Nearly Lost but Dearly Won

by Theodore P. Wilson

“All right, sir, come in,” he said, and Mark entered.

What a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! Could he really find any satisfaction in it? Yes, birds that love carrion flock together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. A long deal table occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the window and supported a tray loaded with glasses and pipes, with a tall black bottle in the midst of them. The glasses were turned upside down for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation surrounding a preacher. Oh! What a sermon of woe that bottle might have preached to them! But it didn’t speak; it was to set on fire the tongues of other speakers. There was a coloured print over the mantelpiece of Moses smiting the rock. What a solemn contrast to the streams of fire-water soon about to flow! John Gubbins sat at the top of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. Three other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger, of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest depths of blackguardism. And now business was begun; the glasses were transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of whisky; then out came cards and dice. But what sound was that? Three very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at the door? Another madman, who was he? Could it really be Jim Forbes, the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited daily at the dining tables? Alas! It was indeed. Jim was the son of a poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good character; Jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by sewing; Jim, however, had been his widowed mother’s mainstay since his father’s death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, he had been, but was he still? Jim had got a place at “The Firs”; first of all as a general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what was said at meals by Mr and Mrs Rothwell, their children, and guests. What Jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink were the chief things worth living for. He didn’t believe it at first, for he saw in his mother’s cottage real happiness where there was little money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister’s brow a gilding of heaven’s sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. Still, what he heard so constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a little and then a little more of what was in his reach, not money, but drink. Indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master’s guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of slipping a few pounds out of a friend’s pocket into their own without the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor Jim got confused. True, he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, “Thou shalt not steal”; but these better-informed guests at Mr Rothwell’s seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master’s wine at the same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. Conscience was not satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister. Somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together kindred spirits in evil. Mark Rothwell found out what was going on in Jim’s mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to get himself out of a little difficulty. Oh! No! He meant the poor lad no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune. So one day after dinner Mark and the young man were closeted together for an hour in the butler’s pantry; wine flowed freely, and Jim was given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to meet at the coachman’s cottage on certain evenings, and play games of chance, in which, after due instruction from Mark, a person of Jim’s intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious process of tilling and sowing. The instructions commenced there and then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which Jim won to his great delight. They only played “for love” this time, Mark said, but it was difficult to see where the “love” was, except for the drink, and there was plenty of that. One little favour, however, was required by the young master, for initiating Jim into the mysteries and miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor what money he could spare, as Mark happened to be rather short just at this time. So Jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and deposited half in Mark’s hands; the other half he took with him to the coachman’s cottage. Oh! It was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a poor footman’s reach. What with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box. But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, “The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold”; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother’s blessing and a sister’s prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler’s thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss. His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends. Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves?

And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn’t understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, “nothing venture, nothing win”; his turn would come next. But it did not come that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank. The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose Mark and Gubbins. But what was that? A strange noise outside. The dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance.

“Who’s there?” asked Gubbins, in quivering tones.

“Open the door,” was the reply from a deep, loud voice.

“I can’t, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour,” said the coachman, a little more boldly.

“Open the door, or I’ll force it,” said the same voice.

Poor Mark! And poor, wretched Jim! How utterly guilty and crestfallen they looked! As for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy should be lurking for them there.

“Will you open the door, or will you not?”

No answer from within.