[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 150.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE PORTABLE THEATRE.
A few wagon-loads of large and square wooden shutters; numerous poles
of various lengths; a quantity of seat-planks and their supports; some
scene-painted canvas wrapped around long rollers, some nailed and glued
upon framework; a collection of ropes and pulleys; various ‘stage
properties;’ two open coke-fire grates; an amount of dark and soiled
drapery and cheap carpeting, and a mass of other things—meet these on
the highway, and you may know that a portable theatre is shifting its
quarters.
Soon after the wagons reach their destination, the work of building
commences. The town chosen is no doubt a small one, with interests
which may be manufacturing, mineral, or agricultural. The theatre
had arranged for its stance before moving—some waste ground let at
a nominal rent, or a field bordering the town. Then beardless men,
dressed in stained and ragged cloth garments, start hacking up the
ground, digging narrow holes wherein to erect uprights. While some
erect the framework, others build at one end a gallery, at the other
a stage; and so bit by bit. After an adornment of the interior by
draping the walls with some material and giving a scant covering to
the best seats, and a sawdust carpet to the whole concern, the labour
of erection is about at an end, and the actor-builders are at liberty
to cleanse—and shave themselves if they have time, and throw off their
working clothes. If they perform the same night and are late, they
will have little time for rest; and in the impersonator of Hamlet,
who enters the stage at a quarter to eight to a flourish on brass and
string, you may recognise the man who, forty-five minutes before, had
been walking to his lodgings in a state of grime and weariness and with
a stubbly chin. When he appears as the Prince, he is clean shaven, all
but the heavy moustache—for that is his pride, and is never sacrificed.
The portable theatre is generally ‘run’ by the proprietor, who is often
also stage-manager and leading man or comedian. The usual method of
fixing the amount of payment to employees is by share. In this way
every individual worker is a sort of partner, and so feels an interest
in the welfare of the business; and if the receipts are large, he,
and she, participate in the benefit. This method is favourable to the
manager and proprietor too, even when business is not brisk, though
he is never heard to admit as much. The mode of procedure is very
simple, and may be worthy the attention of those who admire simplicity
and promptitude in business. The sharing takes place nightly after
performance, when the audience have dispersed and the curtain has been
drawn up, and all the company are dressed for home and assembled on
the stage. The proprietor sits at a table in the centre, the receipts
in cash and a slip of paper before him. ‘The “house” is three pounds
and fourpence,’ the manager proceeds to explain; ‘and from that is to
be taken two shillings for ground-rent; that leaves two-eighteen-four.
Now, twenty-five shares into that is two shillings and fourpence a
share. It’s very bad, especially for an opening night; but the show
went well, so we may hope business’ll pick up, now they know what
we are like. I hope it will, for all our sakes.’ And then does the
gentleman proceed to give to each member his one share, which on this
night amounts to two shillings and fourpence; but to the low comedian
is given an extra half-share, according to agreement, for his services
are very valuable to the firm, and he is expected to sing humorous
songs during the interval between drama and farce.
Now, all this looks very fair on the face of it; but much may be
learned by an analysis of the arrangement. The proprietor has given
twelve and a half shares among twelve people, in which are included the
small orchestra; the remainder he has put in his pocket. For his own
services as leading man and stage-manager, and for his wife, who plays
the feminine leading parts—when they are good—he takes up four shares
each night; for supplying the wardrobe!—which is scanty and worn—he
takes another share; he has another to recoup him for that night’s
outlay in stage properties; a half-share to pay for the coke the fires
have burned; and lastly, he takes six shares as rent of the theatre,
which is his property. So, of the twenty-five shares into which the
receipts are nightly divided, the proprietor receives altogether twelve
and a half. Much of this he would tell you is but the return of money
previously laid out, and the melancholy sigh with which he accompanies
the ceremony of division is meant to indicate the fact that he is
losing money rapidly.
His wife, when not in the cast, or his offspring, or a decrepit father,
are generally assigned to the post of money-taker at the theatre door.
The company are supposed to have a check against them by appointing as
their representatives those who collect the tickets. The person who
receives the cash from the public as they enter is familiarly known to
the fraternity by the name of ‘first robber.’
Now, many who know the business have been heard to declare that the
manager seldom loses—if ever—and generally gains, however slack
business may be, and even while his fellow-actors are pinched for
necessities. If it is asked, ‘Why do the workers agree to such an
arrangement?’ it may be replied: ‘The proprietor and manager is master
in his own establishment; and those who won’t conform to the rules of
the theatre may go and make way for those who will.’
Altogether, portable actors, or, as many of the labouring classes
prefer to call them, showfolk, make but a precarious living, and they
have often many troubles, for which they receive little sympathy.
At times they are heard speaking of how some years ago, during the
fair at a certain town, they performed five times during the day,
and individually amassed three pounds seven shillings for the day’s
work. But that was a rare occurrence, and they dwell with pleasure
upon the memory of it. The usual share in ordinary times rises to five
shillings nightly during good business, and perhaps as much as seven
or eight on the Saturday, and very often it drops to the amount of
but a few coppers. There is all the excitement of chance in this mode
of remuneration, and that may offer an inducement to some speculative
minds. If trade is bad, or the people are too poor or anti-theatrical,
the strolling Thespian may find that his reward after work is something
less than a shilling, and upon that he may have to feed and lodge
himself until the next night brings a further supply.
Many who dwell in towns think that the portable theatre is now little
more than a remnant of a bygone age, that the drama has cast off this
itineracy; and such thinkers would doubtless be surprised if they
were shown a list of the playhouses that move about the country. They
are certainly very numerous. These buildings seldom look well in the
morning light; there is a dissipated look about them, as though they
kept bad hours. This more particularly applies to the interior, to
whose good appearance the glare of gas is very essential. When the
actors assemble for rehearsal, which is generally at eleven o’clock,
the drapery looks dull and tawdry, the woodwork seems rough, the
sawdust over the earth-floor is dirty, and the scenes appear daubs. If
there be a little breeze astir, the canvas roofing overhead will flap
with a sound like that of the sails of a ship at sea. The curtain and
scene-cloths are rolled up, that the dust may not settle upon them.
When the players have gathered together, rehearsal commences. They
seem a motley group. There is the proprietor and manager, a portly
man, who is troubled with occasional rheumatism—which he calls gout;
he wears a heavy moustache and a heavy gold albert, and has much
power of voice—which at times is decidedly throaty. There is the low
comedian, who is small of stature, with an expansive face deeply lined;
his legs are misshapen, and he walks with the gait of one who suffers
the affliction of many corns and bunions. Naturally, his countenance
has the most serious aspect of any one in the company; but usage has
trained it otherwise; he would be a melancholy man were it not that he
gained his living by provoking mirth, and has a reputation to keep up.
In his youth, his soul aspired to tragedy, but his legs were against
it. Within his quaint figure he holds more sentiment than many of his
companions of more symmetrical mould, and he professes to be a diligent
and critical reader. He values ‘low comedy’ now, because it has many
advantages; it gains an extra half-share, makes him popular with the
audience, and secures him the best benefit in each town.
The middle-aged man with the stiff carriage, and with the hair grown
long and well oiled and curved, so that at the bottom it lies like a
roll upon the neck, is the ‘heavy man,’ who claims the chief-villain
parts; he glories in his deep tones and in his dark scowl. It seems
he does not much admire the smooth-faced scoundrels of the drama; you
cannot mistake the villainy _he_ portrays; directly he enters the
stage, you say, ‘That is the villain of the piece.’ And he is not
without a speciality in his particular line of business; to use his own
words—‘He likes his scoundrel’s “game;” no chicken-hearted repentance
at the end of the last act.’ His favourite final exit speech is thus:
‘Ah! soh, you have counterplotted and balked me. But I-a haave played
a bold and desper-rat game, and now I leave you with contempt-a! My
curses light-a ’pon ye!’ If, however, he is killed when villainy has
done its allotted work, he makes the most of his death, and invariably
dies with a terrific backward fall. He has been heard to complain that
in his stage career he receives small encouragement; ‘for,’ argues he,
‘after my heavy night’s work, anybody may come on with a stuffed stick
and knock me down, and they’ll get all the applause.’
One of the company is a young man whose face has already lost its
pristine freshness; he wears his hat with an inclination to the right,
and looks to be a knowing, wayward, idle, and thriftless wanderer. A
great amount of cheap beer enters into his idea of life. He drinks this
liquor at any hour; and when counting his cash, calculates it not by
pence, but by the half-pints it represents. He is a weed who benefits
nobody, not even himself. Enough has been said about him.
The man who throughout his life has never ceased to do his best,
honestly and cheerfully, and has failed through no fault of his own,
must be worthy of some respect. This has been the way of the old
gentleman—he may be called that—whose age is more than any other of
the company. In his work he is painstaking, even amid the inartistic
surroundings of a portable theatre. He now possesses an extensive stage
wardrobe, gathered for his own private use; it is the collection of
years, and he is proud of it. You won’t hear him speak so often of
his own future now, but he is always chattering about what he thinks
his daughter will do. She is a darling girl, he says, and will be the
blessing of his old age.
His daughter matches well with the morning sunshine. A fresh,
rosy-faced girl, with shining hair and laughing eyes, in great contrast
to these yellow women and blue-chinned men. She always shows neatness
and good taste. Her father has often told her that they are merely
‘birds of passage’ in this cheap playhouse, and she is anxiously
anticipating their migration. If that indulgent old dad of hers isn’t
careful, she’ll become a vain young woman.
As this girl is now, so was at one time that blear-eyed, bedraggled
woman, who seems to prefer sitting to standing and idling to working.
She is untidy and careless, and walks out with her boots unbrushed.
Her rising this morning is yet quite a recent affair; traces of sleep
still cling to her eyes. Not many years ago, she was as fair and modest
as the old man’s daughter is now, and not a soul anticipated such a
change. Who can answer that the other may not alter likewise?
The man who is hammering at some repair to the building is the
degenerated female’s husband, and candour must confess that he looks
it. He has many of his wife’s characteristics; the same dissipated
face, impolite manner at times, and general attitude of discontent. But
these parallel ways of theirs are not productive of concord; quite the
contrary, for, as one of their acquaintance tersely observes, ‘They
quarrel like old boots,’ a simile which must be more fantastic than
correct.
Among the company is an old woman who only needs the sugar-loaf-shaped
hat to resemble the familiar pictures of a witch. She is indigenous
to the portable theatre, was cradled in one, and knows little of any
life beyond it. Her daughter is that scraggy, uncanny-looking young
female, whose dominant passion at present is jealousy of the old man’s
daughter, whom she never ceases to malign.
The rehearsal here is not generally a long ceremony. A partial or
complete repetition of the words, and a comparing of notes respecting
the various entrances, exits, and general business of the play, and
that is all. Then the healthy-minded people do their marketing, and go
off for a short walk. The others continue to ‘hang about.’
The audience that comes here likes its dramatic food strong—no parlour
comedies and talky dramas, but plenty of incident, of action, passions,
stirring speeches, combats, and a little coloured fire burned off the
wings. The probability of the sequence of events as here dramatically
represented, or the possibility of their occurrence at all, are not
matters which trouble the mind of either the actor or his audience.
In the matter of denouements the author’s published idea is quite
regularly departed from in the portable theatre, and of greatest
playwrights’ masterpieces it is frequently said: ‘Oh, we can bring the
curtain down better than that.’ So, directly vice is unmasked with
a taste of punishment, the virtuous gather together—perhaps without
explanation of why they were so near—and the hero spouts a short speech
in a victorious spirit, and thus—finale.
At one travelling theatre where the manager followed the usual custom
of announcing during each evening the succeeding night’s programme, the
drama in question had been billed. In the managerial speech occurred
the following words: ‘I have very great pleasure in announcing for next
Thursday night the production, for the first time during our visit, of
the favourite play, entitled _Maria Martin, or the Murder at the Red
Barn_. I have further pleasure in stating that the version we play has
_never_ been performed in this town; and was written expressly for this
company by a relative of the Martin family, and has been secured by me
at great expense.’
This information was received with much satisfaction and applause; that
it had had the desired effect was proved conclusively by a view of the
Thursday night’s house. And the gentleman faithfully kept his promise,
for he played a version that had certainly never been performed in that
town; he introduced into the drama as usually given, a part of a gypsy
family of vengeful proclivities, and so got two sets of murders, and
as both were constantly repeated in visions, it may be supposed the
audience had a fair dose of dramatic crime for its money.
But there is many a good performance to be seen in a portable theatre;
and extremely good, when the surroundings are considered. The writer
remembers a very creditable performance of the play of _Hamlet_—given
one dreadfully wild night in a portable that was not the best of
its kind. The rain had penetrated the roof in many places before
the performance began, and the wind had been all day threatening to
blow off the tilt. With the combined damp and cold, it was a very
undesirable task to don long hose and thin velvet shirts, and to wear
them for three hours in such a draughty and rain-sodden place. But this
discomfort was necessary there, as a slight mitigation of a state of
poverty. Perhaps there was a want of repose in the acting that night,
for it was advisable to dodge those places where the water found the
roof weakest, and so descended as from a spout. The Ghost, who had a
cold, coughed during his scenes in a most unspectral manner. In the
‘play-scene’ there was a crash, and it was feared the tilt was gone,
and one of the courtiers ran out to see what had given way. Two of the
rope-fastenings were loose and flying about wildly. They were secured
during the performance, but not without some trouble, each male actor
throwing a coat over his shoulders, and giving a hand when the scene in
progress did not require him. But as these were fastened, others broke,
and it was altogether a night of trouble. Before the last act was
reached, there was little to be gained by dodging; the rain penetrated
steadily all over, and would fall on heads and run down backs and
disturb projecting noses, wherever their owners stood. Hamlet died on
a damp couch that night, for the stage carpet was soaked and flooded,
but he would be artistic and die lying full length. I can testify that
the Horatio, who had to kneel and support the Prince’s head, wished
he would die quicker. But ‘The rest is silence,’ came at last; and
Hamlet jumped up again, and then looked radiantly happy; for just as
the curtain was descending, one of the audience stood and threw to the
actor a rose. It was a pretty compliment, and the recipient deserved it.
When the audience had dispersed, the actors received their
reward—fifteenpence each. They deserved it. But their labour was not
yet ended for the day. The rain had abated, but the wind lashed with
greater force and blew with louder voice. ‘Nothing short of a miracle
will save that roof to-night,’ said somebody. So its safety had to be
guarded; that is, the company were to attend in turns and keep watch,
two or three at a time. One of the coke-fires in the auditorium was
replenished, and round it the men sat, talking of absent acquaintances,
recounting the peculiarities of some, and giving anecdotes; while
above their heads the swaying of the canvas sounded loud, and the wind
whirled in fury round the creaking shutters. And thus, as they drowsily
sit, wishing for rest, we will leave them.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER XIII.
For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering
where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene
came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to
her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’
‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great
friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the
“Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad
husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’
‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps,
through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’
‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her
eyes.’
The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain
and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering
sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How
did I come here?’
‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You
had an accident, and they brought you here.’
For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked
down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’
she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’
‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly,
marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall
be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to
you.’
‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my
jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness,
what is the name they know you by?’
‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the
theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any
longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’
At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated,
so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you
the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’
‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’
But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a
fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would
break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh,
what have I done? O that I could have known before!’
Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so
unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak.
‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to
speak to her, it would have a good effect.’
‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say
it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness
to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will
leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’
‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when
she has become quieter.’
Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed
from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent
over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do
you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’
‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a
servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his
friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’
‘I do not know who _he_ is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my
mistress from a great harm.’
‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does
he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’
Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’
‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and
fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to
aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’
‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell
me what you know.’
‘I did not know then how good and noble she is.—My head is queer and
strange, Lucrece; I cannot tell you now. To-morrow, perhaps, if I am
better, I will tell you everything. I am glad now that they brought me
here.’
Meanwhile, Maxwell was pacing about the drawing-room, having entirely
forgotten the unfortunate woman in his own perplexity. He had been
there perhaps half an hour, when Enid entered. She was not too occupied
to notice the moody, thoughtful frown upon his face.
‘What a sad thing for her, poor woman!’ she said.—‘How did it happen,
Fred?’
‘Poor woman?’ Maxwell asked vaguely. ‘How did what happen?’
‘Why, Fred, what is the matter with you?’ Enid exclaimed with vague
alarm. ‘How strange you look! Surely you have not forgotten the poor
creature you brought here not more than half an hour ago?’
Maxwell collected himself by a violent effort. ‘I had actually
forgotten. I was thinking of something else.—Enid, dear, I am going
away!’
‘Going away! Any one would think, from the expression of your face and
the tone of your voice, you were never going to return. Where are you
going?’
There was a very considerable chance of his not returning, he felt, and
he smiled at the grim idea. ‘I am not going far—at least not very far,
in this age of express trains and telegraphs. I wish I could take you
with me, darling; for I am going to a place you have often longed to
see—I am going to Rome.’
‘To Rome? Is it not very sudden? You never told me before.’
‘Well, it is rather sudden. I have not known it long. You see, I could
not tell you a thing I was ignorant of myself.’
‘I wish you were not going,’ Enid said reflectively. ‘I have a feeling
that some evil will come of this. And yet I suppose you must go. Is it
business of your own, Fred?’
Maxwell hesitated. He could not prevaricate with those clear truthful
eyes looking up so earnestly to his own. The soul of honour himself,
he could not forgive the want of it in others; but he temporised now.
‘Well, not exactly my own,’ he stammered, trying to make the best of a
bad case, ‘or I would not go. It is a secret, which I cannot tell even
you; but I shall not be long away.’
‘A secret which you cannot tell even me,’ Enid repeated mechanically.
‘Then it must be something you are very much ashamed of.’
‘Indeed, it is not,’ Maxwell began eagerly, hesitated, and stopped.
After all, she was right. It was a secret, a terrible, shameful secret,
against which all the manliness in him revolted. For a time he was
silent, hanging down his head for very shame, as the whole force of
his position came upon him. For the first time, he realised where his
rashness had led him, and what he was about to lose.
Enid looked at him in amazement, strangely mixed with a terrible and
nameless fear. ‘Fred!’ she cried at length, white and trembling, ‘you
are going away upon the mission of that awful League! You cannot deny
it.—O Fred! Fred!’
He tried to soothe her as she lay sobbing in his arms, but to no avail.
The most fervent promises and the most endearing words she heeded not,
crying that he was going from her never to return; and her fears were
strengthened when he mournfully but firmly declined to speak of his
mission. Presently, when she grew a little calmer, she raised her wet
cheeks to him and kissed him. She was pale now, but confident, and
striving with all the artifices in her power to persuade him from his
undertaking; but tears and prayers, threats even, could not avail.
He shook his head sadly. ‘I would that I could stay with you, Enid,’
he said at length, holding her close in his arms; ‘but this much I can
tell you—that I dare not disobey. It is as much as my life is worth.’
‘And as much as your life is worth to go,’ echoed the sobbing girl.
‘What is life to me without you? And now this thing has come between
us, parting us perhaps for ever!’
‘I hope not,’ Maxwell smiled cheerfully. ‘I trust not, darling. My time
away is very short; and doubtless I shall not be called upon again for
a time—perhaps never.’
Enid dried her eyes bravely and tried to smile. ‘Good-bye, Fred,’ she
said brokenly; ‘and heaven grant that my fears are groundless! If
anything happened to you, I believe I should die.’
‘I shall come back, darling.—And now, good-bye, and God bless you.’
After he was gone, Enid threw herself down upon the lounge and wept.
* * * * *
Le Gautier’s star was in the ascendant. His only dangerous rival would
soon be hundreds of miles away on a hazardous mission, out of which, in
all human probability, he could not come unscathed, even if he escaped
with life; a prospective father-in-law wholly in his power; and a bride
_in posse_, upon whose fears he could work by describing graphically
her father’s danger, with the moral, that it would be her duty to her
parent to wed his preserver, Le Gautier. This, in fine, was the pretty
scheme the wily adventurer had sketched out in his busy brain, a scheme
which at present looked like being brought to a successful issue.
Another source of congratulation to this inestimable young man was the
progress he was making with the fair stranger, known to him as Marie St
Jean. By the time a fortnight had passed, he had been in Ventnor Street
more than once, and quite long enough to feel a passion stronger than
he had ever experienced before. It was absolutely dangerous to him, he
knew, to be with her so often; but like the moth and the candle, the
attraction was so great that he found it impossible to keep away—not
that he lost his head for a moment, though he well knew that Marie St
Jean could turn him round her finger; but he had formed his plans even
here. The first step was to betray the League—the scheme was not quite
ripe yet, and the news of Maxwell uncertain—and then take Marie St Jean
for a tour upon the continent. There would be plenty of time to return
and marry Enid afterwards without any unnecessary bother; for he had
already made up his mind that Miss St Jean was too proud to show her
wrongs to the world.
On the Monday afternoon following Maxwell’s departure, Le Gautier
turned his steps in the direction of Grosvenor Square, feeling on good
terms with himself and all mankind. His schemes were prospering hugely.
It was clearly useless, he determined, now to hesitate any longer;
the blow must be struck, and the sooner the better for all parties
concerned. With this intention upmost in his mind, he trippingly
ascended the steps of Sir Geoffrey’s house and knocked.
He found the baronet in the library, engaged as usual over some volume
of deep spiritualistic research; the thing had become a passion with
him now, and every spare moment was spent in this morbid amusement. He
was getting thin and haggard over it, and Le Gautier thought he looked
very old and careworn as he watched him now.
‘You have come just in time,’ he cried, placing a paper-knife in the
book and turning eagerly to Le Gautier. ‘I have a passage here that I
am unable to understand. Listen to this.’
‘I have something more important to speak of,’ Le Gautier interrupted.
‘I have something more pressing on hand than that attractive subject.
Sir Geoffrey, next week I am summoned to Warsaw.’
The baronet began to feel anxious; he knew perfectly well what was
coming, and, like all weak men, he dreaded anything like evil. The part
that he had to play was a despicable one, and he feared his daughter’s
angry scorn. Like a recalcitrant debtor, he began to cry for time, the
time that never comes. ‘So you informed me last week,’ he replied,
twisting a paper-knife in his hands uneasily. ‘I hope you will have a
pleasant journey. How long do you expect to be detained there?’
‘I cannot tell; it depends upon the amount of business to be done. I
may be away six weeks; but, at the very least, I do not see how I can
get back to England under the month.’
Sir Geoffrey’s face lighted, in spite of his air of regret. Le Gautier
noticed this; nothing escaped the ken of those keen black eyes.
‘And when you return, we will complete our little arrangements,’ Sir
Geoffrey exclaimed cheerfully. ‘No hurry, you know, no haste in such
matters as these; and, referring to our previous conversation, we
cannot be too careful in treading such uncertain ground. Enid’——
‘Precisely,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘With all due deference to your
opinion, there is need of action, which is a very different matter from
that raw haste which your poet tells us is half-sister to delay. I must
have something definite settled before I leave England.’
‘’Pon my honour, you know, you young men are very hasty,’ the baronet
fidgeted; ‘there is no controlling you. In my time, things were quite
different; men professed a certain deference to women, and did not take
so much for granted as you do now’——
‘Sir Geoffrey,’ Le Gautier interrupted again, ‘things change; men
alter; but perfect love is the same for all time. I love your daughter,
and would make her my wife.’
In spite of the baronet’s feeble-mindedness, there was always something
in the Frenchman’s higher flights which jarred upon his nerves, a sense
of insincerity, a certain hollow, grotesque mockery, which pained him.
The last word struck upon him like some chords played out of tune.
Still the spell was upon him; he had nought to do but obey.
‘We perfectly understand that,’ he replied, ‘and therefore need say no
more about it. You have my promise; indeed, how can it be otherwise
with the memory of that awful manifestation before me? And the word of
a Charteris is always sufficient. But I do think, Le Gautier, that you
are pushing this thing too far.’
‘Let the depth of my love excuse my impetuosity;’ and again the words
struck harshly on the listener’s ears. ‘Surely the excuse is a good
one. I am leaving England shortly; and before I go, I must—nay, I will
have an answer to the question which affects my happiness so deeply. It
is only fair, only just that I should know my fate.’
Sir Geoffrey speculated feebly what he was to do with a man like this.
‘But have a little patience; let me prepare her for your proposal.’
‘Which you will promise to do, and put off day after day, as a man does
who has an unpleasant task to perform. No, Sir Geoffrey; I do not wish
to conduct my wooing second-hand. There is no time like the present; my
motto is “Now.” I do not ask you to help me; but before I leave this
house, it is my intention to speak to your daughter.’
In sheer desperation, not unmixed with a little irritation, Sir
Geoffrey rang the bell, and desired the servant to conduct Le Gautier
up-stairs. The thing must come sooner or later, he knew; and so long
as he was not asked personally to interfere, he did not so much mind,
though he was not unconscious of sundry twinges of conscience as his
arbitrary visitor disappeared.
RACING ROGUERIES.
To a man not infected with the disease, Turf-mania must appear the
blindest of all infatuations. The gambler who trusts to the fall of
the cards, arguing that in the natural fitness of things he is certain
to be a winner some day, and spends all his time in calculating the
doctrine of chances, is a rational person to the gull who, knowing what
a mass of roguery leavens the Turf, will yet stake money, honour, and
life upon its eventualities. Yet this is done every day, not only by
greenhorns, but by men who are quite alive to the mysterious workings
of the betting ring, who are fully aware that the ability of the horse
or the jockey is the last factor to be taken into consideration; who
can amuse you for hours with stories of the swindles practised by
owners, trainers, jockeys, ‘rings,’ and who yet go on putting their
money on the horse ‘that must win’—and never wins—in utter defiance of
their foregathered knowledge. The racing ‘prophet’ who is behind the
scenes, who makes ‘the turf’ the business of his life, not only fools
the readers of the newspaper to which he sells his vaticinations, but
himself as well, and often returns from a race as penniless as the
silly ones who pin their faith upon his oracular utterances. Even the
bookmaker has his ‘fancies,’ upon which he stakes, and loses, the money
that fools have put into his purse, with a blind confidence that is
almost incredible.
A certain horse has acquitted himself well in his trial gallops; there
is not one in the race can beat him; and _if_ he were allowed to do his
best, would undoubtedly be the winner. But, as Touchstone says, ‘There
is much virtue in an if.’ In the first place, the owner may not intend
him to win, and may have actually made arrangements for laying against
his own horse. Or if the owner be ‘straight,’ the jockey may have been
bribed to check the horse’s speed as he nears the winning-post by some
one whose interest it is that the horse shall not win. All these may
work together, or each may have different interests in the event. And
even should the animal be meant in all honesty to win, a stable lad
for a five-pound note may secretly physic the horse, and good-bye the
chances of the favourite on the morrow. Or some lurking ruffian in the
pay of another owner or bookmaker may contrive to gain admission into
the stable unknown to the animal’s guardians, and ‘nobble’ for himself.
But even after every form of knavery has been set aside, there are
contingencies that still render the risks of backing horses enormous.
The jockey may spend the night before the race in dissipation, and
mount with swimming head and nerveless hands; or in his cups he may
betray some secret of the stable that will give the advantage to a
rival; or the horse himself may become sick, or be out of form, or
stumble, or be thrown out by a cur running across the course, or other
accidents easy of occurrence; and yet, knowing all this, men will madly
risk large sums upon the supposition that no such _contretemps_ will
happen.
A few anecdotes, however, of undeniable authenticity will better
illustrate the tricks of the Turf than would pages of reflections and
generalisations.
About half a century ago, at Newmarket, several horses who stood high
in the betting, at different times suddenly went off sick just before
the race for which they were entered; some died, others recovered,
but all were disabled for the time being, and favourites that a few
hours previously outstripped every rival, would come straggling yards
behind the field. Every one knew they had been ‘nobbled;’ but for a
long time the perpetrator remained undiscovered; at last, however, a
notorious scoundrel, one Dan Dawson, was caught red-handed poisoning
the troughs. During the trial, it came out that he had made a regular
trade of these nefarious practices, and it was more than suspected
that not a few of the biggest men on the Turf were his employers. But
although he was condemned to death, whether from the hope that some
among his influential patrons would intercede for a reprieve, or from
that hatred which certain men of his class have against ‘peaching,’ he
never betrayed them, and remained silent to the end. The most minute
precautions are taken to guard the racehorse from such dangers, yet the
cunning or daring of his enemies frequently proves more than a match
for the care of his owners.
In 1842, Lanercost was regarded as the certain victor for the Ascot
Cup. While he was being conveyed to the course in a van, the grooms
in charge stopped at an inn between Leatherhead and Sunninghill to
refresh, leaving one to keep watch. Just after they had gone into
the house, two sailors came out of it. ‘Hillo,’ cried one, ‘here’s
Lanercost; let’s have a peep at him;’ and he sprang up on the side of
the van, while his companion at the same time diverted the attention of
the man on guard. A moment afterwards, the first jumped down again,
and then the two disappeared into a copse: it was all done so quickly
that the groom had no time to interpose; and before he could summon
his mates, the men were out of sight. When the race came on, instead
of achieving the anticipated victory, poor Lanercost came in last. In
the course of the ensuing month, he entirely changed colour, and was
never fit to run again. There is no doubt that the pretended sailor had
contrived to administer some powerful drug to the animal during the few
seconds he hung over his box.
Somewhere about the same time, a horse named Marcus was the favourite
for the St Leger. The day before the race, while he and some other
horses were standing at the _Doncaster Arms_, an ill-looking fellow
entered the kitchen of that tavern and seated himself beside a boiler
from which the stable lads were every now and then drawing water for
their charges. There was no one in the kitchen save a maid-servant,
whom the stranger sent out to bring him a pot of beer. When she
returned, the girl was going to fill her tea-kettle from the boiler,
but the fellow stopped her by saying: ‘I wouldn’t take my tea-water
from there if I was you, it looks so yellow and greasy.’
‘All right; I’ll get it outside,’ she answered. When she came back the
second time, the man had gone.
The next morning two horses were found dead in their stalls; while
Marcus, who was just able to run, came in last, and also died during
the day. Upon the bodies being opened, arsenic was found in their
stomachs. The girl then remembered the incident of the loafer, who had
no doubt poisoned the water in the copper; and had she been as stubborn
as most of her kind, several human victims would have been added to
the equine list. By the defeat of Marcus, the owner of a horse named
Chorister won seven thousand pounds.
Sometimes the defeat of the favourite is brought about by less bold but
more subtle means; and occasionally the tables are turned in a very
unexpected manner, as in the following instance. For the Doncaster
of 1824, Jerry—a horse belonging to a well-known sporting man named
Gascoigne—was the favourite. A little before the event came off,
however, George Payne, a noted Turfite, got ‘the tip’ from John Gully,
the ex-prizefighter, that Jerry would not win; and the day before
the race, these two worthies, doubtless well knowing _why_, laid six
thousand against him. Gascoigne could not understand how it was that
the more he backed his horse, which was in magnificent condition,
the less it advanced in favour. He felt sure there was a screw loose
somewhere, but he could not tell in what direction to look for it.
Two nights before the race, as he was taking a walk in the outskirts
of Doncaster, he paused at a turnpike gate, and just at that moment
a postchaise stopped to pay toll. By the light of the lamp which the
toll-keeper held in his hand, Gascoigne observed the jockey who was to
ride Jerry next day seated within, almost helplessly drunk, between
two of the most notorious blacklegs of the time. In a moment he saw it
all. Hurrying away, lest he should be recognised, he went back to his
hotel, and set about concocting measures to counteract the plot that
he perceived had been formed against him. Without making known his
discovery to any one, he secured the services of another jockey, bound
the man down to silence; and at the last moment, just as the traitor
was going to mount, his substitute slipped into the saddle, and won the
race, to the discomfiture and well-merited loss of the conspirators,
who had betted all they possessed upon the event.
Men called ‘Touts’ are employed by bookmakers and others to watch
racehorses at exercise and report upon their condition; these spies are
abhorred by trainers and owners, and have to pursue their espionage
under many difficulties, sometimes lying in a dry or a damp ditch,
or a hole covered over with brambles, or on the roof of a stable, to
be ready to witness the morning gallop. When detected, they do not
often escape under a horsewhipping or a ducking. On one bitterly cold
night, a fellow had crawled upon the roof of a stall to listen if the
favourite had a cough. Aware of his presence, though pretending to
be ignorant of it, the trainer ordered the stable boys to throw up
pails of water upon the spot where he was ensconced until the very
clothes froze upon the poor wretch’s back; but he had the consolation
of hearing the horse stabled beneath cough several times, and next
morning the odds were heavy against the favourite. Unfortunately for
the rogues, however, the favourite on the previous night had been moved
into another stable, and a horse with a cough had been substituted, to
deceive the tout, with the result that those who ventured their money
on his information, lost.
A much cleverer ruse was the following. An owner named Wilson was about
to try a two-year-old colt. ‘We shall be watched, and his white right
fore-leg will be sure to be noticed,’ remarked the trainer.—‘Leave that
to me,’ said Mr Wilson. Next morning, he was at the stable at daybreak,
and with some black paint soon changed the colour of the leg; while
a brush dipped in white transferred the distinguishing mark to a far
inferior horse, which showed but poorly beside the other. The tout on
the watch naturally took one for the other, and reported accordingly.
The next day, a certain nobleman gave fifteen hundred for the falsified
animal, which was worth about four.
We have purposely omitted the more celebrated Turf swindles, such as
the ‘Running Rein’ fraud, and others that made a sensation in their
day, confining ourselves to the less known affairs, which were not
found out until reparation to the victims was impossible, our principal
desire being to make clear to ‘the outsiders’ the enormous odds against
which they stake their money.
Those who are not behind the scenes may suppose that the bookmakers
(pencillers) and the ‘knowing ones’ generally, enjoy a perfect immunity
from the perils and dangers, pitfalls and temptations, of horseracing;
but that is not the case. Not unfrequently they walk blindly into
the trap they set for others; the biter is frequently bitten; and
many an ingenious fraud has been put upon the ‘pencillers’ by outside
betting-men, as the two following stories will show. For obvious
reasons, all data are suppressed, but the truth of the anecdotes can be
vouched for.
One day a City man, who was given to betting, and whom we shall call
A, received a visit from a friend addicted to the same weakness, who
shall be designated B. Locking the room door and sinking his voice to
a whisper, B announced that he had made a wonderful discovery by which
betting could be reduced to a system of all prizes and no blanks, and
consequently a fortune very quickly realised. ‘Now is your chance,’
he said, ‘if you like to join me. I shall give no explanation of the
method; come and see for yourself.’
An appointment was made for the next morning, the date of the X races,
at the Z (betting) Club.
‘Have you anything on this race?’ was the first inquiry made by B as A
came into the room.
The answer was in the negative.
‘Now, listen to me,’ said B, drawing him into a corner, for the place,
as usual at such times, was crowded with betting-men; ‘the final list
for the twelve o’clock race will be telegraphed here in a few minutes.’
(The Z, it need scarcely be said, had its private tape.) ‘Lay all the
money you like, at any odds, upon the horse I shall select, and I will
guarantee that it shall be the winner. But mind, you must not lose a
second after I have given you the hint. Go to the nearest bookmaker in
the room and make your bet on the instant.’
A minute or two afterwards, the electric bell gave the signal, and
there was a general rush to the machine. B was one of the first to
scan the list: there were five runners. He passed his finger down the
names until he paused almost imperceptibly upon Y, and looked at his
companion, who, although it was the very last horse he would have
thought of backing, boldly called out: ‘I’ll take the odds against Y.’
Y being a rank outsider, a bookmaker laid the odds on the instant. One
minute afterwards came the announcement that Y was the winner.
After they left the club together, B unfolded the mystery. ‘When the
list of runners was telegraphed,’ he said, ‘the race was already won.’
‘But how could that be?’ asked A. ‘The race was run at twelve, and the
time on the telegram was three minutes to twelve.’
‘The time was falsified,’ was the reply. ‘The message was not wired
until past the hour, nor until the winner was declared.’
‘And how could you fix upon the right one?’ demanded A.
‘There was the minutest dash on the tape against the name of the
winner, only noticeable by one in the secret. You see, the clerks are
in the pay of an Association. There are three or four other clubs
beside this where we get the telegrams in the same manner, so that we
vary our times. Here, for instance, we put upon the twelve o’clock
race; at another, upon the one; at a third, upon the two, and so on.’
We may add that the fraud was ultimately discovered, and the clerks who
worked it severely punished.
The next trick we shall relate could not be practised now, in
consequence of an alteration in the Turf customs. It was worked in
this fashion by two confederates. Let us suppose it to be the Lewes
races. One of the two goes down to Lewes on the previous day, and by
the last post sends a letter addressed _in pencil_ and unsealed to
his brother-rogue in London. Inside the envelope is a note addressed
to a bookmaker, simply containing the words, ‘Please back ____ for so
much.—Yours truly, JONES’—a blank being left for the horse’s name. This
missive arrives in town by the morning post, and the instant the race
is run the name of the winner is telegraphed to rogue number two, who
then inserts the name of the horse, rubs out his own name and address
from the envelope, writes that of the bookmaker instead, and seals
it up. Everything is now perfect in appearance: there are the Lewes
postmark of the previous night, the London of the morning, and the seal
untampered with. We need scarcely say that the handwriting appears to
be the same, and, according to the rules of racing at that time, if a
letter be delayed in transmission through the post, the bookmaker is
still made answerable for its contents.