"There were Ninety and Nine"
Young Harringford, or the "Goodwood Plunger," as he was perhaps better
known at that time, had come to Monte Carlo in a very different spirit
and in a very different state of mind from any in which he had ever
visited the place before. He had come there for the same reason that a
wounded lion, or a poisoned rat, for that matter, crawls away into a
corner, that it may be alone when it dies. He stood leaning against
one of the pillars of the Casino with his back to the moonlight, and
with his eyes blinking painfully at the flaming lamps above the green
tables inside. He knew they would be put out very soon; and as he had
something to do then, he regarded them fixedly with painful
earnestness, as a man who is condemned to die at sunrise watches
through his barred windows for the first gray light of the morning.
That queer, numb feeling in his head and the sharp line of pain
between his eyebrows which had been growing worse for the last three
weeks, was troubling him more terribly than ever before, and his
nerves had thrown off all control and rioted at the base of his head
and at his wrists, and jerked and twitched as though, so it seemed to
him, they were striving to pull the tired body into pieces and to set
themselves free. He was wondering whether if he should take his hand
from his pocket and touch his head he would find that it had grown
longer, and had turned into a soft, spongy mass which would give
beneath his fingers. He considered this for some time, and even went
so far as to half withdraw one hand, but thought better of it and
shoved it back again as he considered how much less terrible it was to
remain in doubt than to find that this phenomenon had actually taken
place.
The pity of the whole situation was, that the boy was only a boy with
all his man's miserable knowledge of the world, and the reason of it
all was, that he had entirely too much heart and not enough money to
make an unsuccessful gambler. If he had only been able to lose his
conscience instead of his money, or even if he had kept his conscience
and won, it is not likely that he would have been waiting for the
lights to go out at Monte Carlo. But he had not only lost all of his
money and more besides, which he could never make up, but he had lost
other things which meant much more to him now than money, and which
could not be made up or paid back at even usurious interest. He had
not only lost the right to sit at his father's table, but the right to
think of the girl whose place in Surrey ran next to that of his own
people, and whose lighted window in the north wing he had watched on
those many dreary nights when she had been ill, from his own terrace
across the trees in the park. And all he had gained was the notoriety
that made him a by-word with decent people, and the hero of the race-
tracks and the music-halls. He was no longer "Young Harringford, the
eldest son of the Harringfords of Surrey," but the "Goodwood Plunger,"
to whom Fortune had made desperate love and had then jilted, and
mocked, and overthrown.
As he looked back at it now and remembered himself as he was then, it
seemed as though he was considering an entirely distinct and separate
personage--a boy of whom he liked to think, who had had strong,
healthy ambitions and gentle tastes. He reviewed it passionlessly as
he stood staring at the lights inside the Casino, as clearly as he was
capable of doing in his present state and with miserable interest. How
he had laughed when young Norton told him in boyish confidence that
there was a horse named Siren in his father's stables which would win
the Goodwood Cup; how, having gone down to see Norton's people when
the long vacation began, he had seen Siren daily, and had talked of
her until two every morning in the smoking-room, and had then staid up
two hours later to watch her take her trial spin over the downs. He
remembered how they used to stamp back over the long grass wet with
dew, comparing watches and talking of the time in whispers, and said
good night as the sun broke over the trees in the park. And then just
at this time of all others, when the horse was the only interest of
those around him, from Lord Norton and his whole household down to the
youngest stable-boy and oldest gaffer in the village, he had come into
his money.
And then began the then and still inexplicable plunge into gambling,
and the wagering of greater sums than the owner of Siren dared to risk
himself, the secret backing of the horse through commissioners all
over England, until the boy by his single fortune had brought the odds
against her from 60 to 0 down to 6 to 0. He recalled, with a thrill
that seemed to settle his nerves for the moment, the little black
specks at the starting-post and the larger specks as the horses turned
the first corner. The rest of the people on the coach were making a
great deal of noise, he remembered, but he, who had more to lose than
any one or all of them together, had stood quite still with his feet
on the wheel and his back against the box-seat, and with his hands
sunk into his pockets and the nails cutting through his gloves. The
specks grew into horses with bits of color on them, and then the deep
muttering roar of the crowd merged into one great shout, and swelled
and grew into sharper, quicker, impatient cries, as the horses turned
into the stretch with only their heads showing toward the goal. Some
of the people were shouting "Firefly!" and others were calling on
"Vixen!" and others, who had their glasses up, cried "Trouble leads!"
but he only waited until he could distinguish the Norton colors, with
his lips pressed tightly together. Then they came so close that their
hoofs echoed as loudly as when horses gallop over a bridge, and from
among the leaders Siren's beautiful head and shoulders showed like
sealskin in the sun, and the boy on her back leaned forward and
touched her gently with his hand, as they had so often seen him do on
the downs, and Siren, as though he had touched a spring, leaped
forward with her head shooting back and out, like a piston-rod that
has broken loose from its fastening and beats the air, while the
jockey sat motionless, with his right arm hanging at his side as
limply as though it were broken, and with his left moving forward and
back in time with the desperate strokes of the horse's head.
"Siren wins!" cried Lord Norton, with a grim smile, and "Siren!" the
mob shouted back with wonder and angry disappointment, and "Siren!"
the hills echoed from far across the course. Young Harringford felt as
if he had suddenly been lifted into heaven after three months of
purgatory, and smiled uncertainly at the excited people on the coach
about him. It made him smile even now when he recalled young Norton's
flushed face and the awe and reproach in his voice when he climbed up
and whispered, "Why, Cecil, they say in the ring you've won a fortune,
and you never told us." And how Griffith, the biggest of the book-
makers, with the rest of them at his back, came up to him and touched
his hat resentfully, and said, "You'll have to give us time, sir; I'm
very hard hit"; and how the crowd stood about him and looked at him
curiously, and the Certain Royal Personage turned and said, "Who--not
that boy, surely?" Then how, on the day following, the papers told of
the young gentleman who of all others had won a fortune, thousands and
thousands of pounds they said, getting back sixty for every one he had
ventured; and pictured him in baby clothes with the cup in his arms,
or in an Eton jacket; and how all of them spoke of him slightingly, or
admiringly, as the "Goodwood Plunger."
He did not care to go on after that; to recall the mortification of
his father, whose pride was hurt and whose hopes were dashed by this
sudden, mad freak of fortune, nor how he railed at it and provoked him
until the boy rebelled and went back to the courses, where he was a
celebrity and a king.
The rest is a very common story. Fortune and greater fortune at first;
days in which he could not lose, days in which he drove back to the
crowded inns choked with dust, sunburnt and fagged with excitement, to
a riotous supper and baccarat, and afterward went to sleep only to see
cards and horses and moving crowds and clouds of dust; days spent in a
short covert coat, with a field-glass over his shoulder and with a
pasteboard ticket dangling from his buttonhole; and then came the
change that brought conscience up again, and the visits to the Jews,
and the slights of the men who had never been his friends, but whom he
had thought had at least liked him for himself, even if he did not
like them; and then debts, and more debts, and the borrowing of money
to pay here and there, and threats of executions; and, with it all,
the longing for the fields and trout springs of Surrey and the walk
across the park to where she lived.
This grew so strong that he wrote to his father, and was told briefly
that he who was to have kept up the family name had dragged it into
the dust of the race-courses, and had changed it at his own wish to
that of the Boy Plunger--and that the breach was irreconcilable.
Then this queer feeling came on, and he wondered why he could not eat,
and why he shivered even when the room was warm or the sun shining,
and the fear came upon him that with all this trouble and disgrace his
head might give way, and then that it had given way. This came to him
at all times, and lately more frequently and with a fresher, more
cruel thrill of terror, and he began to watch himself and note how he
spoke, and to repeat over what he had said to see if it were sensible,
and to question himself as to why he laughed, and at what. It was not
a question of whether it would or would not be cowardly; It was simply
a necessity. The thing had to be stopped. He had to have rest and
sleep and peace again. He had boasted in those reckless, prosperous
days that if by any possible chance he should lose his money he would
drive a hansom, or emigrate to the colonies, or take the shilling. He
had no patience in those days with men who could not live on in
adversity, and who were found in the gun-room with a hole in their
heads, and whose family asked their polite friends to believe that a
man used to firearms from his school-days had tried to load a hair-
trigger revolver with the muzzle pointed at his forehead. He had
expressed a fine contempt for those men then, but now he had forgotten
all that, and thought only of the relief it would bring, and not how
others might suffer by it. If he did consider this, it was only to
conclude that they would quite understand, and be glad that his pain
and fear were over.
Then he planned a grand _coup_ which was to pay off all his debts and
give him a second chance to present himself a supplicant at his
father's house. If it failed, he would have to stop this queer feeling
in his head at once. The Grand Prix and the English horse was the
final _coup_. On this depended everything--the return of his fortunes,
the reconciliation with his father, and the possibility of meeting her
again. It was a very hot day he remembered, and very bright; but the
tall poplars on the road to the races seemed to stop growing just at a
level with his eyes. Below that it was clear enough, but all above
seemed black--as though a cloud had fallen and was hanging just over
the people's heads. He thought of speaking of this to his man Walters,
who had followed his fortunes from the first, but decided not to do
so, for, as it was, he had noticed that Walters had observed him
closely of late, and had seemed to spy upon him. The race began, and
he looked through his glass for the English horse in the front and
could not find her, and the Frenchman beside him cried, "Frou Frou!"
as Frou Frou passed the goal. He lowered his glasses slowly and
unscrewed them very carefully before dropping them back into the case;
then he buckled the strap, and turned and looked about him. Two
Frenchmen who had won a hundred francs between them were jumping and
dancing at his side. He remembered wondering why they did not speak in
English. Then the sunlight changed to a yellow, nasty glare, as though
a calcium light had been turned on the glass and colors, and he pushed
his way back to his carriage, leaning heavily on the servant's arm,
and drove slowly back to Paris, with the driver flecking his horses
fretfully with his whip, for he had wished to wait and see the end of
the races.
He had selected Monte Carlo as the place for it, because it was more
unlike his home than any other spot, and because one summer night,
when he had crossed the lawn from the Casino to the hotel with a gay
party of young men and women, they had come across something under a
bush which they took to be a dog or a man asleep, and one of the men
had stepped forward and touched it with his foot, and had then turned
sharply and said, "Take those girls away"; and while some hurried the
women back, frightened and curious, he and the others had picked up
the body and found it to be that of a young Russian whom they had just
seen losing, with a very bad grace, at the tables. There was no
passion in his face now, and his evening dress was quite unruffled,
and only a black spot on the shirt front showed where the powder had
burnt the linen. It had made a great impression on him then, for he
was at the height of his fortunes, with crowds of sycophantic friends
and a retinue of dependents at his heels. And now that he was quite
alone and disinherited by even these sorry companions there seemed no
other escape from the pain in his brain but to end it, and he sought
this place of all others as the most fitting place in which to die.
So, after Walters had given the proper papers and checks to the
commissioner who handled his debts for him, he left Paris and took the
first train for Monte Carlo, sitting at the window of the carriage,
and beating a nervous tattoo on the pane with his ring until the old
gentleman at the other end of the compartment scowled at him. But
Harringford did not see him, nor the trees and fields as they swept
by, and it was not until Walters came and said, "You get out here,
sir," that he recognized the yellow station and the great hotels on
the hill above. It was half-past eleven, and the lights in the Casino
were still burning brightly. He wondered whether he would have time to
go over to the hotel and write a letter to his father and to her. He
decided, after some difficult consideration, that he would not. There
was nothing to say that they did not know already, or that they would
fail to understand. But this suggested to him that what they had
written to him must be destroyed at once, before any stranger could
claim the right to read it. He took his letters from his pocket and
looked them over carefully. They were most unpleasant reading. They
all seemed to be about money; some begged to remind him of this or
that debt, of which he had thought continuously for the last month,
while others were abusive and insolent. Each of them gave him actual
pain. One was the last letter he had received from his father just
before leaving Paris, and though he knew it by heart, he read it over
again for the last time. That it came too late, that it asked what he
knew now to be impossible, made it none the less grateful to him, but
that it offered peace and a welcome home made it all the more
terrible.
"I came to take this step through young Hargraves, the new curate,"
his father wrote, "though he was but the instrument in the hands of
Providence. He showed me the error of my conduct toward you, and
proved to me that my duty and the inclination of my heart were toward
the same end. He read this morning for the second lesson the story of
the Prodigal Son, and I heard it without recognition and with no
present application until he came to the verse which tells how the
father came to his son 'when he was yet a great way off.' He saw him,
it says, 'when he was yet a great way off,' and ran to meet him. He
did not wait for the boy to knock at his gate and beg to be let in,
but went out to meet him, and took him in his arms and led him back to
his home. Now, my boy, my son, it seems to me as if you had never been
so far off from me as you are at this present time, as if you had
never been so greatly separated from me in every thought and interest;
we are even worse than strangers, for you think that my hand is
against you, that I have closed the door of your home to you and
driven you away. But what I have done I beg of you to forgive: to
forget what I may have said in the past, and only to think of what I
say now. Your brothers are good boys and have been good sons to me,
and God knows I am thankful for such sons, and thankful to them for
bearing themselves as they have done.
"But, my boy, my first-born, my little Cecil, they can never be to me
what you have been. I can never feel for them as I feel for you; they
are the ninety and nine who have never wandered away upon the
mountains, and who have never been tempted, and have never left their
home for either good or evil. But you, Cecil, though you have made my
heart ache until I thought and even hoped it would stop beating, and
though you have given me many, many nights that I could not sleep, are
still dearer to me than anything else in the world. You are the flesh
of my flesh and the bone of my bone, and I cannot bear living on
without you. I cannot be at rest here, or look forward contentedly to
a rest hereafter, unless you are by me and hear me, unless I can see
your face and touch you and hear your laugh in the halls. Come back to
me, Cecil; to Harringford and the people that know you best, and know
what is best in you and love you for it. I can have only a few more
years here now when you will take my place and keep up my name. I will
not be here to trouble you much longer; but, my boy, while I am here,
come to me and make me happy for the rest of my life. There are others
who need you, Cecil. You know whom I mean. I saw her only yesterday,
and she asked me of you with such splendid disregard for what the
others standing by might think, and as though she dared me or them to
say or even imagine anything against you. You cannot keep away from us
both much longer. Surely not; you will come back and make us happy for
the rest of our lives."
The Goodwood Plunger turned his back to the lights so that the people
passing could not see his face, and tore the letter up slowly and
dropped it piece by piece over the balcony. "If I could," he
whispered; "if I could." The pain was a little worse than usual just
then, but it was no longer a question of inclination. He felt only
this desire to stop these thoughts and doubts and the physical tremor
that shook him. To rest and sleep, that was what he must have, and
peace. There was no peace at home or anywhere else while this thing
lasted. He could not see why they worried him in this way. It was
quite impossible. He felt much more sorry for them than for himself,
but only because they could not understand. He was quite sure that if
they could feel what he suffered they would help him, even to end it.
He had been standing for some time with his back to the light, but now
he turned to face it and to take up his watch again. He felt quite
sure the lights would not burn much longer. As he turned, a woman came
forward from out the lighted hall, hovered uncertainly before him, and
then made a silent salutation, which was something between a courtesy
and a bow. That she was a woman and rather short and plainly dressed,
and that her bobbing up and down annoyed him, was all that he realized
of her presence, and he quite failed to connect her movements with
himself in any way. "Sir," she said in French, "I beg your pardon, but
might I speak with you?" The Goodwood Plunger possessed a somewhat
various knowledge of Monte Carlo and its _habitues_. It was not the
first time that women who had lost at the tables had begged a napoleon
from him, or asked the distinguished child of fortune what color or
combination she should play. That, in his luckier days, had happened
often and had amused him, but now he moved back irritably and wished
that the figure in front of him would disappear as it had come.
"I am in great trouble, sir," the woman said. "I have no friends here,
sir, to whom I may apply. I am very bold, but my anxiety is very
great."
The Goodwood Plunger raised his hat slightly and bowed. Then he
concentrated his eyes with what was a distinct effort on the queer
little figure hovering in front of him, and stared very hard. She wore
an odd piece of red coral for a brooch, and by looking steadily at
this he brought the rest of the figure into focus and saw, without
surprise,--for every commonplace seemed strange to him now, and
everything peculiar quite a matter of course,--that she was distinctly
not an _habituee_ of the place, and looked more like a lady's maid
than an adventuress. She was French and pretty,--such a girl as might
wait in a Duval restaurant or sit as a cashier behind a little counter
near the door.
"We should not be here," she said, as if in answer to his look and in
apology for her presence. "But Louis, my husband, he would come. I
told him that this was not for such as we are, but Louis is so bold.
He said that upon his marriage tour he would live with the best, and
so here he must come to play as the others do. We have been married,
sir, only since Tuesday, and we must go back to Paris to-morrow; they
would give him only the three days. He is not a gambler; he plays
dominos at the cafes, it is true. But what will you? He is young and
with so much spirit, and I know that you, sir, who are so fortunate
and who understand so well how to control these tables, I know that
you will persuade him. He will not listen to me; he is so greatly
excited and so little like himself. You will help me, sir, will you
not? You will speak to him?"
The Goodwood Plunger knit his eyebrows and closed the lids once or
twice, and forced the mistiness and pain out of his eyes. It was most
annoying. The woman seemed to be talking a great deal and to say very
much, but he could not make sense of it. He moved his shoulders
slightly. "I can't understand," he said wearily, turning away.
"It is my husband," the woman said anxiously: "Louis, he is playing at
the table inside, and he is only an apprentice to old Carbut the
baker, but he owns a third of the store. It was my _dot_ that paid for
it," she added proudly. "Old Carbut says he may have it all for 20,000
francs, and then old Carbut will retire, and we will be proprietors.
We have saved a little, and we had counted to buy the rest in five or
six years if we were very careful."
"I see, I see," said the Plunger, with a little short laugh of relief;
"I understand." He was greatly comforted to think that it was not so
bad as it had threatened. He saw her distinctly now and followed what
she said quite easily, and even such a small matter as talking with
this woman seemed to help him.
"He is gambling," he said, "and losing the money, and you come to me
to advise him what to play. I understand. Well, tell him he will lose
what little he has left; tell him I advise him to go home; tell him--"
"No, no!" the girl said excitedly; "you do not understand; he has not
lost, he has won. He has won, oh, so many rolls of money, but he will
not stop. Do you not see? He has won as much as we could earn in many
months--in many years, sir, by saving and working, oh, so very hard!
And now he risks it again, and I cannot force him away. But if you,
sir, if you would tell him how great the chances are against him, if
you who know would tell him how foolish he is not to be content with
what he has, he would listen. He says to me, 'Bah! you are a woman';
and he is so red and fierce; he is imbecile with the sight of the
money, but he will listen to a grand gentleman like you. He thinks to
win more and more, and he thinks to buy another third from old Carbut.
Is it not foolish? It is so wicked of him."
"Oh, yes," said the Goodwood Plunger, nodding, "I see now. You want me
to take him away so that he can keep what he has. I see; but I don't
know him. He will not listen to me, you know; I have no right to
interfere."
He turned away, rubbing his hand across his forehead. He wished so
much that this woman would leave him by himself.
"Ah, but, sir," cried the girl, desperately, and touching his coat,
"you who are so fortunate, and so rich, and of the great world, you
cannot feel what this is to me. To have my own little shop and to be
free, and not to slave, and sew, and sew until my back and fingers
burn with the pain. Speak to him, sir; ah, speak to him! It is so easy
a thing to do, and he will listen to you."
The Goodwood Plunger turned again abruptly. "Where is he?" he said.
"Point him out to me."
The woman ran ahead, with a murmur of gratitude, to the open door and
pointed to where her husband was standing leaning over and placing
some money on one of the tables. He was a handsome young Frenchman, as
_bourgeois_ as his wife, and now terribly alive and excited. In the
self-contained air of the place and in contrast with the silence of
the great hall he seemed even more conspicuously out of place. The
Plunger touched him on the arm, and the Frenchman shoved the hand off
impatiently and without looking around. The Plunger touched him again
and forced him to turn toward him.
"Well!" said the Frenchman, quickly. "Well?"
"Madame, your wife," said Cecil, with the grave politeness of an old
man, "has done me the honor to take me into her confidence. She tells
me that you have won a great deal of money; that you could put it to
good use at home, and so save yourselves much drudgery and debt, and
all that sort of trouble. You are quite right if you say it is no
concern of mine. It is not. But really, you know there is a great deal
of sense in what she wants, and you have apparently already won a
large sum."
The Frenchman was visibly surprised at this approach. He paused for a
second or two in some doubt, and even awe, for the disinherited one
carried the mark of a personage of consideration and of one whose
position is secure. Then he gave a short, unmirthful laugh.
"You are most kind, sir," he said with mock politeness and with an
impatient shrug. "But madame, my wife, has not done well to interest a
stranger in this affair, which, as you say, concerns you not."
He turned to the table again with a defiant swagger of independence
and placed two rolls of money upon the cloth, casting at the same
moment a childish look of displeasure at his wife. "You see," said the
Plunger, with a deprecatory turning out of his hands. But there was so
much grief on the girl's face that he turned again to the gambler and
touched his arm. He could not tell why he was so interested in these
two. He had witnessed many such scenes before, and they had not
affected him in any way except to make him move out of hearing. But
the same dumb numbness in his head, which made so many things seem
possible that should have been terrible even to think upon, made him
stubborn and unreasonable over this. He felt intuitively--it could not
be said that he thought--that the woman was right and the man wrong,
and so he grasped him again by the arm, and said sharply this time:
"Come away! Do you hear? You are acting foolishly."
But even as he spoke the red won, and the Frenchman with a boyish
gurgle of pleasure raked in his winnings with his two hands, and then
turned with a happy, triumphant laugh to his wife. It is not easy to
convince a man that he is making a fool of himself when he is winning
some hundred francs every two minutes. His silent arguments to the
contrary are difficult to answer. But the Plunger did not regard this
in the least.
"Do you hear me?" he said in the same stubborn tone and with much the
same manner with which he would have spoken to a groom. "Come away."
Again the Frenchman tossed off his hand, this time with an execration,
and again he placed the rolls of gold coin on the red; and again the
red won.
"My God!" cried the girl, running her fingers over the rolls on the
table, "he has won half of the 20,000 francs. Oh, sir, stop him, stop
him!" she cried. "Take him away."
"Do you hear me!" cried the Plunger, excited to a degree of utter
self-forgetfulness, and carried beyond himself; "you've got to come
with me."
"Take away your hand," whispered the young Frenchman, fiercely. "See,
I shall win it all; in one grand _coup_ I shall win it all. I shall
win five years' pay in one moment."
He swept all of the money forward on the red and threw himself over
the table to see the wheel.
"Wait, confound you!" whispered the Plunger, excitedly. "If you will
risk it, risk it with some reason. You can't play all that money; they
won't take it. Six thousand francs is the limit, unless," he ran on
quickly, "you divide the 12,000 francs among the three of us. You
understand, 6,000 francs is all that any one person can play; but if
you give 4,000 to me, and 4,000 to your wife, and keep 4,000 yourself,
we can each chance it. You can back the red if you like, your wife
shall put her money on the numbers coming up below eighteen, and I
will back the odd. In that way you stand to win 24,000 francs if our
combination wins, and you lose less than if you simply back the color.
Do you understand?"
"No!" cried the Frenchman, reaching for the piles of money which the
Plunger had divided rapidly into three parts, "on the red; all on the
red!"
"Good heavens, man!" cried the Plunger, bitterly. "I may not know
much, but you should allow me to understand this dirty business." He
caught the Frenchman by the wrists, and the young man, more impressed
with the strange look in the boy's face than by his physical force,
stood still, while the ball rolled and rolled, and clicked merrily,
and stopped, and balanced, and then settled into the "seven."
"Red, odd, and below," the croupier droned mechanically.
"Ah! you see; what did I tell you?" said the Plunger, with sudden
calmness. "You have won more than your 20,000 francs; you are
proprietors--I congratulate you!"
"Ah, my God!" cried the Frenchman, in a frenzy of delight, "I will
double it."
He reached toward the fresh piles of coin as if he meant to sweep them
back again, but the Plunger put himself in his way and with a quick
movement caught up the rolls of money and dropped them into the skirt
of the woman, which she raised like an apron to receive her treasure.
"Now," said young Harringford, determinedly, "you come with me." The
Frenchman tried to argue and resist, but the Plunger pushed him on
with the silent stubbornness of a drunken man. He handed the woman
into a carriage at the door, shoved her husband in beside her, and
while the man drove to the address she gave him, he told the
Frenchman, with an air of a chief of police, that he must leave Monte
Carlo at once, that very night.
"Do you suppose I don't know?" he said. "Do you fancy I speak without
knowledge? I've seen them come here rich and go away paupers. But you
shall not; you shall keep what you have and spite them." He sent the
woman up to her room to pack while he expostulated with and browbeat
the excited bridegroom in the carriage. When she returned with the bag
packed, and so heavy with the gold that the servants could hardly lift
it up beside the driver, he ordered the coachman to go down the hill
to the station.
"The train for Paris leaves at midnight," he said, "and you will be
there by morning. Then you must close your bargain with this old
Carbut, and never return here again."
The Frenchman had turned during the ride from an angry, indignant
prisoner to a joyful madman, and was now tearfully and effusively
humble in his petitions for pardon and in his thanks. Their
benefactor, as they were pleased to call him, hurried them into the
waiting train and ran to purchase their tickets for them.
"Now," he said, as the guard locked the door of the compartment, "you
are alone, and no one can get in, and you cannot get out. Go back to
your home, to your new home, and never come to this wretched place
again. Promise me--you understand?--never again!"
They promised with effusive reiteration. They embraced each other like
children, and the man, pulling off his hat, called upon the good Lord
to thank the gentleman.
"You will be in Paris, will you not?" said the woman, in an ecstasy of
pleasure, "and you will come to see us in our own shop, will you not?
Ah! we should be so greatly honored, sir, if you would visit us; if
you would come to the home you have given us. You have helped us so
greatly, sir," she said; "and may Heaven bless you!"
She caught up his gloved hand as it rested on the door and kissed it
until he snatched it away in great embarrassment and flushing like a
girl. Her husband drew her toward him, and the young bride sat at his
side with her face close to his and wept tears of pleasure and of
excitement.
"Ah, look, sir!" said the young man, joyfully; "look how happy you
have made us. You have made us happy for the rest of our lives."
The train moved out with a quick, heavy rush, and the car-wheels took
up the young stranger's last words and seemed to say, "You have made
us happy--made us happy for the rest of our lives."
It had all come about so rapidly that the Plunger had had no time to
consider or to weigh his motives, and all that seemed real to him now,
as he stood alone on the platform of the dark, deserted station, were
the words of the man echoing and re-echoing like the refrain of the
song. And then there came to him suddenly, and with all the force of a
gambler's superstition, the thought that the words were the same as
those which his father had used in his letter, "you can make us happy
for the rest of our lives."
"Ah," he said, with a quick gasp of doubt, "if I could! If I made
those poor fools happy, mayn't I live to be something to him, and to
her? O God!" he cried, but so gently that one at his elbow could not
have heard him, "if I could, if I could!"
He tossed up his hands, and drew them down again and clenched them in
front of him, and raised his tired, hot eyes to the calm purple sky
with its millions of moving stars. "Help me!" he whispered fiercely,
"help me." And as he lowered his head the queer numb feeling seemed to
go, and a calm came over his nerves and left him in peace. He did not
know what it might be, nor did he dare to question the change which
had come to him, but turned and slowly mounted the hill, with the awe
and fear still upon him of one who had passed beyond himself for one
brief moment into another world. When he reached his room he found his
servant bending with an anxious face over a letter which he tore up
guiltily as his master entered. "You were writing to my father," said
Cecil, gently, "were you not? Well, you need not finish your letter;
we are going home.
"I am going away from this place, Walters," he said as he pulled off
his coat and threw himself heavily on the bed. "I will take the first
train that leaves here, and I will sleep a little while you put up my
things. The first train, you understand--within an hour, if it leaves
that soon." His head sank back on the pillows heavily, as though he
had come in from a long, weary walk, and his eyes closed and his arms
fell easily at his side. The servant stood frightened and yet happy,
with the tears running down his cheeks, for he loved his master
dearly.
"We are going home, Walters," the Plunger whispered drowsily. "We are
going home; home to England and Harringford and the governor--and we
are going to be happy for all the rest of our lives." He paused a
moment, and Walters bent forward over the bed and held his breath to
listen.
"For he came to me," murmured the boy, as though he was speaking in
his sleep, "when I was yet a great way off--while I was yet a great
way off, and ran to meet me--"
His voice sank until it died away into silence, and a few hours later,
when Walters came to wake him, he found his master sleeping like a
child and smiling in his sleep.
-THE END-
Richard H. Davis' short story: "There were Ninety and Nine"
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