As the night wore apace, and fortune played her wildest pranks, many an applicant—some successfully, and some in vain—sought Chancey's succour.
"Come, my fine fellow, tip me a cool hundred," exclaimed a fashionably-dressed young man, flushed with the combined excitement of wine and the dice, and tapping Chancey on the back impatiently with his knuckles—"this moment—will you, and be d——"
"Oh, dear me, dear me, Captain Markham," drawled the barrister in a low, drowsy tone, as he turned sleepily toward the speaker, "have you lost the other hundred so soon? Oh, dear!—oh, dear!"
"Never you mind, old fox. Shell out, if you're going to do it," rejoined the applicant. "What is it to you?"
"Oh, dear me, dear me!" murmured Chancey, as he languidly drew the pocket-book from his pocket. "When shall I make it payable? To-morrow?"
"D——n to-morrow," replied the captain. "I'll sleep all to-morrow. Won't a fortnight do, you harpy?"
"Well, well—sign—sign it here," said the usurer, handing the paper, with a pen, to the young gentleman, and indicating with his finger the spot where the name was to be written.
The roué wrote his name without ever reading the paper; and Chancey carefully deposited it in his book.
"The money—the money—d——n you, will you never give it!" exclaimed the young man, actually stamping with impatience, as if every moment's absence from the hazard-table cost him a fortune. "Give—give—give them."
He seized the notes, and without counting, stuffed them into his coat-pocket, and plunged in an instant again among the gamblers who crowded the table.
"Mr. Chancey—Mr. Chancey," said a slight young man, whose whole appearance betokened a far progress in the wasting of a mortal decline. His face was pale as death itself, and glittering with the cold, clammy dew of weakness and excitement. The eye was bright, wild, and glassy; and the features of this attenuated face trembled and worked in the spasms of agonized anxiety and despair—with timid voice, and with the fearful earnestness of one pleading for his life—with knees half bent, and head stretched forward, while his thin fingers were clutched and knotted together in restless feverishness. He still repeated at intervals in low, supplicating accents—"Mr. Chancey—Mr. Chancey—can you spare a moment, sir—Mr. Chancey, good sir—Mr. Chancey."
For many minutes the worthy barrister gazed on apathetically into the fire, as if wholly unconscious that this piteous spectacle was by his side, and all but begging his attention.
"Mr. Chancey, good sir—Mr. Chancey, kind sir—only one moment—one word—Mr. Chancey."
This time the wretched young man advanced one of his trembling hands, and laid it hesitatingly upon Chancey's knee—the seat of mercy, as the ancients thought; but truly here it was otherwise. The hand was repulsed with insolent rudeness; and the wretched suppliant stood trembling in silence before the bill-discounter, who looked upon him with a scowl of brute ferocity, which the timid advances he had made could hardly have warranted.
"Well," growled Chancey, keeping his baleful eyes fixed not very encouragingly upon the poor young man.
"I have been unfortunate, sir—I have lost my last shilling—that is, the last I have about me at present."
"Well," repeated he.
"I might win it all back," continued the suppliant, becoming more voluble as he proceeded. "I might recover it all—it has often happened to me before. Oh, sir, it is possible—certain, if I had but a few pounds to play on."
"Ay, the old story," rejoined Chancey.
"Yes, sir, it is indeed—indeed it is, Mr. Chancey," said the young man, eagerly, catching at this improvement upon his first laconic address as an indication of some tendency to relent, and making, at the same time, a most woeful attempt to look pleasant—"it is, sir—the old story, indeed; but this time it will come out true—indeed it will. Will you do one little note for me—a little one—twenty pounds?"
"No, I won't," drawled Chancey, imitating with coarse buffoonery the intonation of the request—"I won't do a little one for you."
"Well, for ten pounds—for ten only."
"No, nor for ten pence," rejoined Chancey, tranquilly.
"You may keep five out of it for the discount—for friendship—only let me have five—just five," urged the wasted gambler, with an agony of supplication.
"No, I won't; just five," replied the lawyer.
"I'll make it payable to-morrow," urged the suppliant.
"Maybe you'll be dead before that," drawled Chancey, with a sneer; "the life don't look very tough in you."
"Ah! Mr. Chancey, dear sir—good Mr. Chancey," said the young man, "you often told me you'd do me a friendly turn yet. Do not you remember it?—when I was able to lend you money. For God's sake, lend me five pounds now, or anything; I'll give you half my winnings. You'll save me from beggary—ah, sir, for old friendship."
Mr. Gordon Chancey seemed wondrously tickled by this appeal; he gazed sleepily at the fire while he raked the embers with the toe of his shoe, stuffed his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and indulged in a sort of lazy, comfortable laughter, which lasted for several minutes, until at length it subsided, leaving him again apparently unconscious of the presence of his petitioner. Emboldened by the condescension of his quondam friend, the young man made a piteous effort to join in the laughter—an attempt, however, which was speedily interrupted by the hollow cough of consumption. After a pause of a minute or two, during which Chancey seemed to have forgotten his existence, he once more addressed that gentleman,—
"Well, sir—well, Mr. Chancey?"
The barrister turned full upon him with an expression of face not to be mistaken, and in a tone just as unequivocal, he growled,—
"I'm d——d if I give you as much as a leaden penny. Be off; there's no begging allowed here—away with you, you blackguard."
Having thus delivered himself, Chancey relapsed into his ordinary dreamy quiet.
Every muscle in the pale, wasted face of the ruined, dying gamester quivered with fruitless agony; he opened his mouth to speak, but could not; he gasped and sobbed, and then, clutching his lank hands over his eyes and forehead as though he would fain have crushed his head to pieces, he uttered one low cry of anguish, more despairing and appalling than the loudest shriek of horror, and passed from the room unnoticed.
"Jeffries, can you lend me fifty or a hundred pounds till to-morrow?" said young Ashwoode, addressing a middle-aged fop who had just reeled in from an adjoining room.
"Cuss me, Ashwoode, if the thing is a possibility," replied he, with a hiccough; "I have just been fairly cleaned out by Snarley and two or three others—not one guinea left—confound them all. I've this moment had to beg a crown to pay my chair and link-boy home; but Chancey is here; I saw him not an hour ago in his old corner."
"So he is, egad—thank you," and Ashwoode was instantly by the monied man's side. "Chancey, I want a hundred and fifty—quickly, man, are you awake?" and so saying, he shook the lawyer roughly by the shoulder.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" exclaimed he, in his usual low, sleepy voice,