent of his thoughts found vent.
"'Tis a sorrowful house you'll be findin'," he added in a subdued voice.
Milbanke glanced up sharply from the rug he was unstrapping.
"How is he?"
he asked.
"Not worse?"
Burke shook his head.
"'Twouldn't be wishin' for me to give you the bad word----" he began deprecatingly.
"Then he is bad?"
The old man pursed up his lips.
"Ah, I'm in dread 'tis for his long home he's bound," he said reluctantly.
"Glory be to God an' His Holy Ways!
But 'tis of thim two poor children that I do be thinkin'."
But Milbanke's mind was occupied with his first words.
"But how is he?"
he demanded.
"What is the injury?
Has he an efficient doctor?"
Again Burke shook his head.
