“Told my father so!” exclaimed Annie.
“Yes, so he said,” resumed Walter; “and the General told him you loved Lord Bellefield instead, and meant to be his wife; and then poor Mr. Arundel said he would go away, and so he did, but of course if you had loved him he would have stayed, and we should all have been so happy together. So you see, Annie, it was you that sent him away, and since I’ve known that I’ve hated you, and tried to keep Faust from loving you, only he will, and I can’t hate you quite always; but I never meant to tell you all this, and you must never tell Lord Bellefield, or he would be ready to kill me.”
He paused, then regarding her with a sad, regretful look, he said,
“But, Annie, is it really true that you don’t love dear Mr. Arundel?” Poor Annie! affected and excited as she had been by the foregoing scene, this last speech was too much for her, and throwing her arms about the boy’s neck, and hiding her burning cheek against his breast, she whispered, “Dearest Walter, do not hate me! you have no cause to do so!”
CHAPTER LVIII.—CONTAINS MUCH PLOTTING AND COUNTERPLOTTING.
It was the evening of the Tuesday in Epsom week, the day before the Derby. Lord Bellefield, though outwardly calm, was inwardly a prey to the most painful mental excitement. His lordship had met with a continued run of ill-fortune latterly—everything he had attempted had turned out badly: if he betted on a race, the horse he backed invariably lost; if he played, cards and dice equally declared against him; he had lavished hundreds in presents to a new opera dancer, and at the moment in which he deemed his suit successful she had eloped with a younger, richer, and handsomer man; his tradesmen began to mistrust him and to dun him unpleasantly; several of his intimates to whom he owed money grew cool and eyed him suspiciously; his extravagance had reached his father’s ears, and Lord Ashford had not only ventured to remonstrate with him, but apparently bent on adding insult to injury, had cited the example of his younger brother, Charles Leicester (whom from his heart he despised), and held him up as a pattern for his imitation, while Lord Bellefield was forced to bear this lecturing patiently; for although the estates were entailed, his father had been a careful man, and was possessed of a large personalty which he could leave to whom he pleased. The only piece of good luck to set against all this “monstrous quantity” of vexation was the admirable promise displayed by the Dodona Colt. This exemplary quadruped, now individualised by the name of “Oracle,” appeared to have been born with a metaphorical silver spoon in its delicate mouth, for from the moment in which its four black legs (suggestive of its future fleetness, for black-legs are invariably fast) put their feet into this uncomfortable world everything had prospered with it. The breeder was astonished at it, the groom who watched over its infancy was delighted with it; Turnbull, the trainer, was so impressed by its merits that he never could speak of it without a volley of the strongest oaths in his vocabulary, by which expletives he was accustomed (transposing a certain poetical dictum) to strengthen his praise of anything which was so fortunate as to win his approval; and by the united kind regards of all these worthies this favourite of nature had grown in public opinion until it now held the proud position of first favourite for the Derby. Lord Bellefield was by this time no new hand upon the turf; on the contrary, by dint of having been cheated, and associating with those who had cheated him, for several years, he had acquired, besides a sort of prescriptive diploma to do as he had been done, a considerable insight into the mysteries of the training stable as well as the betting ring. He was therefore habitually cautious; but in the present instance all his acquired knowledge and natural acuteness coincided with the opinions of his underlings, to prove to him that in the Dodona Colt he had indeed drawn a rare prize; and that if he could but ensure that which our sanguine country is popularly supposed to expect—viz., that “every man should do his duty,” his horse, and none other, must be winner of the Derby. Accordingly, all the powers of his intellect (which, although not enlarged, was subtle and acute) were now directed to two points—viz., first, to take all precautions to ensure that his horse should be fairly dealt by; and secondly, to make such a book on the event as might retrieve his bankrupt fortunes. This last feat he had succeeded in accomplishing even beyond his utmost wishes; and accustomed as he was to hazard large sums upon the cast of a die, he began to grow alarmed at the magnitude of the stake for which he was about to contend.
Having dined in town at his club, he returned to his luxurious bachelor ménage in ————— Street, and desiring that he might not be disturbed, drew out his betting-book, examined it carefully, went through the calculations again and again, referred to the latest odds—and then closing it with a sigh, muttered, “Yes, they are all safe men, men who will pay to the hour, and if Oracle runs true, this cursed load of debt will be wiped off, and—I shall be rich enough to begin afresh and contract a new one!—if! ay, there’s the rub—if!” He strode up and down the room. “I am wretchedly nervous to-night,” he exclaimed, ringing the bell. “Bring brandy,” he continued as the servant appeared; then filling a wine-glass, he drank it off as if it had been water—“leave it,” he said; then resuming his walk, added, “It must go right—there is not a horse that can come near him; Tartuffe was the only one that had a chance, and Turnbull swears he is safe to lose; he witnessed the private trial himself, and the colt won by a head, carrying 5 lbs. extra weight. That amusement cost me £50 to bribe Austerlitz’s trainer to allow the trial to take place. True, Turnbull may have lied—and yet why should he? he owes everything to me—though that has nothing to do with it—gratitude, if there be such a quality, is simply prospective—men are grateful to those only from whom they expect favours. Well, even thus, Turnbull is bound to me hand and foot; besides, I know he has backed the colt heavily himself: barring accidents, then, against which no foresight can provide, and of which therefore it is useless to think, I stand safe to win. And yet it is a frightful sum to hazard on the uncertainties of a horse-race. If I should lose, I must either blow out my brains like poor Mellerton, or quit the country, marry Annie Grant, and live abroad on her money till my father dies—and he’s as likely to last twenty years longer as I am. I scarcely know which alternative is preferable. What an infernal fool I’ve been to bring myself into this scrape; but when a man has such a run of ill-luck against him as I have been cursed with for the last year, what is he to do?” He paused, stretched himself wearily, and then glancing at a gilt clock on the chimney-piece, muttered, “Twelve o’clock; I must be up early to-morrow and keep a clear head—I’ll smoke a cigar and turn in.” At this moment the house-bell rang sharply, and Lord Bellefield started like a guilty thing. With an oath at this fresh proof of his nervousness, he filled and drank a second glass of brandy, then stood listening with a degree of eager anxiety which, despite his efforts, he could not restrain. Doors opened and shut, and at length a servant appeared.
“What is it?” exclaimed Lord Bellefield before the man could speak.
“A person wishes particularly to see your lordship,” was the reply.
“Say I am engaged, and can see no one; I thought I told you I would not be disturbed,” returned his master angrily; “stay,” he continued, as a new idea struck him, “what kind of person is it?”
“He desired me to inform your lordship that his name was Turnbull,” was the answer.
With an oath at the man’s stupidity, Lord Bellefield desired him to admit the visitor instantly.
“Well, Turnbull,” he exclaimed eagerly as the trainer entered, “what is it, man?”
Thus adjured, Turnbull, a tall, stout-built fellow, with a clever but disagreeable expression of countenance glanced carefully round the room to assure himself that they were alone, and then approaching Lord Bellefield, began, “Why, you see, my lud, I thought I’d better lose no time, for there ain’t too many hours between now and tomorrow’s race, so I jumped on to my ’ack, cantered over to the rail, ’ailed a ’Ansom’s cab, and ’ere I am.”
“Nothing amiss, eh? nothing wrong with the colt?” asked Lord Bellefield with an affectation of indifference, though any one who had watched him closely might have seen that he turned very pale.
“No, bless his eyes, he’s as right as a trivet, and as playful and impudent as—as a brick,” continued Mr. Turnbull, rather at a loss for a sufficiently eulogistic simile; “it was only this morning he took up little Bill the ’elper by the waistband of his indispentionables and shuk him like a tarrier would a rat. It would have done your ludship’s ’art good to have seen him; he’ll come out to-morrow as fresh as paint, bless his bones.”
“Well then, what is it, if Oracle is all right?” returned his employer, greatly relieved.
“Why, unfortunately there’s somebody else as has got a ’orse as is all right too, and I’m afraid we ain’t quite so sure of the race as we fancied we was,” was the dispiriting reply.
“Why, I thought you had satisfied yourself that there was not a horse that could run near him. You tell me he beat Tartuffe carrying 5 lbs. extra weight.”
“Ay, so I believed; but the sharpest of us is done sometimes. It’s a wicked cross-bred world to live in, and a man need be wide-awaker than—than one o’clock, to be down to all their moves.” So saying, the discomfited trainer rubbed his nose as if to brighten his wits, and continued, “The truth is this, my lud—one of my grooms cum to me this morning, and said if I would stand a soveraign between him and one of his mates, he would tell me something as I ought to know. Well, seeing as this race is rather a peculiar one, and as any little mistake might turn out unpleasant——”
“What do you mean, sir?” interrupted Lord Bellefield, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture.
“Nothing, my lud, nothing,” returned Turnbull obsequiously, “only as our colt stands first favourite, and as we’ve made our calcilations to win, I thought the Californian farthing would not be thrown away. According he brought up his mate, as he called him, which was the hidentical boy as first rode the colt, and he confessed that him and the boy that rode Tartuffe had met one day when they was out a exercising, and just for their own amusement they give ’em a three-mile gallop. They run very near together, but Tartuffe beat our colt by above a length; that he’d seen the trial afterwards, and that he knowed from the difference in Tartufife’s running that he was not rode fair, or was overweighted, or something. Well, my lud, this information bothered me, and made me feel suspicious that some move had been tried on which we was not up to, and while I was scheming how to cipher it out, the same boy cum again, and told me that the lad that rode Tartuffe at the second trial was a keeping company along with his sister, and that he thought she might worm something out of him if she could be got to try. Accordingly I sent for the gal, and between bribing, coaxing, and frightening her, persuaded her to undertake the job. She had some trouble with the young feller, but she is a sharp, clever gal, and she never left him till she dragged it out of him.”
“Drew what out of him?” interrupted Lord Bellefield, unable to restrain his impatience; “can’t you come to the point at once? you’ll distract me with your prosing.”
“Well, the long and short of it is, as I see your ludship’s getting in a hurry (and, indeed, there ain’t no time to be lost), the long and short of it is, that they’ve bin and turned the tables upon us: while we put 5 lbs. extra weight on our horse, they shoved 8 lbs. on theirs.”
“Then Tartuffe ran within a head of the colt carrying 3 lbs. extra,” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, “and of course without that disadvantage would again have beaten him.”
“I think Oracle is a better horse now than he was at the time the trial cum off,” was the reply, “but the race ain’t the safe thing I thought it. It’s rather a ticklish chance to trust to, if your ludship’s got at all a heavy book upon the ewent.”
As he made this uncomfortable acknowledgment the trainer leered inquiringly with his cunning little eyes at his employer.
Lord Bellefield did not immediately answer; but leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece, remained buried in thought, his pale cheeks and the eager quivering of his under lip, which from time to time he unconsciously bit till the marks of his teeth remained in blood upon it, alone testifying the mental suffering he experienced. Ruin and disgrace were before him. Nor was this all. The Duc d’Austerlitz, a young foreigner who, bitten with Anglo-mania, had purchased a racing stud and was the owner of Tartuffe, happened to be the individual before alluded to as Lord Bellefield’s successful rival in the venial affections of the fascinating danseuse. He hated him, accordingly, with an intensity which would have secured him the approbation of the good-hater-loving Dr. Johnson. If anything, therefore, were wanting to render the intelligence he had just received doubly irritating to him, this fact supplied the deficiency. His lordship, however, possessed one element of greatness—his spirit invariably rose with difficulties, and the greater the emergency the more cool and collected did he become. Having remained silent for some minutes, he observed quietly, “I suppose, Turnbull, you, being a shrewd, clever fellow in your way, scarcely came here merely to tell me this. You are perfectly aware that, relying upon your information and judgment, I have made a heavy book on this race, and can imagine that, however long my purse may be, I shall find it more agreeable to win than to lose. You have, therefore, I am sure, some expedient to propose. In fact, I read in your face that it is so.”
The man smiled.
“Your ludship I always knew to have a sharp eye for a good horse or a pretty gal,” he said, “but you must be wide awake if you can read a man’s thoughts in his face. It ain’t such an easy matter to say what is best to do; if your ludship made rather too heavy a book on the race, I should recommend a little careful hedging to-morrow morning.”
Lord Bellefield shook his head. “Too late to make anything of it,” he replied, “that is, of course, I might save myself from any very heavy loss, but I must have money—a—in fact, I stand so fair to win largely by this race, that hedging will be quite a dernier ressort. But you have some better scheme than that to propose.”
“If your ludship is at a loss how to act, it is not likely that any plan of mine will do the trick,” was the reply.
Whether or not Turnbull wished to provoke his employer, certain it is his speech produced that effect, for with an oath Lord Bellefield exclaimed—
“What is it you are aiming at? if it be money you are standing out for, you have only to prevent Tartuffe from starting, and name your own price.”
“Why, you see, it might be as well to let him start; men have been transported for interfering with a race ’orse to purwent his starting—but he need not win the Derby for all that,” was the enigmatical reply.
Lord Bellefield’s lip curled with a sardonic smile; his knowledge of human nature had not then deceived him—Turnbull had some scheme in petto, and was only waiting to secure the best market for it.
“I suppose £1000 will satisfy you?” he said; and as the trainer bowed his gratitude, continued, “You are certain your plan cannot fail? What is it you propose?”
“Why, you see, my lud, ’orses is like ’uman creeturs in many respecs,” replied Turnbull sententiously; “there’s some things as agrees with their stummicks, and some as disagrees with ’em; the things that agrees with the hanimals makes ’em run faster, the things that disagrees makes them run slower, or if you give it ’em too strong they comes to a standstill all together. Now, if so be as Tartuffe was to have a taste of a certain drug as I knows on—that ain’t very different from hopium—give to him afore he goes to sleep to-night, he’ll come to the starting post all right and run very respectible, but if he beats our ’orse I’ll engage to eat him, saddle and all. I can’t speak fairer than that, I expect.”
“And who have you fixed upon to execute this piece of delectable rascality?” inquired Lord Bellefield, unable to repress a sneer at the meanness of the villainy by which, however, he was only too glad to profit.
“It was not a very easy matter to pitch upon the right man,” rejoined the trainer, “but luckily I happened to remember a party that seemed as if he’d been born a purpose for the job, and who has been so thoroughly cleaned out lately that he was not likely to be particular about trifles. I saw him before I left home, showed him which way his interest lay, put him up to my ideas on the subject, and I hope when I sees your ludship to-morrow morning I shall have some good news to tell you.”
“I’ll be with you early, before people are about,” returned Lord Bellefield; “it is important that I should know the result of this scheme as soon as possible. The greatest caution must be observed lest the matter should transpire, and if anything comes out, you of course must take it upon yourself. The man should go abroad for a time. And now I must try and get a couple of hours’ sleep, or my head will not be fit for to-morrow’s work. I breakfast at Epsom with a set of men, but I’ll be with you first. You’ve acted with your usual zeal and cleverness, Turnbull, and I’ll take care that you shall have no reason to repent your honesty to your employer; only let us win to-morrow’s race and your fortune is made. Good-night.”
As he spoke he rang the bell, and with many servile acknowledgments of his master’s promised liberality the trainer departed.
While this interview was taking place a far different scene had been enacting in the premises occupied by the racing stud of the Due d’Austerlitz. As the clock over the stables chimed the hour after midnight a light ladder was placed against the wall of one of the outer buildings, and a slightly-framed, agile man ran up it, and drawing it cautiously after him laid it in a place of security, where it would remain unnoticed till his return. He then crept with noiseless, catlike steps over roofs and along parapets, finding among rain-gutters and coping-stones a dangerous and uncertain footing, until he reached a building nearly in the centre of the yard; here he paused, and drawing from his pocket a short iron instrument, shaped like a chisel at one end, he cautiously chipped away the mortar round one of the tiles which protected an angle of the roof, and by removing the tile, exposed the ends of a row of slating. Quietly raising one of the slates, he, by means of the instrument above alluded to, which is known to the initiated by the euphonious title of a “jemmy,” snapped the nails which retained it in its place and removed it. Having acted in a similar manner by two others, he produced a small cabinetmaker’s saw, and cutting through the battens, opened a space sufficiently wide to admit the passage of a man’s body. Replacing his tools, he crept through the aperture thus effected, and letting himself down by his hands into the loft beneath, dropped noiselessly on to some trusses of hay placed there for future consumption. Part of his task was now accomplished, for he was in the loft over the loose-box in which Tartuffe was reposing his graceful limbs before the coming struggle; but the most difficult and hazardous portion of his enterprise remained yet to be accomplished. Crawling on his hands and knees, he reached one of the openings by which the hay was let down into the racks beneath, and cautiously peeping over, gazed into the interior of the stable itself, and noted the precautions taken to secure the safety of the racehorse and the difficulties which lay before him. The box in which the animal was placed was secured by a strong padlock, the key of which rested at that moment under the pillow of Slangsby, the Due d’Austerlitz’s trainer, while in the next box, half-lying, half-sitting on a truss of straw, dozed “Yorkshire Joe,” a broad-shouldered, bowlegged lad some eighteen years of age, who had been a kind of equestrian valet to Tartuffe during the whole “educational course” of that promising quadruped.
These particulars the intelligent eye of the tenant of the hay-loft took in at a glance, while his quick wit decided as rapidly the exact degree in which they were calculated to tell for or against the object he sought to accomplish. The padlock was in his favour; for as he did not intend to enter the horse-box by the door, it would serve to keep Joe out without interfering with his design; but the presence of the stable-boy presented an insuperable obstacle to his further proceedings. This difficulty had, however, been foreseen and provided against. Stealing on tiptoe across the loft, he selected a long, stout straw, and thrusting it through the key-hole of the door by which the fodder was taken in, he suffered it to drop on the outside. Scarcely had he done so, when a low cough announced the presence of some confederate, and satisfied that everything was in a right train, he noiselessly returned to his post of observation. In another moment his quick ear caught the sound of a modest tap at the stable-door. Honest Joe’s senses not being equally on the alert, the knock had to be repeated more than once ere he became aware of it. As soon as he grew convinced that the sound was not the creation of his sleeping fancy, he rubbed his eyes, stretched himself, and drowsily inquired, “Who’s there?”
“It is I—Mary; and I want particularly to speak to you,” replied a woman’s voice.
“Thy want must wait till morning, lass; for I’m not a-goaing to leave this place to-night for nothink nor nobody; so gang thee whoam agin,” was the uncourteous reply.
“No, but Joe, dear Joe, you must hear me to-night; it is something very important indeed. You must hear me,” pleaded the temptress.
“I woan’t, I tell thee; gangwhoam!” returned Joe gruffly.
“Well, if I’d thought you’d have been so unkind, I would not have stayed out of my warm bed, trapesing through Hepsom streets at this time o’night, which ain’t fit for a respecktible young woman to be out in, and coming all this way to put you up to something as may lose you your place, and worse, if you ain’t told of it. I didn’t expect sich unkindness—and from you, too; that I didn’t;” and here a sound akin to a sob, apparently indicating that the speaker was weeping, found its way to Joe’s ears, and going thence straight to his honest, unsuspicious heart, overcame his prudence and conquered his resolution. Rising from his seat, he approached the door and listened; the sobs still continued.
“Mary, lass, what ails thee?” he said; “I didn’t mean to anger thee, wench! but thee knoas I dare na leave t’horse; besoids t’stable-dour be locked, and maister’s got t’key.”
“And can’t you come to the window in the further stable, where we’ve talked many a time before?” suggested the siren. “It’s something about the horse I want to tell you, a dodge they’re going to try to prevent his winning to-morrow. You don’t think I’d have come out at this time o’night for nothing, do you, stupey?” This intelligence chased away Joe’s last lingering scruple, and muttering—
“About t’horse!—why did na thee say so afore?” he lit a hand-lantern at the lamp which hung from the ceiling, and assuring himself by a glance that his charge was in safety, quitted the stable by a side-door.
In the meantime, the occupant of the loft had not been idle. As soon as Joe became engrossed by the foregoing conversation, the sound of a fine saw at work might have been perceived by a more delicate organisation than that of the sturdy groom; and at the moment in which he left the stable two of the bars of the rack were silently removed, and through the opening thus effected a man cautiously lowered himself, and resting his feet for an instant on the manger, dropped lightly into the box occupied by Tartuffe.
This feat was accomplished so quietly, that the horse, which happened not to be lying down, but was standing, trying, through its muzzle, to nibble the straw of its bed, was scarcely startled, merely raising its head and staring at its unexpected visitant. This individual now produced from his mysterious pocket a handful of oats, and holding them out, allowed Tartuffe to smell and nibble at them; while the animal was thus engaged, he removed the muzzle, worn for the purpose of preventing it from eating its litter, or otherwise gaining access to any food of which the trainer might disapprove. His next proceeding was to draw out that ingenious instrument of torture yclept a twitch, which, for the benefit of those of our lady readers who do not happen to be gifted with “a stable mind,” or to have encouraged sporting tendencies, we may describe as a short, thick stick or handle, about two feet long, terminated by a loop of stout whipcord or leather, into which the upper-lip, or occasionally the ear of the horse, is inserted; then, by twisting the stick, the loop can be tightened so as to produce any amount of agony the inflicter may desire: the philosophy of the matter being, that the animal finding his struggles exactly double his pain, soon has sense enough to choose the lesser of two evils, and therefore stands still while nasty things are being forced down his throat and other liberties taken with him, which, but for the application of the twitch, he would actively resent. In the present instance, while the unfortunate Tartuffe was still chewing the oats by which his confidence had been betrayed, the twitch was fixed on his nose, tightened, and the nauseating ball which was to impair his strength and fleetness, and secure the victory to the Dodona Colt, and fortune to Lord Bellefield, was already in his mouth ere he was aware that any incivility was intended him. To give a horse a ball, however, it is not only necessary to put it into its mouth but to thrust it back as far as, if possible, the entrance of the gullet, and this operation, even when performed in the most skilful manner, is by no means easy to the operator or agreeable to the patient. In this last particular the victimised Tartuffe appeared to be entirely of our opinion; the blood of his noble ancestors stirred within him, and tossing up his head indignantly, he became practically aware of the full virtues of the twitch; the pain, however, only served to increase his rage, and he attempted to rear; but his struggles were vain; his tormentor pertinaciously clung to him, the ball was thrust further back in the mouth, and in another moment the desired object would have been attained, when suddenly the loop of the twitch, unable to bear the strain upon it, snapped. The first use the racehorse made of his freedom was to shake his head violently, and at the same time opening his mouth, the stupefying ball dropped from it.
We must now return to our friend, Yorkshire Joe, who, suspecting no evil, was engaged in interesting colloquy with the perfidious Mary; this seductive young lady having contrived, with a degree of ingenuity worthy a better cause, to prolong the interview by the following expedients. First, she assailed her admirer with coquettish reproaches for his unkindness and want of gallantry in refusing to speak to her; then she entered into a long account of how and when and where she had discovered the pretended design against Tartuffe, which she affirmed was to be put into execution two hours from that time.
“Eh! What! tie my hands behoind me, shove a gag into my mouth, and then and there lame t’horse afore my very eyes—dost thee say, lass? I’d only like to see the man, or men either, that could do it!” exclaimed Joe, doubling his fist indignantly; “and thee heard this in the tap-room of the Chequers, dost thee say?—What was that noise?”
“Nothing. I dropped one of my pattens, that was all,” returned the girl, stooping as if to pick it up, though she was not sorry for an excuse to hide her agitation, for her quick ear had detected the sound of a horse’s hoofs trampling on straw, and she knew that her accomplice was at work. “Why, you are quite startlish to-night, Joe!” she resumed, looking up at him with a forced smile; “did you think it was a ghost?—but it’s no wonder you’re nervous; it’s hard lines for you, poor fellow, sitting up at nights like this——”
“There it is agen!” interrupted Joe; “by ——— it’s in t’horsebox,” he continued, listening attentively. “Them ————— thieves can’t be come a’ready, sure!” And heedless of Mary’s assurances that it was nothing, and her entreaties to remain only one moment longer, the groom, now thoroughly excited, leaped down from the window and rushed back into the stable.
With the speed of thought the girl sprang to the door at which she had previously tapped, and stooping her head to the key-hole, listened eagerly. The first thing that met her ear was a volley of abuse from Joe, accompanied by heavy blows struck against wood or iron; then a noise as of a door being burst open; next, broken curses, dull, muffled strokes, ejaculations of rage or pain, the sound of trampling feet, a crushing, heavy fall, and then total silence!
What had happened? She placed her eye to the key-hole, but could see nothing. She listened—but the throbbing of her own heart was the only thing she could hear: for the first time the fearful idea occurred to her, that by her treacherous dealing she might have occasioned her lover’s death; and regardless of consequences, she was about to start up and summon assistance, when a man’s hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaimed—
“So this is the way my grooms are tampered with! I was sure I heard talking going on. Hold up your head, you jade, and let us see what you’re like; nay, it’s no use to struggle, I’ve got you fast enough, and see who it is I will.”
So saying, Mr. Slangsby the trainer drew the girl towards him, and forcibly raising her head, threw the light of a bull’s-eye lantern full on her features. “Ha! little Mary Williams,” he continued, “and what brings you here at this time of night, you artful hussy?”
“Oh! Mr. Slangsby, pray open the door, sir; I—I’m afraid they’ve been and murdered poor Joe,” was the reply, and overcome by fear and remorse, the girl burst into tears—real ones, this time.
“They, and who are they, pray? There’s some rascality going on here, I expect; it’s lucky I got up.” As he spoke, Slangsby drew a key from his pocket, opened the door, and still retaining his grasp on the girl’s wrist, entered. The first object which met their sight was Joe, by no means murdered, although he bore evidences of a severe struggle in a black eye and bleeding knuckles.
“T’horse is all right, meister, but I wor only jest in time, though!” was his opening speech.
“In time for what?” inquired Slangsby eagerly.
“In time to stop yon villain from pizonin the blessed hanimal,” returned Joe, pointing to something which at first sight appeared to be a large bundle, but which proved on examination to be a human being most ingeniously tied hand and foot with haybands.
“Who the deuce are you, fellow?” asked the trainer, addressing the individual thus uncomfortably situated.
“It ain’t o’ no use talking to he, for a can’t answer with a wisp o’ straw stuffed atween his jaws,” observed Joe sententiously.
“Take it out then, and untie his legs so that he can stand up and answer my questions.”
“Better shut the dour fust then, meister, for he’s a proper slippery customer, I can tell you,” returned the groom. “He promised to gag me and tie my hands behind me, I do hear said, but he’s found two can play at that trick. Get up, ye warmint,” he continued, applying a by no means gentle kick to the ribs of his prostrate captive, “and show your ugly mug.”
The person thus upcomplimentarily apostrophised rose slowly and stood sullenly awaiting the irainer’s scrutiny. The latter, holding the lantern so that its light fell upon the stranger’s features, recognised him immediately.
“Mr. Beverley,” he said in a tone more of contemptuous pity than of anger, “is it you, sir? I knew times had been getting very bad with you, but I did not think you had come to this.”
The man’s lip quivered—the reproach touched him more than the most virulent abuse could have done. His had been, we fear, no very unusual fate; at all events he had only fallen one step lower than many who had followed the same career as he had done. Well-born, rich, and with above average abilities, a taste for gambling and low company had caused him to sink lower and lower in the scale of society, till the depth of misery and degradation to which he had been reduced, and the extent of the bribe offered by Turnbull, had overcome his last feeling of honour or honesty, and he had consented to become the agent of another’s villainy. Slangsby eyed him sternly for a moment, and then said—
“You know what you have laid yourself open to, I suppose?” The other nodded in sign of assent.
“I don’t wish to be hard upon you, sir,” the trainer continued, “so if you will speak out and tell me all, we may perhaps come to some better understanding: what say you?”
The other reflected a moment and then replied in a low voice, “I will do as you wish, but not here.”
“Joe, you have distinguished yourself,” observed his master, putting his hand into his pocket, “here is a ten-pound note for you. Do not mention this night’s work to anybody, and I will take care your wages are raised. Now, sir,” he continued to Joe’s late adversary, “I am ready to talk to you—by the way, about the girl; she was your accomplice, of course?”
The stranger nodded.
“Your sweetheart has deceived you, Joe,” added Slangsby; “give her a good lecturing, and then lock her up for the night in the saddle-room; she must not be at liberty till the race is over, upon any account.”
Honest Joe scratched his head in deep perplexity—then a light dawned upon him, and he perceived how Mary had beguiled him Seizing her roughly by the wrist, he dragged her off, exclaiming, “Come along, thee cheating jade, could’st thee foind nothing better to do than to go and deceive a poor lad that loved thee, and try to get him into trouble? If thee was but a man, I’d wollup thee till thou could’st not stand, and as it be, a little starving will do thee good, so cum along.”
At the same moment Slangsby and his companion quitted the stable, and adjourning to the trainer’s private apartments, held there a long and solemn conference; the result may be gathered from the following speeches—
“And you feel sure Lord Bellefield is aware of the whole thing?” questioned Slangsby.
“I’ve not a doubt of it,” was the reply. “Turnbull was too ready with the blunt to be acting on his own account, he has not got the money to do it. I am to have £500 clear for this job, and my expenses paid to any part of the continent I may select.”
“And we may trust you?”
“Why, of course you may, man; by doing as you propose I escape transportation, receive £500 to start afresh with, and get sent over to Paris out of harm’s way free of expense.”
“And your conscience?” inquired Slangsby with a sarcastic smile. “Curse conscience,” was the angry reply; “I began life with as much honourable feeling as any man, but the villainy of the world has crushed it out of me. Life is a struggle, and each one must take care of himself; while I had money I spent it liberally, and met my engagements honestly. Now I have none, I get it as I can. I undertook to drug your horse because I was deeply in debt, all but starving, and Bellefield’s bribe offered me a chance. I failed through an accident, and fell into your power; your proposal regains me the position, and I embrace it now as I did before. True, I deceive him: fancying your horse is poisoned he will double his bets, which are very heavy already, and be ruined, as better men have been before him, but this only serves him right for his rascality, and—puts £500 into my pocket. I have to thank you for your civility, Mr. Slangsby, and to wish you good morning.” He turned to go, then pausing, said—
“You have used me well in this affair, and to show you I am not all bad, I will give you a hint. Do not rely too much on the result of that trial: Bellefield’s colt was only recovering from the strangles then, and has since improved in speed and bottom; still Tartuffe can beat him if he is made the most of; everything therefore depends upon your jockey; if he is careless or over-confident, Oracle may have it yet—verbum sat.” So saying, he placed his hat on one side of his head, coolly ran his fingers through his hair, and departed.
CHAPTER LIX.—DESCRIBES THAT INDESCRIBABLE SCENE, “THE DERBY DAY.”
“Fair laughed the morn, and soft the zephyr played,” as Lord Bellefield, having held an interview with his trainer, which had served in great measure to set his mind at ease, cantered back to the inn at Epsom, shaved the small portion of his chin which he saw fit to denude of hair, made an elaborate toilet in the best style of sporting dandyism, and then lounged down to breakfast, of which meal he had invited some dozen of his intimates to partake. Amongst the last comers was a tall, dark-whiskered man, who might be two or three years Lord Bellefield’s senior. Pointing to a seat on his right hand, his entertainer began—
“Well, Philips, how is it with you this morning? You’ve been wandering about as usual, picking up the latest news, I suppose? what say the prophets?”
“There is nothing original hazarded, my lord,” was the reply.
“Oracle is as much in favour as ever; Phosphorus is looking up slightly, and the Tartuffe party are backing their horse to a high figure; they seem to be in earnest, and mean to win if they can.”
“Ay, if they can,” returned Lord Bellefield, smiling ironically; “I confess, for my own part, I do not see that animal’s good points.”
“He has wonderful power in the loins, and his deep girth gives plenty of room for the lungs to play; no fear of ‘bellows to mend’ in that quarter,” was the reply.
“Very excellent points in a hunter or steeplechase horse, but misplaced in a racer, and by no means calculated to make up for a want of fleetness. Tartuffe, in my opinion, has not the true racehorse stride, as Austerlitz will find to his cost, if he really is laying money on him.”
“He may not cover so much ground in his stride as Oracle, but he is unusually quick in his gallop, and takes two strokes while another horse is taking one. Still black and yellow (Lord Bellefield’s colours) will give him the go-by, and that is all we have to look to,” was the reply.
In converse such as this, diversified by the interchange of bets of more or less magnitude, the breakfast (if a meal consisting of every delicacy that could please the palate or pamper the appetite, including meats, fish, etc., etc., can be legitimately so called) passed off. When liqueurs had been handed round, Lord Bellefield’s drag was announced, and the company dispersed, first to admire and criticise the turn-out, and then to dispose of themselves on and about it. The equipage was in perfect taste, and although not so showy as many others on which less care had been bestowed, or money expended, yet the drag, with its panels of the darkest possible cinnamon brown, picked out with a lighter shade of the same colour; the four blood bays, faultless in symmetry; the two outriders on horses so exactly matching those in harness, that any one unaccustomed to such matters might have been puzzled to conjecture how the grooms could distinguish one from another; the harness perfectly free from ornament of any kind, save black and yellow rosettes in the horses’ heads; the two grooms in dark, well-fitting, pepper-and-salt liveries, and irreproachable top-boots and leathers; the coronet on the doors, the cockades in the hats; every trifle down to the gold-mounted whip-handle, excellent of its kind, and in harmonious keeping with the whole, presented to the eye of a connoisseur a tout ensemble calculated to excite his highest admiration.
Seating himself firmly on his box, and controlling his fiery horses with an easy confidence which proved him a skilful whip, Lord Belle-field drove to the Downs, apparently impassable obstacles seeming to melt before him as if by magic (one of the surest tests of a good coachman), and arrived on the course exactly at the “correct” moment. As he drew up to take his place by the ropes, a showy britska, drawn by four splendid greys, the postilions’ bright green jackets and velvet caps blazing with gold, dashed in before him. The carriage contained two persons—a singularly handsome young man with a foreign cast of features, and a girl with black, flashing eyes and a brilliant complexion, dressed not only in, but considerably beyond the height of the fashion. These were the Duc d’Austerlitz and Mademoiselle Angélique, the fascinating danseuse.
As Lord Bellefield, with curling lip, passed them to take up his station farther on, the Frenchman, catching his eye, nodded carelessly, and turning to his companion said a few words in a low tone, and they both laughed. Had Lord Bellefield been living at a period when the state of society allowed the hand to act out the feelings of the heart, he would at that moment have sprung upon the Due d’Austerlitz, and seizing him by the throat, have held on remorselessly till life became extinct. As it was, he merely returned the nod by a bow, smiled, kissed the tips of his gloves to Angélique, and drove on; so that, after all, civilisation has its advantages.
Having chosen his station, the bays were unharnessed and led away, and a mounted groom approached, leading his master’s hack.
“I am going down to the ring, and then to the Warren, to see them saddle,” began Lord Bellefield, “so I must leave you to take care of yourselves; but any one disposed for luncheon will find something to that effect going on here after the race. If I am not back, Robson will take good care of you.” So saying, he gave an order to one of the servants, who remained with the drag, then, mounting his horse, cantered away.
“He carries it off boldly enough, but they say if he loses the race he is a ruined man,” observed one of the friends he had left behind him.
“Oh, Lord Ashford will clear him,” remarked another; “his grandfather was one of the leading counsel of the day, and the old boy feathered his nest well before he gave up his wig and gown. He was one of the old school of lawyers, and worked in the days when a barrister’s professional income was a great fact, whereas now it is a great fiction.”
“Come, Briefless, no grumbling; back Oracle for a cool £500, and then you may cut chambers till the season’s over. But you are wrong about Bellefield. Lord Ashford has paid his debts three times, and has taken an oath on the family Bible never to do so again; but I don’t believe Bellefield’s anything like hard-up. You know he won £30,000 of poor Mellerton before he blew his brains out. Here’s Philips can tell us all about it; eh, what do you say, man?”
“Nothing,” was the cautious reply; “and I would not recommend you to let Bellefield find out exactly all you’ve been mentioning, my dear Chatterby; I’ve known him shoot a man for less.” So saying, Mr. Philips joined in the laugh he had raised against the voluble Chatterby, and then swinging himself down from the box, left them in order to take his place in the betting ring.
We must now change the venue to the Warren, a small but picturesque spot of ground encircled by a wall, within which enclosure the horses for the Derby and Oaks are saddled and mounted. Here jockeys and gentlemen, lords, blacklegs, trainers, and pickpockets, mix and jostle with one another indiscriminately. Assuredly Epsom, on the Derby day, in exclusive, aristocratic England, is the only true Utopia wherein those chimeras of French folly, Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, exist and prosper. Let the reader imagine from twenty to five-and-twenty blood-horses, each led by its attendant groom and followed by an anxious trainer, while the jockey who is to ride it, and on whose skill and courage thousands of pounds are depending, carefully inspects the buckling of girths, regulates the length of stirrup-leathers, and as far as human foresight will permit, provides against any accident which may embarrass him in the coming struggle. Then the horse-clothing is removed, and the shining coat and carefully-plaited mane of the racehorse are revealed to the eyes of the admiring spectators; an attendant satellite at the same moment assists the jockey to divest himself of his greatcoat, and he emerges from his chrysalis state in all the butterfly splendour of racing dandyism. Then the trainer, or the satellite before alluded to, “gives him a leg up,” and with this slight assistance he vaults lightly into the saddle and becomes as it were incorporate with the animal he bestrides. Quietly gathering up the reins, he presses his cap firmly on his head, slants the point of his whip towards the right flank, exchanges a few last words with the trainer, and then walks his horse up and down till his competitors are all equally prepared. On this occasion the cynosure of every eye was the first favourite, Oracle, and when his clothing was removed, and one of the cleverest jockeys of the day seated gracefully on his back, he certainly did look, to quote the enthusiastic language of his trainer, “a reg’lur pictur,” the perfection of a racehorse. Turnbull’s last words to the jockey were—
“Save him as much as you safely can till the distance, and if the pace has been anything like reasonable, it will be your own fault if the race is not your own.”
A slight contraction of the eyelid proved that the advice was understood and appreciated, and man and horse passed on.
“How is it Tartuffe does not show?” inquired Lord Bellefield of Turnbull in a whisper. “The dose can’t have been given too strong, eh?”
“No fear of that, my lud,” was the reply; “but they’ve probably discovered ere this that there is a screw loose somewhere, and they will keep him out of sight as long as they can, lest other people should become as wise as they are themselves.”
As he spoke the object of his remarks appeared; his rider was already mounted, and the horse-clothing removed. Tartuffe was a complete contrast to his rival in appearance. The Dodona Colt was a bright bay, with black mane, tail, and legs; his head was small, almost to a fault, and shaped like that of a deer, his neck longer and more arched than is usually the case in thorough-bred horses; while his graceful, slender limbs seemed to embody the very ideal of swiftness. Tartuffe was altogether a smaller and more compact animal, his colour a rich, dark chestnut, his head larger in proportion, and so placed on as to give him the appearance of being slightly ewe-necked, his forelegs were shorter, and the arm more muscular than those of his graceful rival; but the sloping shoulder, the depth of the girth, the breadth and unusual muscular development of the loins and haunches, together with a quick, springy step and a general compactness of form, afforded to the practised eye evidence of his possessing very uncommon powers both of speed and endurance.
“He looks fresh and lively enough,” remarked Lord Bellefield, after observing the horse narrowly. “What do you think about it?”
“It’s all right, my lud,” was Turnbull’s confident answer; “things speaks for themselves, the ’orse ain’t allowed to show till the last minute, and then he comes out with his jockey ready mounted. Now the logic of that dodge lies in a nutshell: finding the hanimal sleepy and out of sorts, they keeps him snug till they’re forced to purduce him, and then shows him with the jockey on him, when a touch with the spur and a pull or two at his mouth with a sharp bit makes him look alive again.” Approaching his lips almost to his employer’s ear, he continued, “Do you see that patch of black grease on his nose? that’s where the twitch has cut him. Beverley was obliged to twitch him to give him the ball—so now your ludship may bet away without any fear of Tartuffe,” and exchanging a significant glance, this well-matched pair parted.
“Ah! Bellefield, mon cher! how lovely your colt looks this morning—I suppose he is to win; for myself I am preparing to be martyrised with a resignation the most touching,” and as he spoke Armand Duc d’Austerlitz stroked his silky moustaches and admired his glossy boot with an air of the most innocently graceful self-satisfaction possible.
“You don’t really believe that which you say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied Lord Bellefield; “I never saw a horse in better racing condition than Tartuffe.”
“Ah! c’est un bon petit cheval, and I have betted, ah!—bah!—I cannot tell you what sums of money upon him, more than half my estates in Languedoc; positively I shall have to go through what you call the Bench of your Queen, if I lose.”
“In that case it is useless for me to inquire whether you are disposed to back Tartuffe against my bay colt,” insinuated Lord Bellefield.
“No, not if you have a fancy that way, mon cher ami,” replied Armand, smiling to show his white teeth; “what shall we say?—an even bet of £3000 shall it be, or £5000?”
“Five is the more comfortable sum of the two,” returned Lord Bellefield quickly. “I always like to bet fives or tens; it simplifies one’s book amazingly, and I never had a taste for intricate arithmetic.”
“Comme il vous plaira—say ten, if you like it better.” And as he spoke Armand drew out a miniature betting-book and a gold pencil-case blazing with jewels. Lord Bellefield paused for a moment; certain as he believed himself to be of the race, it was a great temptation. But, on the other hand, if he appeared too eager, might not suspicion attach to him in the event of any clue being gained to the poisoning affair? The idea was so alarming to him that prudence overcame avarice.
“I have unfortunately no estates in Languedoc,” he said laughingly; “and thousands are not so entirely a matter of indifference to me as to your Grace; so we will book the bet at five.”
The wager was accordingly so entered; and with friendly smiles and courteous words upon their lips these two men parted, one hating the successful rival, the other despising the detected swindler! Alas! for the shams and deceptions of society! pasteboard and tinsel are more real than its hollow-hearted seemings.
“Now you see your game,” were Slangsby’s last words to the jockey who was to ride Tartuffe. “Make running early in the race, so as to render the pace as severe as possible throughout: your horse will live to the end, and theirs won’t; but if he is not well blown before he gets to the distance, it will be a very close thing, and the length of his stride may beat you.”
“I’m awake,” was the concise reply; but Slangsby was quite satisfied therewith.
Racing may be very cruel, and it may lead to gambling and various other immoralities, major and minor; and being thus proved contrary to the precepts of Christianity, good people may be quite right in using their best efforts to discourage it. Nevertheless, it is a manly and exciting sport; and although the evils to which we have alluded may (and, we fear, do) attend it, we cannot see that the amusement in itself necessitates them. On the contrary, we conceive that they are added to it by the proneness to evil inherent in human nature, rather than as the natural consequence of the sport itself. However this may be, a finer sight than the start for the Derby we cannot easily imagine. Let the reader picture to himself some twenty three-year-old colts, their proud, expanded nostrils snuffing the wind, and their glossy coats glistening in the sunshine, ridden by the crack jockeys of England, and therefore of the world, drawn up in a line, preparatory to starting; let him reflect, in order fully to realise the earnest nature of the scene, that on the fact of which may prove the better horse depend many thousands—perhaps, in the aggregate, more than a million of pounds sterling; that the ruin of hundreds may be involved in the event of the race; that on the chances of that whirlwind course have been expended the anxious thought, the careful calculation of days and weeks and months; that the weighing and reducing these calculations to a theoretic system, by which some certainty may be attained, is the business of many men’s lives,—and he will then have some faint idea of the deep, overpowering interest that is excited by witnessing the start for the Derby.
On the occasion which we are describing two false starts occurred. Twice as the word “Go!” was pronounced by the stentorian lungs of the starter did one queer-tempered animal choose pertinaciously to turn its tail where its head should have been; and twice did the same “voice of power” vociferate the command “Come back!” and deep, if not loud, were the anathemas breathed by those jockeys who, having manoeuvred themselves into a good position, had contrived to “get away” well. However, “ ’tis an ill wind which blows good to nobody;” and these delays, annoying as they were to most of the parties concerned, were as much in favour of the supporters of Oracle as they were prejudicial to the interests of those who had backed Tartuffe.
Oracle, amongst other gifts of fortune, chanced to be blessed with a most amiable and placid temper, while Tartuffe, not possessing so philosophical a turn of mind, was apt to get excited in a crowd, and the first false start completely unsettling him, he availed himself of the second to bolt half-way to Tattenham Corner before his rider could pull him in; and even when that feat was accomplished he showed a decided preference for using his hind-legs only in progression on his return to the starting-post; by his riotous and unmanageable conduct taking a great deal more out of himself than was by any means prudent.
Once more, however, they are all in their places—the word is again given, and they are off—Tartuffe springing away with a bound like that of a lion, and half dislocating his rider’s arms by a furious effort to “get his head.” As it happened that there were two or three other “queer” tempered horses besides that of the Duc d’Austerlitz which required careful handling, the pace at first was by no means so “good” as Slangsby had wished it to be; nor could the jockey riding Tartuffe venture to improve it, for two reasons: in the first place, his horse was so excited that it required all his skill to prevent his running away with him; in the second, his former attempt to bolt had sufficed to puff him, and he required “saving” to enable him to regain wind. In the meantime Oracle was going sweetly and easily, keeping up with his horses in what appeared scarcely beyond a canter. When past the “Corner,” however, Tartuffe had decidedly improved, and his rider, remembering his instructions, began to make play. As the pace increased, the “first flight” became considerably more select, the “tender-hearted” ones gradually dropping in the rear.
Up to this point Phosphorus had been leading, followed by Advance, Whisker, The Lynx, Gossip, and Challenger; but down the next slope Tartuffe came up, passed the other horses, and after running neck to neck with Phosphorus for about a quarter of a mile, took the lead, and kept it by about half a length, Oracle lying well up on the near side. This order they preserved till near the distance, when Lynx and Challenger put on the steam to dispute the leadership with Tartuffe, who appeared by no means disposed to relinquish the post of honour, and the pace grew decidedly severe, in spite of which Oracle continued insensibly to creep up to the others.
At the distance Lynx found it “no go,” and fell back beaten; Gossip taking his place, closely waited on by Phosphorus and Oracle; a few strides more, in which Oracle improved his position, and then the final struggle begins, whips and spurs go to work in earnest—the pace is actually terrific—Gossip shuts up, Phosphorus is extinguished, Oracle and Tartuffe run neck and neck, dust flies, handkerchiefs wave, the spectators shout, when, just at the critical moment, the Frenchman’s horse shoots forward, as if propelled by some invisible power, the favourite is beaten by rather more than a head, and Tartuffe remains winner of the Derby.