STAKED.
The pallid footman, who still remained in attendance on Mr. Guyon in
Queen Anne Street, had been of late leading such an easy life--had had
so much time for the enjoyment of social carouses at his club, for the
cultivation of female society, for the promotion of the growth of his
whiskers, and other large-souled pursuits--had, above all, been
enabled to indulge in his favourite luxury of lying in bed late o'
mornings to such an extent since his young mistress's marriage, that
he received his master's announcement that breakfast for two must be
ready at nine o'clock the next morning with disgust which he felt it
difficult to restrain. As, however, he knew from experience that Mr.
Guyon possessed a temper which he never gave himself the trouble of
placing under much restraint, and which had hitherto vented itself in
strange but particularly strong oaths, and which, as the pallid
domestic feared, had a strong leaning towards the use of sticks and
horsewhips, he thought it better to say nothing, and took care that
the meal was ready at the appointed time.
At the appointed time Mr. Guyon entered the dining-room, seized the
newspaper, and turned hurriedly to a particular spot in its columns,
laid the sheet down again with a reassured air, glanced through his
letters, and then, leaning his elbows on the mantelshelf, carelessly
glanced at himself in the glass. The careless glance became more
attentive, more strained, and more fixed, as he noticed a curious odd
expression of puffiness round his eyes, a tightness across his
forehead, a full, heavy, bloodshot look in the eyeballs, and a sallow
bloated look generally. He had had a strange singing in his head the
last few days, a sense of fullness and dizziness, a disagreeable
notion of black specks flashing before his eyes; and as he regarded
his altered appearance in the glass, he remembered these various
ailments, and shook his head gravely. "This won't do, Ned!" he
soliloquised, leaning his chin on his hand, and looking at his
reflected image; "this won't do! You've gone to grief most infernally
within the last few months, and you're showing signs of shutting up.
You can't carry on at the pace, Ned! It's all very well for the young
fellows with whom you've been living; they're fresh and strong, and
can stand any thing; but you're a doosid old bird, Ned, and you're
getting stiff and cranky, and all this night-work plays the devil with
you! You must cut it," continued Mr. Guyon, tweaking a gray hair out
of his whiskers; "you must cut it, and lie fallow for a bit. If this
thing only pulls through to-day," he said after a pause, "I'll drop
the whole lot, and go off quietly to some German baths, and simmer and
stew and drink the waters, and come back a new man. If it comes off!
phew!" and here Mr. Guyon ran his hand through his hair. "Well, if it
does not, I shall go abroad all the same, and try the sea-breezes of
Boulogne."
Whether the mention of such an excursion had a singular effect on him,
or whether he was really in a bad state of health, it is certain that
Mr. Guyon felt so flushed and strangled at this moment that he reeled
to a chair, and undid his very elaborate blue bird's-eye cravat, and
loosened his shirt-collar, and sat puffing and panting for a few
minutes, when he rang the bell, and ordered the pallid footman to
bring him some brandy and soda-water. He had taken a few sips of this
beverage, and was beginning to feel a little more himself, when a
phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of chestnuts came dashing up the
street, and stopped at Mr. Guyon's door. The natty groom sprung to the
horses' heads; the gentleman who had been driving descended, and gave
a tremendous rap; and presently the pallid footman announced "Mr.
Stallbrass!"
Mr. Stallbrass, of Wood Street, Cheapside, and the Willows, Tulse
Hill, was, at the former address, a Manchester warehouseman in a very
large way of business; at the latter, a fine old English gentleman of
large means and decidedly sporting tendencies. Cramped in early youth
by the objectionable attentions of a father of commercial habits and
evangelical tendencies; married when very young to the daughter of his
objectionable father's senior partner, a pale little woman with drab
hair and a weak spine; condemned thus to lead his City life amidst
long flat pasteboard boxes, and his home life amidst short round
Claphamite divines, Mr. Stallbrass--thanks to his glorious
constitution--had had the good fortune to outlive both his father and
his wife, to inherit both their fortunes, and to be able to indulge
his peculiar tastes in the freest and the easiest manner. Although he
still was "the firm" in Wood Street, he attended to business but
rarely. How could he, indeed, when he never was absent from any of the
great race-meetings in the summer, from any steeplechase or
"pugilistic revival" in the winter? To know sporting-men of all kinds,
from the highest to the lowest; to call them by their Christian or
nick-names; to get the office on all sporting events; have his name
mentioned in _Bell_ as "that real Corinthian," or as "amongst the
_élite_ present we observed--;" to have the red-jacketed touts touch
their hats to him,--these were the delights of life which Mr.
Stallbrass coveted, and which he now enjoyed. He had made Mr. Guyon's
acquaintance in some fast society, and had been greatly impressed by
the old gentleman's manners and tone, which he afterwards affirmed to
be "the real thing, and no flies;" and he determined to cultivate his
acquaintance, though he saw at a glance all the flaws of his
character. For Mr. Stallbrass was, as he himself expressed it, "a long
way off a fool," and saw in an instant that any intimacy between him
and Guyon could only be carried on by his opening his purse-strings,
and consenting to pay, as Telemachus usually pays, for Mentor's
countenance and counsel. But in this case Telemachus, though not a
youth, was decidedly an aspiring man, aspiring to be one of a good
set, and hitherto he had soared no higher than the outside ring of the
fast stockbrokers. Old Guyon undoubtedly went into good society of its
kind, and could, if he chose, pull Stallbrass up with him. So
Stallbrass's house, horses, traps, and hospitality, were very much at
Mr. Guyon's service; and there was only one thing appertaining to Mr.
Stallbrass which the old campaigner was warned off, and that was Mr.
Stallbrass's purse. Of course old Guyon had made the assault in that
quarter at a very early period of their acquaintance, but had been met
with such a straightforward rebuff, delivered without the slightest
possibility of being misunderstood, that he had from, that time
contented himself with his right of "free warren" over the appanages
above mentioned, and never renewed the attempt.
But in every other way Mr. Stallbrass surrendered to the superior
abilities, and bowed down before the more exalted position, of his
friend. See him now as he comes into the room--a tall, big, burly man,
with a heavy grizzled beard and moustache, light-drab overcoat,
cutaway undercoat, blue bird's-eye cravat with a big dog's-tooth set
in gold for a pin, long waistcoat, horsey tight trousers, and
gaiter-boots. Mr. Stallbrass has a big white hand, on the little
finger of which he wears a big horseshoe ring; a keen sunken eye, a
pair of bushy brows, a swaggering gait, and a loud strident voice.
In Mr. Guyon's house, in Mr. Guyon's company, the swagger is
left out of the gait, and the tones of the voice are modulated.
"Chesterfield"--that is the playful name by which Mr. Stallbrass
passes amongst his friends on the Stock Exchange--"Chesterfield," they
say, "tears and ramps awfully this side Temple Bar; but old Guyon
could drive him in a basket fourwheeler!"
Mr. Stallbrass, following close upon the announcement of the pallid
footman, found Mr. Guyon finishing the soda-water and brandy, and
stopped in the doorway, shaking his uplifted forefinger.
"Hallo, my noble Captain! Comed and cotched you in the werry act, as
the man says, did I? That won't do, Major--that tells all sorts of
stories of last night's hanky-panky, that does!"
"Ah, Stallbrass, my good fellow!" said Mr. Guyon, wiping his lips and
rising much refreshed, but still rather tottery; "glad to see you,
doosid glad. You're punctual as to--as to--you know!"
"I know! Lord bless you, I _always_ know, as the man says. We're goln'
to have a fine day after all."
"I hope so; it looks like it. Make all the difference to us, eh?"
"Well, yes. If there was to be much more mud, it would tell against
Devilskin, it would! He's a light 'oss, you know, though a rare
plucked 'un; but mud's the devil. Get into one of those sticky
quagmires, and where are you? as the man says."
"Did you hear any thing after I left last night?"
"Yes. The Marquis came up to Jack Green's--you know old Jack
Green?--and an out-and-out tout the Marquis is! He'd seen Devilskin
that morning, and says he's first-rate, head and tail up, fit to jump
a town! The Marquis--you know why he's called the Marquis--no? Why,
because he was cab-boy to Lord Waterford in the old days--the Marquis
saw Griffin, who's going to ride Devilskin to-day, and he's put the
pot on so far as he can go, and says there's nothing to touch him in
the lot."
"I see Devilskin holds his place in the betting."
"Yes. Vixen came with a rush yesterday afternoon, I understand; but
her temper's so awful, her people never know what she's going to do.
That's good for our side, as the man says; and besides, she can't hold
a candle to the black horse--if he's meant."
"_If_ he's meant! Why, good Lord! there can't be a doubt about that."
"There's _always_ a doubt about any turf event, my noble Captain; and
these Davidsons, who own Devilskin, are reg'lar legs, you know--legs,
as the man says! But Griffin swears he means to ride on the square,
and--what's the matter with you now?"
"Nothing, my dear boy, nothing. I've been a little queer these last
few days, that's all. I--I suppose you've not hedged?"
"Not a penny! My book ain't so heavy as yours; at least so I gathered
from what they said at Pommeroy's last night. You must have done a
heavy lot, you must; but you West-end swells can stand it,--that's one
thing, as the man says."
"If the man said that," said Mr. Guyon with a very ghastly smile, "he
talked about what he knew nothing of. However, let's have breakfast
now, and then get down to Croydon."
The breakfast, an elaborate one of the heavy sporting order--many
kidneys, large chops, ham and eggs--was done ample justice to by Mr.
Stallbrass, whose digestive powers were never out of order; while Mr.
Guyon merely picked at a sardine with a shaking hand, and drank tea
feverishly. In the course of the meal Mr. Stallbrass said----
"Saw Bob Streightley going to the Great Western as I drove through.
Going down to his place in Bucks, I suppose; and going early, as if it
was to his business. He is a rum 'un--as Jack Green says, 'The early
bird's worth two worms in the bush.' He don't look well, don't Bob
Streightley, though; pale in the gills, and seems to me to have aged a
good deal."
"The anxieties of a gigantic business, my dear Stallbrass----"
"Yes, a little too gigantic if he doesn't look out; and likely to be a
good deal less before he's done with it!"
"What do you mean by that? you're so infernally enigmatical, my good
fellow," said old Guy on with great irritability, "that, damme, one
might as well talk to the--the riddle Egyptian thing."
"O, I'm sorry I spoke--never holler! as old Jack Green says," replied
Mr. Stallbrass, who was easily offended. "I'll be as mum as the dumb
cove at Manchester for the rest of the day."
"What a doosid provokin' fellow you are!" screamed Mr. Guyon in a
fresh access of petulance. "Didn't you understand that I asked you to
speak, and not be silent? What was that you were saying about
Streightley?"
"It's not what I say, but what every body--old Jack Green and the
rest of 'em, are saying--that he's going too much a-head; that he was
hard hit by that bank smash; that instead of pulling up, he went
a-head after that; and that he must look out!"
Whether the information thus conveyed was new to Mr. Guyon or not,
could not have been guessed by the expression of his features. A
twitch passed across his face; but when he spoke his looks expressed
scorn rather than astonishment, and he said, "Parcel of dam' cackling
fellows; let 'em leave Streightley alone. He'll be a merchant-prince
when they've returned to their native gutters, by Jove!" The old
gentleman braved it out nobly; but it was only by a strong effort, for
his heart sunk within him, and he felt a presentiment of impending
evil.
After breakfast Mr. Stallbrass lighted a very big cigar, and, as a
thin soft rain was beginning to fall, put on a very big driving-coat,
with double-sewn seams, which asserted themselves in a very prominent
manner, with innumerable pockets, which either gaped wide-open or hid
themselves under pent-house ledges, and with a large collar, which,
when raised, took in all Mr. Stallbrass's beard and a huge portion of
his face. Mr. Guyon having also muffled himself up to the best of his
ability, they climbed into the mail phaeton, and started; Mr.
Stallbrass driving his splendid pair in excellent style, cutting in
and out in the most workmanlike manner, and eliciting great admiration
from the cabmen and boys. Before they had gone very far the rain
ceased, and Mr. Guyon began to feel the reviving influence of the
fresh air, which, with some new information about Devilskin which he
received from a mysterious and shabby man, who stopped their phaeton
at the foot of Westminster Bridge, made the old gentleman perk up
again, and talk in his usual frivolous rattle to his companion, though
that strange, puffed, bloated look had not faded out of his face.
Mr. Stallbrass was not given to conversation when he was driving, his
attention being almost entirely occupied with his horses, which he had
brought to a great state of perfection and simultaneous stepping; so
that, with the exception of pointing with his whip to one or two
houses where "old Jack Green" had either lived, or had known some one
who had lived there, which gave the place quite an interest in Mr.
Stallbrass's eyes, he was silent during the drive, and his companion
was left to his own reflections. And these were not of a particularly
pleasant kind. Mr. Guyon had hacked the favourite for the steeplechase
now about to be decided, to a far greater extent than any one, even
his sporting friend beside him, knew of; and until that present moment
had never seriously attempted to realise his position in case his
horse should be beaten. Floating through life in his usual airy
manner, with good clothes on his back and a few pounds in his pocket,
which prevented him feeling the pressure of any immediate necessity,
"handsome Ned Guyon" closed his eyes to disagreeable objects in his
old age as readily as he had done in his youth, and sturdily refused
to look at the shadows of any coming events. Should his horse win--and
he must, damme, he must--Mr. Guyon would, on the settling-day, come
into possession of what he termed "a hatful" of money; enough to pay
off all his most pressing creditors, without the necessity of seeking
aid from Streightley, whose stern face was like a very baleful vision
before his father-in-law's imagination. And if the horse were
beaten--the old gentleman took off his hat and wiped his brow,
on which great beads of sweat had burst out at the mere
supposition--well, if the horse were beaten, he should quietly drop
across to Boulogne, and stay there until matters were blown over.
Katharine would send him pocket-money, and that sort of thing; and
there was life in the old dog yet, and, damme, they should see he
wasn't beaten.
Such was the tenor of Mr. Guyon's concluding reflections as Mr.
Stallbrass turned the spanking chestnuts, who had spanked so much all
the way from town as to be covered with foam and lather, into the
muddy lane leading to the raceground, which was already lined on
either side with crowds of countrymen and village loafers, gathered
together to gape and chaff in that blunderheaded manner so pleasant to
the English rustic. There were plenty of drags both before and behind
them, and Mr. Stallbrass--who affected the coachman whenever he had
the reins in his hand--was perpetually jerking his little finger into
the air, or waving his whip in answer to recognitions, feeling all the
time thoroughly happy at being seen in the company of such an
unmistakable and well-known "West-end nob" as Mr. Guyon. Paying the
entrance-fee, they turned up through a gate on to the turf; no sooner
had they reached which than Mr. Stallbrass had a new excitement, and a
new triumph, for the Hon. William Trafford, known as "Tit Trafford"
from his love of horse-flesh, ranging up alongside in his drag, and
knowing both Guyon and Stallbrass, proposed to the latter to "have a
spurt;" and away went Tit Trafford's four bays and Stallbrass's
chestnut pair careering off in a race in which the latter had by no
means the worst of it. Mr. Guyon disapproved of this proceeding, which
caused him to clutch wildly at different portions of the phaeton, and
shook and bumped him woefully,--disapproved of it so much that he
pronounced it "infernally stoopid," and only fit to have been the act
of a "dam schoolboy." It was not until they had secured a good place
in the rank, horses had been removed, and a capital lunch spread, that
the old gentleman recovered his equanimity.
But long before luncheon, in fact within a minute of the phaeton's
stopping, Mr. Guyon had descended into the ring and learned the latest
odds about Devilskin. There, in the bawling, fighting, seething,
jostling crowd, he made his way, listening to scraps of information
given to him now and then by men who muttered mysteriously behind
their betting-books, or took off their hats to whisper behind them
into Mr. Guyon's ear. It was all right,--nothing to touch him; fit to
run for a man's life, Sir Harvey had said that very morning. O, here
was Sir Harvey. "Ah, my dear Sir Harvey, one word--only one!" and Mr.
Guyon laid his trembling hand on the arm of a big stalwart Yorkshire
squire, Sir Harvey Boyce, one of the keenest patrons of the turf, and
owner of Devilskin. The two men stood aside for a moment, and Guyon
said--
"About the horse? He's right?"
"Right as the mail."
"And--and--he's meant?"
"Meant? d--n it, Guyon----"
"O, don't blaze out at me, Sir Harvey; don't be in a rage. If you knew
how heavily I stand on this race! Ever since you put me on in the
autumn I've been backing the horse, long odds and short odds; I've not
got off a penny, and--" he stopped for breath, and the big burly
Yorkshireman, looking at him and noticing how ill he appeared to be,
and how the wrinkled hand clasping his arm shook and trembled, said
kindly----
"Keep your pecker up, Guyon! I've stood all my money on the horse, and
I know there's nothing to beat him in the field."
So, comforted and pleased with this interview, Mr. Guyon made his way
back to the phaeton, where Mr. Stallbrass's grooms had already
unfastened the hampers and spread the lunch, and where Mr. Stallbrass
had now gathered round him two or three men "of the right sort," who
were drinking sparkling Moselle, and wondering "what had become of old
Guyon."
The luncheon and the wine had a still further revivifying effect on
that gentleman's spirits; and feeling justly that he was regarded by
Mr. Stallbrass and his friends in the "cock-of-the-walk" capacity, he
sought to be particularly agreeable, and, having quite a new audience,
told some of his best stories--accommodating the principal characters
therein with titles freely distributed--with very great success. There
were two races before the great event of the day, but they attracted
little attention; the first came off while the gentlemen were at
luncheon, and they walked down to look at the jumps, while the course
was being cleared for the second.
They turned down from the starting-place, and looked first at a low
gap, then at two or three flights of turf-covered hurdles, at all of
which Sir Harvey Boyce laughed contemptuously, and declared that any
donkey could clear them; then they struck across a corner of the
field, and came upon a clean ditch with a high bank on its further
side, separating a ploughed field from a bit of turnips. The ditch was
rather broad, and the bank was high and slippery; then came grass with
more hurdles, then grass again, and then just before turning into the
straight run home, a stiff post and rail, old, worn, and mended here
and there in places with rough stakes and railings, with a drop of six
or seven feet into the course below. All the gentlemen regarded this
with great curiosity, and Sir Harvey Boyce said, "This is what'll try
'em! There are seven of 'em to start, and except Vixen and Devilskin,
all the rest know nothing but flat racin', and have just been taught
jumpin' enough to clear those hurdles. But they'll be bumped before
they come to this, and nothing's over here but the chestnut mare and
my horse, I'll take my oath!" Then they returned to the stand on their
carriages, and shortly afterwards the second bell rang and the great
race commenced.
There were seven starters, and the race was twice round the course.
They got away all together, through the gap and over the first flight
of hurdles all in line; a little scattering of them in the ploughed
field, where the first symptoms of tailing-off began to be manifested;
then came the ditch and bank, where there were three dead refusals,
the four safely on the other side being Devilskin, Vixen, a mare
called Gray Duchess--whose performances were all unknown, and
who belonged to a sporting saddler--and Billy Button, an old
steeple-chaser, entered to make running for Vixen. Through the grass
they came, Vixen and Devilskin leaving the others about a couple of
lengths behind, over the light hurdles, then straight heading up for
the drop fence. A crowd had gathered at this point to see the jump
taken; and as the horses came up, each thundered out the name of his
favourite. With his face dead set, his teeth clinched, and with every
muscle of his limbs like steel, Griffin brought his horse straight at
the jump, and Devilskin scarcely needing the slightest lifting,
cleared it in one great rushing bound, blundered a little on touching
the ground, but was up and away ere any of the others were over.
Vixen came next, fretting and fuming, her foam-flecked chestnut coat
heat-stained and mud-dabbled; her jock, who evidently knew her temper,
riding her with a light yet firm hand, and never touching her until
she was just preparing to take her spring, when he rammed the spurs
home, and brought her over cleverly and safely. Close upon her
followed the saddler's gray mare, heavily built and somewhat clumsy in
her gallop as she came thundering along, but rising at the jump and
skimming it like a bird. It was the prettiest thing that had been seen
that day; the people cheered till they were hoarse; and Sir Harvey
Boyce turned a trifle pale as he whispered to Tit Trafford that "that
was an Irish mare, he'd take his oath, and that he was d--d if he
liked her looks." Now past the stand all, Devilskin leading, but Vixen
close upon him, and away into the open, Gray Duchess following three
lengths behind. Now all excitement, hoarse roar, and wild clamour, for
Vixen and Devilskin were neck and neck, over the light hurdles,
through the ploughed field, and nearing the high bank. Griffin seems
to feel that Devilskin wants a lift here, gathers his horse well up in
hand, and comes down heavily on his quarters as he rises to the leap.
Cleverly done, Griffin, for Devilskin clears it better than he did the
first round. Not so Vixen, also whipped, who rears, boggles, tumbles,
and rolls. Devilskin wins! Devilskin! Devilskin! Up goes the clamour
from a thousand hoarse throats. What is that cry? The Gray! the Gray!
Gray Duchess slips over the high bank like a mist, like a dream,
collars Devilskin in the grass, and side by side with him clears the
last set of light hurdles, and rounds the corner facing the drop
fence. Now, Griffin, for your life! bring all the knowledge, all the
pluck learned and nurtured in far-away Yorkshire spinneys to this one
test--you have a foeman worthy of your steel-spurs; show that you know
yet a better thing than he, and win the race! Up came the horse,
blown, panting, with red eyeballs, drooping crest: in the hollow it
looked as if it were all over, but Griffin steadied him quietly, and
then brought him at the leap with a rush. One tremendous welt he gave
him, one home-dig with the spurs, and Devilskin rose at the post and
rails,--rose to fall helplessly into the midst of them staked and
dying; while, so close as almost to brush his writhing carcass Gray
Duchess slips by, and gallops in the winner and sole survivor of the
fray.
Mr. Stallbrass closed his race-glass, muttered a strong word, and
turned to speak to his friend; but as he turned he felt a heavy weight
on his shoulder, and heard the words "Ruined--ruined, by God!"
muttered in his ear. The next moment Mr. Guyon was lying on his back
at the bottom of the phaeton, livid in the face, and breathing
stertorously. An alarm was raised, and a mounted gentleman, announcing
himself to be a doctor, rode up to the phaeton, threw himself from his
horse, and after a hasty examination, pronounced Mr. Guyon to be in an
apoplectic fit, and shook his head very dubiously as to the result.