ON EPSOM DOWNS.
"Pray that I may be lucky, my dear."
Alfred had spoken these words to Lizzie with fullest meaning. He did
not ask for a wish; he asked for a prayer. He was not himself given to
praying, but on this night, before he went to bed, he knelt at his
bedside for the first time for many, many months, with a distinct
devotional purpose, in his mind, and prayed with all his mental power
that Kingcraft, the horse he had backed, might win the City and
Suburban race on the following day.
He remained at his devotions for fully a quarter of an hour, and had
his grandfather seen him in his attitude of contrition, the old man
would indeed have been comforted. But during this quarter of an hour
no entreaty for forgiveness of folly and crime passed Alfred's lips.
Remorse he felt, but it was the remorse born of fear. Every form of
prayer with which he had been familiar in childhood was unconsciously
made subservient to his present purpose. His one prayerful thought
shaped in silence by his lips was, "I pray with all my soul that
Kingcraft may win the City and Suburban. Let Kingcraft win, O Lord! I
pray that Kingcraft may win. Kingcraft! Kingcraft! Win the race! Win
the race!" He transposed these words in a hundred different ways, and
thought them with as much agonising intensity as the most righteous
saint could have done. When he rose to his feet, he felt strengthened
by the charm he had laid upon himself. He felt that nothing could
prevent Kingcraft from winning; and he already began to look ahead
beyond the day, when, with the money he would receive, he could set
himself free, and begin again; already his better resolutions were
beginning to be weakened by the prospect of large gains easily
obtained. He argued with himself, as he had done scores of times
before. There was no harm in betting; there was only harm in losing.
If there were any harm in it, would the newspapers encourage it? It
was reading the newspapers that first put the idea into his head; what
followed had followed naturally. He had been unlucky, that was all.
Well, luck would turn now. Why, here he would prove that luck would
turn. He did, as he had often done before; once again he wrote on
separate pieces of paper the names of the horses that were likely to
run in the race; he folded them up separately, and shook them in his
hat; he shut his eyes, and putting his hand among the papers, fumbled
with them until he selected one. He drew it forth and opened it.
Kingcraft! There was a plain proof. How _could_ the horse lose after
that? He laughed gleefully, and _would_ not entertain the thought that
he had purposely written the name of this horse on a larger piece of
paper than the others, so that he might be sure of drawing out the one
he wanted. He went to bed, and dreamt of the race. The whole of the
familiar scene passed before him in his dream; he had staked a lot of
money on Kingcraft, and he saw the horse sailing past the winner's
post, an easy winner, and found himself the winner of a thousand
pounds. "Why not?" he asked of himself, as he awoke exultant; "why
shouldn't I win a thousand pounds? If I could borrow money somehow, I
could pay it back at once. No one would know, and we should all be
happy." He read the daily newspapers eagerly, and sucked fresh hope
and renewed incentives from them. The papers said that Kingcraft was
in blooming health; that the stable believed in him; that a fine
jockey was to ride him to probable victory; and that the public were
backing him. Even, thought Alfred, in his endeavours to come to a fair
conclusion, even if Kingcraft should, by some strange and
unaccountable chance, not come in first, what horse was to beat him?
For, notwithstanding the honest and upright manner in which the
national sport is carried on, strange and unaccountable occurrences do
sometimes happen; roguery does occasionally triumph. Well, what horse
would win, if Kingcraft came in second instead of first? Xanthus, of
course. Xanthus, the horse that was rising daily in popular favour.
Were not all the honest and disinterested tribe of prophets and
tipsters warning their miserable public to look after him? Said one,
"Xanthus must not be lost sight of;" said another, "Keep Xanthus on
the right side;" said another, "Put a bit on Xanthus;" said another (a
cautious prophet, who never allowed himself to be caught tripping),
"But--if--notwithstanding--nevertheless--such or such a thing occurred
to Bertram--or, _if_ Pax is not what is represented--or, _if_ a
mistake has been made in Marmora's trial--or, _if_ Phosphorus gets off
badly--or, _if_ Kingcraft has entirely lost his old form--or
if, notwithstanding, and nevertheless, with half-a-dozen other
horses--why, _then_, keep your eye on Xanthus; he may be dangerous."
With what zest and animation did Alfred read the words of these
inspiring writers! How attentively he studied their elegant English,
and read their prophecies again and again! They all spoke well of
Kingcraft, but none gave the horse as the absolute winner. Well, but
was not Alfred as good a judge as any of them? Had not the secret been
revealed to him, as it was to Daniel, in a night-vision? But the
course of reading such worshippers as he goes through is of an
intensely distracting nature, and Alfred could not be blind to the
fact that there were other horses that might have a chance. If he only
had some money to back these horses, and to back Kingcraft and Xanthus
to be first, second, or third, in the race, winning would be an
absolute certainty, beyond the possibility of doubt. On Saturday
morning he rushed to the sporting papers, and read dozens of columns
concerning the race. Some of the most respectable and reputable of
these papers gave Xanthus as the winner, coupling him, however, in
most instances, with other horses. Alfred was tortured by doubt--now
thinking this, now that, until his mind was in a whirl of bewilderment
over the miserable affair. Other papers gave other horses as the
certain winners. One said, Pax or Bertram would win; another, Pax or
Bridgwater; another, Bertram or Hector; and so on and so on; and
Alfred had not backed one of these horses. If either of them won,
he was ruined past redemption. But his favourite prophet had to speak
yet; a prophet whose name was in every backer's mouth. On Monday
morning this prophet would unbosom himself, and Alfred determined to
wait till then before he decided his course of action.
He went by train to his office, and on Monday he read the deliverances
of his favourite prophet as he sat in the railway carriage. The
prophecy recorded, with an appearance of satisfaction, that backers of
certain horses who had made their bets weeks ago had burnt their
fingers, as the horses they had backed would not run in the race. The
horse named Pax, who held the position of first favourite, had been
backed heavily in every part of the country by those connected with
the stable the owner, it was said, having played a waiting game with
his horse, now intended to win a fortune with him. Alfred's prophet
declared he did not believe in Pax, although, after the usual fashion
of prophets, he put in a saving clause in a few words which he could
quote by-and-by, in proof of his own sagacity, in case the horse
should win. He pinned his faith, after much wavering, on Xanthus and
Bertram, chiefly on the former, and in an elaborate and confusing
summing up, declared, in capital letters, that one of these must win,
and that either Kingcraft or Marmora would be certain to be among the
first three. Alfred was much excited by the hopes held out in this
prophecy; and, with some difficulty, obtained from his employers leave
of absence for the following day. He had not been too attentive to his
duties lately, and his employers demurred at first; but he pleaded the
fire that had taken place in Soho, and said that his sister and
grandfather required his assistance to set their new home in order.
"You shall have no cause to complain of me after this," he said
humbly, and received a reluctant assent to absent himself from his
duties. He stopped at the office later than usual that evening, and
was very careful and painstaking in what he did. Early in the morning
he was up and away. He had told Lizzie that he was going to the races,
but had made her promise not to let any one know. Lily and Old Wheels
supposed he was going to his office as usual, and they stood at the
window watching him with smiling faces. Lily kissed her hand to him as
he looked back, and he waved his gaily towards the window, and smiled
brightly.
"A great change has come over him," said Old Wheels thoughtfully, "for
the better, thank God! It makes you happier, Lily."
"Yes, dear; and you, too. Things seem brighter and happier than they
did a little while ago. He is coming back to us!"
She ran down-stairs, and Old Wheels followed her. Alfred was at the
door.
"I've come back to give you another kiss," he said; "you looked so
pretty standing at the window, that I could not help it."
"Prettier than Lizzie?" she asked saucily and affectionately.
"As pretty, I do believe," he replied gaily, and shook hands with Old
Wheels, whose face, notwithstanding its kind expression, had a trace
of seriousness in it.
"Isn't he good?" asked Lily, as she and Old Wheels stood at the gate.
"Dear Alf! See! He's running into Lizzie's house, and Lizzie's opening
the door for him!"
"I have had such nice dreams about you," said Lizzie, as she stood in
the passage with Alfred's arm around her.
He laughed blithely, and took her face between his hand, and kissed
her lips seven times.
"Because seven's a lucky number, Liz."
"O that's the reason!" she cried, with a little toss of her head.
"Yes," he replied merrily, "and not because I love you the least bit
in the world. Here's seven more--and seven more--three times seven."
And, the charm being complete, he pressed her in his arms again, and
darted away.
There was something more than idle meaning in his words; in the
excited state of his mind he was impelled to place an important
construction upon every little incident that occurred. It was not
merely an affectionate impulse that caused him to turn back and kiss
Lily again. Something seemed to whisper to him, "If you don't go back,
you will be unlucky to-day;" and if he had resisted the impulse, he
would have fretfully made that the cause of any ill-luck that might
befall him. In the same manner, he kissed Lizzie the number of times
which seemed to him to bear the most fortunate significance. In this
way he strove to make assurance doubly sure, and drew the most
favourable auguries from his attention to these details, connecting
them, with strange sophistry, with the great stake he was about to
play. Once as he walked under a ladder; and the thought occurring to
him that it was an unlucky omen, he retraced his steps, so as to undo
the evil consequences that might result from his act, and walked
outside the ladder the second time, and congratulated himself upon his
wisdom. When he was in the train that was to convey him to Epsom,
he bought the newspapers containing the last outpourings of his
favourite prophet upon the City and Suburban race. He read a glowing
account of the appearance of the course, of "straggling gipsy women
wandering about," of "knots of men in the middle of the road, or
leaning against the public-house corners, talking in quiet and almost
solemn tones, which indicated that they were absorbed in
considerations much more important to them than racing--the means of
living from hand to mouth, of which one sees so much on the turf." He
read how one individual "in the centre of these groups, footsore,
wretched, ragged, and deplorable, had formerly been a tout in highly
prosperous circumstances, and absolutely won close upon £1500 when
Blair Athol won the Derby;" and how this unfortunate man was "exciting
the compassion of his almost equally forlorn companions by narrating
how he had walked, or rather crawled, for weeks by road from
Liverpool, as nigh starving as makes no matter." He read how the
mysterious horse, known as Pax, was conveyed to the scene of action in
high state, in a "private van drawn by four grey horses:" and how his
owner and backers, confident of victory, declared, in racing
phraseology, that the horse would "walk in." This and much more Alfred
read, and then came to the kernel--the prophecy--which stated that
either Pax, Xanthus, Bertram, Kingcraft, or Phosphorus would be
certain to win, and that of the five, Xanthus, Bertram, and Kingcraft
were the three upon which this wise prophet pinned his faith. Alfred
looked round triumphantly. The carriage in which he was seated was
crowded, and the occupants were reading the prophets' predictions in
the newspapers with avidity. Alfred, fingering some crisp bank-notes
in his pocket, soon made up his mind as to his course of action. He
had twenty new £5 bank-notes, and these he would judiciously invest
upon all five of the horses named by his favourite prophet, backing
them all to win and to be in the first three, in such proportions as
to be certain to win. He took pencil and paper from his pocket, and
made his calculations; so much upon one horse, so much upon another,
and so much upon the others, at the current odds. Against one of the
horses named--Phosphorus--he could get as much as forty to one. He
would put £20 upon this horse, so as to gain £800 if the horse won. He
gloried at the thought of it. By the time the train reached Epsom he
had made his calculations, and had determined so to invest that he
could win from a hundred to nearly a thousand pounds. "How happy I
shall be to-night," he thought, "with the money in my pocket! I'll be
at the office early in the morning to make everything straight,
and then----" The perspective that stretched itself out in his
imagination was too delightfully vague for words or distinct thought.
It contained a hazy vista of delight, and in this he basked, and saw
Lizzie and himself, and Lily and Felix perhaps, the happiest of the
happy.
It was a bright clear morning, and a fresh breeze was blowing over the
Surrey Downs. Gipsies, beggars, thieves, sharpers, and others of that
ilk were about and on the alert, and Alfred moved briskly through them
to the scene of action. Every species of rascaldom was there
represented, and the noble sport afforded a lawful outlet for roguery
in every shape--for roguery in broadcloth as well as roguery in
fustian. There was something hideous in the Babel of sound round the
betting-men, and everything that was degrading in the features which
most prominently presented themselves. The first race was a race
between two horses, and was in no respects interesting. Alfred paid no
attention to it, nor to the two races which followed. He was too busy
"getting his money on" for the great event of the day, which was the
fourth on the card. He staked his money with men whom he considered to
be good--that is, "sufficient," as Shylock has it--and when the bell
rang to announce the appearance of the horses on the course, he had
but five shillings left. But his pockets would soon be filled. His
mind was thronged with intricate calculations, as to how much he would
win if this horse that he had backed came in first and that second, or
that first and this second; as to how much he would win under the most
favourable circumstances, supposing three of his horses came in first,
second, and third. Indeed, he worked himself into a state of belief
that it was certain two of his horses would be first and second; and
if fortune favoured him out and out, he would go home with twelve
hundred pounds in his pocket. Losing was an impossibility. If a shadow
of doubt intruded itself, he banished it instantly by a reference to
his prophet. Twelve hundred pounds! He parcelled it out. So much to
pay Mr. Sheldrake--so much to replace what he had "borrowed" from the
office--so much left. There they were! All the horses were out, and
the course was clear. Such bright colourings of jockeys' caps and
jackets--such grand action from the beautiful creatures they
bestrode--such confident smiles on some of the jockeys' lips--such
eager scrutinising on the part of anxious investors. There was
Kingcraft--there Xanthus--there Bertram--there Phosphorus--there Pax,
that was to bring anything but peace to those who believed in him.
Alfred had no eyes for any others. On these his hopes and salvation
were staked. Away they went--thirty of them in all--in a gay line
to the starting-post; and they pranced, and hung back, or were held
back by astute jockeys, or falsely started, for at least an hour.
Alfred was ablaze with excitement, and was eating his heart away with
impatience. Another false start--another--another. This torture of
suspense was agonising. At last they were off, and Alfred, craning
forward, muttered the names of Lizzie and Lily for luck. Away they
sailed over the hill to Tattenham Corner. In little more than two
minutes the mile and a quarter was compassed, and there came in,
first, Digby Grand; second, Lord Glasgow; third, Hector. Not one of
the prophet's five horses was in the first three, and Alfred had not
backed one of the winning horses for a penny. He put his hand to his
forehead, to clear away the mist; but it gathered upon him thicker and
thicker. He could not distinguish a face in all the throng of persons
around him. A man behind him placed his hand somewhat firmly on
Alfred's shoulder, with the intention of passing him.
"No, no!" cried Alfred hoarsely, cowering down. But the man passed on,
not heeding him; and Alfred, hiding his face as well as he could,
slunk through the crowd to the rear of the race-course, bearing in his
face and manner the air of a hunted animal, with death on his track.