"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."
On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to go to EastDulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But as she closed the door behind her, she sawSarah 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 askWilliam, if you like."
"No, no, I only wanted to know if you'd heard anything new."
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 considered as an omen. She said she had dreamed about the race, but her dream was only a lot of foolish rubbish without head or tail. Ketley argued earnestly against this view of a serious subject, and in the hope of convincing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford Street with her and put her into her 'bus. But on the following evening all her interest was centered in Mr. Journeyman, who declared that he could prove that according to the weight it seemed to him to look more and more like a certainty. He had let the horse in at six stone ten pounds, the official handicapper had only given him six stone seven pounds.
"They is a-sending of him along this week, and if the leg don't go it is a hundred pound to a brass farthing on the old horse."
"How many times will they gallop him?" Sarah asked.
"He goes a mile and a 'arf every day now…. The day after to-morrow they'll try him, just to see that he hasn't lost his turn of speed, and if he don't break down in the trial you can take it from me that it will be all right."
"When will you know the result of the trial?"
"I expect a letter on Friday morning," said Stack. "If you come in in the evening I'll let you know about it."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be getting home now."
"I'm going your way, Miss Tucker…. If you like, we'll go together, andI'll tell you," he whispered, "all about the 'orse."
When they had left the bar the conversation turned on racing as an occupation for women.
"Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I bet she'd overlay it and then turn round and back the favourite at a shorter price than she'd been laying."
"I don't know that we should be any foolisher than you," said Esther; "don't you never go and overlay your book? What about Syntax and the 'orse you told me about last week?"
William had been heavily hit last week through overlaying his book against a horse he didn't believe in, and the whole bar joined in the laugh against him.
"I don't say nothing about bookmaking," said Journeyman; "but there's a great many women nowadays who is mighty sharp at spotting a 'orse that the handicapper had let in pretty easy."
"This one," said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the direction that Stack andSarah had gone, "seems to 'ave got hold of something."
"We must ask Stack when he comes back," and Journeyman winked at William.
"Women do get that excited over trifles," old John remarked, sarcastically. "She ain't got above 'alf-a-crown on the 'orse, if that. She don't care about the 'orse or the race—no woman ever did; it's all about some sweetheart that's been piling it on."
"I wonder if you're right," said Esther, reflectively. "I never knew her before to take such an interest in a horse-race."
On the day of the race Sarah came into the private bar about three o'clock. The news was not yet in.
"Wouldn't you like to step into the parlour; you'll be more comfortable?" said Esther.
"No thank you, dear; it is not worth while. I thought I'd like to know which won, that's all."
"Have you much on?"
"No, five shillings altogether…. But a friend of mine stands to win a good bit. I see you've got a new dress, dear. When did you get it?"
"I've had the stuff by me some time. I only had it made up last month. Do you like it?"
Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. But Esther could see that she was thinking of something quite different.
"The race is over now. It's run at half-past two."
"Yes, but they're never quite punctual; there may be a delay at the post."
"I see you know all about it."
"One never hears of anything else."
Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to town, and was surprised at the change of expression that the question brought to her friend's face.
"They're expected back to-morrow," she said. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing; something to say, that's all."
The conversation paused, and the two women looked at each other. At that moment a voice coming rapidly towards them was heard calling, "Win-ner, win-ner!"
"I'll send out for the paper," said Esther.
"No, no… Suppose he shouldn't have won?"
"Well, it won't make any difference."
"Oh, Esther, no; some one will come in and tell us. The race can't be over yet; it is a long race, and takes some time to run."
By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and fainter the terrible word, "Win-ner, win-ner, win-ner."
"It's too late now," said Sarah; "some one'll come in presently and tell us about it…. I daresay it ain't the paper at all. Them boys cries out anything that will sell."
"Win-ner, win-ner." The voice was coming towards them.
"If he has won, Bill and I is to marry…. Somehow I feel as if he hasn't."
"Win-ner."
"We shall soon know." Esther took a halfpenny from the till.
"Don't you think we'd better wait? It can't be printed in the papers, not the true account, and if it was wrong—" Esther didn't answer; she gave Charles the halfpenny; he went out, and in a few minutes came back with the paper in his hand. "Tornado first, Ben Jonson second, Woodcraft third," he read out. "That's a good thing for the guv'nor. There was very few what backed Tornado…. He's only lost some place-money."
"So he was only second," said Sarah, turning deadly pale. "They said he was certain to win."
"I hope you've not lost much," said Esther. "It wasn't with William that you backed him."
"No, it wasn't with William. I only had a few shillings on. It don't matter. Let me have a drink."
"What will you have?"
"Some whisky."
Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubtfully.
The bars would be empty for the next two hours; Esther wished to utilize this time; she had some shopping to do, and asked Sarah to come with her. But Sarah complained of being tired, and said she would see her when she came back.
Esther went out a little perplexed. She was detained longer than she expected, and when she returned Sarah was staggering about in the bar-room, asking Charles for one more drink.
"All bloody rot; who says I'm drunk? I ain't… look at me. The 'orse did not win, did he? I say he did; papers all so much bloody rot."
"Oh, Sarah, what is this?"
"Who's this? Leave go, I say."
"Mr. Stack, won't you ask her to come upstairs?… Don't encourage her."
"Upstairs? I'm a free woman. I don't want to go upstairs. I'm a free woman; tell me," she said, balancing herself with difficulty and staring at Esther with dull, fishy eyes, "tell me if I'm not a free woman? What do I want upstairs for?"
"Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don't go out."
"I'm going home. Hands off, hands off!" she said, slapping Esther's hands from her arm.
"'For every one was drunk last night,And drunk the night before;And if we don't get drunk to-night,We don't get drunk no more.
(Chorus.)
"'Now you will have a drink with me,And I will drink with you;For we're the very rowdiest lotOf the rowdy Irish crew.'
"That's what we used to sing in the Lane, yer know; should 'ave seen the coster gals with their feathers, dancing and clinking their pewters. Rippin Day, Bank 'oliday, Epping, under the trees—'ow they did romp, them gals!
"'We all was roaring drunk last night,And drunk the night before;And if we don't get drunk to-night,We won't get drunk no more.'
"Girls and boys, you know, all together."
"Sarah, listen to me."
"Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just another drink." She staggered up to the counter. "One more, just for luck; do yer 'ear?" Before Charles could stop her she had seized the whisky that had just been served. "That's my whisky," exclaimed Journeyman. He made a rapid movement, but was too late. Sarah had drained the glass and stood vacantly looking into space. Journeyman seemed so disconcerted at the loss of his whisky that every one laughed.
A few moments after Sarah staggered forward and fell insensible into his arms. He and Esther carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in the spare room.
"She'll be precious bad to-morrow," said Journeyman.
"I don't know how you could have gone on helping her," Esther said to Charles when she got inside the bar; and she seemed so pained that out of deference to her feelings the subject was dropped out of the conversation. Esther felt that something shocking had happened. Sarah had deliberately got drunk. She would not have done that unless she had some great trouble on her mind. William, too, was of this opinion. Something serious must have happened. As they went up to their room Esther said—
"It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbourhood is completely ruined. They're losing their 'omes and their furniture, and you'll bear the blame of it."
"It do make me so wild to hear you talkin' that way, Esther. People will bet, you can't stop them. I lays fair prices, and they're sure of their money. Yet you says they're losin' their furniture, and that I shall have to bear the blame."
When they got to the top of the stairs she said—
"I must go and see how Sarah is."
"Where am I? What's happened?… Take that candle out of my eyes…. Oh, my head is that painful." She fell back on the pillow, and Esther thought she had gone to sleep again. But she opened her eyes. "Where am I? …That's you, Esther?"
"Yes. Can't you remember?"
"No, I can't. I remember that the 'orse didn't win, but don't remember nothing after…. I got drunk, didn't I? It feels like it."
"The 'orse didn't win, and then you took too much. It's very foolish of you to give way."
"Give way! Drunk, what matter? I'm done for."
"Did you lose much?"
"It wasn't what I lost, it was what I took. I gave Bill the plate to pledge; it's all gone, and master and missis coming back tomorrow. Don't talk about it. I got drunk so that I shouldn't think of it."
"Oh, Sarah, I didn't think it was as bad as that. You must tell me all about it."
"I don't want to think about it. They'll come soon enough to take me away. Besides, I cannot remember nothing now. My mouth's that awful—Give me a drink. Never mind the glass, give me the water-bottle."
She drank ravenously, and seemed to recover a little. Esther pressed her to tell her about the pledged plate. "You know that I'm your friend. You'd better tell me. I want to help you out of this scrape."
"No one can help me now, I'm done for. Let them come and take me. I'll go with them. I shan't say nothing."
"How much is it in for? Don't cry like that," Esther said, and she took out her handkerchief and wiped Sarah's eyes. "How much is it in for? Perhaps I can get my husband to lend me the money to get it out."
"It's no use trying to help me…. Esther, I can't talk about it now; I shall go mad if I do."
"Tell me how much you got on it."
"Thirty pounds."
It took a long time to undress her. Every now and then she made an effort, and another article of clothing was got off. When Esther returned to her room William was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder.
"It is more serious than I thought," she shouted. "I want to tell you about it."
"What about it?" he said, opening his eyes.
"She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back that 'orse."
"What 'orse?"
"Ben Jonson."
"He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn't I should have been broke up.The whole neighbourhood was on him. So she pledged the plate to back him.She didn't do that to back him herself. Some one must have put her up toit."
"Yes, it was Bill Evans."
"Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought she'd left him for good.She promised us that she'd never speak to him again."
"You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn't help herself. There's many that can't."
"How much did they get on the plate?"
"Thirty pounds."
William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in the bed, he said, "She can't stop here. If it comes out that it was through betting, it won't do this house any good. We're already suspected. There's that old sweetheart of yours, the Salvation cove, on the lookout for evidence of betting being carried on."
"She'll go away in the morning. But I thought that you might lend her the money to get the plate out."
"What! thirty pounds?"
"It's a deal of money, I know; but I thought that you might be able to manage it. You've been lucky over this race."
"Yes, but think of all I've lost this summer. This is the first bit of luck I've had for a long while."
"I thought you might be able to manage it."
Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against the edge. She seemed to him at that moment as the best woman in the world, and he said—
"Thirty pounds is no more to me than two-pence-halfpenny if you wish it,Esther."
"I haven't been an extravagant wife, have I?" she said, getting into bed and taking him in her arms. "I never asked you for money before. She's my friend—she's yours too—we've known her all our lives. We can't see her go to prison, can we, Bill, without raising a finger to save her?"
She had never called him Bill before, and the familiar abbreviation touched him, and he said—
"I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that's mine is yours. But," he said, drawing away so that he might see her better, "what do you say if I ask something of you?"
"What are you going to ask me?"
"I want you to say that you won't bother me no more about the betting. You was brought up to think it wicked. I know all that, but you see we can't do without it."
"Do you think not?"
"Don't the thirty pounds you're asking for Sarah come out of betting?"
"I suppose it do."
"Most certainly it do."
"I can't help feeling, Bill, that we shan't always be so lucky as we have been."
"You mean that you think that one of these days we shall have the police down upon us?"
"Don't you sometimes think that we can't always go on without being caught? Every day I hear of the police being down on some betting club or other."
"They've been down on a great number lately, but what can I do? We always come back to that. I haven't the health to work round from race-course to race-course as I used to. But I've got an idea, Esther. I've been thinking over things a great deal lately, and—give me my pipe—there, it's just by you. Now, hold the candle, like a good girl."
William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. He threw himself on his back, and then he said—
"I've been thinking things over. The betting 'as brought us a nice bit of trade here. If we can work up the business a bit more we might, let's say in a year from now, be able to get as much for the 'ouse as we gave…. What do you think of buying a business in the country, a 'ouse doing a steady trade? I've had enough of London, the climate don't suit me as it used to. I fancy I should be much better in the country, somewhere on the South Coast. Bournemouth way, what do you think?"
Before Esther could reply William was taken with a fit of coughing, and his great broad frame was shaken as if it were so much paper.
"I'm sure," said Esther, when he had recovered himself a little, "that a good deal of your trouble comes from that pipe. It's never out of your mouth…. I feel like choking myself."
"I daresay I smoke too much…. I'm not the man I was. I can feel it plain enough. Put my pipe down and blow out the candle…. I didn't ask you how Sarah was."
"Very bad. She was half dazed and didn't tell me much."
"She didn't tell you where she had pledged the plate?"
"No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning." Leaning forward she blew out the candle. The wick smouldered red for a moment, and they fell asleep happy in each other's love, seeming to find new bonds of union in pity for their friend's misfortune.
"Sarah, you must make an effort and try to dress yourself."
"Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead!"
"You must not give way like that; let me help you put on your stockings."
Sarah looked at Esther. "You're very good to me, but I can manage." When she had drawn on her stockings her strength was exhausted, and she fell back on the pillow.
Esther waited a few minutes. "Here're your petticoats. Just tie them round you; I'll lend you a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers."
William was having breakfast in the parlour. "Well, feeling a bit poorly?" he said to Sarah. "What'll you have? There's a nice bit of fried fish. Not feeling up to it?"
"Oh, no! I couldn't touch anything." She let herself drop on the sofa.
"A cup of tea'll do you good," said Esther. "You must have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to nibble. William, pour her out a cup of tea."
When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little better.
"Now," said William, "let's 'ear all about it. Esther has told you, no doubt, that we intend to do all we can to help you."
"You can't help me…. I'm done for," she replied dolefully.
"I don't know about that," said William. "You gave that brute Bill Evans the plate to pawn, so far as I know."
"There isn't much more to tell. He said the horse was sure to win. He was at thirty to one at that time. A thousand to thirty. Bill said with that money we could buy a public-house in the country. He wanted to settle down, he wanted to get out of—I don't want to say nothing against him. He said if I would only give him this chance of leading a respectable life, we was to be married immediately after."
"He told you all that, did he? He said he'd give you a 'ome of your own, I know. A regular rotter; that man is about as bad as they make 'em. And you believed it all?"
"It wasn't so much what I believed as what I couldn't help myself. He had got that influence over me that my will wasn't my own. I don't know how it is—I suppose men have stronger natures than women. I 'ardly knew what I was doing; it was like sleep-walking. He looked at me and said, 'You'd better do it.' I did it, and I suppose I'll have to go to prison for it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes tales like that. How long do you think they'll give me?"
"I hope we shall be able to get you out of this scrape. You got thirty pounds on the plate. Esther has told you that I'm ready to lend you the money to get it out."
"Will you do this? You're good friends indeed…. But I shall never be able to pay you back such a lot of money."
"We won't say nothing about paying back; all we want you to do is to say that you'll never see that fellow again."
A change of expression came over Sarah's face, and William said, "You're surely not still hankering after him?"
"No, indeed I'm not. But whenever I meets him he somehow gets his way with me. It's terrible to love a man as I love him. I know he don't really care for me—I know he is all you say, and yet I can't help myself. It is better to be honest with you."
William looked puzzled. At the end of a long silence he said, "If it's like that I don't see that we can do anything."
"Have patience, William. Sarah don't know what she's saying. She'll promise not to see him again."
"You're very kind to me. I know I'm very foolish. I promised before not to see him, and I couldn't keep my promise."
"You can stop with us until you get a situation in the country," saidEsther, "where you'll be out of his way."
"I might do that."
"I don't like to part with my money," said William, "if it is to do no one any good." Esther looked at him, and he added, "It is just as Esther wishes, of course; I'm not giving you the money, it is she."
"It is both of us," said Esther; "you'll do what I said, Sarah?"
"Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther," and she flung herself into her friend's arms and wept bitterly.
"Now we want to know where you pawned the plate," said William.
"A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place where it would be quite safe. I was to say that my mistress left it to me; he said that would be sufficient…. It was in the Mile End Road."
"You'd know the shop again?" said William.
"But she's got the ticket," said Esther.
"No, I ain't got the ticket; Bill has it."
"Then I'm afraid the game's up."
"Do be quiet," said Esther, angrily. "If you want to get out of lending the money say so and have done with it."
"That's not true, Esther. If you want another thirty to pay him to give up the ticket, you can have it."
Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. "I'm sorry," she said, "my temper is that hasty. But you know where he lives," she said, turning to the wretched woman who sat on the sofa pale and trembling.
"Yes, I know where he lives—13 Milward Square, Mile End Road."
"Then we've no time to lose; we must go after him at once."
"No, William dear; you must not; you'd only lose your temper, and he might do you an injury."
"An injury! I'd soon show him which was the best man of the two."
"I'll not hear of it, Sarah. He mustn't go with you."
"Come, Esther, don't be foolish. Let me go."
He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got between him and the door.
"I forbid it," she said; "I will not let you go—perhaps to have a fight, and with that cough."
William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he said, leaning against the table, "Give me something to drink, a little milk."
Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it slowly. "I'll go upstairs," she said, "for my hat and jacket. You've got your betting to attend to." William smiled. "Sarah, mind, he's not to go with you."
"You forget what you said last night about the betting."
"Never mind what I said last night about the betting; what I say now is that you're not to leave the bar. Come upstairs, Sarah, and dress yourself, and let's be off."
Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to him. They had lost heavily over old Ben and didn't know how they'd pull through; and the whole neighbourhood was in the same plight; the bar was filled with gloomy faces.
And as William scanned their disconcerted faces—clerks, hair-dressers, waiters from the innumerable eating houses—he could not help thinking that perhaps more than one of them had taken money that did not belong to them to back Ben Jonson. The unexpected disaster had upset all their plans, and even the wary ones who had a little reserve fund could not help backing outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to retrieve yesterday's losses. At two the bar was empty, and William waited for Esther and Sarah to return from Mile End. It seemed to him that they were a long time away. But Mile End is not close to Soho; and when they returned, between four and five, he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful. He lifted up the flap in the counter and all three went into the parlour.
"He left Milward Square yesterday," Esther said. "Then we went to another address, and then to another; we went to all the places Sarah had been to with him, but no tidings anywhere."
Sarah burst into tears. "There's no more hope," she said. "I'm done for; they'll come and take me away. How much do you think I'll get? They won't give me ten years, will they?"
"I can see nothing else for you to do," said Esther, "but to go straight back to your people and tell them the whole story, and throw yourself on their mercy."
"Do you mean that she should say that she pawned the plate to get money to back a horse?"
"Of course I do."
"It will make the police more keen than ever on the betting houses."
"That can't be helped."
"She'd better not be took here," said William; "it will do a great deal of harm…. It don't make no difference to her where she's took, do it?"
Esther did not answer.
"I'll go away. I don't want to get no one into trouble," Sarah said, and she got up from the sofa.
At that moment Charles opened the door, and said, "You're wanted in the bar, sir."
William went out quickly. He returned a moment after. There was a scared look on his face. "They're here," he said. He was followed by two policemen. Sarah uttered a little cry.
"Your name is Sarah Tucker?" said the first policeman.
"Yes."
"You're charged with robbery by Mr. Sheldon, 34, Cumberland Place."
"Shall I be taken through the streets?"
"If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab," the police-officer replied.
"I'll go with you, dear," Esther said. William plucked her by the sleeve."It will do no good. Why should you go?"
The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and the thirty pounds which William had promised to give to Esther went to pay for the defence. There seemed at first some hope that the prosecution would not be able to prove its case, but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstraction of the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought advisable that the plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts of counsel were therefore directed towards a mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Esther and William for the purpose of proving the excellent character that the prisoner had hitherto borne; counsel spoke of the evil influence into which the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she had no intention of actually stealing the plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuaded to pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she had been told was certain to win. If that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and returned to its proper place in the owner's house, and the prisoner would have been able to marry. Possibly the marriage on which the prisoner had set her heart would have turned out more unfortunate for the prisoner than the present proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough to stigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to imperil her liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon her in the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew attention to the trusting nature of the prisoner, who had not only pledged her employer's plate at his base instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to confide the pawn-ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner's story, and he submitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A very sad story, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, having regard to the excellent character the prisoner had borne, counsel hoped that his lordship would see his way to dealing leniently with her.
His Lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half a century, and whose betting transactions were matters of public comment, pursed up his ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the prisoner. He said he regretted that he could not take the same view of the prisoner's character as learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort to apprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner's story, was the principal culprit. But the efforts of the police had been unavailing; they had, however, found traces of the man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist, and need not be considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris. And the little joke provoked some amusement in the court; learned counsel settled their robes becomingly and leant forward to listen. They were in for a humorous speech, and the prisoner would get off with a light sentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that lordship was determined to make the law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drew attention to the fact that during the course of their investigations the police had discovered that the prisoner had been living for some considerable time with the man Evans, during which time several robberies had been effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect the prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man Evans and had obtained a situation in the house of her present employers. When the characters she had received from her former employers were being examined she had accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by saying that she had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who had given evidence in her favour. It had also come to the knowledge of the police that the man Evans used to frequent the "King's Head," that was the house owned by the Latches; it was probable that she had made there the acquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred her employers to the Latches, who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding the year she was supposed to have spent with them, but which she had really spent in cohabitation with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in severe remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachable characters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very common habit, and one attended with great danger to society, one which society would do well to take precautions to defend itself against.
The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have been pawned, but there was nothing to show that it had been pawned, the prisoner's explanation being that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could not tell where she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the man Evans had gone down to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile End Road. But she did not know the number of the pawnbroker's, nor could she give any indications as to its whereabouts—beyond the mere fact that it was in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawnbrokers in the Mile End Road had been searched, but no plate answering to the description furnished by the prosecution could be found.
Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been in a measure unpremeditated, that it was the result of a passing but irresistible temptation. Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some element of romance into the case; he had described the theft as the outcome of the prisoner's desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such purity of motive in the prisoner's crime. There was nothing to show that there was any thought of marriage in the prisoner's mind; the crime was the result, not of any desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion, concubinage. Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it was only necessary to point out that it had been committed for a distinct purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with an accomplished thief.
"There is now only one more point which I wish to refer to, and that is the plea that the prisoner did not intend to steal the plate, but only to obtain money upon it to enable her and the partner in her guilt to back a horse for a race which they believed to be—" his Lordship was about to say a certainty for him; he stopped himself, however, in time—"to be, to be, which they believed him to be capable of winning. The race in question is, I think, called the Cesarewitch, and the name of the horse (lordship had lost three hundred on Ben Jonson), if my memory serves me right (here lordship fumbled amid papers), yes, the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson. Now, the learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if the horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and restored to its proper place in the pantry cupboards. This, I venture to point out, is a mere hypothesis. The money might have been again used for the purpose of gambling. I confess that I do not see why we should condone the prisoner's offence because it was committed for the sake of obtaining money for gambling purposes. Indeed, it seems to me a reason for dealing heavily with the offence. The vice among the poorer classes is largely on the increase, and it seems to me that it is the duty of all in authority to condemn rather than to condone the evil, and to use every effort to stamp it out. For my part I fail to perceive any romantic element in the vice of gambling. It springs from the desire to obtain wealth without work, in other words, without payment; work, whether in the past or the present, is the natural payment for wealth, and any wealth that is obtained without work is in a measure a fraud committed upon the community. Poverty, despair, idleness, and every other vice spring from gambling as naturally, and in the same profusion, as weeds from barren land. Drink, too, is gambling's firmest ally."
At this moment a certain dryness in his Lordship's throat reminded him of the pint of excellent claret that lordship always drank with his lunch, and the thought enabled lordship to roll out some excellent invective against the evils of beer and spirits. And lordship's losses on the horse whose name he could hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of the theory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and enforce each other. When the news that Ben Jonson had broken down at the bushes came in, lordship had drunk a magnum of champagne, and memory of this champagne inspired a telling description of the sinking feeling consequent on the loss of a wager, and the natural inclination of a man to turn to drink to counteract it. Drink and gambling are growing social evils; in a great measure they are circumstantial, and only require absolute legislation to stamp them out almost entirely. This was not the first case of the kind that had come before him; it was one of many, but it was a typical case, presenting all the familiar features of the vice of which he had therefore spoken at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, and if they continued to increase, the powers of the law would have to be strengthened. But even as the law stood at present, betting-houses, public-houses in which betting was carried on, were illegal, and it was the duty of the police to leave no means untried to unearth the offenders and bring them to justice. Lordship then glanced at the trembling woman in the dock. He condemned her to eighteen months' hard labour, and gathering up the papers on the desk, dismissed her for ever from his mind.
The court adjourned for lunch, and Esther and William edged their way out of the crowd of lawyers and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time. William was much exercised by his Lordship's remarks on betting public-houses, and his advice that the police should increase their vigilance and leave no means untried to uproot that which was the curse and the ruin of the lower classes. It was the old story, one law for the rich, another for the poor. William did not seek to probe the question any further, this examination seemed to him to have exhausted it; and he remembered, after all that the hypocritical judge had said, how difficult it would be to escape detection. When he was caught he would be fined a hundred pounds, and probably lose his licence. What would he do then? He did not confide his fears to Esther. She had promised to say no more about the betting; but she had not changed her opinion. She was one of those stubborn ones who would rather die than admit they were wrong. Then he wondered what she thought of his Lordship's speech. Esther was thinking of the thin gruel Sarah would have to eat, the plank bed on which she would have to sleep, and the miserable future that awaited her when she should be released from gaol.
It was a bright winter's day; the City folk were walking rapidly, tightly buttoned up in top-coats, and in a windy sky a flock of pigeons floated on straightened wings above the telegraph wires. Fleet Street was full of journalists going to luncheon-bars and various eating-houses. Their hurry and animation were remarkable, and Esther noticed how laggard was William's walk by comparison, how his clothes hung loose about him, and that the sharp air was at work on his lungs, making him cough. She asked him to button himself up more closely.
"Is not that old John's wife?" Esther said.
"Yes, that's her," said William. "She'd have seen us if that cove hadn't given her the shilling…. Lord, I didn't think they was as badly off as that. Did you ever see such rags? and that thick leg wrapped up in that awful stocking."
The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. Randal's wandering rags had seemed to Esther like a foreboding. She grew frightened, as the cattle do in the fields when the sky darkens and the storm draws near. She suddenly remembered Mrs. Barfield, and she heard her telling her of the unhappiness that she had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Barfield? Should she ever see her again? Mr. Barfield was dead, Miss May was forced to live abroad for the sake of her health; all that time of long ago was over and done with. Some words that Mrs. Barfield had said came back to her; she had never quite understood them, but she had never quite forgotten them; they seemed to chime through her life. "My girl," Mrs. Barfield had said, "I am more than twenty years older than you, and I assure you that time has passed like a little dream; life is nothing. We must think of what comes after."
"Cheer up, old girl; eighteen months is a long while, but it ain't a lifetime. She'll get through it all right; and when she comes out we'll try to see what we can do for her."
William's voice startled Esther from the depth of her dream; she looked at him vaguely, and he saw that she had been thinking of something different from what he had suspected. "I thought it was on account of Sarah that you was looking so sad."
"No," she said, "I was not thinking of Sarah."
Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of the wickedness of betting, his face darkened. It was aggravating to have a wife who was always troubling about things that couldn't be helped. The first person they saw on entering the bar was old John; and he sat in the corner of the bar on a high stool, his grey, death-like face sunk in the old unstarched shirt collar. The thin, wrinkled throat was hid with the remains of a cravat; it was passed twice round, and tied according to the fashions of fifty years ago. His boots were broken; the trousers, a grey, dirty brown, were torn as high up as the ankle; they had been mended and the patches hardly held together; the frock coat, green with age, with huge flaps over the pockets, frayed and torn, and many sizes too large, hung upon his starveling body. He seemed very feeble, and there was neither light nor expression in his glassy, watery eyes.
"Eighteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a first offence," saidWilliam.
"I just dropped in. Charles said you'd sure to be back. You're later thanI expected."
"We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard what I said. She got eighteen months."
"Who got eighteen months?"
"Sarah."
"Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got eighteen months."
"What's the matter? Wake up; you're half asleep. What will you have to drink?"
"A glass of milk, if you've got such a thing."
"Glass of milk! What is it, old man—not feeling well?"
"Not very well. The fact is, I'm starving."
"Starving! …Then come into the parlour and have something to eat. Why didn't you say so before?"
"I didn't like to."
He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a chair. "Didn't like to tell me that you was as hard up as all that? What do you mean? You didn't use to mind coming round for half a quid."
"That was to back a horse; but I didn't like coming to ask for food—excuse me, I'm too weak to speak much."
When old John had eaten, William asked how it was that things had gone so badly with him.
"I've had terrible bad luck lately, can't get on a winner nohow. I have backed 'orses that 'as been tried to win with two stone more on their backs than they had to carry, but just because I was on them they didn't win. I don't know how many half-crowns I've had on first favourites. Then I tried the second favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the first favourites when I took to backing them. Stack's tips and Ketley's omens was all the same as far as I was concerned. It's a poor business when you're out of luck."
"It is giving way to fancy that does for the backers. The bookmaker's advantage is that he bets on principle and not on fancy."
Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. He had been dismissed from his employment in the restaurant, not from any fault of his own, he had done his work well. "But they don't like old waiters; there's always a lot of young Germans about, and customers said I smelt bad. I suppose it was my clothes and want of convenience at home for keeping one's self tidy. We've been so hard up to pay the three and sixpence rent which we've owed, that the black coat and waistkit had to go to the pawnshop, so even if I did meet with a job in the Exhibition places, where they ain't so particular about yer age, I should not be able to take it. It's terrible to think that I should have to come to this and after having worked round the table this forty years, fifty pounds a year and all found, and accustomed always to a big footman and page-boy under me. But there's plenty more like me. It's a poor game. You're well out of it. I suppose the end of it will be the work'us. I'm pretty well wore out, and—"
The old man's voice died away. He made no allusion to his wife. His dislike to speak of her was part and parcel of his dislike to speak of his private affairs. The conversation then turned on Sarah; the severity of the sentence was alluded to, and William spoke of how the judge's remarks would put the police on the watch, and how difficult it would be to continue his betting business without being found out.
"There's no doubt that it is most unfortunate," said old John.
"The only thing for you to do is to be very particular about yer introductions, and to refuse to bet with all who haven't been properly introduced."
"Or to give up betting altogether," said Esther.
"Give up betting altogether!" William answered, his face flushed, and he gradually worked himself into a passion. "I give you a good 'ome, don't I? You want for nothing, do yer? Well, that being so, I think you might keep your nose out of your husband's business. There's plenty of prayer-meetings where you can go preaching if you like."
William would have said a good deal more, but his anger brought on a fit of coughing. Esther looked at him contemptuously, and without answering she walked into the bar.
"That's a bad cough of yours," said old John.
"Yes," said William, and he drank a little water to pass it off. "I must see the doctor about it. It makes one that irritable. The missis is in a pretty temper, ain't she?"
Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to notice domestic differences of opinion, especially those in which women had a share—queer cattle that he knew nothing about. The men talked for a long time regarding the danger the judge's remarks had brought the house into; and they considered all the circumstances of the case. Allusion was made to the injustice of the law, which allowed the rich and forbade the poor to bet; anecdotes were related, but nothing they said threw new light on the matter in hand, and when Old John rose to go William summed up the situation in these few words—
"Bet I must, if I'm to get my living. The only thing I can do is to be careful not to bet with strangers."
"I don't see how they can do nothing to you if yer makes that yer principle and sticks to it," said old John, and he put on the huge-rimmed, greasy hat, three sizes too large for him, looking in his square-cut tattered frock-coat as queer a specimen of humanity as you would be likely to meet with in a day's walk. "If you makes that yer principle and sticks to it," thought William.
But practice and principle are never reduced to perfect agreement. One is always marauding the other's territory; nevertheless for several months principle distinctly held the upper hand; William refused over and over again to make bets with comparative strangers, but the day came when his principle relaxed, and he took the money of a man whom he thought was all right. It was done on the impulse of the moment, but the two half-crowns wrapped up in the paper, with the name of the horse written on the paper, had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt that he had done wrong. He couldn't tell why, but the feeling came across him that he had done wrong in taking the man's money—a tall, clean-shaven man dressed in broadcloth. It was too late to draw back. The man had finished his beer and had left the bar, which in itself was suspicious.
Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, just the busiest time, when the bar was full of people, there came a cry of "Police!" An effort was made to hide the betting plant; a rush was made for the doors. It was all too late; the sergeant and a constable ordered that no one was to leave the house; other police were outside. The names and addresses of all present were taken down; search was made, and the packets of money and the betting books were discovered. Then they all had to go to Marlborough Street.