Sitting down at the table, he dropped his head into
his hands and shut his eyes in utter dejection.
“Mona—by Heaven, no, I’ll never
take it from her!” he said once, and clenched
his hands at his temples and sat on and on unmoving.
Who would have thought it?
For a full half-hour Crozier sat buried in dark reflection,
then he slowly raised his head, and for a minute looked
round dazedly. His absorption had been so great
that for a moment he was like one who had awakened
upon unfamiliar things. As when in a dream of
the night the history of years will flash past like
a ray of light, so for the bad half-hour in which
Crozier had given himself up to despair, his mind had
travelled through an incongruous series of incidents
of his past life, and had also revealed pictures of
solution after solution of his present troubles.
He had that-gift of visualization which makes life
an endless procession of pictures which allure, or
which wear the nature into premature old age.
The last picture flashing before his eyes, as he sat
there alone, was of himself and his elder brother,
Garnett, now master of Castlegarry, racing ponies
to reach the lodge-gates before they closed for the
night, after a day of disobedience and truancy.
He remembered how Garnett had given him the better
pony of the two, so that the younger brother, who
would be more heavily punished if they were locked
out, should have the better chance. Garnett,
if odd in manner and character, had always been a
true sportsman though not a lover of sport.
If—if—why had he never thought
of Garnett? Garnett could help him, and he would
do so. He would let Garnett stand in with him—take
one-third of his profits from the syndicate.
Yes, he must ask Garnett to see him through.
Then it was that he lifted his head from his hands,
and his mind awakened out of a dream as real as though
he had actually been asleep. Garnett—alas!
Garnett was thousands of miles away, and he had not
heard from him for five years. Still, he knew
the master of Castlegarry was alive, for he had seen
him mentioned in a chance number of The Morning Post
lately come to his hands. What avail! Garnett
was at Castlegarry, and at midnight his chance of
fortune and a new life would be gone. Then,
penniless, he would have to face Mona again; and what
would come of that he could not see, would not try
to see. There was an alternative he would not
attempt to face until after midnight, when this crisis
in his life would be over. Beyond midnight was
a darkness which he would not now try to pierce.
As his eyes again became used to his surroundings,
a look of determination, the determination of the
true gambler, came into his face. The real gambler
never throws up the sponge till all is gone; never
gives up till after the last toss of the last penny
of cash or credit; for he has seen such innumerable
times the thing come right and good fortune extend
a friendly hand with the last hazard of all.
