The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

“You and Grasslough were never pals.”

“I don’t like him a bit. He gives himself airs because he is a lord, and is devilish ill-natured. I don’t know why he should want to ride my horses.”

“To save his own.”

“He isn’t hard up. Why doesn’t he have his own horses? I’ll tell you what, Carbury, I’ve made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I’ll stick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows want horses let them buy them.”

“But some fellows haven’t got any money, Dolly.”

“Then they ought to go tick. I don’t think I’ve paid for any of mine I’ve bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday⁠—”

“What! here at the club?”

“Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! It was horses, I think, because of the fellow’s trousers.”

“What did you say?”

“Me! Oh, I didn’t say anything.”

“And how did it end?”

“When he’d done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was biting off the end I went upstairs. I suppose he went away when he was tired of waiting.”

“I’ll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you’d let me ride two of yours for a couple of days⁠—that is, of course, if you don’t want them yourself. You ain’t tight now, at any rate.”

“No; I ain’t tight,” said Dolly, with melancholy acquiescence.

“I mean that I wouldn’t like to borrow your horses without your remembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfully done up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it’s an awful squeeze in the meantime. There’s nobody I’d ask such a favour of except you.”

“Well, you may have them;⁠—that is, for two days. I don’t know whether that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn’t believe Grasslough, and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the stables. That’s what somebody told me.”

“You could write a line to your groom.”

“Oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don’t think I could do that. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. I think I’ll have a little drop of curaçao before dinner. Come along and try it. It’ll give us an appetite.”

It was then nearly seven o’clock. Nine hours afterwards the same two men, with two others⁠—of whom young Lord Grasslough, Dolly Longestaffe’s peculiar aversion, was one⁠—were just rising from a card-table in one of the upstairs rooms of the club. For it was understood that, though the Beargarden was not to be open before three o’clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during the day was to be given freely during the night. No man could get a breakfast at the Beargarden, but suppers at three o’clock in the morning were quite within the rule. Such a supper, or rather succession of suppering, there had been tonight, various devils and broils and hot toasts having been brought up from time to time first for one and then for another. But there had been no cessation of gambling since the cards had first been opened about ten o’clock. At four in the morning Dolly Longestaffe was certainly in a condition to lend his horses and to remember nothing about it. He was quite affectionate with Lord Grasslough, as he was also with his other companions⁠—affection being the normal state of his mind when in that condition. He was by no means helplessly drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober; but he was willing to play at any game whether he understood it or not, and for any stakes. When Sir Felix got up and said he would play no more, Dolly also got up, apparently quite contented. When Lord Grasslough, with a dark scowl on his face, expressed his opinion that it was not just the thing for men to break up like that when so much money had been lost, Dolly as willingly sat down again. But Dolly’s sitting down was not sufficient. “I’m going to hunt tomorrow,” said Sir Felix⁠—meaning that day⁠—“and I shall play no more. A man must go to bed at some time.”

“I don’t see it at all,” said Lord Grasslough. “It’s an understood thing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay.”

“Stay how long?” said Sir Felix, with an angry look. “That’s nonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there’s an end of this for me tonight.”

“Oh, if you choose,” said his lordship.

“I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we’ll settle this next time we meet. I’ve got it all entered.”

The night had been one very serious in its results to Sir Felix. He had sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of his mother’s cheque, a poor £20, and now he had⁠—he didn’t at all know how much in his pockets. He also had drunk, but not so as to obscure his mind. He knew that Longestaffe owed him over £800, and he knew also that he had received more than that in ready money and cheques from Lord Grasslough and the other player. Dolly Longestaffe’s money, too, would certainly be paid, though Dolly did complain of the importunity of his tradesmen. As he walked up St. James’s Street, looking for a cab, he presumed himself to be worth over £700. When begging for a small sum from Lady Carbury, he had said that he could not carry on the game without some ready money, and had considered himself fortunate in fleecing his mother as he had done. Now he was in the possession of wealth⁠—of wealth that might, at any rate, be sufficient to aid him materially in the object he had in hand. He never for a moment thought of paying his bills. Even the large sum of which he had become so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far with him in such a quixotic object as that; but he could now look bright, and buy presents, and