|IT is the Night before the Derby. The West End is thronged with men.
The streets are perceptibly more thronged with well-dressed males
than at any other time in the year. The May meetings brought enough of
parsons and sober-coated laity to dull the living tide--to almost make
us Londoners a mournful people (which we are, naturally, _not_, despite
what Frenchmen say); but those grave ones have either departed from us,
or are now lost and undistinguishable in this influx of gay company. All
the newcomers are in their most gorgeous raiment, for is not this the
great “gaudy” week of the Wicked? Half the officers of cavalry in her
Majesty's sendee have obtained leave of absence for eight-and-forty
hours upon urgent private affairs; and a fourth of the infantry have
done the like; they have come up from every station within the four seas
to see the great race run, which is to put in their pockets from five
pounds to fifty thousand. Over their little books they shake their
shining heads, and stroke their tawny moustaches in a deprecating
manner, but each one has a secret expectation that “he shall pull it
off this once;” for, upon the whole, our military friends have not been
fortunate in turf transactions. There is a fair sprinkling, too, of
respectable country gentlemen, who rarely leave their families to occupy
their old-bachelor quarters at _Long's_ or the _Tavistock,_ except
on this supreme occasion. Every fast university-man who can obtain
an _exeat_ upon any pretence whatever--from sudden mortality in the
domestic circle down to being _subpoenaed_ by a friendly attorney in
the supposititious case of Hookey (a blind man) v. Walker--is up in town
resplendent, confident, Young. Every sporting farmer, save those in the
north, who have a private saturnalia of their own in the mid-autumn, has
left his farm for two nights and a day, and is seeing life in London.
Besides these, an innumerable host of well-dressed scoundrels--for whom
the word “Welcher” is altogether too commendable--have come up from
country quarters, where they have been playing various “little games,”
all more or less discreditable, to work together for evil with their
metropolitan _confreres_ for four days.
Every haunt of dissipation is holding highest holiday. The stupid,
obscene Cider Cellars find, for one night at least, that they have
attractions still; the music-halls are tropical with heat and rankest
human vegetation; Cremorne, after the crowded theatres have disgorged
their steaming crowds, is like a fair. The strangers' room at all the
clubs has been bespoken this night for weeks. In the card-rooms, the
smoking-rooms, the billiard-rooms, there is scarcely space to move, far
less to breathe in; yet there is everywhere a babblement of tongues, and
the words that are most bandied about from feverish mouth to mouth,
are first, _The King_, and secondly, _Menelaus_. The tout had kept his
word--either from fear or nicest honour--until the stipulated week had
elapsed, and then the news of the trial-race began to circulate: from
his outsiders' place, to that of fourth favourite, then of third, and at
last to that of second had “the French horse” gradually risen. A
curious and illogical position enough--but then the turf-people _are_
illogical--for if the news that he had beaten _The King_ was true, he
ought to have been first favourite; and if the news was _not_ true, he
had no reason to find favour at all. As it was, however, _The King_ had
come down half a point as if to meet him, to 9 to 2; while _Menelaus_
stood at 5 to 1.
And had that trial-race really taken place or not? and if so, Was it on
the Square? was the question which was just then agitating the Houses of
Lords and Commons (nay, it was whispered, Marlborough House itself),
and all the mess-tables in her Majesty's service, more than any
other subject in this world. There was also a vague rumour that the
favourite's “understandings” were not as they should be; that there was
a contraction that might be fatal to his prospects; that the idol's feet
were of clay.
Ralph Derrick had “put the pot on” his _Many Laws_, and would be a
millionaire if he won; but Walter Lisgard had put more than the pot.
If the French colours did not shew in front at the winning-post, the
captain, still to use the elegant metaphor of the sporting fraternity,
would be in Queer Street. So infatuated had the young man grown, that
he had absolutely hedged even that one bet which insured him a thousand
pounds in case _The King_ should win the race. Notwithstanding his
coyness in accepting the first offer of a loan from his uncultivated
friend, he had borrowed of him twice since, in each case giving
his I.O.U., whereby he endeavoured to persuade himself that he was
liquidating all obligation; yet, unless he considered his mère autograph
was worth the sums for which it was pledged, I know not how he succeeded
in this. For if _Menelaus_ did not happen to win, he not only would not
have enough to discharge his debts of honour for nearly two years--when
he would come into possession of his patrimony of five thousand
pounds--but even a great portion of _that_ would be bespoken. Thus, of
course, he had placed himself, through mère greed, in a most unpleasant
position; but at the same time it must be allowed that he had yielded
to a great temptation, such as would probably have made the mouth of any
financier water, had the opportunity offered in his particular line; for
with the exception of mère outsiders, _The King_ had beaten every horse
that was to contend with him on the morrow; and _Menelaus_, to Walter's
certain knowledge, had beaten _The King_.
Equinely speaking, then, it was a certainty that the French horse should
win the Derby, in which case the young man's gains would be prodigious;
for not only had he taken advantage of the original position of the
animal in the betting, but as the odds grew less and less, had still
backed him, until his possible winnings reached, on paper, to five
figures; on the other hand, by this last piece of imprudence, his
possible----But no, it was _not_ possible. “Things surely wouldn't go so
devilish cross with a fellow as that or to put the captain's thought
in other words, the Government of the Universe being founded upon just
principles, would never permit such a stupendous misfortune to overwhelm
him; or, it might be, the gallant captain believed that Fortune was
indeed a female, and would therefore hesitate to inflict calamity upon
so pretty a fellow as himself. At the same time, the event of the morrow
was so big with fate, that it was not pleasant to dwell upon it; and
anything which could have prevented his mind from recurring to the same,
would have been welcomed gladly. But there was but one thing that had
the power to do this. His anxiety was far too deep to be flattered away
by the smile of Beauty, or lost in the sparkle of Wine. The homoeopathic
treatment, _similia similibus_, he felt was the only one that could now
give him relief, and he therefore sought for rest from the cares of the
racecourse in the excitement of the gaming-table. Do not, however,
let it be supposed that the captain sought out any of those convenient
establishments for the immediate transfer of property, which are guarded
by iron doors, and always liable to the incursions of the police, who,
upon breaking in, discover four-and-twenty gentlemen (one of whom has
swallowed the dice), sitting round a green baize table in conversation
about Music and the Fine Arts. Master Walter was rash in his
speculations, but he was not madman enough to play chicken-hazard
against foxes.
“I think I shall try my luck with the _Landrails_ to-night,” observed
he to his companion Derrick, stopping short in flaring Piccadilly, and
biting-his nails. The two men had been occupying lodgings in the same
house, the _Turf Hotel_ being full; the younger finding a species of
comfort in the society of the part-owner of _Menelaus_, who was even
more confident of the success of that noble quadruped than himself.
“By all means, my lad,” returned the gold-finder simply, “although I
don't know what they are; and so as you take me with you, I don't care.”
Three weeks ago, such a proposition would have, staggered the captain,
or rather, he would have rejected it point-blank. To be seen in public
with his uncouth and flashily-attired friend, was at that time a
considerable trial to the fastidious light dragoon; but the immense
interest which they had in common, had rendered the familiarity of the
once odious Orson at first tolerable, and eventually welcome, and even
necessary. He had taken him with him into quite exclusive circles, and,
except on one occasion at _the Rag_, where Derrick, having drunk more
champagne than was good for him, had offered to fight Major Pompus of
the Fusiliers _for what he liked_, nothing unpleasant had taken place
in consequence. Men observed: “What a deuced rum fellow Lisgard brought
with him the other night;” but the said stranger had lost his money very
good-naturedly at the whist-table, and it was understood that he had
more to lose.
Under such circumstances, the gentlemen-players were very charitable. Mr
Ralph Derrick did not play a first-rate game at whist; very few persons
who have not been brought up in good society do; but his performance
was not so inferior as to make success impossible for a night or two,
however certain the ruin that would have overtaken him in the long-run.
Moreover, he was never “put off his head” by the largeness of the stake,
his habitual lavishness in money-matters rendering him indifferent to
that matter. Captain Lisgard, on the other hand, though an excellent
player, considering his tender years, was liable to have his nerves
disorganised at any crisis of a rubber upon which an unusual amount
depended.
“Yes,” repeated Master Walter, “I'll try my luck at the _Landrails_, and
you shall come, too, Ralph. Any member has a right to introduce whom he
likes.”
“Even a miner from Cariboo--eh, Master Walter, provided he's got
money in his pocket? Well, I'm their man, whether it's for whist or
all-fours.”
“_All-fours!_” repeated the captain with irritation. “Who ever heard of
a gentleman playing at that game? Do, pray, be particular in what you
say to-night. Whatever you do, call a knave a knave, and not a _Jack_.
The _Landrails_ is a very select place, Ralph, where men who like to
play their whist more quietly than at _the Rag_ look in for an hour or
two rather late.”
“Heavier stakes, I suppose?” observed Derrick bluntly.
“Yes, rather. You see, there's always some row with the committee, if
play gets beyond a certain height at the regular clubs. Now, this is
a sort of friendly circle where the points are quite optional, and the
bets too. Yes, I think I shall try my luck for a pony or two.”
“I don't think you look quite fit for whist, my lad, to-night,” returned
Derrick, gazing gravely into the young man's haggard face. “To-morrow
will be a trying day, remember; I think you had much better get to bed.”
“I couldn't do it, man!” replied Walter vehemently--“I dare not. I
should never sleep a wink, and perhaps go mad with thinking before the
morning. Look here, how my hand trembles. I have not nerves of iron,
like you.”
“Poor lad, poor lad!” ejaculated the other with affectionate compassion.
“Nothing, as you say, ever makes me tremble--except D. T. Ah, Heaven,
but that is terrible! Never drink, lad, never drink;” and something like
a shudder throbbed through the speaker's brawny frame.
“The _Landrails_ meet here,” said Walter, stopping at the door of a
private house in the neighbourhood of St James's Palace; “it is past
eleven, and I daresay play has begun.”
“Who owns this house?” asked Derrick carelessly, surveying the
unpretending tenement in question--“or rather, who pays the rent?”
“Well, I hope _we_ shall, Ralph, this evening. The fact is, the hire of
the rooms, the attendance, and even the cost of the refreshments, are
all defrayed each night by the winners in proportion to their gains.
Money does not change hands until the ensuing week, but the secretary
enters all accounts in his ledger, and sees that they are duly squared.
I am answerable for your liabilities to-night, so do you be careful with
the liquors.”
As the youthful Mentor administered this wholesome piece of advice
to his senior, the door opened, and they were admitted. It was a most
respectable house, neither very large nor very small, and neatly but
inexpensively furnished. The butler was a man who might have been the
body-servant of an evangelical bishop, and whose conscience was troubled
by the spiritual shortcomings of his right reverend master. To come upon
so grave and sad a man upon the eve of the Derby Day, was quite a homily
in itself. Through the open door of the dining-room could be seen a cold
collation, at which men dropped in from above-stairs if they felt so
disposed; but there were light refreshments in the drawing-room also,
and a great variety of pleasant drinks. The _Landrails_ were thirsty
folks, and imbibed gallons of iced hock and Seltzer water; but they had
not, as a rule, good appetites. There were three tables for whist, and
one dedicated to piquet or écarté. All these had massive candlesticks
screwed into their wood-work--perhaps only to prevent their falling
off; but it also put a stop to any possible use of them as a weapon or
missile, and I think that contingency had been also taken into account.
A candlestick comes uncommonly handy to the fingers when luck has gone
pertinaciously against one, and the man who has won all the money is
personally hateful. Above all things, it was important, in that quiet,
friendly circle, to repress all ebullition of temper, and to steer clear
of all disputes. Nobody, one would hope, who was in a position to be
admitted to that society, would stoop to cheating; but a little strap
was inserted at the opposite corners of each table for the convenience
of marking the score, wherein, when the counters were once placed, they
could not he accidentally removed by the elbow. *
* Persons who are acquainted with the game of whist have informed me,
that it is sometimes better--in the case of holding two by honours, for
instance--to be at three than four.
The spacious room--for it was a double drawing-room--was by no means
brilliantly lit up; a couple of bare wax-candles stood upon the
refreshment-table, where, by the by, there was no attendant, each man
helping himself at pleasure; but the other four pair in the room had
shades over them, which dulled their radiance, although it caused
them to throw a very bright light upon the tables themselves. When the
new-comers entered, which they did quite unannounced, the sight struck
one of them at least as a very strange one: three shining isles of
light--for one whist-table was not in use--amid a sea of gloom; ten
thoughtful faces with a sort of halo round them, and one or two sombre
ones standing by like their evil genii, and watching, the play. There
was not a sound to be heard at first, except the dull fall of the
pieces of pasteboard, but presently a hand being finished in their
neighbourhood, a sort of hushed talk began about what would have
happened if somebody had under-played the diamond.
“What are the points?” whispered Derrick in his companion's ear.
“What are the points to-night, Beamish?” inquired Walter of one of the
four, a very unimpassioned-looking young man, who replied with a most
unpleasant and ghastly smile--as though he had cut his throat a little
too high up: “Fives and fifties, my gallant captain, with the odds
in ponies; so, being a younger son, I advise you to go to some other
table.”
“Never mind, I am going to make a good marriage,” returned Walter
coolly. Mr Beamish had been a penniless government clerk until he wedded
the widow of an opulent builder with half a town for her jointure. “If
you are not full,” added the captain, “I declare in here, for myself and
friend.”
All four looked up for an instant at the threatened stranger; for your
good player, intent on gain, detests the introduction of an unknown
hand. Somehow or other, although the odds are two to one, “it's always
his cursed luck to have him for a partner.” General Prim, who had been
a martinet in the Peninsula, and as offensive to his fellow-creatures as
less favourable circumstances had permitted ever since, gave a ferocious
grin, and shook his single scalp-lock of gray hair like a malignant
pantaloon. The Hon. Pink Hawthorne, attache at the court at Christiana,
but absent from that lively capital upon sick-leave, wrenched his fair
moustache this way and that, and frowned as gloomily as his foolish
forehead would permit. The dealer, a Mr Roberts, an ancient bencher
of one of the Inns of Court, paused with the trump card in his fingers
still unturned. “Does your friend know what the Blue Peter means,
Lisgard?”
“I've been a sailor half my life, sir, and it's devilish odd if I did
_not_.” returned Ralph Derrick grimly.
“What the devil did the fellow mean?” added he to Walter as the game
began, and all the four became at once automatons.
“It's the new system of asking for trumps,” answered Walter peevishly.
“The same thing that they called the Pilot the other night. How
ridiculous you have made yourself. See, there's another table up. Bless
the man, not there, that's the piquet place.”
Ralph had quietly seated himself next to Major Piccalilli, of the
Irregular Cavalry, Cayenne Station, Upper India, and had already
disturbed his marking-cards, whereby that gallant officer was reduced to
the verge of apoplexy with speechless rage.
“Stay, you shall stick to this one,” continued Walter in a low voice;
“that fellow Beamish is hateful to me--and I will cut in yonder. There
is not a muff-table in the room--all these beggars play too well.” With
these words, the captain hurried away; and as soon as the rubber he had
been watching was finished, Derrick was admitted of the conclave, to the
exclusion of General Prim, who cursed that circumstance very audibly,
and for a man of his advanced years, with considerable emphasis and
vigour. Derrick fell as a partner to the lot of the gentleman who had
inquired as to his proficiency in the art of asking for trumps.
“If you would only hold your cards a _little_ more on the table, I
should be able to see them myself,” remarked Mr Roberts with severity.
“If they look over my hands, sir,” returned Derrick reassuringly,
“I'll forgive 'em: that's all.--If you won't take that old gentleman's
bets”--referring to the general, who seemed extremely anxious to back
their adversaries--“then I will;” and he did it--and luck went with
him. There was nothing stronger than champagne to be got at in that
respectable place of business, so Ralph kept his head, and won--a
hundred and fifty pounds or so. Then, the table breaking up, he rose and
stood over his young friend, to see how the cards were going with him.
“Bad,” muttered Derrick to himself, as he watched Walter running through
his hand with eager haste, as a woman flirts her fan. His beautiful face
was dark with care, his eyes flashed impatiently upon the man whose turn
it was to lead.
“Our odds are in fifties, eh, Lisgard?” drawled his right-hand
adversary, Captain and Lieutenant Wobegon of the Horse Guards' azure.
“The same as before, I suppose,” returned the young man haughtily.
Ralph gave a prolonged whistle. His young friend had a treble up, and
the others nothing, so that he must be betting two hundred and fifty
pounds to one hundred; and “the same as before” too! Within the next
minute, the cards were thrown down upon the table, and the adversaries
scored a treble likewise. “That's been my cursed luck, Ralph, all
to-night!” cried the young man with a little grating laugh. “Four by
honours against one every deal.”
“You must have been doing something devilish bad, Lisgard,” observed the
Guardsman.
“Yes, I have--playing!” answered Walter bitterly. “But no fellow _can_
play with sixes and sevens; it demoralises one so.”
“All cards do, my grandmother says,” answered Wobegon, who for a
Guardsman was not without humour. “She made me promise, when she paid
my debts, my first Derby, that I would never back anything again; and I
never have, except my luck and bills.”
Captain Lisgard had naturally a keen appreciation of fun, but he did not
vouchsafe a smile to the facetious Guardsman, who himself joked like an
undertaker, and had never been known to laugh in his life. The fact
was, that nothing could just now commend itself to Master Walter except
winning back his money.
Reader, did you ever play for more than you can afford? Pardon me the
inquiry; there is no occasion to be Pharisaical; for it is even possible
to do worse things than that in your line: moreover, the question of
what is more than you can afford is such a large one, and affords such
opportunities for a nimble conscience to escape. I remember in Lord
Houghton's _Life of Keats_, that that gallant nobleman, in defending the
poet from the charge of dissipation and gambling, remarks that it all
arose from his having lost ten pounds upon a certain evening at cards.
How, considering that the author of _Hyperion_ had no income, nor any
bank except his Imagination to apply to--and it was notorious that he
could never put a cheque even upon _that_--I take his Lordship to be a
very charitable peer. Ten pounds must have been, for Keats, a large sum.
But, undoubtedly, the matter is one for a man to decide for himself; the
whole question is relative; and if you are apt to lose your temper, then
remember you play for more than you can afford, although your stakes are
but--penny-stamps. Captain Walter Lisgard had lost his temper and his
money also. There was a numbed sense of misfortune pervading him; it
seemed to him as though he was Predestinated to lose. I am much mistaken
if he had not a sort of humming in his ears. One of the most religious
men whom it has been my fortune to meet, has informed me that, in his
unregenerate days, when he was a gambler and everything else, * he once
_prayed to win_ at cards.----
* “Every sin, sir, in the Decalogue, I am glad to say, have I
committed”--meaning that the present change in him was rendered thereby
all the more satisfactory--“with the sole exception of murder.”
“Then it strikes me.” said I, “in addition to your other backslidings at
the time you speak of, you were just a trifle blasphemous.”
“No, sir,” said he; “I think not. All that I possessed in the world was
depending upon the result of a certain game at écarté. If I had lost it,
I should have been a beggar. If I won it, I resolutely resolved never to
touch a card again--never to run the risk of experiencing a second time
the mental agony I was then undergoing. I am not ashamed to confess,
sir, that in such a strait I prayed to win; and I _did_ win.”
“All I have to say, sir,” replied I, “is this: that it was uncommonly
hard upon the other man.”
Good resolutions are indeed by no means uncommon among tolerably
young persons in positions of pecuniary peril, such as that of Captain
Lisgard. They vow their candles to this and that patron saint if they
should but escape shipwreck upon the green baize this once. Master
Walter's bid was confined to a few “dips,” if one may use so humble a
metaphor, of which about fifty went to the pound, and even those were
not offered in a penitent spirit. He would never play whist with the
Landrails any more. He would never lay the long odds beyond “couters”--a
foolish word he and his set used for sovereigns. He would never back
himself at all when playing with “that fool Pompus”--his present
partner. He would become, in short, exceedingly wise and prudent, if
he should only “pull off” this present rubber. There was “life in the
Mussel” yet. They were at “three all” when Pompus led his knave instead
of his ten, from ten, knave, king, and only got the trick when he should
have got the game.
“We shall never have another chance now,” sighed Walter, as his
left-hand adversary turned up the queen. But privately he thought that
fortune would not be quite so cruel as all that came to; moreover, he
had an excellent hand. His fingers trembled as he arranged the long suit
of clubs, headed by tierce major, and saw that he had four trumps to
bring them in with.
As the game went on, however, Pompus exhibited his usual feebleness, and
things began to look very black indeed. In the third round of trumps,
Master Walter's memory left him sudden as an extinguished taper. It
is sad to have to say it of so excellent a player, but he recollected
nothing whatever, except that, if he lost that rubber, it would be an
addition of three hundred pounds to the sum he already owed Captain
Wobegon. It was his turn to play, and he was third hand. He had the king
and ten of trumps. The ace had been played; ay, he remembered that after
a struggle, and the knave too. Yes, his left-hand adversary had played
the knave. Should he finesse his ten or not? That was the question, upon
the decision of which depended some five hundred pounds. Whist is not
always a game of pleasure. Master Walter finessed the ten. “Thousand
devils!” cried Derrick with a tremendous imprecation, “why, the queen
was _turned up_ on your left, lad: you have thrown away the game.” And
it was so. Walter Lisgard did not speak a word; but having compared his
note-book with that of Captain Wobegon, retired into a little office out
of the back drawing-room, where the secretary of the _Landrails_ entered
the members' somewhat complicated little accounts with one another in a
very business-like-looking ledger. “You have had a bad night of it for
_you_, sir,” remarked this gentleman quietly; “you generally hold your
own.”
“Yes. What is the cursed total?”
“Eighteen hundred.”
“Ralph Derrick,” said Walter Lisgard, as the two walked up St James's
Street towards their lodgings for bath and breakfasts, but scarcely
for bed, since the morning was already far advanced--“if any horse but
_Menelaus_ wins the race, I am a ruined man.”