The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and the thirty pounds
which William had promised to give to Esther went to pay for the defence.
There seemed at first some hope that the prosecution would not be able to
prove its case, but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstraction
of the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought advisable that
the plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts of counsel were
therefore directed towards a mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Esther
and William for the purpose of proving the excellent character that the
prisoner had hitherto borne; counsel spoke of the evil influence into
which the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she had no intention of
actually stealing the plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuaded
to pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she had been told was
certain to win. If that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed
and returned to its proper place in the owner's house, and the prisoner
would have been able to marry. Possibly the marriage on which the prisoner
had set her heart would have turned out more unfortunate for the prisoner
than the present proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough to
stigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to imperil
her liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon her in
the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew attention to the trusting
nature of the prisoner, who had not only pledged her employer's plate at
his base instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to confide the
pawn-ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner's story, and he
submitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A very sad
story, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, having
regard to the excellent character the prisoner had borne, counsel hoped
that his lordship would see his way to dealing leniently with her.
His Lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half a century,
and whose betting transactions were matters of public comment, pursed up
his ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the prisoner. He said
he regretted that he could not take the same view of the prisoner's
character as learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort to
apprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner's story, was the
principal culprit. But the efforts of the police had been unavailing; they
had, however, found traces of the man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist,
and need not be considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs.
Harris. And the little joke provoked some amusement in the court; learned
counsel settled their robes becomingly and leant forward to listen. They
were in for a humorous speech, and the prisoner would get off with a light
sentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that lordship
was determined to make the law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drew
attention to the fact that during the course of their investigations the
police had discovered that the prisoner had been living for some
considerable time with the man Evans, during which time several robberies
had been effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect the
prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man Evans and had
obtained a situation in the house of her present employers. When the
characters she had received from her former employers were being examined
she had accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by saying
that she had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who had given
evidence in her favour. It had also come to the knowledge of the police
that the man Evans used to frequent the "King's Head," that was the house
owned by the Latches; it was probable that she had made there the
acquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred her employers to
the Latches, who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding the
year she was supposed to have spent with them, but which she had really
spent in cohabitation with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in
severe remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachable
characters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very common habit,
and one attended with great danger to society, one which society would do
well to take precautions to defend itself against.
The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have been pawned, but there
was nothing to show that it had been pawned, the prisoner's explanation
being that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could not
tell where she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the man
Evans had gone down to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile End
Road. But she did not know the number of the pawnbroker's, nor could she
give any indications as to its whereabouts--beyond the mere fact that it
was in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawnbrokers in the
Mile End Road had been searched, but no plate answering to the description
furnished by the prosecution could be found.
Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been in a measure
unpremeditated, that it was the result of a passing but irresistible
temptation. Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some element of
romance into the case; he had described the theft as the outcome of the
prisoner's desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such purity of
motive in the prisoner's crime. There was nothing to show that there was
any thought of marriage in the prisoner's mind; the crime was the result,
not of any desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion,
concubinage. Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it was
only necessary to point out that it had been committed for a distinct
purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with an accomplished
thief.
"There is now only one more point which I wish to refer to, and that is
the plea that the prisoner did not intend to steal the plate, but only to
obtain money upon it to enable her and the partner in her guilt to back a
horse for a race which they believed to be--" his Lordship was about to
say a certainty for him; he stopped himself, however, in time--"to be, to
be, which they believed him to be capable of winning. The race in question
is, I think, called the Cesarewitch, and the name of the horse (lordship
had lost three hundred on Ben Jonson), if my memory serves me right (here
lordship fumbled amid papers), yes, the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson.
Now, the learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if the horse had
won, the plate would have been redeemed and restored to its proper place
in the pantry cupboards. This, I venture to point out, is a mere
hypothesis. The money might have been again used for the purpose of
gambling. I confess that I do not see why we should condone the prisoner's
offence because it was committed for the sake of obtaining money for
gambling purposes. Indeed, it seems to me a reason for dealing heavily
with the offence. The vice among the poorer classes is largely on the
increase, and it seems to me that it is the duty of all in authority to
condemn rather than to condone the evil, and to use every effort to stamp
it out. For my part I fail to perceive any romantic element in the vice of
gambling. It springs from the desire to obtain wealth without work, in
other words, without payment; work, whether in the past or the present, is
the natural payment for wealth, and any wealth that is obtained without
work is in a measure a fraud committed upon the community. Poverty,
despair, idleness, and every other vice spring from gambling as naturally,
and in the same profusion, as weeds from barren land. Drink, too, is
gambling's firmest ally."
At this moment a certain dryness in his Lordship's throat reminded him of
the pint of excellent claret that lordship always drank with his lunch,
and the thought enabled lordship to roll out some excellent invective
against the evils of beer and spirits. And lordship's losses on the horse
whose name he could hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of the
theory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and enforce each other.
When the news that Ben Jonson had broken down at the bushes came in,
lordship had drunk a magnum of champagne, and memory of this champagne
inspired a telling description of the sinking feeling consequent on the
loss of a wager, and the natural inclination of a man to turn to drink to
counteract it. Drink and gambling are growing social evils; in a great
measure they are circumstantial, and only require absolute legislation to
stamp them out almost entirely. This was not the first case of the kind
that had come before him; it was one of many, but it was a typical case,
presenting all the familiar features of the vice of which he had therefore
spoken at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, and if they
continued to increase, the powers of the law would have to be
strengthened. But even as the law stood at present, betting-houses,
public-houses in which betting was carried on, were illegal, and it was
the duty of the police to leave no means untried to unearth the offenders
and bring them to justice. Lordship then glanced at the trembling woman in
the dock. He condemned her to eighteen months' hard labour, and gathering
up the papers on the desk, dismissed her for ever from his mind.
The court adjourned for lunch, and Esther and William edged their way out
of the crowd of lawyers and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time.
William was much exercised by his Lordship's remarks on betting
public-houses, and his advice that the police should increase their
vigilance and leave no means untried to uproot that which was the curse
and the ruin of the lower classes. It was the old story, one law for the
rich, another for the poor. William did not seek to probe the question any
further, this examination seemed to him to have exhausted it; and he
remembered, after all that the hypocritical judge had said, how difficult
it would be to escape detection. When he was caught he would be fined a
hundred pounds, and probably lose his licence. What would he do then? He
did not confide his fears to Esther. She had promised to say no more about
the betting; but she had not changed her opinion. She was one of those
stubborn ones who would rather die than admit they were wrong. Then he
wondered what she thought of his Lordship's speech. Esther was thinking of
the thin gruel Sarah would have to eat, the plank bed on which she would
have to sleep, and the miserable future that awaited her when she should
be released from gaol.
It was a bright winter's day; the City folk were walking rapidly, tightly
buttoned up in top-coats, and in a windy sky a flock of pigeons floated on
straightened wings above the telegraph wires. Fleet Street was full of
journalists going to luncheon-bars and various eating-houses. Their hurry
and animation were remarkable, and Esther noticed how laggard was
William's walk by comparison, how his clothes hung loose about him, and
that the sharp air was at work on his lungs, making him cough. She asked
him to button himself up more closely.
"Is not that old John's wife?" Esther said.
"Yes, that's her," said William. "She'd have seen us if that cove hadn't
given her the shilling.... Lord, I didn't think they was as badly off as
that. Did you ever see such rags? and that thick leg wrapped up in that
awful stocking."
The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. Randal's wandering rags had
seemed to Esther like a foreboding. She grew frightened, as the cattle do
in the fields when the sky darkens and the storm draws near. She suddenly
remembered Mrs. Barfield, and she heard her telling her of the unhappiness
that she had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Barfield? Should she
ever see her again? Mr. Barfield was dead, Miss May was forced to live
abroad for the sake of her health; all that time of long ago was over and
done with. Some words that Mrs. Barfield had said came back to her; she
had never quite understood them, but she had never quite forgotten them;
they seemed to chime through her life. "My girl," Mrs. Barfield had said,
"I am more than twenty years older than you, and I assure you that time
has passed like a little dream; life is nothing. We must think of what
comes after."
"Cheer up, old girl; eighteen months is a long while, but it ain't a
lifetime. She'll get through it all right; and when she comes out we'll
try to see what we can do for her."
William's voice startled Esther from the depth of her dream; she looked at
him vaguely, and he saw that she had been thinking of something different
from what he had suspected. "I thought it was on account of Sarah that you
was looking so sad."
"No," she said, "I was not thinking of Sarah."
Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of the wickedness of
betting, his face darkened. It was aggravating to have a wife who was
always troubling about things that couldn't be helped. The first person
they saw on entering the bar was old John; and he sat in the corner of the
bar on a high stool, his grey, death-like face sunk in the old unstarched
shirt collar. The thin, wrinkled throat was hid with the remains of a
cravat; it was passed twice round, and tied according to the fashions of
fifty years ago. His boots were broken; the trousers, a grey, dirty brown,
were torn as high up as the ankle; they had been mended and the patches
hardly held together; the frock coat, green with age, with huge flaps over
the pockets, frayed and torn, and many sizes too large, hung upon his
starveling body. He seemed very feeble, and there was neither light nor
expression in his glassy, watery eyes.
"Eighteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a first offence," said
William.
"I just dropped in. Charles said you'd sure to be back. You're later than
I expected."
"We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard what I said. She got
eighteen months."
"Who got eighteen months?"
"Sarah."
"Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got eighteen months."
"What's the matter? Wake up; you're half asleep. What will you have to
drink?"
"A glass of milk, if you've got such a thing."
"Glass of milk! What is it, old man--not feeling well?"
"Not very well. The fact is, I'm starving."
"Starving! ...Then come into the parlour and have something to eat. Why
didn't you say so before?"
"I didn't like to."
He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a chair. "Didn't like to
tell me that you was as hard up as all that? What do you mean? You didn't
use to mind coming round for half a quid."
"That was to back a horse; but I didn't like coming to ask for
food--excuse me, I'm too weak to speak much."
When old John had eaten, William asked how it was that things had gone so
badly with him.
"I've had terrible bad luck lately, can't get on a winner nohow. I have
backed 'orses that 'as been tried to win with two stone more on their
backs than they had to carry, but just because I was on them they didn't
win. I don't know how many half-crowns I've had on first favourites. Then
I tried the second favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the first
favourites when I took to backing them. Stack's tips and Ketley's omens
was all the same as far as I was concerned. It's a poor business when
you're out of luck."
"It is giving way to fancy that does for the backers. The bookmaker's
advantage is that he bets on principle and not on fancy."
Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. He had been dismissed
from his employment in the restaurant, not from any fault of his own, he
had done his work well. "But they don't like old waiters; there's always a
lot of young Germans about, and customers said I smelt bad. I suppose it
was my clothes and want of convenience at home for keeping one's self
tidy. We've been so hard up to pay the three and sixpence rent which we've
owed, that the black coat and waistkit had to go to the pawnshop, so even
if I did meet with a job in the Exhibition places, where they ain't so
particular about yer age, I should not be able to take it. It's terrible
to think that I should have to come to this and after having worked round
the table this forty years, fifty pounds a year and all found, and
accustomed always to a big footman and page-boy under me. But there's
plenty more like me. It's a poor game. You're well out of it. I suppose
the end of it will be the work'us. I'm pretty well wore out, and--"
The old man's voice died away. He made no allusion to his wife. His
dislike to speak of her was part and parcel of his dislike to speak of his
private affairs. The conversation then turned on Sarah; the severity of
the sentence was alluded to, and William spoke of how the judge's remarks
would put the police on the watch, and how difficult it would be to
continue his betting business without being found out.
"There's no doubt that it is most unfortunate," said old John.
"The only thing for you to do is to be very particular about yer
introductions, and to refuse to bet with all who haven't been properly
introduced."
"Or to give up betting altogether," said Esther.
"Give up betting altogether!" William answered, his face flushed, and he
gradually worked himself into a passion. "I give you a good 'ome, don't I?
You want for nothing, do yer? Well, that being so, I think you might keep
your nose out of your husband's business. There's plenty of
prayer-meetings where you can go preaching if you like."
William would have said a good deal more, but his anger brought on a fit
of coughing. Esther looked at him contemptuously, and without answering
she walked into the bar.
"That's a bad cough of yours," said old John.
"Yes," said William, and he drank a little water to pass it off. "I must
see the doctor about it. It makes one that irritable. The missis is in a
pretty temper, ain't she?"
Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to notice domestic
differences of opinion, especially those in which women had a share--queer
cattle that he knew nothing about. The men talked for a long time
regarding the danger the judge's remarks had brought the house into; and
they considered all the circumstances of the case. Allusion was made to
the injustice of the law, which allowed the rich and forbade the poor to
bet; anecdotes were related, but nothing they said threw new light on the
matter in hand, and when Old John rose to go William summed up the
situation in these few words--
"Bet I must, if I'm to get my living. The only thing I can do is to be
careful not to bet with strangers."
"I don't see how they can do nothing to you if yer makes that yer
principle and sticks to it," said old John, and he put on the huge-rimmed,
greasy hat, three sizes too large for him, looking in his square-cut
tattered frock-coat as queer a specimen of humanity as you would be likely
to meet with in a day's walk. "If you makes that yer principle and sticks
to it," thought William.
But practice and principle are never reduced to perfect agreement. One is
always marauding the other's territory; nevertheless for several months
principle distinctly held the upper hand; William refused over and over
again to make bets with comparative strangers, but the day came when his
principle relaxed, and he took the money of a man whom he thought was all
right. It was done on the impulse of the moment, but the two half-crowns
wrapped up in the paper, with the name of the horse written on the paper,
had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt that he had done wrong. He
couldn't tell why, but the feeling came across him that he had done wrong
in taking the man's money--a tall, clean-shaven man dressed in broadcloth.
It was too late to draw back. The man had finished his beer and had left
the bar, which in itself was suspicious.
Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, just the busiest time, when
the bar was full of people, there came a cry of "Police!" An effort was
made to hide the betting plant; a rush was made for the doors. It was all
too late; the sergeant and a constable ordered that no one was to leave
the house; other police were outside. The names and addresses of all
present were taken down; search was made, and the packets of money and the
betting books were discovered. Then they all had to go to Marlborough
Street.