No alarming amount of imagination will be required to enable the reader to conceive that Harry returned to his hotel considerably provoked and dissatisfied at the result of his interview with Lord Alfred Courtland. He had encountered opposition where he had expected an easy victory; where he had felt certain of success, he had failed most signally; and by no means the least embarrassing part of the matter was, that he really did not know whether to be most angry, or pleased, with Lord Alfred, for his unexpected firmness. But, if the past was perplexing, the future appeared much more so. On quitting Lord Alfred, he had called at Horace D’Almayne’s lodgings, where he acquired the information that their usual occupant had started for the continent on the previous evening. Baffled in every attempt to obtain information concerning the mysterious letter, which haunted his imagination with the pertinacity of some intrusive spectre callous to the restringent influence of bell, book, and candle, Coverdale, after lying awake the greater part of the night, bent his steps, the first thing the next morning, in the direction of his brother-in-law’s chambers, wishing to consult him, but at the same time feeling so unwilling to blame Alice, even by imputation, that the chances were against his taking such a step. On reaching his destination, however, the difficulty solved itself, for, early as was the hour, Arthur was from home, but Coverdale found a letter awaiting him in Alice’s hand writing. Hastily tearing it open, an enclosure dropped from it, and on stooping to pick it up he perceived, to his extreme surprise, that it was the identical epistle which had already caused him a journey to London and a sleepless night; and which, but for his forbearance and kindliness of disposition, might have involved him in a serious quarrel—if nothing worse—with his former friend and school-fellow. Alice’s letter, which bore every mark of having been written under feelings of the greatest excitement, ran as follows:—
“Dearest Harry,—Your hasty departure has overturned all my plans and arrangements, which, believe me, were made with a view only to try and avert the catastrophe which, I shudder to think, may be even now impending. Justice to Lord Alfred, who may have incurred your indignation, as well as my anxiety to clear myself in your eyes, by making you acquainted with the whole truth, induce me to send you the interesting letter which has given rise to all this sad misunderstanding; and, as I imagine you have ere this seen and come to some sort of explanation with Lord Alfred, my reason for withholding it exists no longer. When you read it, you will perceive why I was so unwilling to show it to you. I felt convinced that the passages referring to Mr. D’Almayne, which completely confirm the unfavourable opinion you have always entertained of him, would irritate you greatly against him; and, when Lord Alfred proceeds to write of him as a noted duellist, a dead shot, &c., you may smile at my womanly weakness, but can you wonder that I hesitated to show you the letter, that I chose rather to allow you to think untrue things of me, than to clear myself at the risk of imperilling your safety? And now, dearest Harry, if you love me as you say, and as I hope and believe you do, if you would ever have me know another moment’s peace, and not be weighed down by endless self-reproach, return home, I implore you, without taking any farther step in this matter. I am not afraid, when you have seen his penitent letter, that you will be angry with Lord Alfred, but entreat of you to avoid that hateful Mr. D’Almayne. Even supposing that he has been the cause of all this unhappiness; that is now passed, and he will be powerless to influence our future life.
“I am quite willing, if it will be any satisfaction to you, to agree never to spend another spring in London; I have seen enough of its heartless dissipation and frivolity, and for the future hope to find my happiness in our own dear home, which, if you do but return to it safe and sound, I would not exchange for a queen’s palace. Pray, pray, dearest Harry, come back without delay. I have worried and fretted myself quite ill already, and shall be wretched till I see you again. Ever your penitent, but loving,
“Alice.”
Having perused his wife’s letter with mingled feelings of satisfaction and regret,—satisfaction to find how completely she was able to clear herself, and regret at the pain and annoyance which he was sure this affair must have occasioned her,—Coverdale unfolded and read carefully Lord Alfred’s epistle, which had occasioned results the writer little contemplated. At his Lordship’s ingenuous confession of his follies and absurdities, Harry smiled, muttering, “Poor boy! I wish I had not been so sharp with him yesterday;” but as he went on his brow contracted, and when he came to the account of Horace D’Almayne, and the report he had circulated in regard to Coverdale and Miss Crofton, he could restrain his rage no longer, and springing up, he exclaimed, “Scoundrel! mean, pitiful, lying scoundrel! but he shall answer to me for this. A bold rogue, who would execute his own villainy, is a prince to a rascal like this, who lays a plot to deprive me of my wife’s affections, and then makes a cat’s-paw of that poor foolish boy to carry it out. I see it all now. The behaviour which appeared so strange and unaccountable in my darling Alice, proceeded from a very natural feeling of jealousy, excited by all these abominable reports; and, the worst of it is, that even now I can’t be entirely open with her, because of my promise to Arabella. I wish to heaven I had never been fool enough to bind myself!—and yet how could I avoid it? for she has a good heart, and a generous disposition—though, partly from a bad education, partly from natural temperament, her ideas are sadly warped. I am sure she really loved me; of course, in a conventional point of view, it was not right in her to do so; but—well, it’s no use humbugging—I don’t believe the mam ever breathed, who honestly, and from his heart, could blame a woman for loving him; principle and reason may accuse her, but feeling defends her so eloquently, that the cause is gained at the first hearing. I think I acted rightly by her. If I had it to do over again, I don’t see how else I could honourably behave; perhaps it was weak to make her a promise of concealment, but she was so unhappy, her proud spirit was so utterly crushed and broken down, that I would have done anything, not actually wrong, to console her.”
He paused, reseated himself, then resumed more quietly, “Perhaps it is as well that scoundrel D’Almayne is not within reach: if I were to horsewhip him, as I most assuredly should and would, I suppose I should be forced to meet him, blackguard as he is, if he were to challenge me; and he would do so, I dare say, though I know him to be a coward at heart, for his social position is his livelihood, and he must maintain that, or starve. I utterly abhor duelling—it’s so very like deliberate murder; it was different in the old days, when men wore swords habitually; then, a couple of fellows quarrelled and tilted at each other across the dining-table, while their blood was up, and a flesh-wound or two generally let off their superfluous energy, and cured their complaint—it was little more than knocking a man down who has insulted you. There was none of that waiting, and then coolly, calmly, taking the life of a fellow-creature in cold blood, which is the disgusting part of the modern duel. And now about little Alfred. Poor boy, he has been sadly led away by that scoundrel, but his heart is in the right place still; that is a very nice letter of his to my wife, and I’m glad he wrote it, though it has caused me some trouble and annoyance. Well, I’ll call on him, and tell him I did him injustice, and then go down to the Park by the next train, to comfort my darling Alice. By Jove, I feel quite a different man since I read that letter—Harry’s himself again.” And in proof of his assertion, he began, for the first time for many weeks, to whistle his favourite air—
“A southerly wind, and a cloudy sky,
Proclaim it a hunting morning.”
Another ten minutes, and a Hansom cab sufficed to take him to Lord Alfred’s lodgings.
“I DARE say the lazy young dog isn’t up yet,” was Coverdale’s mental comment, as he knocked at the door of Lord Alfred Courtland’s lodgings. Although, as a general rule, the idea might not be a mistaken one, yet this particular occasion was evidently an exception, for, on entering Lord Alfred’s sitting-room, Coverdale found that young gentleman most elaborately got up in an unimpeachable sporting costume, but sitting with an open letter and his betting-book before him, looking the picture of despair. As Coverdale entered, he glanced upward with a slight start; then, without waiting to be spoken to, he exclaimed, in a strange reckless tone, as different from his usual manner as a tempest from a zephyr, “Well! which is it to be? peace or war? either will suit me, though I should rather prefer the latter; about the best thing that can happen to me would be for you to put a bullet through my head; at all events, it would save me the trouble of blowing my own brains out, for I expect that is what it will come to before long.”
“Nonsense!” was the reply. “What do you mean by talking such childish rubbish? what is the matter with you, man?”
“First answer my question, and let me know whether I am speaking to a friend or a foe,” rejoined Lord Alfred.
“A friend, as I always have been, and always will be, to you, as long as you deserve an honest man’s friendship,” returned Coverdale, heartily. “Alice has sent me your letter, and it does you great credit; but I always knew you had a good heart; so, for any trouble or annoyance you have caused me, I freely forgive you, and I’ll answer for it Alice does the same; and I don’t know that you may not have taught her a lesson which may be very useful to her in after life. She was young and giddy, and pleased with admiration and gaiety; and this has shown her the danger and folly of such frivolous pursuits as these tastes lead to.”
As he spoke, he held out his hand; Lord Alfred seized and shook it warmly.
“My dear Coverdale,” he said, “you have made me happier, or I might more truly say, less miserable, than five minutes ago I would have believed it possible for anything to do; it was not your anger, or its consequences, I dreaded; but the truth is, I always had the greatest regard and respect for you—I was proud of your friendship—and the idea that, by my faults, I had forfeited it, lowered me in my own estimation, and was a source of continued uneasiness and regret to me. You thought I was talking exaggerated nonsense just now, but I assure you when you came into this room five minutes ago, I was thoroughly reckless; just in the frame of mind in which men commit suicide, or any other act of wicked folly.”
Coverdale, though he by no means comprehended the “situation” (as it is now the fashion to term all possible combinations of events), yet perceived that his companion was thoroughly in earnest, and required sympathy and assistance; so he evinced the first by getting up and laying his hand encouragingly on Lord Alfred’s shoulder, while he offered the latter in the following words: “What is it, my boy? anything that I can help you in?”
“If anybody can, you are the very man,” replied Lord Alfred, as he eagerly grasped his friend’s hand; “but really,” he continued, while the tears that sparkled in his clear blue eyes proved his sincerity, “really, I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness, when I have deserved so differently at your hands too; but you always were the most generous, best-hearted——”
“There! that will do, you foolish boy,” interrupted Coverdale, who, like all simple truthful characters, felt uncomfortable at hearing his own praises; “we’ll take it for granted that I’m no end of a fine fellow, and proceed to learn what particular scrape your wisdom has failed to keep you out of.”
“Scrape, you may call it,” was the reply; “partly through my own folly, partly through the rascality of others, I am almost certain to lose a couple of thousand pounds on a steeple-chase, for which I’ve been idiot enough to enter a horse, and where to lay my hands on as many hundreds is more than I know. I shall not be able to meet my engagements, and shall be stigmatized as a blackleg and a swindler, at the very time when it is through the villainy of blacklegs and swindlers that I shall be placed in such a position!”
“Can’t your father?” began Coverdale.
“If you don’t wish to render me frantic, don’t mention my father,” was the unexpected rejoinder; he paused, then resumed—“Coverdale, I will not trust you by halves, I know you will hold my confidence sacred. My father is most kind and liberal to me, more liberal almost than he should be, for he is not a rich man, and has many calls upon him, and this year I know he has met with severe losses. I had an allowance on which I could have lived well, and as becomes my rank; but Horace D’Almayne, under pretence of showing me life, took me to a gaming-house, I acquired a taste for play, or rather I played, because I thought it the ‘correct thing’ and I am now not only without money, but actually in debt. Then came this horse business,”—here Lord Alfred gave Coverdale a succinct account of the various particulars of the affairs with which the reader has been already made acquainted. “I felt, up to this morning,” he resumed, “tolerably confident of success, relying chiefly on Tirrett’s riding, which is said to be first-rate; imagine, then, my rage and disgust when half an hour ago this was given me!”—As he spoke, he handed Coverdale the following note:—
“I am sorry to inform your lordship that circumstances, over which I have no control, oblige me to decline the honour of riding Don Pasquale for you to-day.
“I am,
“Your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“Philip Tirrett.”
“Pleasant and encouraging, certainly,” observed Coverdale, when he had finished reading the note.
“That fellow Tirrett is the greatest scoundrel unhung!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, crushing the paper in his hand with an action suggestive of his willingness to perform a similar process of annihilation upon its writer.
“By no means,” returned Harry, coolly; “he is simply a very average specimen of his class, half-jockey, half-dealer, and whole blackleg of a low stamp—there are hundreds such on the turf; however, he seems to have got you into an awful fix this time—we must try and find out what can be done. I’ll stay and see you through it at all events; it’s fortunate to-day is the day, for I could not have remained beyond; I dare say I shall be back in time to catch the eight o’clock train, and I shall then be at home by eleven. What time do you start, and how do you get down?”
“I go down on a drag which leaves the Pandemonium at twelve. I’ll take care to keep a seat for you, if you really are kind enough to go with me. I am really quite ashamed to avail myself of your kindness, when I know how anxious you must be to get back, and calm Mrs. Coverdale’s fears; but I feel your presence and your knowledge of the right way in which to deal with these people will be so invaluable to me, that I have not sufficient self-denial to deprive myself of them.”
“All serene! don’t make fine speeches about it,” rejoined Harry. “I’ve one or two places to call at, and I’ll meet you at the Frying Pan, as they call that diabolically named club of yours, five minutes before twelve; and, above all, don’t look so woe-begone, or you’ll have the odds against Don Pasquale increased to a frightful degree; put on a cool nonchalant air, like your precious friend and adviser, D’Almayne, who may thank his stars that the German Ocean lies between him and me just now, for I’d have horsewhipped him, as sure as I stand here, so that he should have spent the next fortnight in his bed at all events, and it would have been a mercy if I hadn’t broken some of his bones for him; but I’m glad he’s away, for, after all, I suppose one has no right to take the law into one’s own hands. Well, I must be off, but depend upon my meeting you, and in the meantime look alive, and don’t sit poring over that stupid betting-book; you’re in a mess, that I don’t deny, but that is no reason why you should lose heart: on the contrary, you’ll have need of all your pluck to get you through it. Never despond, man! when things come to the worst, they’re sure to mend. Look at me: since I received that letter from my little wife, and read your notable composition, I’m a different creature.” So saying, Coverdale resumed his hat, and was about to quit the room, when glancing at his companion’s countenance, he suddenly stopped.
“Alfred, my poor boy,” he said kindly, “I can’t leave you with such a face as that! listen to me, I’ll do all I can for you, to get you out of this scrape to-day, and very likely things may turn out better than we expect; but if the worst come to the worst, you have only to promise me two things, viz., to give up your intimacy with Horace D’Almayne, and not to enter a gambling-house again for the next ten years; and whatever money you require, shall be placed in your banker’s hands before settling-day.”
As he spoke, Lord Alfred grasped his hand, endeavoured to falter forth a few words of gratitude, but, utterly breaking down in the attempt, burst into tears.
Harry, nearly as much affected at the sight of his friend’s emotion, muttered, “Pshaw! there’s nothing to make a fuss about,” wrung his hand cordially, and hastily quitted the room.
At ten minutes to twelve a well-appointed drag, with four slapping greys, excited the admiration of street boys in the vicinity of the Pandemonium, by drawing up at the door of that fastest of clubs, and five minutes later, Harry Coverdale, habited in a loose dust-coloured wrapper, made his appearance, and tossing a small carpet-bag to one of the grooms, desired him to put it in the boot. Lord Alfred was eagerly waiting to receive him, and introduced him to sundry noble sportsmen, or men desiring so to be considered, who were to compose the live freight of the drag; one or two of them were old acquaintances of Coverdale’s, amongst them being the facetious Jack Beaupeep, who appeared in his usual charming spirits, and took an early opportunity of informing Coverdale, in the strictest confidence, that a certain young man, with pale and swollen features, who, he declared, lived only to play on the cornopean, might be expected to produce new and startling effects upon his next performance, he (Jack Beaupeep) having already contrived to insinuate percussion crackers into all three valves of his victim’s instrument. One minute before twelve a tall, good-looking man, attired in a white hat, and a wonderful driving cape, whose Christian name was William, and his patronymic Barrington, but who, from his passion for driving, was more commonly known by the sobriquet Billy Whipcord, descended the steps of the Pandemonium, and, arranging the reins scientifically between his fingers, mounted the box and assumed his seat, at the same time not taking, but bestowing, the oaths for the benefit of an obtuse helper, who had “presumed to buckle the off leader’s billet in the check, instead of the lower bar, when he knew the mare pulled like——” well, suppose we say, “like a steam-engine!” As the first stroke of twelve pealed from the high church steeple of St. Homonovus, which, as everybody knows, stands exactly opposite the Pandemonium, the aforesaid Billy Whipcord obligingly made his team a present of their respective heads, the attendant helpers seized the corners of the horsecloths which had hitherto guarded their thorough-bred loins from whatever may be the equine equivalent for lumbago, and jerked them off with a degree of energy which threatened to take hide and all together, with a bound and a plunge the denuded quadrupeds sprang forward, the boys cheered, the club servants performed pantomimic actions, indicative of admiration and respect, and the drag started.
Monsieur de Saulcy, Mr. Kinglake, and other travellers, French, English, and American, who take pleasure in going to the East to make mistakes about the site of Sodom and Gomorrah, hazard a futile hypothesis in regard to the Holy Sepulchre, or, in some similar fashion, exert themselves to prove that other than wise men come from the West in these latter days, inform us, that when a camel dies, vultures and other strange fowl suddenly congregate around the body, though in what way the intelligence (for those birds can have no Bell’s Life) reaches them, is a point on which no savant has yet been found wise enough to enlighten us—wherefore, in general terms, the fact is stated to result from instinct. By a like instinct do strange creatures mysteriously appear on the face of the earth, when a steeple-chase, or other sporting event, is arranged to come off in any given locality: human vultures, hawks, carrion-crows, bats, and owls, all (singular as an ornithologist may deem it) with very black legs, attracted by the fascinations of horse-flesh, assemble from the four quarters of—heaven, we were going to say, but, on second thoughts, we cannot so conclude the paragraph. Still, from whatever locality they come, come they do in flocks, and gather at certain points, whence they may witness the start, or, “the jump into the lane,” or, “crossing the brook,” or the “awkward place,” over which the horse that leaps, tumbles, or scrambles first, is safe to win, as their various tastes may lead them.
There is one feature in these affairs, for which we have never been able to account, viz., the mysterious presence of a certain average amount of babies; they invariably arrive in taxed carts, and entirely engross the mental and bodily faculties of one mother and one female and sympathetic friend each, so that every ten babies necessitate the presence of twenty women, who, from the moment they set out, to the time at which they return, never appear conscious of the race-course, the company, the jockeys, the horses, or, indeed, of anything save their infant tyrants. That these women can have brought the babies for their own pleasure, is an hypothesis so absurd, that no one who had seen the goings on of these young Pickles towards their parents and guardians, can for a moment entertain it; a more, perhaps the most, probable one is, that the infants come to please themselves, for, although we have never observed that they pay much attention to the strict business of the race, yet, in their own way, they appear to enjoy themselves very thoroughly. Their manners and customs are marked by an easy conviviality, and absence from the restraints which usually fetter society, which we can conceive must render their babyhood one epicurean scene of gay delight. Thus, monopolizing the best place in the cart, shaded by the family umbrella, and dressed in the latest fashion from Lilliput, these young Sybarites recline languidly on the maternal bosom, or sit erect, “mooing,” crowing, and “wa wa-ing” in the faces of the company generally, roaring at the sight of family friends whose acquaintance they do not desire to cultivate, or clawing at the eyes and hair of the select few whose homage they are willing graciously to receive. Then, wildly reckless of appearances, and consulting only their own ungoverned appetites, they not only resolve to dine in public, at the maternal expense, but when their desire has been gratified by their self-sacrificing parents, betray a thankless indifference to the safe custody of the good things afforded them, which renders their vicinity dangerous to all decently attired Christians (those only excepted, who consider a “milky way” the way in which they should go), during the remainder of the festivities. Thus (we say it boldly, though we know we are provoking the enmity of all our female readers, who consider a darling baby can never be de trop), we hereby declare our opinion, that by the laws of the Jockey Club, all dogs and infants found unmuzzled on any race-course, should be seized by the police, and instantly—————we leave the minds’ eyes of the anxious mothers of England to supply the blank. But we are slightly digressing.
As they reached the field whence the start was to take place, in which a booth or two and a very mild specimen of a grand stand had been erected, Harry found an opportunity to whisper to Lord Alfred——
“Now, remember what I told you; appear as cool as if you hadn’t sixpence depending on this race; if long odds are offered against the horse, take ’em; I’ll stand the risk up to a fifty-pounder; if it has transpired that Tirrett won’t ride for you, say quietly that you are provided with an efficient substitute—as soon as I see clearly how the land lies, I’ll tell you more.”
Lord Alfred looked—as he was—singularly puzzled, but of the hundreds who were flocking to that race-course, Coverdale was the only man on whom he felt he could rely, and he most willingly placed himself in his hands.
Having insinuated the drag into the most favourable position for beholding from its roof the line of the course, the Hon. Billy Whipcord, having acquitted himself so as to call forth an encomium even from Harry Coverdale, who was a severe critic in such matters, descended from his seat, and, with most of the others, repaired to an extempore betting-ring, composed of all the knowing ones present.
Lord Alfred was about to accompany them, when Harry laid his finger on his arm to detain him.
“What time did you order the Don to be on the ground?”
Lord Alfred referred to his watch.
“He won’t be here for the next half-hour,” was the reply. “It was considered advisable to spare his excitable nerves as much of the noise and bustle as possible.”
“He is at a farm somewhere near, is he not?” continued Coverdale. “I see your saddle-horses on the ground; let us canter down and have a look at him.”
Lord Alfred agreeing, at a signal from his master the packgroom rode up, and resigning his horse to Coverdale, the friends mounted, and were about to ride off in the direction of the farm-house, when the Honourable Billy Whipcord intercepted them with a face expressing the deepest concern.
“My dear Courtland,” he began, “a report has somehow got abroad that Tirrett won’t ride for you, and that Irish blackguard, Captain O’Brien, does not scruple openly to declare that he is to ride Broth-of-a-Boy for him instead; the rumour gains ground every minute, and the Don is going down accordingly; all his best friends are hedging wherever they can get a bet taken. I hope there’s no truth in it.”
Coverdale glanced for a moment towards Lord Alfred, who replied carelessly, “Don’t alarm yourself, my dear fellow, I can hardly suppose even Phil Tirrett would have the face to throw me over and ride for O’Brien; but, if he should indulge in such a caprice, I know my man, and am prepared with a substitute so efficient, that I rather hope your tidings may be true.” Seeing that the Honourable William looked incredulous, he continued, “If you’re inclined to follow the hedging dodge yourself, I’m as willing as ever to back the Don against the field: how do the odds stand?”
Reassured by this practical proof of his Lordship’s sincerity, the Honourable William (who, in spite of his innate honourableness, was rather a “leg” than otherwise), hastily muttered “that he’d a very safe book as it stood, and that if the Don was all serene, he had no wish to alter it,” and returned to reap some advantage from the information he had acquired.
“How did I do that?” asked Lord Alfred, as they cantered off.
“Splendidly!” was the reply; “when all other trades fail you, you’ll be able, with a little of my able tuition, to turn horse-chaunter and blackleg.”
Lord Alfred shook his head, adding, “Only let me get out of this affair safely, and if you find me doing anything in the horse line again, write me down the veriest idiot that ever ran his head, open-eyed, against a brick wall.”
Five minutes’ brisk riding brought them to the gate at which Tirrett had entered on the morning after the Blackwall dinnerparty. As they did so, a horseman left the yard by a hand-gate at the opposite corner. Lord Alfred gazed after him eagerly.
“Who is your mysterious friend?” inquired Harry.
“I can’t be certain,” was the reply, “but the figure, and the way in which he sits his horse, are very like that young scoundrel, Tirrett; I’ve a great mind to gallop after him, and either make him ride for me, or horsewhip him;” and Lord Alfred looked quite fierce and determined, as if he meant to do as he said, and was able; but Coverdale, smiling at his energy, restrained him—
“Gently there—take it coolly! why, you’re becoming quite a fire-eater,” he said, laughing; “but, seriously, if you could make him ride for you against his will, he would only contrive to lose you the race. And, as to horsewhipping, if you were to horsewhip every blackleg who breaks down with you in turf affairs, you’d require a portable thrashing-machine, for mortal arm could never stand it.”
As he spoke, they reached the stable, dismounted, and, tying their horses up to a couple of rings in the wall, Lord Alfred drew a key from his pocket, and, applying it to the lock, admitted Harry and himself. So quietly did they enter, and so engrossed was the groom with his occupation, that they had full time to observe him before he was aware of their presence. Fully equipped (with the exception of his coat) for appearing on the race-course, he was stooping over a pail of water bathing his nose, from which the blood was still rapidly dropping. Coverdale glanced expressively at Lord Alfred, then whispered, “Speak to him—I want to see his face.”
“Why, Dick, what is it? have you hurt yourself, my lad?” he inquired, good-naturedly.
Raising himself, with a start, the man looked round. “No, my Lord, it is nothin’ to sinnify; honly, has I wos a reching hup to get the Don’s saddle, hit slipped, hand fell right hon my blessed nose, hand set hit a bleeding howdacious!”
“Did you obtain that genius, with the horse, from Tirrett?” inquired Harry, sotto voce; receiving a reply in the affirmative, he continued, “Then let me have a word or two with him in private—I think he may be made useful, but one never can get anything out of these fellows, except in a tête-à-tête.”
Lord Alfred nodded assent, and, feigning some plausible excuse, left the stable.
As soon as they were alone, Harry addressed the groom with an intelligent half-nod, half-wink, which, however ineffectual it might have proved in the case of a blind horse, produced a decided impression on the sharp-sighted Dick.
“Hark ye, my friend,” he began, “it strikes me you and I are old acquaintances.”
“Can’t say as I ever remembers setting heyes on your honour afore,” was the reply, though something in the expression of the man’s face contradicted his assertion.
“Did you never live with Count Cavalho, a Spanish nobleman?”
The man paused, then answered in a surly tone, “And suppose I did, what then?”
“Merely, that while I was in Paris, a groom in his employ was detected selling the corn and hay; the moment the charge was brought against him the fellow decamped, but the evidence of his dishonesty was so clear, that the Count offered a reward of fifty pounds for his apprehension; the man was not found, but I should know him by sight if I were to meet him,” and again Coverdale fixed his piercing glance upon his companion’s features.
Having paused for a minute, during which time the groom stood eyeing him furtively, and shifting uneasily from leg to leg—at the expiration of that period, Harry asked abruptly, “Why did young Tirrett strike you in that brutal manner, before he left the stable just now?”
He spoke at a venture, but the arrow hit the bull’s-eye. Thrown completely off his guard, the man exclaimed, with an oath, “You know everything! who in the world are you?”
“My name’s Coverdale,” was the reply. “I’m no wizard, but I’ve been on the turf long enough to keep my eyes and ears open; and now listen to me; you know all I’ve said is true, you perceive that I could expose you if I were so inclined; you have no cause to entertain any very strong affection for Mr. Philip Tirrett; therefore I see many reasons why you should do as I wish you—none why you should not.”
He paused for a reply, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the groom began, “I see it ain’t o’ no use trying to gammon you, Mr. Coverdale, you’re right about Tirrett, he cum here a wantin me to lame that horse, and so git myself into trouble, may be; when, as I told him, there ain’t no need for it, for he ain’t agoing to ride it, and barrin myself and him, there ain’t nobody else as can ride it to win, I’ll take my davy o’ that, so he’d no call to cut up rough, and knock a feller about like that—but I owe him one for it, and I’ll pay it some of these days. As to that hay and corn business of the Count’s, I didn’t do the correct thing altogether by him, I know, but though I had to cut, and it was all laid on to me, there was others more to blame nor me, I do assure you, I was but a boy like at the time, and I wor led on, don’t ye see? Still, it’s true enough; I don’t want the thing brought up again. My lord here, he’s a nice young feller—precious green, tho’! I never did—” he added parenthetically, with a sympathy-demanding wink at Coverdale, “and he’s treated me very kind and liberal, and so the long and the short of it is, if I can oblige you, sir, why I’m agreeable.”
“Well, you can oblige me, and it shall be worth your while to do so,” was the reply; “and as I see you’ve got an honest side to your nature, I’ll be frank with you. Lord Alfred has trusted Tirrett to win this race for him, and has betted very largely on the faith of his riding for him; Tirrett, being a scoundrel, has thrown him over, and we’re in a fix—the only way I see of getting out of it is to ride the horse myself.”
Here the groom interrupted, by audibly ejaculating, “The Lord have mercy on your poor neck!”
“To ride the horse myself,” continued Coverdale, coolly; “and I want you to tell me honestly, first, whether if the brute is properly ridden, he has a fair chance to win, and secondly, if you were going to ride, and try all you knew to come in first, how you would set about it.”
For a minute, the man remained mute with surprise, then muttering, “Well, I’ve seen you ride, and you’ve a better seat, and nearly as good a bridle-hand as Phil Tirrett himself; but, lor, to think of riding a steeple-chase on that beast the first time you’re on his back! however, if you will do it, listen to me,” and, drawing Harry aside, he whispered innumerable hints and directions in his ear, in as low a tone as if he feared the very winds of Heaven would reveal the matter.
“T O keep a light but steady hand on him; to be careful not to pull at him or check him with the curb; but to saw his mouth with the snaffle, if he can’t be held without; never to hit him, upon any consideration, by reason that he’ll stand the spur, but not the whip; to be prepared for his knocking my brains out when he throws up his head, or breaking my back by a way he’s got with his hind-quarters when he flings up his heels; to look out for his pleasant little trick of jumping off the ground all four feet at once in a slantindicular direction, when anything surprises him; to let him take his leaps in his own fashion, or he’ll either rush at them or refuse them altogether; to jump on his back before he bites or kicks me, if I can possibly do so; and, above all, to show him, from first to last, that I’m not in the slightest degree afraid of him—I think these are the chief points to which I am advised to direct my attention in riding the fascinating quadruped on whom you have invested your capital,” observed Coverdale to Lord Alfred, as they cantered back to the race-ground.
“You shall not do it—you must not think of it!” rejoined Lord Alfred, hastily; “you’ll be thrown and killed, and Mrs. Coverdale will say it’s my doing. I could not bear it—it would drive me mad. Come, promise you’ll give it up!”
“Silly boy!” returned Coverdale, with a good-natured smile “tell me, would you give it up in my position?”
“Well, yes—no, perhaps I should not; but then you know the case would be a very different one.”
“Certainly it would,” returned Coverdale; “I am not the heir to an ancient peerage—the noble constitution of England would not suffer injury in one of its three notable estates, if my neck were broken; but I don’t see the necessity for pre-supposing any such sombre contingency—this is not the first time, by many, that I’ve galloped a queer horse across country. Why, man, from the day I was fourteen I’ve broken all my own hunters, and let me tell you, a hot-tempered four-year-old thorough-bred is rather an awkward customer to deal with. A timid old gentleman would find himself decidedly misplaced astride such a quadruped. But here we are. Now recollect, keep up a bold exterior, as the melodramatic gents paraphrase ‘never saying die.’ Back the Don as freely as if Tirrett was going to ride for you, and mention me as the illustrious gentleman-jockey you have secured as his substitute.”
Lord Alfred nodded assent, and they rejoined the group around the betting-ring, in the centre of which stood the gallant Milesian, Captain O’Brien, vociferating loudly in what he would himself have termed a thundering rage. The cause was soon discovered: Mr. Philip Tirrett had, five minutes before, made his appearance on the course, and coolly informed the captain not only that he was mistaken in supposing he intended to ride for him, but that he was going to perform the service for Captain Annesley, of Her Majesty’s Life Guards, upon his famous steeple-chaser Black Eagle, which, in his poor opinion, looked very like a winner. As Lord Alfred and Harry came up, the Honourable Billy Whipcord, who, so to speak, lived upon horseflesh, and having a tolerably heavy book on the race, was in a great state of agitation and excitement, exclaimed, “Here, Lord Alfred, what do you say to all this? there’s a squabble as to who Mr. Tirrett is to ride for. I thought you’d settled with him, long ago, to ride Don Pasquale?”
“Such was, no doubt, the understanding between us,” returned Lord Alfred, firmly; “nor had I reason to suspect that he meant not to fulfil his engagement, until I received a note some two hours ago, telling me that circumstances prevented him from riding for me. These circumstances I now, for the first time, conjecture to resolve themselves into the fact that he has been bribed by some one to ride for Captain Annesley.”
“Pray, my Lord, do you intend that remark to apply to me?” inquired Captain Annesley, who was a tall, handsome, fashionable-looking man, with black whiskers and moustaches.
“I intended the remark to apply to Mr. Tirrett,” was Lord Alfred’s reply; “he had engaged to ride for me; I believe he has been bribed to break that engagement, because I can imagine no other reason so likely to influence a person of his character; but it’s a matter of perfect indifference to me who may have bribed him, and as I am fortunate enough to have secured the services of a gentleman on whose honour I can rely, as well as upon his horsemanship, I care very little about the whole matter, and must leave you, gentlemen, to settle your differences without my interference.”
As he spoke he was turning to leave the spot, when Tirrett stepped before him and prevented him.
“Not so fast, my Lord,” he said, insolently; “I consider that you’ve insulted me by the terms in which you have just spoken, and I desire you to recall your words.”
An indignant refusal from Lord Alfred apparently exasperated the young blackleg beyond endurance, and raising his horsewhip threateningly, he advanced a step towards his opponent. As he did so, a heavy hand was pressed against his chest, effectually barring his farther progress, while a deep voice said sternly, “Stand back, sir! I should have thought you had been on the turf long enough to recognize a gentleman when you see him, and to know that such persons are not to be bullied, though they may be swindled. Let me give you a word of advice: you will have quite enough on your hands to get out of this morning’s work without some unpleasant exposé. Your associate, Captain O’Brien, seems inclined to be disagreeably communicative—don’t get yourself horsewhipped into the bargain!”
When Coverdale made the reference to O’Brien, Phil Tirrett turned pale, and gnawed his under lip in fruitless anger; but, as he concluded, he got up the steam sufficiently to inquire, with an insolent laugh, “Horsewhipped, eh?—who’s likely to do it, I should like to know?”
“I am,” was Coverdale’s quiet answer. Their eyes met—but Tirrett could not endure Harry’s steadfast gaze; so, favouring him with a most melodramatic scowl of hatred, he slunk away through the crowd. After much angry altercation, Captain O’Brien’s horse was withdrawn—other preliminaries of the race settled—and the time appointed for starting drew nigh, when Captain Annesley lounged up to Lord Alfred Courtland, and, twisting his moustaches, drawled out, “Haw! ar ’spose yur ’ware m’lord that—haw—tha’re all gentlemen riders?—eh! yur friend comes under that denomination, ’spose, haw?”
“When the officers of the ——th chose me as umpire about a disputed stroke at billiards, and I decided in favour of one Cornet Annesley, he did not object to the verdict on the score of my position,” returned Coverdale, with quiet self-possession; upon which the captain muttered—
“Hey, haw, Mr. Coverdale, aw think—arm sor davlish shortsighted—ar reely didn’t recognize yar—haw! beg par’n, reely,” and lounged off considerably discomposed.
After the ceremony of weighing the riders had been satisfactorily performed, and other preliminaries arranged, the bell rang for saddling, and Coverdale, flinging off his wrapper, and removing a pair of leggings which had effectually concealed his top-boots, appeared in full and appropriate racing costume, to Lord Alfred’s intense surprise.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as the blue silk racing shirt revealed its glories to his astonished optics—“by Jove! Coverdale, you really are one of the most wonderful fellows I ever came across; why, you were not aware two hours ago that there was a chance of your being required to ride this race, and yet you come togged out in as noble and appropriate garments as if you had been preparing for the last month—it is all a perfect mystery to me!”
“The mystery is easily explained,” returned Harry, laughing at his companion’s puzzled look. “When I left your rooms this morning, the idea of riding for you had already occurred to me; it so happened that I, when last in town, ordered a new pair of hunting breeches and boots of my tailor and boot-maker, which I knew would be ready for me to jump into; the tailor directed me to a masquerade warehouse, where I procured the racing shirt; and I purchased the wrapper and leggings ready made. In the carpet-bag I have a coat, which I could have put on at the stables, had Tirrett chosen, at the last moment, to keep his engagement with you: so you see there’s no magic in the business, after all.”
As he spoke, Don Pasquale, arching his neck, snorting, laying back his ears and pointing them forward alternately, rolling his eyes until the whites were plainly visible, and altogether showing symptoms of a temperament quite unlike that popularly attributed to the genus pet lamb, was led in by Dick and an attendant satellite, at the imminent risk of their respective lives and limbs. As the clothing was removed, Coverdale scrutinized him narrowly without speaking; at length he exclaimed—“He’s a devil, that there’s no mistaking; but he’s a splendid horse: if he’s sound, and it’s at all possible to screw him along, I’ll give you all the money you paid for him, and fifty pounds to the back of that, if you don’t like to part with him under.”
“My dear Coverdale, in that and everything else I shall be guided by your wishes,” was the reply. “I’d make you a free gift of him, and be glad to get rid of the brute, if it wasn’t for the money I owe.”
At this moment, the groom made a signal, to which Coverdale immediately attended.
“The longer he stays in this here crowd and bustle, the wilder and savager he’ll get, and the worser he’ll be to mount; so the sooner I sees yer honour in the saddle, the better I shall be pleased.”
“All serene, Dick,” returned Harry, cheerfully. “Wish me luck and keep your spirits up, Alfred, my boy!” he continued, shaking his companion’s hand heartily: then, with a nod to the groom, to announce his intention, he approached the horse leisurely, and watching his opportunity, waited until something had attracted the animal’s notice, and caused it to turn its head in an opposite direction; when, placing his foot quietly in the stirrup, he was firmly seated before Don Pasquale became aware of his intention, or had time to attempt any resistance. Slowly gathering up the reins, Coverdale desired Dick to “give him his head;” the first use he made of it being to place it between his fore legs with a jerk, which if his rider had not judiciously yielded to it, would have pulled the reins from his grasp But Don Pasquale had an object in thus lowering his haughty crest—namely, at the same time to fling up his heels, and eject the intruder who had dared so unceremoniously to usurp the seat of dominion on his august back, much as a stone is hurled from a sling. Harry, however, being prepared for any eccentricity of motion on the part of the amiable quadruped he bestrode, retained his seat in spite of the Don’s strenuous efforts to dislodge him; a performance which appeared to astonish and impress the creature to such a degree, that he tossed up his head so suddenly as to render Dick’s caution in regard to “knocking out brains” by no means a superfluous figure of speech, and abruptly started off in a kind of half-sidling, half-dancing canter. Having indulged the Don with a preliminary gallop up and down the first quarter of a mile of the course, during which he amused himself by occasionally lashing out in a way which soon obtained for him those popular desiderata—a clear course and no favour, Harry brought him back to the starting-post just as Phil Tirrett appeared, looking the perfection of a jockey, and mounted on a splendid black thorough-bred, which Coverdale conjectured must be—from its superiority to every other horse on the course—Captain Annesley’s Black Eagle. At this moment, Dick, the groom, handed Coverdale a leaf of a betting-book, crumpled up into the form of a note; seizing an opportunity when his horse was for an instant quiet, Harry opened it, and read the following words:—
“Hond sur, Black hegel’s wery prity to luke hat, but he han’t got the Don’s pluck, nor P. T. hun’t got yourn—hin ther last field but won ther’s a corner may be cut hoff by taking a dich with a low ston warl hon the bank abuv, and a rail atop—hits a properly dangrus leep, but if our ’orse is rode boldly and aint blowd, he’ll face hit and clear hit, hand B. E. and P. T. won’t.—Yr humbel survent, Dick Dodge.”
Hastily casting his eye over it, Harry caught the general meaning of the note, and, tearing it, he gave his confidential adviser a glance, which so clearly conveyed his recognition of the merits of his scheme, that Dick in soliloquy confided to himself, that he was at that moment open to be “blowed” if it was not his conviction that if Coverdale could keep his seat for the first five minutes, he might do the trick after all. As Harry rode up to the starting-post, Tirrett perceived, from his firm but easy seat in the saddle, his strong yet light hand on the rein, restraining without irritating his horse, that he had a first-rate rider to contend against; and knowing, as no one did so well as himself, the powers of the animal on which Coverdale was mounted, he, for the first time since he had refused to ride for Lord Alfred, felt anxious as to the result of the race, which, reckoning it completely secure, he had betted on much more largely than was his habit. After relieving his feelings by a muttered volley of oaths, he continued mentally,—
“This is pleasant: the fellow sits his horse as composedly as if he were in an arm-chair! he seems to understand the temper of the brute too! I suppose Dick has put him up to that, in revenge for the blow I gave him. I’ve got a frightfully heavy book on the event—nearly £1000. I was a fool to risk it; and yet I thought the money was as safe as if it had been in my pocket. I never expected the horse would have trained sound as he has; if I’d been sure of that I would have ridden him myself. Well, the race must be won at all hazards; if the Don would but get into one of his tantarums now, nobody that didn’t know his ways could sit him. Ha; yes, a good idea; I think it maybe done that way—and yet it’s hazardous—but I won’t be rash—only Black Eagle must not lose, whatever may be the consequence.” While such thoughts as these were passing hurriedly through his brain, the signal was given, and the horses started.