‘All right. One throw — and damn you, Foulkes, if I lose.’
He went to the table. He threw. So did nine other gentlemen. Foulkes’s place had served him well that evening, but it did no miracle for Cullingford. He lost.
‘Try again,’ cried Foulkes, who now seemed in no hurry to leave. His unfortunate victim, already flushed with excitement and subject to the gambler’s delusion that this one throw will bring a run of luck and retrieve all, called his opponents to cast again.
Again he lost, but stung by what Foulkes had said he challenged the gentlemen to double the stakes.
The loud rattling of the dice-boxes answered his lordship’s wager, and the enthusiastic cries of acceptance to a sporting bet in no way disturbed the flow of polished conversation being carried on by three gentlemen in a remote corner of the room. Seated at their ease, near a glowing log fire, they smoked, sipped a fine old brandy, talked and listened, as cultured men are wont to do who admire and respect each other, knowing that each, in his own way, is master of his calling.
Indeed, it was a remarkable trio, and had the interest not been so high at the gaming-table, the more curious might have wondered why a dignitary of the Church should be in the company of two notables of the Theatre, but he was listening with the greatest attention and obvious enjoyment. Here was no ordinary parson. Although dressed in the sombre black of his calling, the cut of his clothes and the way he wore them might have put to shame any of the well-known dandies present. Relieving the severity of the clerical garb was the exquisite white linen at neck and wrists, and the slim hand holding the brandy glass denoted a man of taste and refinement. The fire-light played on the silver buckles of his elegant shoes as, legs crossed, one elegant foot slowly swung to and fro. His free hand swept back a stray lock of hair which he wore long and loose to his shoulders and unhampered by the ribbon of the day. Indeed he was setting a new fashion for the clergy, who still wore the formal white wigs. But for his glasses and the slight scholarly stoop of his shoulders the casual onlooker might have taken him for a younger man, since his hair was still raven black, making an unusual contrast as it framed a face pale and classical. In repose it might be the face of a man who had lived and experienced much, but at the moment his features were full of charm as he expressed contentment with the luxurious surroundings and gay companions. In fact — Doctor Syn, D.D., Vicar of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall and Dean of the Peculiars of Romney Marsh, was enjoying himself. Proffering a snuffbox to his companions, he remarked: ‘Yes, indeed, Mr. Sheridan, the loss of Garrick dealt a sorry blow to the Theatre, but it has ever been a puzzle to me why you of all people should have forsaken Old Drury for Westminster.’
‘Pray, Doctor Syn, do not encourage Richard on that subject,’ laughed the youngest of the party, ‘or we shall have an eloquent lecture lasting all night.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Kemble — and begging your pardon, sir, you being manager of Drury Lane,’ replied the parson, ‘but I vow I have not seen a play to my liking since Mr. Sheridan’s School for Scandal. So I trust you will prevent the Theatre from going to the devil, for that indeed would be a further bar to the fulfillment of my ambition.’
‘Yes, you would have made a good Hamlet, Doctor Syn,’ said Mr. Sheridan, ‘for apart from your natural qualifications, they say that the Church is closely akin to the Theatre, and were I still manager of the Lane, I’d engage you here and now, but I vow no one will get a chance with Shakespeare now the Kembles are come to Town. Your brother’s first appearance has been a great success, I’m told.’
Philip Kemble smiled his acknowledgment to Mr. Sheridan’s tribute and, turning to Doctor Syn, said laughingly: ‘My brother Charles promises to make a fine comedian, sir, so that you and I, of sterner stuff, need have no fear of a rival there. But plague take it, Sheridan is almost right about the state of the Theatre, since the one topic the public wish to hear about is the latest playacting of this confounded Scarecrow. Now there’s a great actor and a comedian too, eh, Sheridan? And he is one of your parishioners, Doctor Syn, is he not?’
‘Come, Kemble,’ cried Mr. Sheridan. ‘I may now turn the tables on you; for should you encourage Doctor Syn to pursue that subject we shall have an eloquent sermon lasting all night. Do you not know that his orations against this rogue are highly thought of in all circles?’
Doctor Syn laughed, and addressed the young manager of Drury Lane. ‘I had a mind to rehearse my next Sunday’s sermon to you and Mr. Sheridan, so that you might gauge the quality of my acting, but after such a neat example of table-turning, I will refrain; and indeed, he is right; it would take all night, for I have planned a most vehement one, and ’tis time a poor old parson in his dotage were a-bed.’ So saying he rose from his chair and stood awhile by the fire.
Mr. Sheridan watched him, noting the easy grace and dignity of his bearing. Then smiled and said: ‘Your claim to senility is ill-founded, sir, and carries no conviction. Indeed, I fail to see why you should wish to add to your years. For my part, I’ll warrant, you are as youthful and virile as any of those foppish fire-eaters yonder’ — indicating with his brandy-glass the crowd round the gaming-table.
‘I thank you for the compliment, my dear Sheridan,’ said Doctor Syn. ‘But pray, in truth now, would you not prefer a comfortable dotage to that strident-voiced braggart yonder?’
‘Egad, you’re right, ’tis Bully Foulkes. The most insolent and tiresome dog in Town, though ’tis not the policy to say so to his face. I have no wish to be called out. St. Martin’s Fields are too damned chilly in the early hours of the morning. So have a care, Doctor Syn, when you refer to the stridency of his voice, though of course your calling protects you from the rogue.’
As they were talking the noise round the table grew louder and a heated argument took place, in which this said gentleman seemed to be the central figure. Loud oaths and proffered bets reached the far corner of the room, and the Captain’s voice took on a bantering tone. ‘The Scarecrow. I am heartily sick at the very sound of his name.’
‘Because his adventures are fast eclipsing your own, eh, Foulkes?’ cried a voice from the far end of the table.
‘Have a care, Sir Harry,’ warned Foulkes, with an unpleasant edge on his voice, ‘when coupling my name with that of an ill-bred smuggler from some outlandish place in Kent. Confound it, why can’t the Government rid us of this rogue? Easiest thing in the world if you’ve the brains and ingenuity, and for two pins I’ll do it myself.’
‘The Government will give you more than two pins should you succeed,’ replied Harry Lambton. ‘A thousand guineas is their latest offer, and I vow I am as bored as you are with the subject. ’Twould be a relief to get back to normal and lay our wagers on the colours of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s latest gown. I’ll gladly add another thousand to the Government’s, should you succeed in ridding the Marshes of the Scourge and the Town of this plaguey topic.’
The offer was greeted with loud applause, and in the excitement and speculation that followed no one noticed the dejection of young Lord Cullingford and the look of blank despair on his face. He cursed himself for having listened to Foulkes, not daring to think how much the evening’s rash play had let him in for and knowing that his fair-weather friend took occasion to quarrel with anyone who kept him waiting for the payment of a debt. As in a dream he heard the voices round him. ‘The Government offer a thousand guineas and Harry Lambton doubles it.’ He was desperate and must clutch at any straw. In a flash he made up his mind. Whether Foulkes went or no, he determined to try himself. One thing was certain, he must get on his way before Foulkes. Thank heaven there was one remaining horse in his London stables and that a good one. He determined to start at daybreak, and with the possibility of earning so large a sum his courage returned and he made a rapid calculation of his night’s losses. If he should succeed he reckoned he should have funds enough to keep him till he was on his feet again, and so with glowing prospect in mind he was able to face the Captain with his usual gaiety.