Chapter: THE SOCIAL ASPIRATIONS OF CAPTAIN McBANE

It was only eleven o'clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, and
feeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon's
debauch and the snubbing he had received at Clara's hands, directed the
major's coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, to
drive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to the
stable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house,
which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant courtesy as
was possible without an open rupture.

Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction to fill in
an hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing in
his way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in an
armchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. Upon
Delamere's making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed a
small game of poker in his own room.

McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We have
already seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, which
he had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired by
association with men about town. He had determined to assault society in
its citadel by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which most
gentlemen of the best families of the city were members.

The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership a
social cult, the temple of which was located just off the main street of
the city, in a dignified old colonial mansion which had housed it for
the nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained its
existence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions and
special usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the _sine qua non_ of
high social standing, and was conditional upon two of three
things,--birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential,
but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money.

Having decided, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum,
the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of the
Clarendon's membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it,
looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object of
his desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection,
having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, and
having long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man of
superficially amiable disposition, vicious instincts, lax principles,
and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a member
of the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirely
opposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and had
smoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once.

Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheat
him at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merely
noted it as something which at some future time might prove useful. The
captain had not suffered by Delamere's deviation from the straight line
of honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might be
expected of a young man who had devoted most of his leisure for several
years to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation.
During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and had
escaped few sorts of defilement.

The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearing
upon his countenance an expression in which the captain read aright the
craving for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity for
which he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose an
opportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither was
it necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to press
upon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the table
within convenient reach.

The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts,
after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.

Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for
McBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost all
his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes
of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his
apartment.

When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming
table at two o'clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a
considerable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, who
was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of
paper to which Delamere had attached his signature. "Just one thousand
dollars even," he remarked.

The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere
as though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water. For
a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with
which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from
his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day,
he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.

"I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose.
"Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling to take advantage of a
clever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes of
hand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper.
Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if you
are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon
another subject."

"Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.

Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried
desperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane had
discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain's
play had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit,
and could not complain of the outcome.

The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly
requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon
Club.

Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at the
presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts.
McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but
not good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He would
instinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one
else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for
this impossible social aspirant? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar,
cold-blooded attempt on McBane's part to use his power over him for a
personal advantage.

"Well, now, Captain McBane," returned Delamere diplomatically, "I've
never put any one up yet, and it's not regarded as good form for so
young a member as myself to propose candidates. I'd much rather you'd
ask some older man."

"Oh, well," replied McBane, "just as you say, only I thought you had cut
your eye teeth."

Delamere was not pleased with McBane's tone. His remark was not
acquiescent, though couched in terms of assent. There was a sneering
savagery about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure,
in McBane's power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fell
from heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare go
to his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that his
grandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman's
game, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well,
have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous sum to be lost at
cards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr.
Delamere's creed that a gentleman should not make debts that he was not
reasonably able to pay.

There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to a
gentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr.
Delamere's perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might have
risked a confession and thrown himself on his grandfather's mercy; but
he owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbed
imagination, loomed up in alarming number and amount. He had recently
observed signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of the
club. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice, he was addicted
to several subsidiary forms of iniquity, which in case of a scandal were
more than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeably
caught in the net of his own hypocrisy. His grandfather believed him a
model of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have his
grandfather undeceived.

He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she could
give him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of making
him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a
legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted
if she lived long enough,--some old people were very tenacious of life!
She was a careless old woman, too, he reflected, and very foolishly kept
her money in the house. Latterly she had been growing weak and childish.
Some day she might be robbed, and then his prospective inheritance from
that source would vanish into thin air!

With regard to this debt to McBane, if he could not pay it, he could at
least gain a long respite by proposing the captain at the club. True, he
would undoubtedly be blackballed, but before this inevitable event his
name must remain posted for several weeks, during which interval McBane
would be conciliatory. On the other hand, to propose McBane would arouse
suspicion of his own motives; it might reach his grandfather's ears, and
lead to a demand for an explanation, which it would be difficult to
make. Clearly, the better plan would be to temporize with McBane, with
the hope that something might intervene to remove this cursed
obligation.

"Suppose, captain," he said affably, "we leave the matter open for a few
days. This is a thing that can't be rushed. I'll feel the pulse of my
friends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair can
be accomplished much more easily."

"Well, that's better," returned McBane, somewhat mollified,--"if you'll
do that."

"To be sure I will," replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, if
not too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity.

McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicable
terms.

"We'll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom," said McBane,
with significant emphasis, when they separated.

Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moral
deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the
externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance.
McBane had never before been so personal.

He had addressed the young aristocrat first as "Mr. Delamere," then, as
their acquaintance advanced, as "Delamere." He had now reached the
abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower
depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by
which to address him. He did not like McBane's manner,--it was
characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He
would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest
player,--perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his
embarrassment.

He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,--and found it empty! In the
present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.

A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he
found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr.
Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two
o'clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.

"Hello, Sandy," exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was
very far from feeling, "what are you doing with those gorgeous
garments?"

"I'm a-dustin' of 'em, Mistuh Tom, dat's w'at I'm a-doin'. Dere's
somethin' wrong 'bout dese clo's er mine--I don' never seem ter be able
ter keep 'em clean no mo'. Ef I b'lieved in dem ole-timey sayin's, I'd
'low dere wuz a witch come here eve'y night an' tuk 'em out an' wo' 'em,
er tuk me out an' rid me in 'em. Dere wuz somethin' wrong 'bout dat
cakewalk business, too, dat I ain' never unde'stood an' don' know how
ter 'count fer, 'less dere wuz some kin' er dev'lishness goin' on dat
don' show on de su'face."

"Sandy," asked Tom irrelevantly, "have you any money in the house?"

"Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take
out ter Belleview in de mawnin."

"I mean money of your own."

"I got a qua'ter ter buy terbacker wid," returned Sandy cautiously.

"Is that all? Haven't you some saved up?"

"Well, yas, Mistuh Tom," returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, "dere's
a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,--not
much, suh."

"I'm a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right
away. Grandfather isn't here, so I can't get any from him. Let me take
what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I'll return it with good
interest."

"Now, Mistuh Tom," said Sandy seriously, "I don' min' lettin' you take
my money, but I hopes you ain' gwine ter use it fer none er dem
rakehelly gwines-on er yo'n,--gamblin' an' bettin' an' so fo'th. Yo'
grandaddy 'll fin' out 'bout you yit, ef you don' min' yo' P's an' Q's.
I does my bes' ter keep yo' misdoin's f'm 'im, an' sense I b'en tu'ned
out er de chu'ch--thoo no fault er my own, God knows!--I've tol' lies
'nuff 'bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain't right, Mistuh Tom, it
ain't right! an' I only does it fer de sake er de fam'ly honuh, dat Mars
John sets so much sto' by, an' ter save his feelin's; fer de doctuh says
he mus'n' git ixcited 'bout nothin', er it mought bring on another
stroke."

"That's right, Sandy," replied Tom approvingly; "but the family honor is
as safe in my hands as in grandfather's own, and I'm going to use the
money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine
distress; and I'll hand it back to you in a day or two,--perhaps
to-morrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy,--that's a good darky!"

"All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell
you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo'ked fer yo' gran'daddy, he has
never called me a 'darky' ter my face, suh. Co'se I knows dere's w'ite
folks an' black folks,--but dere's manners, suh, dere's manners, an'
gent'emen oughter be de ones ter use 'em, suh, ef dey ain't ter be
fergot enti'ely!"

"There, there, Sandy," returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, "I beg your
pardon! I've been associating with some Northern white folks at the
hotel, and picked up the word from them. You're a high-toned colored
gentleman, Sandy,--the finest one on the footstool."

Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in
the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned
with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock,
from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and
coins.

"You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I'll know how much I'm lettin' you have."

"This isn't worth anything," said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills.
"It's Confederate money."

"So it is, suh. It ain't wuth nothin' now; but it has be'n money, an'
who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is
greenbacks,--dey'll pass all right, I reckon."

The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust
eagerly into his pocket.

"You won't say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy," he
said, as he turned away.

"No, suh, co'se I won't! Does I ever tell 'im 'bout yo' gwines-on? Ef I
did," he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street,
"I wouldn' have time ter do nothin' e'se ha'dly. I don' know whether
I'll ever see dat money agin er no, do' I 'magine de ole gent'eman
wouldn' lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain' gwine ter tell him,
whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes' so wrop' up in dat boy
dat I b'lieve it'd jes' break his hea't ter fin' out how he's be'n
gwine on. Doctuh Price has tol' me not ter let de ole gent'eman git
ixcited, er e'se dere's no tellin' w'at mought happen. He's be'n good
ter me, he has, an' I'm gwine ter take keer er him,--dat's w'at I is,
ez long ez I has de chance."

       *       *       *       *       *

Delamere went directly to the club, and soon lounged into the card-room,
where several of the members were engaged in play. He sauntered here and
there, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that the
greetings he received were less cordial than those usually exchanged
between the members of a small and select social club. Finally, when
Augustus, commonly and more appropriately called "Gus," Davidson came
into the room, Tom stepped toward him.

"Will you take a hand in a game, Gus?"

"Don't care if I do," said the other. "Let's sit over here."

Davidson led the way to a table near the fireplace, near which stood a
tall screen, which at times occupied various places in the room.
Davidson took the seat opposite the fireplace, leaving Delamere with his
back to the screen.

Delamere staked half of Sandy's money, and lost. He staked the rest, and
determined to win, because he could not afford to lose. He had just
reached out his hand to gather in the stakes, when he was charged with
cheating at cards, of which two members, who had quietly entered the
room and posted themselves behind the screen, had secured specific
proof. A meeting of the membership committee was hastily summoned, it
being an hour at which most of them might be found at the club. To avoid
a scandal, and to save the feelings of a prominent family, Delamere was
given an opportunity to resign quietly from the club, on condition that
he paid all his gambling debts within three days, and took an oath never
to play cards again for money. This latter condition was made at the
suggestion of an elderly member, who apparently believed that a man who
would cheat at cards would stick at perjury.

Delamere acquiesced very promptly. The taking of the oath was easy. The
payment of some fifteen hundred dollars of debts was a different matter.
He went away from the club thoughtfully, and it may be said, in full
justice to a past which was far from immaculate, that in his present
thoughts he touched a depth of scoundrelism far beyond anything of which
he had as yet deemed himself capable. When a man of good position, of
whom much is expected, takes to evil courses, his progress is apt to
resemble that of a well-bred woman who has started on the downward
path,--the pace is all the swifter because of the distance which must be
traversed to reach the bottom. Delamere had made rapid headway; having
hitherto played with sin, his servant had now become his master, and
held him in an iron grip.

 After dropping Ellis off at his apartment, Tom Delamere makes his way to the St. James Hotel for some cards and drink before he has to return home. Upon arriving at the hotel, Tom meets Captain McBane and proposes a game of poker in his room. McBane has been waiting for the opportunity to take advantage of Delamere. He has noticed how Delamere cheats at cards and knows that he can take advantage of this trickery. McBane wants to become a part of the Clarendon Club, the one hundred year old social club for those of "birth, wealth, and breeding" in Wellington. He plans to use Delamere to help him get into this club. After several hours of card playing and drinking, Delamere loses all of his money. McBane extends him credit and by the end of the evening, "flushed with excitement and wine. he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum" of one thousand dollars. Delamere knows that he does not have the money and McBane tells him they will talk on the matter later. The next day, at the hotel, McBane brings up the issue of his membership in the club. Tom is annoyed at the request by someone of such low social status but, since his debts are so high, he feels he must oblige. He tries to think of ways to pay off the debt. He knows that he cannot ask his old grandfather for the money since he does not know that Tom drinks and plays cards. Only his old Aunt Polly would have the money, but Tom knows that she will make "him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted if she lived long enough. Tom suggests that they leave the matter open for a few days while he tests the waters with his fellow club members. That evening, with no money in his pocket, Tom goes to visit Sandy. He asks Sandy if he has any savings he can borrow and Sandy reluctantly lets him take fifty dollars but warns him that if his grandfather were to find out about his misdeeds, it might cause another stroke. Tom agrees to pay the money back. When he returns to the club, he is set up by a group of club members who find out that he is cheating at cards. The members are called together and they agree to spare Tom the shame of the matter if he quietly resigns from the club and pays back all $1500 of his debt within three days. Tom acquiesces, though he does not know where he will find the money

