Esther Waters by George Moore (page 6)

a rich man if I’d all the money that man ‘as ‘ad out of me in the last three years.”

“What should you say was his system?” asked Mr. Stack.

“I don’t know no more than yerselves.”

This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado.

“But did you ever notice,” said Mr. Ketley, “that there was certain days on which he bet?”

“No, I never noticed that.”

“Are they outsiders that he backs?” asked Stack.

“No, only favourites. But what I can’t make out is that there are times when he won’t touch them; and when he don’t, nine times out of ten they’re beaten.”

“Are the ‘orses he backs what you’d call well in?” said Journeyman.

“Not always.”

“Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?” said Stack.

“I dun know,” said William; “have it that way if you like, but I’m glad there ain’t many about like him. I wish he’d take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do.”

“What sort of man should you say he was? ‘as he been a servant, should you say?” asked old John.

“I can’t tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that ‘ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don’t bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn’t see the people, and he don’t care that for the ‘orses. Knowing he don’t mean no business, I cries to him, ‘The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.’ He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm ‘un; he is just about as ‘ot as they make ’em.”

“What I can’t make out,” said Journeyman, “is why he bets on the course. You say he don’t know nothing about horses. Why don’t he remain at ‘ome and save the exes?”

“I’ve thought of all that,” said William, “and can’t make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six ‘undred a year.”

At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all–a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman.

“Won’t you step round, sir, to the private bar?” said William. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I’d come in and have a look round…. I see that you haven’t forgotten the old horses,” he said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer’s Dean which William had hung on the wall. “That was a great day, wasn’t it? Fifty to one chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry…. Hullo, John! very glad to see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?”

The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, and as the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across the bar.

“I ‘ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir,” said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne.

Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six.

“Do you know him?” said William.

“Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night–Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton.”

The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat.

“You’d better ‘ave the coat,” he said; “you won’t better it;” and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. “Glass of porter; nice warm weather, good for the ‘arvest. Just come up from the country–a bit dusty, ain’t I?”

“Ain’t you the chap,” said William, “what laid Mr. Ketley six ‘alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads?”

Charles nodded, and William continued–

“I like your cheek coming into my bar.”

“No harm done, gov’nor; no one was about; wouldn’t ‘ave done it if they had.”

“That’ll do,” said William. “… No, he don’t want the coat. We likes to know where our things comes from.”

Bill Evans finished his glass. “Good-night, guv’nor; no ill-feeling.”

The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. “Take it for love,” she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together.

“I don’t like the looks of that chap,” said William, and he let go the champagne cork. “Yer health, sir.” They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next week’s racing.

“I dun know about next week’s events,” said old John, “but I’ve heard of something for the Leger–an outsider will win.”

“Have you backed it?”

“I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky with me lately. But I’d advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It’s the best tip I ‘ave had in my life.”

“Really!” said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, “so I will, and so shall you. I’m damned if you shan’t have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the odds. What is it?”

“Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir.”

“Why, I thought that–“

“No such thing, sir; Briar Rose’s the one.”

Ginger took up the paper. “Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken.”

“You see, sir, it was taken.”

“Will you lay the price, William–twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?”

“Yes, I’ll lay it.”

Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker.

“I never take money over this bar. You’re good for a thin ‘un, sir,” William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money.

“But I don’t know when I shall see you again,” said Ginger. “It will be very inconvenient. There’s no one in the bar.”

“None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don’t matter?”

Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless.

XXXI

Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, between which the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night at the “King’s Head.” Ketley’s wife used to wear a string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn’t certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that–not being much of a reader. So what with one thing and another Ketley didn’t believe much in this ‘ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn’t Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John’s experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. “When they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about enough of it.” Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on Dewberry. He didn’t know much about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him; “and when I know the stable-money is right I says, ‘That’s good enough for me!'”

Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to with awed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he described how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn’t have ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider’s opinion worth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger’s magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was good enough for him. He didn’t suppose the guv’nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten.

“Turn it up, old mate,” said William.

“All right, guv’nor, I never presses my goods on them that don’t want ’em. If there’s any other gentleman who would like to look at this ‘ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they’re in for fifteen shillings. Here’s the ticket. I’m a bit short of money, and have a fancy for a certain outsider. I’d like to have my bit on, and I’ll dispose of the ticket for–what do you say to a thin ‘un, Mr. Ketley?”

“Did you ‘ear me speak just now?” William answered angrily, “or shall I have to get over the counter?”

“I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?” said Ginger.

“No, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a race run.”

“How’s that, shouldn’t you care?”

“You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there’s the house to look after.”

“I never thought of it before,” said William. “You’ve never seen a race run, no more you haven’t. Would you care to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther?”

“I think I should.”

At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, “We shall lose our licence if—-“

“If we don’t get out,” said Ginger.

William apologised.

“The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can’t serve any more liquor to-night…. Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in…. Now, gentlemen, gentlemen.”

Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. A few minutes after the house was closed.

A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour’s work before bed-time, and then they lighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs.

William flung off his coat. “I’m dead beat,” he said, “and all this to lose—-” He didn’t finish the sentence. Esther said–

“You’ve a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider’ll win.”

“I ‘ope so…. But if you’d care to see the race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you.”

“I don’t know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither.”

They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes….

“I wonder if there’s any one going who you’d care for?”

“I don’t care a bit about it, Bill.” The conversation paused. At the end of a long silence William said–

“It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much should never have seen a race.” Esther didn’t answer. She was falling asleep, and William’s voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a great shove. “Wake up, old girl, I’ve got it. Why not ask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she’s out of situation. It’ll be a nice treat for her.”

“Ah…. I should like to see Sarah again.”

“You’re half asleep.”

“No, I’m not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us.”

William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides, the road wasn’t what it used to be; every one goes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah’s address.

Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed and said–

“I think it will be a fine day, Esther.” He took out his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said–

“Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes.”

“Is it time to get up?”

“Yes, I should think it was. For God’s sake, get up.”

She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the door.

“All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife’s not dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther.”

Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there isn’t no time to lose if the governor don’t want to lose his place on the ‘ill.”

“Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don’t stand there talking.”

The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly as large as a sixpence.

“You’ll wear the green tie, sir?” William nodded. The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. “I’ve got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?”

William glanced at the bouquet. “They look a bit loud,” he said; “I’ll wait till we get on the course; put them in the bag.”

The card to be worn in the white hat–“William Latch, London,” in gold letters on a green ground–was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, on which was written in gold letters, “William Latch, ‘The King’s Head,’ London. Fair prices, prompt payment.”

It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul’s on one side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men–here and there a girl’s dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said–

“We shall be late; we shall have to go without her.”

Esther’s face clouded. “We can’t go without her; don’t be so impatient.” At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, “I think that that’s Sarah.”

“You can chatter in the train–you’ll have a whole hour to talk about each other’s dress; get in, get in,” and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarah was the first to speak.

“I was kind of you to think of me. So you’ve married, and to him after all!” she added, lowering her voice.

Esther laughed. “It do seem strange, don’t it?”

“You’ll tell me all about it,” she said. “I wonder we didn’t run across one another before.”

They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil.

The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, ‘buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago.

The men puffed at their pipes, and old John’s anecdotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofs which they carried on their arms.

They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line was blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreading trees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer’s day.

XXXII

It had been arranged that William should don his betting toggery at the “Spread Eagle Inn.” It stood at the cross-roads, only a little way from the station–a square house with a pillared porch. Even at this early hour the London pilgrimage was filing by. Horses were drinking in the trough; their drivers were drinking in the bar; girls in light dresses shared glasses of beer with young men. But the greater number of vehicles passed without stopping, anxious to get on the course. They went round the turn in long procession, a policeman on a strong horse occupied the middle of the road. The waggonettes and coaches had red-coated guards, and the air was rent with the tooting of the long brass horns. Every kind of dingy trap went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by only one horse–shays half a century old jingled along; there were even donkey-carts. Esther and Sarah were astonished at the number of costers, but old John told them that that was nothing to what it was fifty years ago. The year that Andover won the block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They were often half-an-hour without moving. Such chaffing and laughing, the coster cracked his joke with the duke, but all that was done away with now.

“Gracious!” said Esther, when William appeared in his betting toggery. “I shouldn’t have known you.”

He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green necktie, yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold inscription, “Mr. William Latch, London.”

“It’s all right,” he said; “you never saw me before in these togs–fine, ain’t they? But we’re very late. Mr. North has offered to run me up to the course, but he’s only two places. Teddy and me must be getting along–but you needn’t hurry. The races won’t begin for hours yet. It’s only about a mile–a nice walk. These gentlemen will look after you. You know where to find me,” he said, turning to John and Walter. “You’ll look after my wife and Miss Tucker, won’t you?” and forthwith he and Teddy jumped into a waggonette and drove away.

“Well, that’s what I calls cheek,” said Sarah. “Going off by himself in a waggonette and leaving us to foot it.”

“He must look after his place on the ‘ill or else he’ll do no betting,” said Journeyman. “We’ve plenty of time; racing don’t begin till after one.”

Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened John’s tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the great days when Sir Thomas Hayward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three times over against the favourite. The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Duke would not accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; but Sarah looked at the old man with a look that said, “Well, if I’m to pass the day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again…. Come on in front,” she whispered to Esther, “and let them talk about their racing by themselves.” The way led through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passed by a fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. “Do you hear what they’re saying about the fish?” said Sarah.

“Don’t pay no attention to them,” said Esther. “If you knew as much about drunkards as I do, you’d want no telling to give them a wide berth…. Isn’t the country lovely? Isn’t the air soft and warm?”

“Oh, I don’t want no more country. I’m that glad to get back to town. I wouldn’t take another situation out of London if I was offered twenty a year.”

“But look,” said Esther, “at the trees. I’ve hardly been in the country since I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich the country–that’s where Jackie was at nurse.”

The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane overhung with chestnut and laburnum trees. The spring had been late, and the white blossoms stood up like candles–the yellow dropped like tassels, and the streaming sunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their light shadows patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon this pleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horses harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill leading to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, and the blown dust whitened the foliage and the wayside grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowd made way for the traps; and the young men in blue and grey trousers, and their girls in white dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringing along the tall drag crowned with London fashion. There the unwieldly omnibus and the brake filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and there the spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gates were crowded with folk come to see London going to the Derby. Outhouses had been converted into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell of beer and oranges; further on there was a lamentable harmonium–a blind man singing hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hat for alms; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed woman offering tracts, warning folk of their danger, beseeching them to retrace their steps.

At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the hilltop in a glare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where donkeys were tethered.

“Is this the Derby?” said Sarah.

“I hope you’re not disappointed?”

“No, dear; but where’s all the people–the drags, the carriages?”

“We’ll see them presently,” said old John, and he volunteered some explanations. The white building was the Grand Stand. The winning-post was a little further this way.

“Where do they start?” said Sarah.

“Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run through the furze right up to Tattenham Corner.”

A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and beyond the crowd the women saw a piece of open downland dotted with bushes, and rising in gentle incline to a belt of trees which closed the horizon. “Where them trees are, that’s _Tattenham Corner_.” The words seemed to fill old John with enthusiasm, and he described how the horses came round this side of the trees. “They comes right down that ‘ere ‘ill–there’s the dip–and they finishes opposite to where we is standing. Yonder, by Barnard’s Ring.”

“What, all among the people?” said Sarah.

“The police will get the people right back up the hill.”

“That’s where we shall find William,” said Esther.

“I’m getting a bit peckish; ain’t you, dear? He’s got the luncheon-basket…. but, lor’, what a lot of people! Look at that.”

What had attracted Sarah’s attention was a boy walking through the crowd on a pair of stilts fully eight feet high. He uttered short warning cries from time to time, held out his wide trousers and caught pennies in his conical cap. Drags and carriages continued to arrive. The sweating horses were unyoked, and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into position along the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine and provisions, and the flutter of table-cloths had begun to attract vagrants, itinerant musicians, fortune-tellers, begging children. All these plied their trades round the fashion of grey frock-coats and silk sun-shades. Along the rails rough fellows lay asleep; the place looked like a vast dormitory; they lay with their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking from under the brims, their brown-red hands upon the grey grass.

Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to meet a friend who would give him the very latest news respecting a certain horse; and Esther, Sarah, and Journeyman wandered along the course in search of William. Along the rails strangely-dressed men stood on stools, satchels and race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in their button-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was stretched a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of these names out: “Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All bets paid.” “Tom Wood’s famous boxing rooms, Epsom.” “James Webster, Commission Agent, London.” And these betting men bawled the prices from the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filled with money, to attract custom. “What can I do for you to-day, sir?” they shouted when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed man. “On the Der-by, on the Der-by, I’ll bet the Der-by…. To win or a place, to win or a place, to win or a place–seven to one bar two or three, seven to one bar two or three…. the old firm, the old firm,”–like so many challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other.

Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large and commodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was the West London Gospel-tent. He thought the parson would have it pretty well all to himself, and they stopped before a van filled with barrels of Watford ales. A barrel had been taken from the van and placed on a small table; glasses of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd; and all around were little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, “‘Commodation, ‘commodation.”

The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated away like filaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling with flies, stood out distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue. The light beat fiercely upon the booths, the carriages, the vehicles, the “rings,” the various stands. The country around was lost in the haze and dazzle of the sunlight; but a square mile of downland fluttered with flags and canvas, and the great mob swelled, and smoked, and drank, shied sticks at Aunt Sally, and rode wooden horses. And through this crush of perspiring, shrieking humanity Journeyman, Esther, and Sarah sought vainly for William. The form of the ground was lost in the multitude and they could only tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were walking up or down hill. Sarah declared herself to be done up, and it was with difficulty that she was persuaded to persevere a little longer. At last Journeyman caught sight of the bookmaker’s square shoulders.

“Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, ladies? Ten to one bar three or four. Will that suit you?”

“The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better,” said Sarah.

At that moment a chap came up jingling two half-crowns in his hand. “What price the favourite?” “Two to one,” cried William. The two half-crowns were dropped into the satchel, and, thus encouraged, William called out louder than ever, “The old firm, the old firm; don’t forget the old firm.” There was a smile on his lips while he halloaed–a cheery, good-natured smile, which made him popular and brought him many a customer.

“On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!” All kinds and conditions of men came to make bets with him; custom was brisk; he could not join the women, who were busy with the lunch-basket, but he and Teddy would be thankful for the biggest drink they could get them. “Ginger beer with a drop of whiskey in it, that’s about it, Teddy?”

“Yes, guv’nor, that’ll do for me…. We’re getting pretty full on Dewberry; might come down a point, I think.”

“All right, Teddy…. And if you’d cut us a couple each of strong sandwiches–you can manage a couple, Teddy?”

“I think I can, guv’nor.”

There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and Esther cut several large sandwiches, buttering the bread thickly and adding plenty of mustard. When she brought them over William bent down and whispered–

“My own duck of a wife, there’s no one like her.”

Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and every trace of the resentment for the suffering he had occasioned her dropped out of her heart. For the first time he was really her husband; for the first time she felt that sense of unity in life which is marriage, and knew henceforth he was the one thing that she had to live for.

After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no way with Sarah, took his leave, pleading that he had some friends to meet in Barnard’s Ring. They were glad to be rid of him. Sarah had many a tale to tell; and while listening to the matrimonial engagements that had been broken off, Esther shifted her parasol from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt husband. He shouted the odds, willing to bet against every horse, distributed tickets to the various folk that crowded round him, each with his preference, his prejudice, his belief in omens, in tips, or in the talent and luck of a favourite jockey. Sarah continued her cursive chatter regarding the places she had served in. She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it would not look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking, and both women fell asleep under the shade of their parasols. It was the shallow, glassy sleep of the open air, through which they divined easily the great blur that was the race-course.

They could hear William’s voice, and they heard a bell ring and shouts of “Here they come!” Then a lull came, and their perceptions grew a little denser, and when they awoke the sky was the same burning blue, and the multitude moved to and fro like puppets.

Sarah was in no better temper after than before her sleep. “It’s all very well for you,” she said. “You have your husband to look after…. I’ll never come to the Derby again without a young man… I’m tired of sitting here, the grass is roasting. Come for a walk.”

They were two nice-looking English women of the lower classes, prettily dressed in light gowns with cheap sunshades in their cotton-gloved hands. Sarah looked at every young man with regretful eyes. In such moods acquaintanceships are made; and she did not allow Esther to shake off Bill Evans, who, just as if he had never been turned out of the bar of the “King’s Head,” came up with his familiar, “Good morning, ma’am–lovely weather for the races.” Sarah’s sidelong glances at the blue Melton jacket and the billycock hat defined her feelings with sufficient explicitness, and it was not probable that any warning would have been heeded. Soon they were engaged in animated conversation, and Esther was left to follow them if she liked.

She walked by Sarah’s side, quite ignored, until she was accosted by Fred Parsons. They were passing by the mission tent, and Fred was calling upon the folk to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans was about to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that “the Christian” knew Esther he checked himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, and Bill seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah.

“I didn’t expect to meet you here, Esther.”

“I’m here with my husband. He said a little pleasure—-“

“This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is drunkenness and debauchery. I hope you’ll never come again, unless you come with us,” he said, pointing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salvation and Perdition written on the satchels hung round their shoulders. They sought to persuade the passers-by to come into the tent. “We shall be very glad to see you,” they said, and they distributed mock racing cards on which was inscribed news regarding certain imaginary racing. “The Paradise Plate, for all comers,” “The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness added.”

Fred repeated his request. “I hope the next time you come here it will be with us; you’ll strive to collect some of Christ’s lost sheep.”

“And my husband making a book yonder?”

An awkward silence intervened, and then he said–

“Won’t you come in; service is going on?”

Esther followed him. In the tent there were some benches, and on a platform a grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners and redemption. Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, standing side by side, Esther and Fred sang together. Prayer was so inherent in her that she felt no sense of incongruity, and had she been questioned she would have answered that it did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can always have God in our hearts.

Fred followed her out.

“You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?”

“No, I never could forget that.”

“Then why do I find you in such company? You don’t come here like us to find sinners.”

“I haven’t forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my husband. It would be like setting myself up against my husband’s business, and you don’t think I ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the family is not a good wife, so I’ve often heard.”

“You always thought more of your husband than of Christ, Esther.”

“Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be wrong of me to set myself against my husband.”

“So he married you?” Fred answered bitterly.

“Yes. You thought he’d desert me a second time; but he’s been the best of husbands.”

“I place little reliance on those who are not with Christ. His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him. I loved you very deeply, Esther. I would have brought you to Christ…. But perhaps you’ll come to see us sometimes.”

“I do not forget Christ. He’s always with me, and I believe you did care for me. I was sorry to break it off, you know I was. It was not my fault.”

“Esther, it was I who loved you.”

“You mustn’t talk like that. I’m a married woman.”

“I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the past.”

“You must forget all that… Good-bye; I’m glad to have seen you, and that we said a prayer together.”

Fred didn’t answer, and Esther moved away, wondering where she should find Sarah.

XXXIII

The crowd shouted. She looked where the others looked, but saw only the burning blue with the white stand marked upon it. It was crowded like the deck of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excitement, the cause of which was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the crowd until she came to a chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A little higher up she entered the crowd again, and came suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill, and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was shot back again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this mock voyaging was accomplished to the sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells and drums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechanically, and a little soldier beat the time. Further on, under a striped awning, were the wooden horses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real horses. Esther watched the riders. A blue skirt looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pink leaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught how to ride. A girl in a grey jacket encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blue Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and she had to wait until his horse came round the second time. At that moment she caught sight of the red poppies in Sarah’s hat.

The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and slower, then stopped altogether. The riders began to dismount and Esther pressed through the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to overtake her friends.

“Oh, here you are,” said Sarah. “I thought I never should find you again. How hot it is!”

“Were you on in that ride? Let’s have another, all three of us. These three horses.”

Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up and down to the sound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They passed the winning-post many times; they had to pass it five times, and the horse that stopped nearest it won the prize. A long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up from the course–a murmur which at last passed into words: “Here they come; blue wins, the favourite’s beat.” Esther paid little attention to these cries; she did not understand them; they reached her indistinctly and soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that accompanied the circling horses. These had now begun to slacken speed…. They went slower and slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided by the winning-post. Esther’s steed stopped in time, and she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap.

“You’ve all the luck to-day,” said Bill. “Hayfield, who was backed all the winter, broke down a month ago…. 2 to 1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 against Signet-ring, 4 to 1 against Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winner at 50 to 1 offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune. Never was there such a day for the bookies.”

Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided which mug she should choose. At last she saw one on which “Jack” was written in gold letters. They then visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James’s Park with the Horse Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stir them, and Sarah couldn’t find a single young man to her taste in the House of Commons. Among the performing birds they liked best a canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by the American strength-testers, and he gave an exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah’s very great admiration. They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by J. Bilton’s great bowling saloon without visiting it. Once more the air was rent with the cries of “Here they come! Here they come!” Even the ‘commodation men left their canvas shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. A moment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the blue air and then departed in different directions, some making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious evening that had risen about the Downs–the sun-baked Downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and women, a screaming and disordered animality.

“Well, so you’ve come back at last,” said William. “The favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that a rank outsider won. But what about this gentleman?”

“Met these ‘ere ladies on the ‘ill an’ been showing them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv’nor?”

William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a manner that told Esther that they had arranged to meet again.

“Where did you pick up that bloke?”

“He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak to the parson.”

“To the parson. What do you mean?”

The circumstance was explained, and William asked them what they thought of the racing.

“We didn’t see no racing,” said Sarah; “we was on the ‘ill on the wooden ‘orses. Esther’s ‘orse won. She got a mug; show the mug, Esther.”

“So you saw no Derby after all?” said William.

“Saw no racin’!” said his neighbour; “ain’t she won the cup?”

The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that they were being laughed at.

“Come up here, Esther,” said William; “stand on my box. The ‘orses are just going up the course for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, take Teddy’s place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up.”

“Yes, guv’nor. Come up ‘ere, ma’am.”

“And is those the ‘orses?” said Sarah. “They do seem small.”

The ringmen roared. “Not up to those on the ‘ill, ma’am,” said one. “Not such beautiful goers,” said another.

There were two or three false starts, and then, looking through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poor chestnut that trotted in among the crowd.

This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been beaten; there were no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began to prepare for departure. It was the poor little clerks who were charged with the luggage. Teddy did not seem as if he would ever reach the top of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard to get through the block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with their harness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A young aristocrat cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a blast as the drag rolled away. It was like the instinct of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain moment. The great landscape, half country, half suburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the white dust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and carriages and every crazy vehicle rolled towards London; orange-sellers, tract-sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various quarters–roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the “Spread Eagle” there would be stoppage for a parting drink, there the bookmakers would change their clothes, and there division would happen in the crowd–half for the railway station, half for the London road. It was there that the traditional sports of the road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry, and threatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two poles erected, and hanging on a string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A horse, with his fore-legs clothed in a pair of lady’s drawers. Naturally unconscious of the garment, the horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarah thought they’d choke with laughter.

At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he caught sight of on the platform. He had backed the winner–forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketley was at the Derby; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told him a wonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had come right this time, and Journeyman took a back seat.

“Say what you like,” said William, “it is damned strange; and if anyone did find the way of reading them omens there would be an end of us bookmakers.” He was only half in earnest, but he regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had only had a fiver on the horse–200 to 5!

They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one wanted to hear from his own lips the story of the packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed they should all come up to the “King’s Head” for a drink. The omnibus took them as far as Piccadilly Circus; and there the weight of his satchel tempted William to invite them to dinner, regardless of expense.

“Which is the best dinner here?” he asked the commissionaire.

“The East Room is reckoned the best, sir.”

The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables, and the beauty of an open evening bodice and the black and white elegance of the young men at dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them feel that they were out of place in such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up a napkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketley proposed the grill room, but William, who had had a glass more than was good for him, declared that he didn’t care a damn–that he could buy up the whole blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private room; it was abruptly declined, and William took up the menu. “Bisque Soup, what’s that? You ought to know, John.” John shook his head. “Ris de veau! That reminds me of when—-” William stopped and looked round to see if his former wife was in the room. Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned to send them up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made to the dust and heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, and they inquired their way to the lavatories. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the men, and stood dismayed at the top of the room till William called for them. The other guests seemed a little terrified, and the head-waiter, to reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day.

William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to any one’s taste except, perhaps, to Sarah, whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did the delicate food afford much satisfaction; the servants played with it, and left it on their plates; and it was not until William ordered up the saddle of mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take hold of the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the little glasses of brandy only served to augment the general tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for a bottle of Jamieson eight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as drunk as they pleased. William said, “Now let’s ‘ear the blo—-the bloody omen that put ye on to Sultan–that blood–packet of Turkish Delight.”

“Most extra–most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life, so yer ‘ere?” said Ketley, staring at William and trying to see him distinctly.

William nodded. “How was it? We want to ‘ear all about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley is go–going to tell us about the bloody omen. Thought you’d like to he–ar, old girl.”

Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from school, and a piece of paper on the pavement. But Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts on the main lines of the story, and it was lost in various dissertations. But the company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly declared that bookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to one, and you could make as much in one bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging from race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, and quarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking very pale. Old John was quite helpless; Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very kindly promised to look after him.

Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not drunk; and when they got outside Sarah felt obliged to step aside; she came back, saying that she felt a little better.

They stood on the pavement’s edge, a little puzzled by the brilliancy of the moonlight. And the three men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, “I don’t think much of it; all I live for is beer and women.” The phrase caught on William’s ear, and he said, “Quite right, old mate,” and he held out his hand to Bill Evans. “Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, but we mustn’t let them hear us say it.” The men shook hands, and Bill promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by surprise.

XXXIV

Things went well enough as long as her savings lasted. When her money was gone Bill returned to the race-course in the hope of doing a bit of welshing. Soon after he was “wanted” by the police; they escaped to Belgium, and it devolved on Sarah to support him. The hue and cry over, they came back to London.

She had been sitting up for him; he had come home exasperated and disappointed. A row soon began; and she thought that he would strike her. But he refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He took her instead by the arm, dragged her down the broken staircase, and pushed her into the court. She heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slink through a grating, and she wished that she too could escape from the light into the dark.

A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, and the city stood up like a prison, hard and stark in the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon a pillar’s base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen’s shelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and the pigeons came down from their roosts. She was dressed in an old black dress, her hands lay upon her knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair and wretchedness in her soul that a young man in evening clothes, who had looked sharply at her as he passed, turned and came back to her, and he asked her if he could assist her. She answered, “Thank you, sir.” He slipped a shilling into her hand. She was too broken-hearted to look up in his face, and he walked away wondering what was her story. The disordered red hair, the thin, freckled face, were expressive, and so too was the movement of her body when she got up and walked, not knowing and not caring where she was going. There was sensation of the river in her thoughts; the river drew her, and she indistinctly remembered that she would find relief there if she chose to accept that relief. The water was blue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to end her life’s trouble. She could not go on living. She could not bear with her life any longer, and yet she knew that she would not drown herself that morning. There was not enough will in her to drown herself. She was merely half dead with grief. He had turned her out, he had said that he never wanted to see her again, but that was because he had been unlucky. She ought to have gone to bed and not waited up for him; he didn’t know what he was doing; so long as he didn’t care for another woman there was hope that he might come back to her. The spare trees rustled their leaves in the bright dawn air, and she sat down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, and the river changing from blue to brown. Hours passed, and the same thoughts came and went, until with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep.

She was awakened by the policeman, and she once more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun; women were coming from market with baskets on their arms; and she wondered if their lovers and husbands were unfaithful to them, if they would be received with blows or knocks when they returned. Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a blow; and God knows she had striven to pick out the piece of bacon that she thought he would like, and it was not her fault that she couldn’t get any money nowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would find another woman to care for him more than she did…. Esther had a good husband, Esther had always been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so tired, so tired. The milk-women were calling their ware–those lusty short-skirted women that bring an air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down on a doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, vaguely conscious of the low vice which still lingered there though the morning was advancing. She turned up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of Dean Street she watched to see if the shutters were yet down. She thought they were, and then saw that she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to wait, and on the steps of the Royalty Theatre she waited. The sun was shining, and she watched the cab horses, until the potboy came through and began cleaning the street lamp. She didn’t care to ask him any questions; dressed as she was, he might answer her rudely. She wanted to see Esther first. Esther would pity and help her. So she did not go directly to the “King’s Head,” but went up the street a little way and came back. The boy’s back was turned to her; she peeped through the doors. There was no one in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the theatre. A number of children were playing there, and they did not make way for her to sit down. She was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and down the street. When she looked through the doors a second time Esther was in the bar.

“Is that you, Sarah?”

“Yes, it is me.”

“Then come in…. How is it that we’ve not seen you all this time? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this morning, and I’ve been walking about ever since.”

“Bill put you out of doors? I don’t understand.”

“You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race-course, the day we went to the Derby…. It began there. He took me home after your dinner at the ‘Criterion.’… It has been going on ever since.”

“Good Lord! …Tell me about it.”

Leaning against the partition that separated the bars, Sarah told how she had left her home and gone to live with him.

“We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after him, and we made off to Belgium. There we was very hard up, and I had to go out on the streets.”

“He made you do that?”

“He couldn’t starve, could he?”

The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. She told how they had come to London, penniless. “I think he wants to turn honest,” she said, “but luck’s been dead against him…. It’s that difficult for one like him, and he’s been in work, but he can’t stick to it; and now I don’t know what he’s doing–no good, I fancy. Last night I got anxious and couldn’t sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don’t think I’m as bad as that; I’ve led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don’t matter now, it can’t be helped, it is all over with me. I don’t care what becomes of me, only I thought I’d like to come and tell you. We was always friends.”

“You mustn’t give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You’re dead beat…. You’ve been walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and have some breakfast with us.”

“I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I got over that.”

“Come into the parlour. You’ll be better when you’ve had breakfast. We’ll see what we can do for you.”

“Oh, Esther, not a word of what I’ve been telling you to your husband. I don’t want to get Bill into trouble. He’d kill me. Promise me not to mention a word of it. I oughtn’t to have told you. I was so tired that I didn’t know what I was saying.”

There was plenty to eat–fried fish, a nice piece of steak, tea and coffee. “You seem to live pretty well,” said Sarah, “It must be nice to have a servant of one’s own. I suppose you’re doing pretty well here.”

“Yes, pretty well, if it wasn’t for William’s health.”

“What’s the matter? Ain’t he well?”

“He’s been very poorly lately. It’s very trying work going about from race-course to race-course, standing in the mud and wet all day long…. He caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with inflammation of the lungs, and I don’t think he ever quite got over it.”

“Don’t he go no more to race meetings?”

“He hasn’t been to a race meeting since the beginning of the winter. It was one of them nasty steeplechase meetings that laid him up.”

“Do ‘e drink?”

“He’s never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don’t suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, great strong-built fellow that he is, but he’s found out his mistake.”

“He does his betting in London now, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Esther, hesitating–“when he has any to do. I want him to give it up; but trade is bad in this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and he don’t think we could do without it.”

“It’s very hard to keep it dark; some one’s sure to crab it and bring the police down on you.”

Esther did not answer; the conversation paused, and William entered. “Halloa! is that you, Sarah? We didn’t know what had become of you all this time.” He noticed that she looked like one in trouble, and was very poorly dressed. She noticed that his cheeks were thinner than they used to be, and that his broad chest had sunk, and that there seemed to be strangely little space between it and his back. Then in brief phrases, interrupting each other frequently, the women told the story. William said–

“I knew he was a bad lot. I never liked to see him inside my bar.”

“I thought,” said Esther, “that Sarah might remain here for a time.”

“I can’t have that fellow coming round my place.”

“There’s no fear of his coming after me. He don’t want to see my ugly face again. Well, let him try to find some one who will do for him all I have done.”

“Until she gets a situation,” said Esther. “I think that’ll be the best, for you to stop here until you get a situation.”

“And what about a character?”

“You needn’t say much about what you’ve been doing this last twelve months; if many questions are asked, you can say you’ve been stopping with us. But you mustn’t see that brute again. If he ever comes into that ‘ere bar, I’ll give him a piece of my mind. I’d give him more than a piece of my mind if I was the man I was a twelvemonth ago.” William coughed, and Esther looked at him anxiously.

XXXV

Lacking a parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers, William had arranged a room upstairs where they could smoke and drink. There were tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls, and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board.

When William left off going to race-courses he had intended to refrain from taking money across the bar and to do all his betting business in this room.

He thought that it would be safer. But as his customers multiplied he found that he could not ask them all upstairs; it attracted more attention than to take the money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the room upstairs had proved a success. A man spent more money if he had a room where he could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on a high stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about; so it had come to be considered a sort of club room; and a large part of the neighbourhood came there to read the papers, to hear and discuss the news. And specially useful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. Neither was now in employment; they were now professional backers; and from daylight to dark they wandered from public-house to public-house, from tobacconist to barber’s shop, in the search of tips, on the quest of stable information regarding the health of the horses and their trials. But the room upstairs at the “King’s Head” was the centre of their operations. Stack was the indefatigable tipster, Journeyman was the scientific student of public form. His memory was prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantage in the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. He often picked out horses which, if they did not actually win, nearly always stood at a short price in the betting before the race.

The “King’s Head” was crowded during the dinner-hour. Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there was an afternoon performance at the theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped from their service for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of the scant livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven o’clock! In another hour the bar and the room upstairs would be crowded. At present the room was empty, and Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last three years lay within his mind’s range; he recalled at will every trifling selling race; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. The problem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick could get a distance of ground better than Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. He stroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawed the end of his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came into the room.

“Still at yer ‘andicap, I see,” said Stack. “How does it work out?”

“Pretty well,” said Journeyman. “But I don’t think it will be one of my best; there is some pretty hard nuts to crack.”

“Which are they?” said Stack. Journeyman brightened up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack’s intelligence what he termed a “knotty point in collateral running.”

Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat.

“Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn’t a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the real ‘andicap, I’d bet drinks all around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that’s more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney’s ‘andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we shall see.”

“What do you say to ‘alf a pint,” said Stack, “and we’ll go steadily through your ‘andicap? You’ve nothing to do for the next ‘alf-hour.”

Journeyman’s dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he had often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack’s attention seemed to increase rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had finished Stack said, “I see you’ve given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?”

“He was a good ‘orse once; he’s broken down and aged; he can’t be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn’t give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup.”

“Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he’d win?”

“What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He’d walk away with it.”

“You don’t think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him? A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him.”

“Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of Welsh mutton…. But there’s no use in thinking of him. They’ve been trying for years to train him. Didn’t they used to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton’s notion. He used to say that it didn’t matter ‘ow you got the flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. If a ‘orse ‘asn’t the legs you can’t train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put a pound ‘o ‘ealth on. They’ll do no good with old Ben, unless they’ve found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won’t do for my money.”

“But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of his capabilities as you do–do you think he’ll let him off as easily as you have?”

“He can’t give him much more…. The ‘orse is bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than over.”

“I’m glad to ‘ear yer say so, for I know you’ve a headpiece, and ‘as all the running in there.” Stack tapped his forehead. “Now, I’d like to ask you if there’s any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere with him?”

“Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain’t no good over the Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs.”

The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack’s silence, Journeyman said–

“Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?”

Stack bent forward. “Yes, I’ve heard something, and I’m making inquiries.”

“How did you hear it?”

Stack drew his chair a little closer. “I’ve been up at Chalk Farm, the ‘Yarborough Arms’; you know, where the ‘buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord’s rent for the use of the bar–Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he’s taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he’s an ounce. He’s a warm ‘un, can put it on thick.”

“I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I’ve heard that he ‘as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist’s shop in Great Portland Street.”

“That’s him,” said Stack. “I thought you’d heard of him.”

“There ain’t many about that I’ve not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew–she wouldn’t hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade.”

“‘As a nice ‘ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I’ve seen her with him at Kempton.”

“You was up there this morning?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?”

“Not likely.” The men laughed, and then Stack said–

“You know Bill Evans? You’ve seen him here, always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle.”

“Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him.”

“Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they’re together again; they was seen out walking. They’re friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort often hears of a good thing.”

“So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it.”

“Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he ‘as been about on the Downs a great deal. I don’t know if it was the horses he was after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherd that Ben Jonson was doing seven hours’ walking exercise a day. This seemed to have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in the training stable–as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill says–he thought he’d make an inquiry or two about all this walking exercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill found out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the ‘orse is dicky on ‘is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise.”

“And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win the Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day?”

“I don’t say they don’t gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not as much as if his legs was all right.”

“That won’t do. I don’t believe in a ‘orse winning the Cesarewitch that ain’t got four sound legs, and old Ben ain’t got more than two.”

“He’s had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They don’t say he’d stand no galloping, but they don’t want to gallop him more than’s absolutely necessary on account of the suspensory ligament; it ain’t the back sinew, but the suspensory ligament. Their theory is this, that it don’t so much matter about bringing him quite fit to the post, for he’s sure to stay the course; he’d do that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain’t no ‘orse in England that can stand up before him. They’ve got another in the race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can’t be too strong for old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he do there’ll be tons of money on him. He’ll be backed at the post at five to one. Before the weights come out they’ll lay a hundred to one on the field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn’t mind putting a quid on him if you’ll join me.”

“Better wait until the weights come out,” said Journeyman, “for if it happened to come to Courtney’s ears that old Ben could be trained he’d clap seven-ten on him without a moment’s hesitation.”

“You think so?” said Stack.

“I do,” said Journeyman.

“But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that the race is a moral certainty for him?”

“A thousand to a brass farthing.”

“Mind, not a word.”

“Is it likely?”

The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, “You’ve not seen my ‘andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you’d think of that?” Stack said he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they go downstairs.

“I’m afraid the police is in,” said Stack, when he opened the door.

“Then we’d better stop where we are; I don’t want to be took to the station.”

They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar.

“It ain’t the police,” said Stack, “but a row about some bet. Latch had better be careful.”

The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard was pale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and his comrades strove to quieten him.

“Leave me alone,” he exclaimed; “the bet was ten half-crowns to one. I won’t stand being welshed.”

William’s face flushed up. “Welshed!” he said. “No one speaks in this bar of welshing.” He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him back.

“I know what I’m talking about; you let me alone,” said the young workman, and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. “The bet was ten half-crowns to one.”

“Don’t mind what he says, guv’nor.”

“Don’t mind what I says!” For a moment it seemed as if the friends were about to come to blows, but the young man’s perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said, “In this blo-ody bar last Monday… horse backed in Tattersall’s at twelve to one taken and offered.”

“He don’t know what he’s talking about; but no one must accuse me of welshing in this ‘ere bar.”

“No offence, guv’nor; mistakes will occur.”

William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday’s paper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about the horse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall’s. The stage door-keeper and a scene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed to force their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but the disputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses.

“Just one more drink,” said the young man. “Take the ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv’nor, that’s good enough. What do you say, guv’nor?”

“What, ten half-crowns?” William answered angrily. “Haven’t I shown you that the ‘orse was backed at Tattersall’s the day you made the bet at eight to one?”

“Ten to one, guv’nor.”

“I’ve not time to go on talking…. You’re interfering with my business. You must get out of my bar.”

“Who’ll put me out?”

“Charles, go and fetch a policeman.”

At the word “policeman” the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, “You’ll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman! and what about your blooming betting–what will become of it?” William looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There was but one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck. “Now out you go,” he said, springing over the counter, “and never you set your face inside my bar again.” Charles followed the guv’nor over the counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. “He don’t mean no ‘arm,” said one of the friends; “he’ll come round to-morrow and apologise for what he’s said.”

“I don’t want his apology,” said William. “No one shall call me a welsher in my bar…. Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my bar again.”

Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from the tutor’s thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said that William could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten minutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar; should he refuse to take their money?

“Do you know them all?” said William.

“I think so, guv’nor.”

“Be careful to bet with no one you don’t know; but I’m so bad I can hardly speak.”

“Much better send them away,” said Esther.

“Then they’ll go somewhere else.”

“It won’t matter; they’ll come back to where they’re sure of their money.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” William answered, feebly. “I think it will be all right, Teddy; you’ll be very careful.”

“Yes, guv’nor, I’ll keep down the price.”

XXXVI

One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the “King’s Head.” He wore the cap and jersey of the Salvation Army; he was now Captain Parsons. The bars were empty. It was a time when business was slackest. The morning’s betting was over; the crowd had dispersed, and would not collect again until the _Evening Standard_ had come in. William had gone for a walk. Esther and the potboy were alone in the house. The potman was at work in the backyard, Esther was sewing in the parlour. Hearing steps, she went into the bar. Fred looked at her abashed, he was a little perplexed. He said–

“Is your husband in? I should like to speak to him.”

“No, my husband is out. I don’t expect him back for an hour or so. Can I give him any message?”

She was on the point of asking him how he was. But there was something so harsh and formal in his tone and manner that she refrained. But the idea in her mind must have expressed itself in her face, for suddenly his manner softened. He drew a deep breath, and passed his hand across his forehead. Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said–

“Perhaps it will come through you as well as any other way. I had intended to speak to him, but I can explain the matter better to you…. It is about the betting that is being carried on here. We mean to put a stop to it. That’s what I came to tell him. It must be put a stop to. No right-minded person–it cannot be allowed to go on.”

Esther said nothing; not a change of expression came upon her grave face. Fred was agitated. The words stuck in his throat, and his hands were restless. Esther raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His eyes were pale, restless eyes.

“I’ve come to warn you,” he said, “that the law will be set in motion…. It is very painful for me, but something must be done. The whole neighbourhood is devoured by it.” Esther did not answer, and he said, “Why don’t you answer, Esther?”

“What is there for me to answer? You tell me that you are going to get up a prosecution against us. I can’t prevent you. I’ll tell my husband what you say.”

“This is a very serious matter, Esther.” He had come into command of his voice, and he spoke with earnest determination. “If we get a conviction against you for keeping a betting-house, you will not only be heavily fined, but you will also lose your licence. All we ask is that the betting shall cease. No,” he said, interrupting, “don’t deny anything; it is quite useless, we know everything. The whole neighbourhood is demoralized by this betting; nothing is thought of but tips; the day’s racing–that is all they think about–the evening papers, and the latest information. You do not know what harm you’re doing. Every day we hear of some new misfortune–a home broken up, the mother in the workhouse, the daughter on the streets, the father in prison, and all on account of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible; think of the harm you’re doing.”

Fred Parsons’ high, round forehead, his weak eyes, his whole face, was expressive of fear and hatred of the evil which a falsetto voice denounced with much energy.

Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed. Esther was looking at him, and he said, “You don’t answer, Esther?”

“What would you have me answer?”

“You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you remember how we used to speak when we used to go for walks together, when you were in service in the Avondale road? I remember you agreeing with me that much good could be done by those who were determined to do it. You seem to have changed very much since those days.”

For a moment Esther seemed affected by these remembrances. Then she said in a low, musical voice–

“No, I’ve not changed, Fred, but things has turned out different. One doesn’t do the good that one would like to in the world; one has to do the good that comes to one to do. I’ve my husband and my boy to look to. Them’s my good. At least, that’s how I sees things.”

Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the admiration and love that he felt for her character. “One owes a great deal,” he said, “to those who are near to one, but not everything; even for their sakes one should not do wrong to others, and you must see that you are doing a great wrong to your fellow-creatures by keeping on this betting. Public-houses are bad enough, but when it comes to gambling as well as drink, there’s nothing for us to do but to put the law in motion. Look you, Esther, there isn’t a shop-boy earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn’t been round here to put his half-crown on some horse. This house is the immoral centre of the neighbourhood. No one’s money is refused. The boy that pawned his father’s watch to back a horse went to the ‘King’s Head’ to put his money on. His father forgave him again and again. Then the boy stole from the lodgers. There was an old woman of seventy-five who got nine shillings a week for looking after some offices; he had half-a-crown off her. Then the father told the magistrate that he could do nothing with him since he had taken to betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. Is it not shocking? It cannot be allowed to go on. We have determined to put a stop to it. That’s what I came to tell your husband.”

“Are you sure,” said Esther, and she bit her lips while she spoke, “that it is entirely for the neighbourhood that you want to get up the prosecution?”

“You don’t think there’s any other reason, Esther? You surely don’t think that I’m doing this because–because he took you away from me?”

Esther didn’t answer. And then Fred said, and there was pain and pathos in his voice, “I am sorry you think this of me; I’m not getting up the prosecution. I couldn’t prevent the law being put in motion against you even if I wanted to…. I only know that it is going to be put in motion, so for the sake of old times I would save you from harm if I could. I came round to tell you if you did not put a stop to the betting you’d get into trouble. I have no right to do what I have done, but I’d do anything to save you and yours from harm.”

“I am sorry for what I said. It was very good of you.”

“We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course, all about the betting, but we must have sworn testimony before the law can be set in motion, so you’ll be quite safe if you can persuade your husband to give it up.” Esther did not answer. “It is entirely on account of the friendship I feel for you that made me come to warn you of the danger. You don’t bear me any ill-will, Esther, I hope?”

“No, Fred, I don’t. I think I understand.” The conversation paused again. “I suppose we have said everything.” Esther turned her face from him. Fred looked at her, and though her eyes were averted from him she could see that he loved her. In another moment he was gone. In her plain and ignorant way she thought on the romance of destiny. For if she had married Fred her life would have been quite different. She would have led the life that she wished to lead, but she had married William and–well, she must do the best she could. If Fred, or Fred’s friends, got the police to prosecute them for betting, they would, as he said, not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would probably lose their licence. Then what would they do? William had not health to go about from race-course to race-course as he used to. He had lost a lot of money in the last six months; Jack was at school–they must think of Jack. The thought of their danger lay on her heart all that evening. But she had had no opportunity of speaking to William alone, she had to wait until they were in their room. Then, as she untied the strings of her petticoats, she said–

“I had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon.”

“That’s the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is he after you still?”

“No, he came to speak to me about the betting.”

“About the betting–what is it to do with him?”

“He says that if it isn’t stopped that we shall be prosecuted.”

“So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I had been in the bar.”

“I’m glad you wasn’t. What good could you have done? To have a row and make things worse!”

William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther slipped on her night-dress and got into a large brass bedstead, without curtains. On the chest of drawers Esther had placed the books her mother had given her, and William had hung some sporting prints on the walls. He took his night-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his pipe from his mouth. He always finished his pipe in bed.

“It is revenge,” he said, pulling the bed-clothes up to his chin, “because I got you away from him.”

“I don’t think it is that; I did think so at first, and I said so.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; that he came to warn us of our danger. If he had wanted to do us an injury he wouldn’t have said nothing about it. Don’t you think so?”

“It seems reasonable. Then what do you think they’re doing it for?”

“He says that keeping a betting-house is corruption in the neighbourhood.”

“You think he thinks that?”

“I know he do; and there is many like him. I come of them that thinks like that, so I know. Betting and drink is what my folk, the Brethren, holds as most evil.”

“But you’ve forgot all about them Brethren?”

“No, one never forgets what one’s brought up in.”

“But what do you think now?”

“I’ve never said nothing about it. I don’t believe in a wife interfering with her husband; and business was that bad, and your ‘ealth ‘asn’t been the same since them colds you caught standing about in them betting rings, so I don’t see how you could help it. But now that business is beginning to come back to us, it might be as well to give up the betting.”

“It is the betting that brings the business; we shouldn’t take five pounds a week was it not for the betting. What’s the difference between betting on the course and betting in the bar? No one says nothing against it on the course; the police is there, and they goes after the welshers and persecutes them. Then the betting that’s done at Tattersall’s and the Albert Club, what is the difference? The Stock Exchange, too, where thousands and thousands is betted every day. It is the old story–one law for the rich and another for the poor. Why shouldn’t the poor man ‘ave his ‘alf-crown’s worth of excitement? The rich man can have his thousand pounds’ worth whenever he pleases. The same with the public ‘ouses–there’s a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the poor man of his beer, but there’s no one that’s for interfering with them that drink champagne in the clubs. It’s all bloody rot, and it makes me sick when I think of it. Them hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn’t everything betting? How can they put down betting? Hasn’t it been going on since the world began? Rot, says I! They can just ruin a poor devil like me, and that’s about all. We are ruined, and the rich goes scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. ‘Let’s say our prayers and sand the sugar’; that’s about it. I hate them that is always prating out religion. When I hears too much religion going about I says now’s the time to look into their accounts.”

William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the candle on the night-table.

“There’s good people in the world, people that never thinks but of doing good, and do not live for pleasure.”

“‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ Esther. Their only pleasure is a bet. When they’ve one on they’ve something to look forward to; whether they win or lose they ‘as their money’s worth. You know what I say is true; you’ve seen them, how they look forward to the evening paper to see how the ‘oss is going on in betting. Man can’t live without hope. It is their only hope, and I says no one has a right to take it from them.”

“What about their poor wives? Very little good their betting is to them. It’s all very well to talk like that, William, but you know, and you can’t say you don’t, that a great deal of mischief comes of betting; you know that once they think of it and nothing else, they neglect their work. There’s Stack, he’s lost his place as porter; there’s Journeyman, too, he’s out of work.”

“And a good thing for them; they’ve done a great deal better since they chucked it.”

“For the time, maybe; but who says it will go on? Look at old John; he’s going about in rags; and his poor wife, she was in here the other night, a terrible life she’s ‘ad of it. You says that no ‘arm comes of it. What about that boy that was ‘ad up the other day, and said that it was all through betting? He began by pawning his father’s watch. It was here that he made the first bet. You won’t tell me that it is right to bet with bits of boys like that.”

“The horse he backed with me won.”

“So much the worse…. The boy’ll never do another honest day’s work as long as he lives…. When they win, they ‘as a drink for luck; when they loses, they ‘as a drink to cheer them up.”

“I’m afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the other chap. He’d have given you the life that you’d have been happy in. This public-‘ouse ain’t suited to you.”

Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband’s. There was a strange remoteness in his look, and they seemed very far from each other.

“I was brought up to think so differently,” she said, her thoughts going back to her early years in the little southern seaside home. “I suppose this betting and drinking will always seem to me sinful and wicked. I should ‘ave liked quite a different kind of life, but we don’t choose our lives, we just makes the best of them. You was the father of my child, and it all dates from that.”

“I suppose it do.”

William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly from his mouth.

“If you smoke much more we shan’t be able to breathe in this room.”

“I won’t smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle out?”

“Yes, if you like.”

When the room was in darkness, just before they settled their faces on the pillow for sleep, William said–

“It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I must be very careful for the future with whom I bet.”

XXXVII

On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to go to East Dulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But as she closed the door behind her, she saw Sarah coming up the street.

“Ah, I see you’re going out.”

“It don’t matter; won’t you come in, if it’s only for a minute?”

“No, thank you, I won’t keep you. But which way are you going? We might go a little way together.”

They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square there was a demonstration, and Sarah lingered in the crowd so long that when they arrived at Charing Cross, Esther found that she could not get to Ludgate Hill in time to catch her train, so they went into the Embankment Gardens. It had been raining, and the women wiped the seats with their handkerchiefs before sitting down. There was no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. Sarah’s chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther wondered how Sarah could talk so much about nothing, and regretted her visit to East Dulwich more and more. Suddenly Bill’s name came into the conversation.

“But I thought you didn’t see him any more; you promised us you wouldn’t.”

“I couldn’t help it…. It was quite an accident. One day, coming back from church with Annie–that’s the new housemaid–he came up and spoke to us.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘How are ye?… Who’d thought of meeting you!'”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I didn’t want to have nothing to do with him. Annie walked on, and then he said he was very sorry, that it was bad luck that drove him to it.”

“And you believed him?”

“I daresay it is very foolish of me. But one can’t help oneself. Did you ever really care for a man?”

And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued her babbling chatter. She had asked him not to come after her; she thought he was sorry for what he had done. She mentioned incidentally that he had been away in the country and had come back with very particular information regarding a certain horse for the Cesarewitch. If the horse won he’d be all right.

At last Esther’s patience was tired out.

“It must be getting late,” she said, looking towards where the sun was setting. The river rippled, and the edges of the warehouses had perceptibly softened; a wind, too, had come up with the tide, and the women shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo Bridge. They ascended a flight of high steps and walked through a passage into the Strand.

“I was miserable enough with him; we used to have hardly anything to eat; but I’m more miserable away from him. Esther, I know you’ll laugh at me, but I’m that heart-broken… I can’t live without him… I’d do anything for him.”

“He isn’t worth it.”

“That don’t make no difference. You don’t know what love is; a woman who hasn’t loved a man who don’t love her, don’t. We used to live near here. Do you mind coming up Drury Lane? I should like to show you the house.”

“I’m afraid it will be out of our way.”

“No, it won’t. Round by the church and up Newcastle Street…. Look, there’s a shop we used to go to sometimes. I’ve eaten many a good sausage and onions in there, and that’s a pub where we often used to go for a drink.”

The courts and alleys had vomited their population into the Lane. Fat girls clad in shawls sat around the slum opening nursing their babies. Old women crouched in decrepit doorways, fumbling their aprons; skipping ropes whirled in the roadway. A little higher up a vendor of cheap ices had set up his store and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of the neighborhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapidated court, where a hag argued the price of trotters with a family leaning one over the other out of a second-floor window. This was the block in which Sarah had lived. A space had been cleared by the builder, and the other side was shut in by the great wall of the old theatre.

“That’s where we used to live,” said Sarah, pointing up to the third floor. “I fancy our house will soon come down. When I see the old place it all comes back to me. I remember pawning a dress over the way in the lane; they would only lend me a shilling on it. And you see that shop–the shutters is up, it being Sunday; it is a sort of butcher’s, cheap meat, livers and lights, trotters, and such-like. I bought a bullock’s heart there, and stewed it down with some potatoes; we did enjoy it, I can tell you.”

Sarah talked so eagerly of herself that Esther had not the heart to interrupt her. They made their way out into Catherine Street, and then to Endell Street, and then going round to St. Giles’ Church, they plunged into the labyrinth of Soho.

“I’m afraid I’m tiring you. I don’t see what interest all this can be to you.”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the temptation, she continued her narrative–Bill had said this, she had said that. She rattled on, until they came to the corner of Old Compton Street. Esther, who was a little tired of her, held out her hand. “I suppose you must be getting back; would you like a drop of something?”

“It is going on for seven o’clock; but since you’re that kind I think I’d like a glass of beer.”

“Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an evening?” Sarah asked, as she was leaving.

“I don’t pay much attention, but I can’t help hearing a good deal.”

“Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the Cesarewitch?”

“They do, indeed; he’s all the go.”

Sarah’s face brightened perceptibly, and Esther said–

“Have you backed him?’

“Only a trifle; half-a-crown that a friend put me on. Do they say he’ll win?”

“They say that if he don’t break down he’ll win by ‘alf a mile; it all depends on his leg.”

“Is he coming on in the betting?”

“Yes, I believe they’re now taking 12 to 1 about him. But I’ll ask William, if you like.”

“No, no, I only wanted to know if you’d heard anything new.”

XXXVIII

During the next fortnight Sarah came several times to the “King’s Head.” She came in about nine in the evening, and stayed for half-an-hour or more. The ostensible object of her visit was to see Esther, but she declined to come into the private bar, where they would have chatted comfortably, and remained in the public bar listening to the men’s conversation, listening and nodding while old John explained the horse’s staying power to her. On the following evening all her interest was in Ketley. She wanted to know if anything had happened that might be