“But I was saying about Savy O’Leary,”
again interposed Morris, “did you ever hear
what he did?”
But Blake would not allow his guest the privilege
of another story. “If you encourage Morris,”
said he, “we shall never get our whist,”
and with that he rose from the table and walked away
into the next room.
They played high. Morris always played high if
he could, for he made money by whist. Tierney
was not a gambler by profession; but the men he lived
among all played, and he, therefore, got into the way
of it, and played the game well, for he was obliged
to do so in his own defence. Blake was an adept
at every thing of the kind; and though the card-table
was not the place where his light shone brightest,
still he was quite at home at it.
As might be supposed, Lord Ballindine did not fare
well among the three. He played with each of
them, one after the other, and lost with them all.
Blake, to do him justice, did not wish to see his friend’s
money go into the little member’s pocket, and,
once or twice, proposed giving up; but Frank did not
second the proposal, and Morris was inveterate.
The consequence was that, before the table was broken
up, Lord Ballindine had lost a sum of money which
he could very ill spare, and went to bed in a very
unenviable state of mind, in spite of the brilliant
prospects on which his friends congratulated him.
The next morning, at breakfast, when Frank was alone
with Blake, he explained to him how matters really
stood at Grey Abbey. He told him how impossible
he had found it to insist on seeing Miss Wyndham so
soon after her brother’s death, and how disgustingly
disagreeable, stiff and repulsive the earl had been;
and, by degrees, they got to talk of other things,
and among them, Frank’s present pecuniary miseries.
“There can be no doubt, I suppose,” said
Dot, when Frank had consoled himself by anathematising
the earl for ten minutes, “as to the fact of
Miss Wyndham’s inheriting her brother’s
fortune?”
“Faith, I don’t know; I never thought
about her fortune if you’ll believe me.
I never even remembered that her brother’s death
would in any way affect her in the way of money, until
after I left Grey Abbey.”
“Oh, I can believe you capable of anything in
the way of imprudence.”
“Ah, but, Dot, to think of that pompous fool—who
sits and caws in that dingy book-room of his, with
as much wise self-confidence as an antiquated raven—to
think of him insinuating that I had come there looking
for Harry Wyndham’s money; when, as you know,
I was as ignorant of the poor fellow’s death
as Lord Cashel was himself a week ago. Insolent
blackguard! I would never, willingly, speak another
word to him, or put my foot inside that infernal door
of his, if it were to get ten times all Harry Wyndham’s
fortune.”
“Then, if I understand you, you now mean to
relinquish your claims to Miss Wyndham’s hand.”
