An Explosion.
When Gilbert Lloyd awoke the next morning after an excellent night's
rest, his first impression was that something disagreeable had
happened on the previous evening, but it was some time before he could
exactly recollect all the circumstances and pass them calmly in review
before him. Even when he had done so he felt by no means certain how
far matters had gone. He had taken too much of that infernal brandy,
he remembered with disgust--taken it because he had been brooding over
that business at Brighton which happened years ago, it is true, but
which some confounded fate seemed to have set people talking about
lately. He had not thought about it, it had never troubled him, and
now he found his mind continually running on that one subject. It must
have been the constant reference made by those about him to--to his
wife that must have turned his thoughts in that direction. Curses on
that Sunday regulation of shutting the telegraph-offices! If he had
only been able to send that telegram as he had originally intended
early in the morning, it would have stopped her coming down, and
prevented her having that fatal hold over him, of which she is well
aware, and which she is determined to exercise if necessary. It was
thinking last night of all these things combined that had sent him to
the brandy-bottle, a dangerous habit, which seemed to be growing upon
him, he thought, and which he must at once break himself of, as
ruinous and destructive of all chances of keeping that clearness of
brain which was to him a vital necessity. He was muddled the previous
night; he felt it then; he only saw through a glass darkly what had
happened, and the retrospect was by no means agreeable. Etchingham had
annoyed him, he recollected that; and he had replied without measuring
his language, and the result had been that they had agreed to part. O
yes, now he remembered what Bobby Maitland had told Etchingham about
him. What an idiot he had been to make a row about such a thing as
that! He knew well enough that Bobby Maitland had been trying all he
knew for years to supplant him in Etchingham's confidence, that he was
awfully jealous of him, and would say or do anything to get a rise out
of him. He must have taken an amount of brandy to have made such an
ass of himself. It was a comfort to know that Etchingham was sure to
be all right in the morning, and to be in a great fright at what had
occurred. He knew his pupil well enough to be certain of that. No
doubt his lordship had also dined, and had taken quite enough of Mr.
Stackborough's wine. They were both of them excited, no doubt, but he
must take care and stand on his dignity, and then Etchingham would
come round at once.
So, thinking over these things, Gilbert Lloyd took his cold sea-water
bath, which got rid of most of the ill effects of the previous night,
and having leisurely dressed himself, descended to the room where
breakfast was laid. He was the first; Lord Ticehurst had not yet
appeared. So Gilbert took up the newspaper, and after glancing at the
state of the odds and the sporting-intelligence generally, remained
expectant. He had not to wait very long. In a few minutes Lord
Ticehurst, looking very white and seedy, and with his small eyes more
tightly screwed up and sunk more deeply into his head than usual,
entered the room. Gilbert bade him "good-morning," which his lordship,
walking round the table and flinging himself into an easy-chair, only
answered by a short nod. He then rang the bell, and, on the waiter's
appearing, ordered brandy and soda-water. This, Lloyd argued to
himself, was merely the effect of the "morning after," the result of
too much indulgence in Stackborough's wines. His lordship's digestion
was impaired and consequently his temper suffered: both would improve
simultaneously. But after his brandy and soda-water, Lord Ticehurst
pulled his chair to the table, and commenced and proceeded with a very
excellent breakfast, during the discussion of which he said never a
word to his anxiously-expectant confederate, while, at its finish, he
lit a big cigar, and, still mute, armed himself with a telescope,
flung open the window, and stepped into the balcony to inspect the
exhibition of the naiads bathing in the foreground.
For once in his life Gilbert Lloyd was nonplused. He had made
perfectly certain that Etchingham would have cried peccavi, would have
come to him begging to have their relations replaced on the old
footing; and here was the recalcitrant apparently quite at ease, not
taking the least notice of him, and obviously rather enjoying himself
than otherwise. Had he been blind, or had Etchingham's character
suddenly changed? One thing was quite certain, that all was going
wrong, and that he must take prompt measures to set himself right.
Gilbert Lloyd was not an adept at leek-swallowing. He had played his
cards so well during the latter portion at least of his life that he
had seldom been required to perform that humiliating feat, but he saw
that he must do it now. Lord Ticehurst was, like most good-natured
men, intensely obstinate and sulky when affronted, and though Lloyd
had had no experience of this state of his pupil's mood so far as he
was regarded, he had seen it evidenced against others. It was
perfectly plain that one of these fits, and a very strong one, was on
Lord Ticehurst at present, and Lloyd was compelled to acknowledge to
himself that if he wanted to retain his position in the future he must
knuckle under unreservedly and at once.
He laid down the newspaper which he had made a pretence of reading,
and looked towards the window. There, in the balcony, sat his
lordship, the light-blue smoke from his cigar curling round his head,
and his eye fixed at the telescope which he held in his hand Gilbert
rose and went behind him, but Lord Ticehurst, although he must have
heard the footstep, never moved. Then Gilbert laid his hand on his
pupil's shoulder, and said, "Etchingham!"
His lordship moved his eye from the telescope, and looked quietly at
Lloyd. "Well?" said he, in a sufficiently sulky manner.
"I have come to ask your pardon. I--"
"O, there, that's all right," said his lordship, preparing to
recommence his performance with the telescope.
"No, it is not all right. You and I have been intimate allies for a
very long time. Until last night there has never been a word of
difference between us. Nor would there have been then but for the
infernal meddling of people who--"
"O, just look here! I didn't name any names, remember. It was you who
said you knew Bobby Maitland had been making mischief."
"It was I; I acknowledge it. You are quite right. You are far too good
a fellow to say a word against even such a bad lot as that. I lost my
temper, and I spoke out. But why? Because I was in a tremendous rage
at the impudence of that fellow Maitland daring to put his own words
and his own sentiments into my mouth, and to pretend that I had said
them. His own words and sentiments, I say, and no one else's."
"What! Do you mean to say that you never said--all that confounded
stuff about the 'nurse,' and all that?"
"I pledge you my word of honour I never said anything of the kind."
Lord Ticehurst looked straight at him as he said these words, but
Gilbert Lloyd met the look firmly, without the smallest increase of
colour, without the movement of a muscle in his face.
"Well," said his lordship, after a momentary pause, "of course after
that I cannot say any more. I was most infernally riled when I heard
you'd been chaffing about me, I'll allow; because, after all, don't
you know, when you and a fellow have lived together, and been regular
pals, and that kind of thing--"
"And you thought I could have been such a scoundrel as to do that? No,
Etchingham, I don't pretend to be strait-laced, and I don't go in to
be demonstrative and gushing in my affection for you, like those
duffers who are always hanging about you in town, and whose game you
see through perfectly, I know. My regard for you I endeavour to show
in another way, in devoting myself heart and soul to the management of
your affairs; and if you look into them I think you'll find that I am
faithful and true to you."
Into his voice, as he uttered these last words, Gilbert Lloyd threw a
little tremulous touch of sentiment, which gave evidence of a hitherto
undeveloped histrionic ability, and which was really excellent of its
kind. It was so close an imitation of the genuine article that most
people would have been taken in by it, and Lloyd looked to see a
responsive twinkle in his pupil's eyes; but clever and telling as it
was it failed to touch Lord Ticehurst. He said, "All right, Gilbert,
old fellow; of course I know that. Here, there's an end of it!" and he
stretched out his hand; but there was no heartiness, no enthusiasm in
his tone, no warmth in the grasp he gave, and Gilbert Lloyd recognised
all this, and began to feel a dim prescience that his hold on his
lordship was beginning to wax faint, and that his position as chief
manager of Lord Ticehurst's affairs was manifestly insecure.
Was Gilbert Lloyd's luck really beginning to fail him? Had the devil,
who had stood his friend so long, and aided him in his advancement so
wonderfully, grown tired of and forsaken him? It seemed like it, he
was forced to confess to himself. By nature cool, crafty, and
clear-headed, and from long practice in matters in which the exercise
of those qualities is constantly required, Lloyd was by no means a man
to suffer himself to remain blind to any danger which might threaten
him. There are men amongst us passing for sane, nay, even reputed to
be clever, who obstinately shut their eyes against the sight of the
chasm towards which they are pressing forward, who are obstinately
deaf to the roar of the avalanche which in a few seconds must
overwhelm them, when by merely striking out into a new path--not so
pleasant indeed, and that is mostly what they look at--they might
avoid their fate. These are the men who, Micawber-like, are always
expecting something to turn up, who refuse to see the plainest
portents, to listen to the most obvious warnings, who think that bills
disregarded are payments indefinitely deferred, and who put away
unpleasant-looking letters unopened with the idea that the bad news
they bring will thereby be staved off, who go on _quo Fata ducunt_,
and who are astonished when they find themselves involved in misery
and ruin. Gilbert Lloyd was very different from this. Let a cloud,
even though it were "no bigger than a man's hand," appear above the
horizon, and he took note of it instantly. He was specially observant
of the slightest change in the character or demeanour of those with
whom he was brought in contact, even of persons of inferior grade. In
fact, although for a long time past his life had been one of
comparative ease and undoubted luxury, he had never forgotten the
habits acquired in the early days of poverty and shifting and
scheming, when his hand was against every man and every man's hand
against him, and he was prepared to go to the end of the world, or out
of it altogether for the matter of that, if he saw plainly the
necessity of absconding, or felt that his Fate had arrived.
Was his luck going? Was his game nearly played out? There had been a
great change lately, without a doubt; he must not shut his eyes to
that. Etchingham was certainly changed. Very civil and acquiescent in
all that was suggested to him, never referring to their dispute on
that unlucky night, but still without a particle of the heartiness
which formerly characterised him, and which was the salt of his
otherwise unpleasant disposition. There had been a turn of luck, too,
in turf-matters. Some of his own private speculations (for Gilbert had
a book of his own in addition to the "operations" in which he had a
joint interest with Lord Ticehurst, and was said also to do a great
deal by anonymous commission) had been very unfortunate during the
past season, and so far as he could see he was not likely to recoup
himself by any success at Doncaster, where one of Lord Ticehurst's
cracks had been disgracefully beaten for the Cup, while another, which
had been one of the leading favourites for the Leger, had run down the
scale in the most alarming manner, and was now, on the eve of the
race, scarcely mentioned in the betting.
Was his luck going? was his game nearly played out? _Venit summa dies
et ineluctabile fatum!_ Where had he heard that, Gilbert Lloyd
wondered as he sat on the edge of his bed at the Angel Inn at
Doncaster, turning all these things in his mind. _Ineluctabile fatum_.
He gave a half-shudder as he repeated the words, and he gulped down
half the tumbler of brandy standing on the table by his side. He felt
a _frisson_ run through him--that kind of creeping feeling which silly
old women ascribe to the fact of someone "walking over your grave"--on
which the brandy had no effect, and he stamped his foot in rage at his
weakness. He was all wrong somehow; out of health, perhaps? But his
clear sense refused to be deluded by that excuse. _Ineluctabile
fatum!_ that was it, the _summa dies_ for him was at hand; he felt it,
he knew it, and found it in vain to struggle, impossible to make head
against it. The roar of the crowd in the street came through the open
window of the room in which he sat, that hideous roar which fills the
streets of every country town at race-time, and which he knew so well,
with its component parts of ribaldry, blasphemy, bestiality, and
idiotcy. The day was bright and hot and clear--what did the noise
outside and the bright day remind him of? Something unpleasant, he
felt, but he could not exactly fix it in his memory. He rose, and his
eyes fell on the big, heavy, old-fashioned four-post bedstead on which
he had been seated, and on the table with the glass and bottles
standing by it. And then in an instant what had been dimly haunting
his memory flashed all bright across his brain: Brighton, the crowd of
racing-men on the cliff in the hot, bright weather, and the lodging,
with Harvey Gore dying on the bed! Gilbert Lloyd swallowed the
remainder of the brandy, and hurried downstairs into the street.
Immediately opposite the inn-door, and surrounded by a little crowd, a
preacher--as is often to be seen on such occasions--was holding forth.
The crowd mocked and jeered, but the preacher, secure in the
stentorian powers of his lungs, never stopped in his attacks on the
wickedness going on around him; and the first words which Lloyd heard
as he issued from the inn were, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
The gentlemen who had "operated" against Lord Ticehurst's horse in the
betting-ring were, on the succeeding day, proved to be perfectly
correct in their prognostications; that eminent animal being as far
behind the winner of the Leger as his stable-companion had been in the
race for the Cup. This result did not affect Lord Ticehurst much, so
far as his betting losses were concerned; he had so much money that it
mattered little to him whether he won or lost; but he did not like
losing the _prestige_ which had attached to his stable ever since
Lloyd had succeeded poor old Dobbs and taken the stud in hand And he
particularly disliked the half-pitying, half-chaffing way in which
several men condoled with him about it.
"What's come to you, dear old Etchingham?" said Bobby Maitland, who
had been unable to withstand the fascinations of the Doncaster
Meeting, and had accordingly persuaded Mr. Stackborough to leave the
yacht at anchor off Dover while they came north; "what's come to you,
old man? The white jacket and cherry spots seem now always to be where
the little boat was--all behind!"
"We have not been very lucky lately, have we?" replied his lordship,
with an attempt at a grin--he writhed under Bobby's compassionate
familiarity; "but we did very well early in the year; and you can't
have it always, don't you know."
"Ah yes, to be sure, you had some little things, I recollect," said
Bobby Maitland more furtively than ever.
"Don't know what you call 'little things,' Maitland," said Lord
Ticehurst, twitted out of his usual reticence; "the One Thousand, and
the Ascot Cup, with two of the best things at Stockbridge. That seems
pretty good to me; but I suppose it's nothing to you. You never even
won a donkey-race that I heard of."
"O yes, he did," said Gilbert Lloyd, who had come up to them unseen,
and overheard the last remark; "O yes; Bobby won a donkey-race once,
and he was so proud of it, he always takes the animal about with him.
He's somewhere in the neighbourhood now, I'll swear!"
There was a shout of laughter at this remark from all the men standing
round, which was increased to a roar as Mr. Stackborough, dressed most
elaborately, was seen approaching the group. It was always said that
Bobby Maitland had never been seen to lose his temper. At that instant
he was within an ace of it; but he controlled himself with an effort,
and said, "That's not bad, Lloyd; not at all bad, for you. When you
order Lloyd's man's new livery, Etchingham, you must have a cap and
bells added to it. 'Gad, you're like one of those great swells in the
olden time, who used to keep a fool to amuse their friends!"
"Haw, haw! Maitland had him there!" shouted "Barrel" Moss, a fat,
handsome Israelite, ex-gambling-house-keeper, now racehorse-proprietor
and betting-man, admitted into the society of the highest patrons of
the turf.
"What are you grinning at, Barrel?" retorted Gilbert. "You may thank
your stars you did not live in the days of those 'great swells of the
olden time.' Why, when Jews wouldn't pay, they used to pull their
teeth out; and what would have become of you when you were posted in
Teddington's year? Why you wouldn't have had a single grinder left!"
Once more the laugh was on Lloyd's side, and taking advantage of his
triumph he pushed through the knot gathered round him, and, taking
Lord Ticehurst by the arm, moved off towards the hotel. The colloquy
between the two, as they walked along, was brief. His lordship was
more than a little "out of sorts." His rejection by Miss Lambert yet
rankled in his mind; his recent want of success on the turf upset and
annoyed him. He was fidgety and fretful, and when Gilbert asked him
what they should do, and where they should go to next, he confessed as
much, and said that he did not care so long as he was "out of the
whole d--d thing!" Such a state of mind rather coinciding with Gilbert
Lloyd's own feelings at the time, that astute counsellor, instead of
opposing his patron's unmistakable though oddly expressed views, fell
in with them at once; declared that everything from British Dan to
British Beersheba was barren, and suggested that they should go abroad
for a month or two, lie fallow, and pick up health. Lord Ticehurst
fully agreed with the idea of going abroad, but "would not have any of
your touring;" he had had enough of Switzerland, thank you; and as for
any of those dead-alive old cribs where fellows poked about among
pictures and those kind of things, well, he would as soon cut his
throat offhand! He did not mind going to Hombourg or Baden, or one of
those places where there was something to be done, and plenty of
people to be seen.
It was Gilbert's policy just at that time to keep his pupil in
good-humour if possible, so that even if the notion of a visit to
Baden had not happened to be agreeable to him, he would doubtless have
suppressed his own feelings and assented with a good grace. But
situated as he was, wanting a thorough change, and yet so ill at ease
as to fear being left alone to his own resources in a dull place, the
gaiety of a foreign watering-place was exactly what he would have
chosen. So, two days after, the _Morning Post_ recorded that "the Earl
of Ticehurst and Mr. Gilbert Lloyd passed through town yesterday _en
route_ for Baden."
Men of middle age, who recollect Baden before the fatal facility of
travel, or the invention of Mr. Cook and his excursionists, must look
back with deep regret upon the pleasant days when comparatively few
English people found their way along the newly-opened railway that
crept along the bank of the Oos. The place was known, of course; but
the difference between the visitors then and nowadays was as great as
between the visitors to the gardens of Hampton Court on any ordinary
fine day in early spring or on Easter Monday. The style of the
company, despite the importing of many of the great British
aristocracy who in former years never visited the place, but now
find it much cheaper and more amusing than "entertaining" for
partridge-shooting at home, has gradually been decaying; but since the
establishment of the races it has received a large proportion of that
very worst ingredient, the sporting-cad. When Lord Ticehurst and Lloyd
arrived, the races were just about to take place, and there was a
strong muster of the "professionals" of high and middle grade, the
worst being kept away by the difficulty of obtaining means of
transport from England, which is a mercy of which the Germans are not
sufficiently aware to be properly thankful for. The lowest order of
sporting-man is the lowest order of anything. If anyone wishes to be
impressed with the depth of degradation to which the human species can
be successfully reduced, he has only to go into the Strand on a day
when some great "event" is coming off, and observe the persons
gathered round the office of the great sporting-newspaper about four
in the afternoon. He will see a crowd of men of all ages--wizened old
creatures, big burly roughs, shambling knock-kneed hobbledehoys,
in battered hats, in greasy, close-fitting caps, most of them
shirt-collarless, but with belcher handkerchiefs twisted round their
thick throats; many of them have the long, flat thieves' curl on the
side of the face; nearly all have the hair cut close round the nape of
the neck: costermongers, butchers, the scum and refuse of the
population; dirty, half-starved, in clothes whose looped and windowed
raggedness would be dear at half-a-crown for the whole lot. These be
the gallant sporting-men, without the slightest knowledge of or care
for sport, who, in order to enable them to bet their half-crowns on a
race, empty tradesmen's tills, burst into our houses, and "put the
hug" on us in the open street.
Of course this class was unrepresented in the great gathering at
Baden; but there was a large influx of people who had never been seen
there before. They filled the hotels and lodging-houses; they
swaggered over the promenades; they lounged about the Kursaal,
outraging the dignity of the officials by talking and laughing loudly;
and they played at the tables, slapping their coins down with a ring,
or motioning and calling to the grave croupiers "just to hook 'em that
louy they'd left behind." They were a cause of great offence to Tommy
Toshington, on whom Gilbert lighted on the morning after his arrival
at the springs, where the old gentleman was holding a tumbler of very
nasty water with a very shaky hand, and, in default of having anyone
to talk to, was vainly endeavouring for the five-hundredth time to
find out the meaning of some very tremendous frescoes in front of him.
"I've been in the habit of comin' to this place for an immense number
of years, and thought I could go on till I died. Devilish comfortable
quarters I've got at the Roossy, and nice amusin' place I've always
found it; but I must give it up, by George! I can't stand the set
of racin'-fellows that come here now, 'pon my soul I can't! God
knows who they are, my good fellow. You, who go about to all these
what-do-you-call-'em meetings, you may know some of 'em; but I, who
only toddle down to the Derby and Ascot on Sumphington's drag, and get
over to Goodwood when the Dook's good enough to ask me--I've never set
eyes on any of 'em before."
"Well, but how do they annoy you, Toshington?" asked Gilbert, who was
rather amused at this outbreak on the old gentleman's part.
"They don't actually annoy me, except by bein' such a dam low-bred
lot, yahooin' all over the place. And to think of 'em comin' just now,
when we were so pleasant. It's rather late in the season, to be sure;
but there's a very nice set of people here. My Lady Carabas is here,
but that _you_ knew, of course; and the Dook and Duchess of
Winchester, and the Dashwoods, and the Grevilles, and the Alsagers,
and Tom Gregory and half the First. It's monstrous pleasant, you can't
think!"
"It must be," said Gilbert quietly. "So new and fresh and charming.
Such a change, too, for you all, not to see anybody you are accustomed
to meet in London,--it must be delightful. Goodbye, Toshington; I'm
going in for rusticity, and intend to have a turn before breakfast."
Although Mr. Toshington's sense of humour was very slight, and
although he took most things _au pied de la letter_, he detected some
sarcasm in Gilbert's remarks, and looked after him from under scowling
brows. "That's another of 'em," he muttered; "another of your
horse-racin' customers, though he is in society, and all that. Damme
if I know how they let 'em in; I don't, by George! They'd as soon have
thought of lettin' a fiddler, or a painter, or a fellow of that sort
into society when I was a young man. But it's best to keep in with
this one; he has the orderin' of everything at Etchingham's, and might
leave me out of many a good thing if he chose to be disagreeable." So
saying, the old worldling finished his second glass of Brunnenwasser,
paid his kreutzers, audibly cursed the coinage of the country in a
select mixture of the English and German languages prepared expressly
by him for his own use, and departed.
Mr. Toshington was perfectly right in stating that the Marchioness of
Carabas was enthroned in great state at Baden, but wrong in imagining
that Gilbert Lloyd was aware of that fact. Truth to tell, there had
been a slight misunderstanding, what is vulgarly but intelligibly
called a "tiff," between her ladyship and Lloyd, and for a few weeks
past he had not been enlightened as to her movements. The fact was,
that when Lloyd had sufficiently used the _grand dame_ as a means to
various business ends, as a stepping-stone to certain objects which
without her aid he would have been unable to reach, he began to find
his position rather a wearying one. It was pleasant to be the
custodian and hierophant of the Soul while it served his purpose, but
it was dreary work when that purpose was achieved, and his interest in
the Soul's owner was consequently gone. He attended at the shrine as
regularly as ever for reasons of policy, but his policy was not
sufficiently strong to keep him from occasionally gaping and betraying
other signs of weariness. Lady Carabas was too observant a woman not
to mark this immediately on its first occurrence, but she thought it
might be accidental, and determined to wait a repetition of it before
speaking. The repetition very shortly afterwards took place, and even
then her ladyship did not speak. After a little reflection she
determined on adopting another plan. She resolved upon taking to
herself someone else who should be admitted into the mysteries of the
Soul. This, she thought, would capitally answer a double purpose; it
would tend to her amusement--and she was beginning to feel the want of
a little novelty, she confessed to herself--and would probably have
the effect of rendering Gilbert Lloyd jealous. A little time showed
the result. In the turf-idiom which she had learned of Lloyd, and
which she sometimes used in self-communion, she acknowledged that
"while the first event had come off all right, the second had gone to
grief;" which, being interpreted, meant that while she (Lady Carabas)
was thoroughly amused, and indeed at the height of one of her Platonic
flirtations with the new possessor of the Soul (a young man in the
Foreign Office, with lovely hair parted in the middle, charming
whiskers, and brilliant teeth), he (Gilbert Lloyd) had not shown the
smallest symptom of jealousy. On the contrary, Gilbert Lloyd was
unfeignedly glad to find that his place had been satisfactorily filled
up, and that he would no longer be constantly required to be on
escort-duty. And when Lady Carabas found that this was the case--and
she discovered it very quickly, being a woman of great worldly
penetration and tact--she made up her mind that the best thing for her
to do was to accept the position at once, and give Lloyd his liberty.
This accordingly she did; and when they met at Baden,
"They seemed to those who saw them meet,
Mere casual friends of every day;"
as Lord Houghton says in a very charming little poem, though there was
an echo of bygone tenderness, of the voice of the Soul, in fact,
pervading her ladyship's tones for many a day after. Meantime she was
the queen of a very pleasant little coterie. Half the frequenters of
Carabas House did a little passing homage at her ladyship's temporary
court at Baden on their way to and from the other watering-places. The
promenade contained types of all the people usually seen seated on the
Hyde-Park chairs, with a large sprinkling of others never seen in that
aristocratic locality. For though H.R.H. the Duke of Brentford, the
captains and commanders and mighty men of valour, the senators, the
clerks in the government offices, and the nothing-doers have plenty of
time to lounge about in London, the working-bees--the judges and
barristers, the doctors, the civil-engineers, the cunning workers
in ink and pigment, all of whom grind their brains to make their
bread--have no such opportunity when in town, and are only seen idling
in daylight during their brief autumn holiday. "Society"--except that
Carabas-House set, which knew them very well--stared very much at most
of these people, and called Jack Hawkes of the F. O. to its aid to
explain who they were; and Jack Hawkes, who was only too delighted to
act as cicerone to society when it had a handle to its name,
explained, "Tall man with the round high shoulders and the long gray
hair is great lady's doctor, don't you know? uses up three pair of
horses a-day whippin' about town; that's his wife and daughter with
him--think her pretty, the daughter? nice-lookin' they call her. The
man with the red face, not him in the white hat--that's Kollum the
portrait-painter; that one in the wideawake is Sir Blewson Bagge, one
of the judges--say he knows more law than any other three men in
England The fat man with the cigar is Protheroe, and the man
talkin' to him dressed all in black is Tuberville; they're great
engineers--one laid out the John o' Groat's and Land's End Extension
Line, and the other designed the Channel-Islands Submarine Railway.
Wonderful how they stick together, those railway fellows; if one knows
a good thing he tells the other of it, and they hunt in couples to
keep other fellows off the game. Tuberville's son has married
Protheroe's daughter; and the money that's there passes all count.
There are two writin' chaps comin' this way; they belong to the
_Kresse_, that blackguard paper that attacks everybody, don't you
know? Don't look bad fellows, do they? and they're always laughin' and
keepin' it up at the Badischer. Who's the little round fat fellow
they've stopped and are talkin' to?--that's Bellows of the Old-Bailey
Bar; first-rate in his business, and such good company; and the man
with him of course you know? No! Why that's Finchington, the light
comedian of the Minerva. Yes, he does look different in the daylight,
as you say. These? No, these are people who have come over for the
races, and I don't know anything about them. We must get Lloyd to give
us that information.--Here, Lloyd, come and tell her grace who are
these odd people who are coming this way; they're turf-people, I
suppose, so you'll know all about them."
But Gilbert Lloyd, objecting very much to be patronised either by Mr.
Hawkes or the great people to whom that social barnacle had
temporarily attached himself, declared his inability to perform the
duties assigned to him, and took himself off with a bow. It was the
night before the first race-day, and all the Baden world was enjoying
itself on the promenade in front of the Kursaal. There had been a
grand excursion-party that day to the Favourite, a party of which Lady
Carabas had been the reigning star, and after a delightful outing they
had returned, and were now formed into a large group, laughing and
talking loudly. Gilbert Lloyd carefully avoided these people, and
steered equally clear of another group in the midst of which the
Duchess of Winchester was enthroned. These two great ladies had never
much liked each other, and when they met at Baden their antagonism was
patent, and their rivalry openly declared. Each had her circle of
admirers, and whatever one did the other tried to outdo. The
Winchester faction having heard that the Carabas people were going
that day to the Favourite, had themselves had a picnic at Eberstein
Schloss, and both were now planning their next day's diversion at the
races.
Gilbert Lloyd was in no humour to join either of these parties at that
moment, though each would have been glad to have secured him as an
adherent. He was in a bad temper, having just had some sharp words
with Lord Ticehurst on a question on which that young nobleman a few
weeks since would not have dared to offer an opinion. Just before they
left town for Doncaster, Lloyd had dismissed a groom; the man appealed
to Lord Ticehurst in a letter. This letter Lloyd opened, read, and
contemptuously threw into the fire. The man heard of this, and made a
fresh appeal to his lordship, setting forth the treatment his former
letter had received, and defying Lloyd to deny it. This letter was
forwarded to Lord Ticehurst at Baden, and made him exceedingly angry.
He went at once to Lloyd, and spoke very plainly, said that he would
not be treated like a child, that all letters addressed to him--no
matter on what subject--should be brought to him, and even hinted that
on their return to England Lloyd's position and responsibility must be
more exactly defined.
"It was that infernal Maitland's hint that he can't swallow," said
Lloyd, as he seated himself at an empty table on the verge of the
crowd and ordered some brandy. "He referred to it just now when he
said he wouldn't be treated like a child. O he's never spoken to me
like that since we've been together.--Here!" to the waiter who brought
the brandy, "_encore_; another of these _carafons_. What's the good of
a drop like that to a man!--He's never been the same since that night
he dined with those fellows, after he had been over to that place to--
Lord! I forgot--to propose to _her!_ Of course _she_ must be mixed up
in everything that's unlucky for me! How I wish I'd never set eyes on
her! how I wish--What the devil does this fellow want!"
"This fellow" was a short, square-built man of about fifty years of
age, with sunken eyes, a sharp-pointed nose, and a close-cut beard,
the original red colour of which was fast fading into gray. His seedy
clothes were of a foreign and fantastic cut, and round his neck he
wore a long, dirty-white cravat, folded quite flat, and wonderfully
neatly tied, and fastened in front with a flashy mock pin. "This
fellow" had been hanging round the table for some time, dodging in and
out so as to get a better view of its occupant in the dim light. At
length, when Gilbert Lloyd raised his head and looked up at the
strange figure, "this fellow" seemed to be satisfied, and shambling up
to the table, placed his hands upon it, leaned over, and said in a
thick, husky voice,
"Gilbert Lloyd!"
Lloyd looked at him steadily, and then said, "That's my name; who are
you?"
"I thought you would not know me," said the stranger with a laugh,
"none of my old pals do; at least, most don't, and some won't, so it
don't make much--"
"Stay," interrupted Lloyd; "I know you now; knew you directly you
threw your head back and I saw your cravat. There's only one man in
the world can tie a neckerchief like that, or get its folds to lie as
flat. You're Foxey Walker."
"I am that same," said the stranger; "at least, I was when I
was alive, for I'm nothing but a blessed old ghost now, I verily
believe.--Here, you fellow, bring some brandy; Cognac, you know!--I
ain't of much 'count now, Lloyd, and that's a fact." He was shabby and
bloated and shaky, altogether very different from the tight, trim
little Foxey, who was found leaning over the rails on Brighton
Esplanade at the commencement of this story.
"Ah, I remember," said Lloyd; "you came to grief the Derby before
last, in the Prior's year?"
"I did so. Went a regular mucker. That was a bad business, sir; a
regular bad business. I could show you my book now. There were men
that I dropped my money to over that Epsom Meetin' that had owed me
hundreds--ay, hundreds on other events. I'd always given them time,
much as they wanted, I had; but when I asked 'em for it then--for I
had a rattlin' good book for Ascot, and some good things later on in
the season--O no, not a bit of it! 'Pay up,' they says, 'pay up!' All
devilish fine; I couldn't pay up--so I bolted."
"Ah, recollect perfectly your being proclaimed a defaulter," said
Lloyd pleasantly. "It made rather a talk at the time, you were so well
known. What have you been doing since?"
"Well, I've been cadgin' about on the Continent, doin' what I could to
keep body and soul together.--You're goin' to pay for this brandy, you
know? I suppose you don't mind standin' another go? all right.--But
there's little enough to be done. I ain't much good at cards; and,
besides, there's nothing to be done with them unless you get among the
swells in the clubs and that, and that's not likely; and there's not
much to be picked up off the foreigners at billiards, let alone their
not playing our game. I've won a little on the red and black here and
there, and I've come across an old friend now and again who's helped
me with a fiver or so."
"You don't speak in riddles, Foxey," said Lloyd with a half-laugh.
"You make your meaning tolerably clear. I must not be worse than the
others, I suppose; so here, catch hold;" and he took a couple of
bank-notes from his pocket-book and handed them to his companion.
"Thank'ee, Lloyd," said Foxey, pocketing the money. "I ain't proud,
and hadn't need to be. Besides, you've become a tremendous swell since
you got hold of young Ticehurst, eh? I see your name regular in _Bell_
amongst the nobs. Rather different from what we reck'lect in the old
days: 'Ten to one, bar one!'--don't you remember?" and Foxey put his
hand to the side of his mouth and shouted loudly in imitation of the
worthies of the outer ring.
"Ye-es," said Lloyd, who did not at all relish being told that he had
"got hold of" anybody, and who was much disgusted by Foxey's
recollections and performance. "Yes," said he, rising from his chair
as he spoke; "I think I must go now."
"Must you?" said Foxey, who had become very much flushed and
invigorated by the brandy; "must you? That's a bore, that is, for I
had somethin' very particular to say to you; somethin' that concerns
you much more than it does me; somethin'," added Foxey, looking hazily
at his companion, "that would be d--d awkward for you if it got blown.
Don't you fear for me! I'm as close as wax, I am; only--however, I'll
see you about it to-morrow or next day. Good-night, old fellow;
compliments to my lord."
"Something that concerns me more than it does him? That would be
awkward for me if it got blown? What the devil does he mean?" said
Lloyd to himself, as he walked down the _allée_. "Awkward for me?--the
old brute was drunk, and did not know what he said. Probably a plant
to get more money out of me. He _could_ know nothing that would have
the slightest bearing on me or my affairs. I daresay he'll try it on
again when I see him next; but he'll find it difficult to draw me of
any more money, more especially if he attempts to bounce me out of
it."
The next day was bright and cheerful, and the little racecourse,
though much sneered at by the "talent," served its purpose very well,
and was thronged with a merry, animated crowd. The natives, to be
sure, did not understand very much what it was all about. The women
cried, "Ach, Herr Je!" at the sight of the tight little English jocks
stripping off their outer coats and appearing in all the glory of
flashing silk; and the men took their pipes from their mouths and
swore "Donnerwetter!" as the horses went thundering by. The Winchester
and Carabas faction had each one side of the little stand, the leaders
exchanged sweet hand-kissings, the followers bowed and grinned and
nodded with all the warmth and sincerity which form the basis of our
social relations. Lady Carabas, as usual, wore pink; the Duchess of
Winchester, who was very fair and petite, wore blue; and the retainers
followed suit. Mr. Toshington was as much divided in his allegiance
and as much perplexed to know which colour to sport as a London cabman
on the morning of the University boat-race. He had enjoyed the
hospitality of both houses, and indeed had earned many a good dinner
by carrying tattle from one to the other; but up to this time he had
never been called upon to make his election, to say "under which
queen;" and those who were in the secret, in which category was
included everyone present, were greatly amused to see the difficulty
which the old gentleman had in trimming his sails and steering his
course in safety. There were some who, unlike Tommy Toshington, were
independent, who sided with neither party, but were friendly and
familiar with both. Among those were Lord Ticehurst--who, though bound
by family ties to Lady Carabas, never allowed his clanship to "mix him
up in any of her ladyship's rum starts," as he phrased it--and Gilbert
Lloyd, whose worn and haggard appearance was the cause of much
solicitude and anxious inquiry from Lady Carabas. Lloyd appeared
rather annoyed at the _prononcé_ manner which her ladyship adopted
towards him, and at which some of the most daring followers smiled,
more especially when the reigning favourite, the gentleman in the
Foreign Office, looked very much displeased. He seemed very much
happier when at a later period in the day he found himself seated by
the Duchess of Winchester, who rallied him with much piquancy on his
defection.
"I am astonished at you, Mr. Lloyd, quite astonished," she said
laughingly. "Do you know we used to call you the Undying One!"
"Well, you could not call Toshington that, could you, Duchess?" said
Gilbert; "look how very purple his whiskers are in the sunlight."
"No, no, of course I don't mean that; how can you be so absurd? You
know our dear friend opposite is like somebody in old time I read of
once, who used to kill her admirers regularly at the end of a certain
time. It's a notorious fact that--over there--no flirtation lasts
longer than twelve months, and we call you the Undying One because you
have held undisputed sway over that Soul for--O, it must be years! And
now, after all this, you have the baseness to shut your ears to the
voice of the charmer--we saw the spell tried on an hour ago--and to
come over here!"
"I don't think there's much harm done, Duchess, even if all were as
you say, which I am very far from admitting. Calypso is the only
instance on record of a woman who '_ne pouvait se consoler après le
depart_' of anyone she liked. I am certain that no lady of modern days
would be so weak."
"Ah, I know what you mean; you mean Mr. Pennington. Well, he's very
good-looking, certainly, in his own red-and-white way, but he's
insufferably stupid; and a stupid man, however handsome he may be,
always bores me to death. I-- Who is this dreadful man down here? Is
it to you or to me he's making those horrible grimaces?"
Lloyd looked over in the direction in which the Duchess pointed, and
to his horror saw Mr. Foxey Walker, who apparently had had a great
deal too much to drink, whose fantastic clothes looked infinitely
shabbier and seedier in the daylight than they had on the previous
evening, and who was throwing up his arms, endeavouring to attract the
attention of someone in the stand. Foxey no sooner saw that Gilbert
Lloyd had recognised him than he approached the stand, and called out,
"Hi, Lloyd! hollo there, Lloyd! Just come and pass me up there, will
you? I want to speak to you."
"It's to you he's calling, Mr. Lloyd!" said the Duchess, arching her
pretty eyebrows and making a little _moue_ of astonishment.
"What a strange-looking creature! who in the world is he?"
"He's a poor half-witted fellow, an old friend of mine, Duchess," said
Lloyd with the utmost calmness. "He is a man of family, and once had a
large fortune; but he lost every sixpence on the turf, and that quite
turned his brain. He's eccentric, as you see, but perfectly harmless;
a few of us make him a little allowance, on which he lives, and he
thinks this gives him a claim upon us, poor fellow! I--Yes, yes; I'm
coming!" he called to Mr. Foxey, for that gentleman had recommenced
bellowing, "Hi, Lloyd!" with redoubled vehemence; "I'm coming!--I
think I had better go down and calm him, Duchess, if you will excuse
me." And with a bow Gilbert Lloyd leisurely retreated from the stand.
He smiled so pleasantly--he knew he was still under observation--at
Mr. Foxey, who was waiting for him in front, that that worthy, who had
been somewhat doubtful of the wisdom of the course he had pursued,
felt perfectly reassured and said, "Hallo, Gil., my boy! sorry to call
you away from such stunnin' company; but I want a word with you." It
was not until they had walked a few paces and were well out of sight
of the people in the stand that Lloyd caught his companion tightly by
the arm, and said, "You infernal drunken old idiot, how dare you come
and annoy me when you saw me with my friends?"
"Come, I say, drop that," said Foxey, "you're pullin' my arm off;
don't you hear?"
"You scoundrel, I'll have your head off if you don't take care! What
fool's game is up now? What do you want with me? Have you anything
really to say, or is it only to repeat the rubbish of last night?"
"What rubbish? what did I say last night? I didn't--no, of course I
didn't; I recollect now. I know what I'm doin' fast enough, and what I
can do."
"And I know what I can do, and what I will do too, if you interrupt me
again when I'm talking with friends, and that is, have you moved off
the course by the gend'armes as a drunken nuisance."
"O, that's it, is it?" said Foxey, glowering at him, and speaking in a
dull thick voice. "Moved off the course! a drunken nuisance, eh?
You'll sing a very different toon to this, Master Lloyd, before I've
done with you. O, you can't come the high jeff over me," he continued,
raising his tone; "for all your standin' in with big swells now; we
know what you were once; we know--"
"Will you be quiet, you old fool, and say what you want?" said
Gilbert, turning fiercely upon him.
"What I want? Ah, that's more like it! What I want? Well, that's
easily told, and that's more than most people can say. What I want is
money."
"I gave you money last night--more than you can have spent, or ought
to have spent."
"Ah, that's more like it: what I _can_ spend--Well, no matter.
However, that's not the way I mean in which I want money. Look here,
Gilbert Lloyd; I'm tired of this cadging life; I'm sick of hikin' up
and down from one gamblin'-place to another; I'm disgusted with the
Continent, and the foreigners, all the lot of 'em."
"O, you are, eh?" said Lloyd with a sneer; "I should scarcely have
thought it."
"Yes," replied Foxey, in perfect good faith, "I am thoroughly. What I
long for is to get back to England, to see my old pals, to lead my old
life."
"Indeed," sneered Gilbert again; "but from what I understand from you
there would be some difficulty in carrying out that pleasant little
arrangement."
"None that you couldn't help me to settle at once. They all think
their money's clean gone; but if I'm to come on the turf again, it
would never do for me to come out as a welsher, so I must pay 'em
something; but ever so little would square it. Then, if I just had a
little trifle in hand to start with, and you gave me the office when
you knew of a good thing--and you must hear lots, havin' the
management of that young swell's stable--well, I should do as right as
ninepence."
There was a minute's pause, and then Lloyd said:
"You are a great creature, Mr. Walker, a very great creature, and your
power of sketching out a happy future is something wonderful. But to
my great astonishment I find that I play a part in this notable scheme
of your life, and that its being carried out successfully wholly
depends upon me. Now, we may as well understand each other clearly,
and at once. From me you'll never get another sixpence."
Foxey started, looked hard at his companion, and said, "You mean
that?"
"No," said Lloyd, "I don't mean it literally; I'll give you another
ten pounds on the day I leave this place."
It was Foxey's turn to sneer now. "That's generous of you," he said,
"regular generous; but you always were a free-handed fellow with your
money, Lloyd. I reck'lect we used to say in the old days how pleased
you always were to have to part. Now look here," he cried, changing
his tone; "I will have all I've asked from you: the money to square it
with those fellows, the sum to start fresh with the straight tips from
young Ticehurst's stable; I'll have this, or else--"
"Or what else?" asked Gilbert Lloyd, without any alteration in his
usual calm manner.
"Or else I'll ruin you, root and branch; horse and foot; stock, lock,
and barrel! You laugh and sneer; you think I can't do it? I tell you I
can."
"You tell me a pack of lies and blather. You begun last night, and
you've done nothing else for the last half-hour. How can you do it?"
"By blowing the gaff on you; by telling something I know which would
make all these swells cut you and hunt you out of society; which
would--"
"There, there's enough of this!" cried Lloyd, interrupting him; "my
time's too valuable to waste over such trash. It's the old game of
hush-money for a secret, after all. I should have thought you would
have known some better dodge than that, Master Foxey, after all the
life you've seen. If you were going in for the extortion-of-money
business in your old age, you might have learned something fresher
than that very stale device. Now, be off, and give me a wider berth
for the future, if you're wise. Your drunken stupidity--for I suppose
you would not have acted thus if you had not taken to drink--has lost
you ten pounds. Take care it does not get you a horsewhipping." As he
said these words he turned shortly on his heel and strode away.
Foxey looked after him, his face lit up with rage and disappointment.
"All right, my fine-fellow," he muttered, shaking his fist at the
fast-receding figure; "all right; you will have it, and you shall. It
will be quite enough to cook your goose as it is; but if I'd only had
time to learn a little more, I think I could have hanged you."
There was a little extra excitement in the rooms that night. Count
Nicolaeff, a Russian nobleman who had on two previous occasions broken
the bank, had returned to Baden, and was playing with a boldness and
success which augured the repetition of the feat. A crowd was gathered
round him as he sat, calm and composed, quietly gathering the
_rouleaux_ which the croupiers pushed across to him. In this crowd was
Lloyd; the qualities which the Russian was displaying were just those
to excite his admiration, and he was watching every movement and
trying to account for each calculation of the gambler, when he felt a
tap on his shoulder. He looked round and saw Dolly Clarke, the
sporting-lawyer, who beckoned him away.
Gilbert was annoyed at the interruption. "Not just now," he said
impatiently; "I'll come to you later."
"Come this instant," said Dolly Clarke; and there was something in
his tone that made Gilbert Lloyd leave the table and follow him into
the open space outside. By the lamp-light Lloyd saw that Clarke was
very pale; noticed also that he stood back as if avoiding contact with
him.
"What is it?" asked Lloyd. "It should be something special by your
tone and manner, Clarke?"
"It is something special," replied Clarke; "it is a matter of life or
death for you. Do you know a man called Foxey Walker?"
"Pshaw! is that all?" said Lloyd, whose heart had failed him at the
solemnity of his companion's manner, and whose courage now as suddenly
revived. "Is that all? Yes, I know him; a defaulting ring-man, a mere
common 'welsher.' I saw him on the course to-day, and he threatened me
that if I did not give him money he would expose something in my past
life--some trick or dodge I practised, I suppose, when I was in the
ring, and had to be a sharp practitioner to hold my own with my
fellows. That's all, eh?"
"No," said Clarke earnestly, "nothing of the sort; the man has made a
revelation, but not of the kind you imagine--a thousand times more
serious. There's never been much love lost between you and me, Lloyd,
and you may wonder why I'm here to counsel and help you; so understand
at once, it's for Ticehurst's sake; you're so mixed up with him that
any public _exposé_ would be the deuce and all for him."
"What do you mean by public _exposé_, Mr. Clarke? what do you--"
"Stop; don't bounce--it won't do. Do you remember when we dined at
Richmond six weeks ago, you answered me very sharply because I asked
why you never went to Brighton now? I've always had my own opinion on
that matter; but I don't chatter, and I kept it to myself. This man
Walker stopped Ticehurst and me as we were coming from the course, and
begged so earnestly for an interview that Ticehurst listened to him. I
need not go into all he said; it appears he had his suspicions too,
and determined to trade on them; went the next year to your old
lodgings, pumped the landlady; saw the doctor who attended Harvey
Gore; has been working it since he left England through friends; and
has made up a case which, if not positive, is at all events infernally
suspicious."
"What--what did Etchingham say about it?" asked Lloyd.
"I never saw a fellow so completely knocked over in all my life. You
know he is not strong-minded, and he--well, he funks death, and that
kind of thing, and--"
"Does he believe it? what does he say about me?"
"He does believe it fully, and he says he will never set eyes on you
again. I see--your eyes are blazing--you see there's nothing proved,
and your place is too good a one to give up on mere suspicion?
You'll say you'll have the matter sifted, and all that. Don't;
take my advice--given as a lawyer who sees queer things in his
practice--drop it, clear out of this at once, get over to England,
make up Ticehurst's accounts, and then get away to Australia,
America--anywhere!"
"Thank you; and leave my 'place,' as you call it, to you, eh?" It was
the last remaining touch of bravado in his voice, bravado belied by
the ashy paleness of his face, and the set rigidity of his mouth.
"To me! I'm a lawyer, not a turfite. Pshaw! don't try to humbug any
longer--you're too clever a man. You can post over to Carlsruhe
to-night, and get straight through to-morrow. I'll come with you to
the hotel; I promised Ticehurst I'd see you off. Come."
Gilbert Lloyd saw that there was no use in fighting the question any
longer. He felt as though his career was at its close, as though he
should drop as rapidly as he had risen. He turned on his heel and
walked towards the hotel, Dolly Clarke walking by his side. It was all
over, then? The position he had gained for himself amid the envy and
hatred of all his compeers was shattered at its base, and--
No! Before he reached the hotel-door, he had carefully searched his
hand, and found in it one last trump-card, which he determined on
playing directly he arrived in England.