It is pleasant to be able to record that the poor woman was acquitted, and that the magistrate spoke in proper terms of the conduct of the relieving-officer. It gave Jim Podmore pleasure, but this feeling soon gave place to pain as he witnessed the downward course of Dick Hart and his family, and the misery they endured. He was with them in their poorly-furnished home, and was gazing sadly at their white pinched faces, when suddenly Rosy's face changed to that of Pollypod his own darling; in the place of Mrs. Hart he saw his own wife; and he himself stood where Dick Hart had stood a moment before. These figures, himself and his wife and child, vanished as suddenly and as strangely as they had appeared, and he found himself on the platform on which his duties were performed. A bewildering sound was in his ears. A thousand engines were screaming furiously, a thousand voices were shouting despairingly, a thousand terrible fears were making themselves heard. The air was filled with clamour and confusion, and starting forward with a wildly beating heart, he awoke.
He had been dreaming. But there was cause for these his later fancies. The faithful dog Snap was tearing at the door, through the crevices of which Jim saw smoke stealing. He looked towards the bed: Polly and her mother were fast asleep. He ran to the door, and opened it, and a blaze of flame rushed on to him, and almost blinded him. The house was on fire!
Jim Podmore's first feeling after the shock of the discovery was one of deep-felt gratitude, and a muttered "Thank the Lord!" escaped his lips as he saw his wife and child lying asleep in bed. When he started to his feet in a half-conscious state, with the clamour and the roar in his ears, his fear was that there had been an accident on the line, and that Polly and her mother had been hurt; and he was inexpressibly relieved to find that he had been dreaming. So deep and strong was his feeling of relief that he did not immediately realize the real danger which threatened him and those dear to him. It came upon him presently in its full force, and he recognised that a moment's delay might prove fatal. The first thing to find out was the extent of the danger. He had shut the door directly the fire met his gaze. Now he opened it, and ran down a few steps, on which the fire had not yet seized. He was beaten back by the flames. He fancied he heard cries from the lower part of the house, but he could see nothing for the smoke. There was no escape that way. Snap ran hither and thither in the wildest agitation, barking at the flames to keep them down. As Jim Podmore threw open the window in despair, to see what means of escape that outlet afforded, he saw the forms of persons hurrying to the street, and heard the cries they uttered. Those below could not distinguish his face, for he had closed the door again, and impelled by some strange process of reasoning, had locked it to keep out the flames. They saw, however, that some one was standing at the window, and they called out to him, but he was too agitated to understand what they said. The front of the house presented a flat surface of brick, and there seemed to be nothing between him and death--not a foothold, nor anything to cling to. The whole of this action had taken place in scarcely more than two or three moments, and within that time Snap had leaped upon the bed, and had aroused Pollypod and her mother. Had they been alone, it is probable that they would have slept on unconscious of their danger, for the smoke, stealing through the crevices of the door, had already somewhat stupefied them, and whatever subtle influence that and the dull roar of voices without might have had upon their dreams, they would not have aroused them to consciousness. Mrs. Podmore, with a scream, jumped out of bed, and looked wildly around; at the same moment she snatched Polly from the bed, and held the child close to shield her from danger.
"Keep cool, old woman," said Jim Podmore; "the house is on fire;" and muttered inly, "I knew that presentiment would come true--didn't I tell Old Wheels so?"
Mrs. Podmore was now standing at the window by Jim's side, with Polly in her arms. Their white night-dresses shone in the midst of the dark surface of brick, and voices reached them, rashly advising them to jump down. But they were on the third floor, and although Jim saw friendly arms held out below, he held his wife tight, lest in her fear she should obey the entreaties of their neighbours.
"There's time enough for that, old woman," he muttered, with thick breath; "perhaps the fire escape'll come. It'd be almost certain death to take the leap."
Time was too precious to waste in mere words, and he released her from his embrace. She turned to the door, but he cried out to her not to open it, and that their only chance lay in doing their best to keep out the flames.
"There's only one way out for us, old woman; and that's by the window. Put Polly down, and give me a hand here. Quick! Don't be frightened, my darling!"
He was tying the bedclothes together, to form a rope by which they might escape through the window, and Mrs. Podmore flew to help him. The door began to crack, and the room to fill with smoke; little jets of flame appeared.
"God help us!" cried Mrs. Podmore. "We shall be burnt to death!"
Jim said nothing to this, but all the bedclothes being used, he hurriedly fixed the mattress against the door, to gain another moment; then tied one end of the rope firmly to the foot of the bedstead, and threw the other end out of the window. It reached a little below the second-floor window. As he leaned forward to see how long it was, a ladder was fixed against the wall of the house, and a man, cheered on by the crowd, ran up to the room where Old Wheels slept.
"There's the old man getting out," said Jim, in a suppressed tone; the father, mother, and child were now together at the window; "and the man's jumped into the room. Don't look behind you, mother! Thank God, there's the fire-engine!"
It came tearing up the narrow street, and brave men were at work almost in an instant.
"The man's out on the ladder, mother, with Lily in his arms. Hurrah!" Jim lost sight of his own danger for a moment. "It'll be our turn presently. The Gribbles are getting down now. They've found a rope!"
Indeed, in less time than it takes to describe, all these, happily, were safely rescued, and only Jim Podmore and his wife and child remained in the burning house. The flames were in the room, and the fire-escape had not arrived. A moment's delay now would be fatal.
"Do you think you could hold fast to the rope," asked Jim of his wife, with a tightening grasp on the knots, "and slide down? There's no other chance left."
"I don't know, Jim," replied the trembling woman.
"See--there are two men climbing the ladder to catch us, and there are others below them, holding them up. You'll have to drop into their arms when you get to the end. Quick, mother! Now?"
"I can't, Jim," gasped the fainting woman; "I can't. Never mind me. Save Polly!"
Without another word, Jim Podmore, with Polly in his arms, swung out upon the rope. Happily it held and bore strain. Those below watched him with agonised looks, and the roar suddenly became hushed.
"Drop the child!" cried a voice. It came from one of the men on the ladder, and sounded clear and distinct, as from a silver trumpet. "Don't be frightened, Pollypod! It's me--Felix!"
"Felix! Felix!" screamed Pollypod, and as she cried, fell through the air into his arms. The cheers and the roar of delight that came from the crowd were frozen as it were in the throats of the excited throng as Jim, assuring himself by a hasty glance that his child was safe, began to ascend the rope for his wife. He was not a moment too soon. She was so overpowered with fright that he had to drag her through the window.
"Keep your senses about you," he cried, "for God's sake, old woman! Polly's safe! Hold me tight--don't loose your hold! For Polly's sake, now--for Polly's sake, mother!"
She clung to him so tightly as almost to press the breath out of his body; it was fortunate for them that another ladder was raised, and that other friendly arms were held out to break their fall. The moment they were safe, the attention of the crowd was diverted to the form of a dog, who was standing and barking on the window-sill above. It was Snap, who had been left behind. The dog was in great distress, for the flames were darting towards him, and he could scarcely keep his foothold. But Jim Podmore saw the peril of his faithful servant, and having hurriedly ascertained that his wife and Pollypod were unhurt, he ran up the ladder and called out to Snap to jump. The dog had but one alternative--to be burnt; so he risked his limbs, and jumped clean on the shoulders of his master, whence he rolled safely into the crowd, who cheered merrily at the episode. Soon all the rescued ones were assembled in a house at the bottom of the street. Their neighbours had lent them clothes, and they stood looking strangely at one another, grateful for their escape, but dismayed at the prospect before them. Presently their tongues were loosened, and every little incident connected with the fire was narrated with eagerness. No one knew or suspected how it had occurred. Alfred had come home, and, in accordance with the promise he had given to Lizzie to kiss Lily before he went to bed, had knocked at his sister's door and found that she was awake. He sat talking to her for about a quarter of an hour, and then went to bed.
"I was asleep in a minute," said Alfred, "and I don't remember anything until I was pulled out of bed and told the house was on fire."
He held out his hand to Felix, for it was Felix who, after helping to rescue Lily and Old Wheels, had aroused Alfred to a sense of his danger. Felix responded cordially, and was sufficient of a casuist to be quietly pleased because a lucky chance had given him a claim upon Alfred's gratitude.
Voices asked where the fire had commenced.
"It must have broken out in the lower part of the house," said Old Wheels; "but it does not matter to us now. Thank God we're all saved, eh, Pollypod?"
Pollypod nodded her head a dozen times, and looked solemnly at Felix.
"Yousavedme," she said.
"Father saved you, Polly," replied Felix. "Didn't he make a rope and creep out of the window down it with Polly in his arms?"
"But you caught me!"
"Yes, I caught you, little one. It's like the story of Cock Robin, with a happier ending. Some one saw the fire--some one cried out--some one climbed up--some one crept down--some one caught Polly."
Which made Polly laugh. But her father looked grave, His strait was a hard one indeed. Every stick of furniture burnt, every scrap of spare clothing burnt, no money in his purse, and not insured for a shilling. Here was a fine example for theorists whose favourite theme is the improvidence of the poor!
The Gribbles were better off than the others, and had taken shelter elsewhere. Gribble junior had saved his little store of money, and had thrown his clothes and those of his wife out of the window, not having had time to put them on. Gribble senior drivelled a great deal; and weakly declared his belief that co-operation was the cause of this, his crowning misfortune.
Jim Podmore did not say anything of his dream. His wife made a remark.
"It's an ill-wind that blows nobody good, Jim. If you hadn't fell asleep in the chair, you wouldn't have saved your clothes, perhaps."
"A nice figure I should ha' looked going to work without 'em," he replied, with grim humour.
If there was any comfort in the fact that they were all in the same boat as regards the complete destruction of their worldly goods, that comfort was theirs. The only one who seemed to make light of the misfortune was Felix; he extracted some secret satisfaction from it. He had a plan in his head.
He certainly lost no time in putting it into execution. In the afternoon of the following day he burst in upon them. He was flushed and triumphant.
"Now, then," he said, with heartless gaiety, "if you had anything to pack up, I should tell you to pack up at once and get ready. As it is, you can come along with we at once. I intend to take you all into custody."
They looked at him for his meaning.
"Polly," he said, "will you come and live in my house?"
"O, yes, yes!"
"I've settled it all with your husband, Mrs. Podmore, and he comes straight from his work to my house to-night; so you are powerless, you see, and dare not make an objection."
Old Wheels drew Felix aside.
"Explain this to me, Felix."
"Well, I knew of a house--a small one--ready furnished, which I could obtain on reasonable terms for a short time. I have taken it as a speculation, and I am going to instal you at once in your new home."
"How as a speculation, Felix?"
"Why, you shall pay me rent, of course, when you have turned yourself round, and so shall Mr. Podmore. The loss would be a very trifling one to me--I am doing fairly well now, you know--if you all cheated me out of the rent. Seriously, sir, I know you would as soon be under an obligation to me as to any other man, and a home you must have. I am delighted to have you all in my power."
He beckoned to Lily.
"Where do you think your new home is, Lily?"
"I can't guess."
Strange enough, she also seemed to extract happiness from their trouble.
"Where would you like it to be? Near to Lizzie's?"
She uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
"Well, it is; within twenty yards of Lizzie's house. Lizzie is making everything ready for you now. Mrs. Podmore has a room upstairs. A cab is waiting at the door, and we are all going together in a bunch."
Old Wheels rang Felix's hand; Lily smiled one of her brightest smiles; Pollypod jumped for joy; Mrs. Podmore burst out crying, and throwing her arms round Felix's neck, kissed him first and begged his pardon afterwards.
That evening they were all comfortably installed in their new residence. Even Alfred was delighted, although he knew that a sword was hanging over his head.
It happened that on the day succeeding the fire Mr. David Sheldrake purposely kept away from Soho. He was nettled at the treatment he had received the previous evening, both from Lily and Lizzie, and he was determined to show them that he was not to be trifled with. He knew that Alfred would be uneasy at not seeing him, for a great race--the City and Suburban--was to be run at Epsom the following week, and Alfred's hopes hung upon the result. Alfred had begged for another advance of money, and Mr. Sheldrake had promised to give it to him, knowing that it would be returned to him through Con Staveley. "He will be mad at not seeing me," thought Mr. Sheldrake, "and he will set it down to the manner in which the girls behaved to me last night. They will be sure to hear of it from him, and it will do them good. At any rate, it will show them that it is a dangerous game to play fast-and-loose with me." Mr. Sheldrake's vanity was wounded; he had never taken so much pains with a girl as he had taken with Lily, and here he was, after many months' attention and wooing, in the same position as when he started. Time had been wasted, and money had been thrown away; not much of the latter certainly--but the result altogether was unsatisfactory. He would bring the matter to a climax; he would close on Alfred, and send old Musgrave and Lizzie to the right-about. He had them all in his power, and fear might accomplish what fair words failed to do.
He did not hear of the fire until late in the following night. He hastened to the spot, and found the house in ruins. It was quite midnight before he ascertained where Lily had found refuge, and when he learnt that they had gone to live in a house very near to that occupied by Mr. Musgrave, he smiled complacently. "I could not have hoped for anything better," he thought. Before noon the next day he was at the house, overwhelming them with expressions of sympathy and with offers of assistance, all of which were gently declined by Old Wheels.
"We want for nothing, thank you," he said smilingly.
"But," urged Mr. Sheldrake somewhat coarsely, "I am told you were burnt right out, and hadn't time to save a stick."
"You were told right; we did not save a stick."
"Then you want a friend," persisted Mr. Sheldrake.
"We did," said Old Wheels, "and one came--the best of friends."
Burning to know who this best of friends was, Mr. Sheldrake put the question direct, which Old Wheels parried by saying,
"I don't think he would like us to speak of it, and I shall please him, I believe, by not mentioning his name."
There were in the room only the old man and Lily and Pollypod, and not one of these enlightened Mr. Sheldrake. When the old man spoke of this best of friends, Pollypod chimed in with enthusiastic declarations, and said, in her childlike way, that he was so good, so good!
"He seems to be a favourite with all of you," observed Mr. Sheldrake.
"He is a wizard," said Pollypod from her corner; "a good wizard. Father says he's a trump, and mother loves him. So do I, dearly, dearly. So does Mr. Wheels. So does Lily--don't you, Lily?"
Mr. Sheldrake turned suddenly and sharply upon Lily. A deep rose-tint had stolen into her face, and, for contrast, a dark cloud overshadowed Mr. Sheldrake's. Not a motion, not a look, escaped Old Wheels, who said,
"Yes, we cannot help having an affection for one who has been so kind to us."
"Of course not, of course not," assented Mr. Sheldrake, concealing his displeasure, "and I consider myself particularly unfortunate in having been deprived of the opportunity of standing in his place. Then I might have had the same claim upon your affection. It is the more unfortunate because I am so often in the habit of strolling about Soho during the small hours. Many a time have I walked up and down your street for an hour at least after midnight. Now what hard fortune was it that prevented me doing so on this occasion?" He intended these words to convey a significant declaration of his tender regard for Lily, and he added, in a low tone, addressed especially to her: "I went home not very happy because I thought you were angry with me for what occurred at the theatre. I hope you are not displeased with me now. Indeed, I was not to blame."
And again Mr. Sheldrake pressed offers of assistance upon Old Wheels, which again were firmly declined. The man of the world departed in no pleasant humour. His jealousy was aroused. Who was this friend, of whom the child had said that she loved him dearly, dearly, and that Lily loved him also? He had half a suspicion, and he was determined to know. Then his thoughts reverted to Lily's behaviour to himself. "Does she suspect," he mused, in his own elegant vernacular, "that I'm not acting on the square, and is she holding off on purpose to draw me on? In one word, David Sheldrake, is the girl a model of simplicity--or artfulness? Any way, she is a witch, and has set me on fire, Iwillhave her! I could almost make up my mind to marry her." A serious consideration for such a man as he, who look upon girls merely as the playthings of an hour, and in whose mind womanly virtue and goodness are like dead wood in a forest. That, in case he made up his mind to such a contingency, there would be a doubt of success, was too manifestly ridiculous to be entertained for a moment. As he mused, he saw Alfred coming towards him. The young man did not see Mr. Sheldrake at first, and that gentleman stepped aside to observe Alfred's manner, in which he seemed to detect something more marked than usual. Alfred was walking quickly and nervously, looking over his shoulder hurriedly this way and that, as if some one were dogging him. Once a dog ran, barking, out of a house, and Alfred turned round swiftly with a white face and an exclamation of fright. Mr. Sheldrake watched these symptoms of agitation with remarkable keenness, and as Alfred passed clapped him on the shoulder. A cry of alarm escaped from Alfred's trembling lips, for Mr. Sheldrake's salutation was sudden and violent; seeing who it was, however, Alfred smiled and drew a long breath of relief.
"Who did you think it was, Alf?" asked Mr. Sheldrake, to whom Alfred's manner seemed to be in some way a satisfaction.
"I didn't know, you clapped me on the shoulder so suddenly."
"You gave a cry," observed Mr. Sheldrake, with assumed carelessness, "for all the world as if I were a detective officer. Don't start; I'm not. That's one comfort, isn't it?"
"I don't see how it is a comfort," said Alfred half sullenly, and yet with an air which showed that he wished not to offend his companion; "I'm nervous, that's the fact. Been smoking and drinking a little too much; I shall be all right next Tuesday, after the City and Suburban's run."
"Going to Epsom to see the race?"
"Yes; I hope you'll do what you promised."
"We'll talk of that presently. You've got the tip, of course?"
"Yes, and a good one; but there's something else I'm going to do if you'll stand my friend once more."
"A new system?"
"Well, not exactly that: but a plan whichmustprevent the chance of loss."
"That's good enough, Alf," said Mr. Sheldrake in a light tone. "But come, I want to have a talk with you." They were at the gate of Mr. Musgrave's house. "Let us turn in here."
Lizzie opened the door, and greeted them with a smile. Mr. Sheldrake had not seen her since the night they were at the theatre together, and, remembering how she had spoken to him then, he was somewhat surprised at her amiability. He was still more surprised when Lizzie said she hoped he had not taken offence because she spoke so sharply to him.
"I was so anxious about Lily you see," she said; "and even Alfred had to put up with my bad temper. Didn't you, Alf?"
"Yes, dear," replied Alfred, pleased with her changed manner towards his friend.
"Well, well," said Mr. Sheldrake, gaily shaking hands again with Lizzie, "let byegones be byegones. Is the old man at home?"
"No," replied Lizzie readily; "I don't think he will be back for an hour."
"We'll go into his room," said Mr. Sheldrake, and he and Alfred went upstairs to the room where Mr. Musgrave transacted his business, and which Lizzie had called Bluebeard's room, because she was never allowed to enter it. Mr. Sheldrake had a private key, and before he opened the door, he turned to Lizzie, who had accompanied them to the landing, and tapping her familiarly on the cheek, told her to go down stairs, that he and Alfred would not keep her long, and that he was glad she thought better of him.
"Upon my word," he said with blithe significance, "I'm as glad for Alfred's sake as I am for my own."
And with a light laugh he led the way into the room. If he had seen the change that came over the girl's face when he shut the door upon her, and if he had seen her clench her little fists, and shake them at an airy picture of himself which she conjured up, he might have altered his agreeable tone. His manner also changed directly the door was closed and locked. An his cordiality vanished as he sat down at the table and took a pocket-book from his pocket. Alfred watched him apprehensively.
Everything in this Bluebeard's room betokened order and system. Two sides of the room were completely covered with pigeon-holes, and the compartments were nearly filled with documents neatly folded and ticketed. Although, from the appearance of the room and the shelves, a large amount of work was evidently gone through, not a loose document nor a scrap of writing was lying about. This circumstance appeared to give Mr. Sheldrake much satisfaction, and he nodded his head approvingly as he looked around. He did not waste time, however, but proceeded at once to the business before him. Opening his pocket-book, he selected some papers from it, and laid them on the table.
"Sit down, Alf," he said.
Alfred obeyed. Mr. Sheldrake unfolded the papers, and jotted down some figures from them; and laying his hand upon them, as if he did not immediately intend to refer to them said,
"I have been to your new house to-day, Alf."
"I called at your place yesterday," said Alfred, "to tell you about the fire, and where we had moved to, but you were not at home."
"No; and I kept from Soho purposely. I was angry with Lizzie, and I was not pleased with your sister. They will have to learn, if they have not learned already, that I am not to be trifled with."
Alfred had no reply to make to this; he felt that his best plan would be to listen quietly, and to say as few words as possible.
"By heavens;" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake, with more passion that he usually displayed, "I think I have been patient long enough--too long! No other man but me would have stood it. Every advance that I make--except," he added with a sneer, "those advances I make to you--is met as if I were an enemy instead of a friend. It is time for this to be settled. I'll know very soon whether I'm to be a friend or foe. I can be as good an enemy as a friend, and that I'll prove. With you, now, which is it, friend or foe?"
"Whichcanit be," answered Alfred moodily, "but friend?"
"Out-and-out friend, eh? No half-measures--thorough!"
"Thorough, out-and-out!" responded Alfred a little less despondently.
"No beating about the bush? No concealments, no double-dealing?"
"None."
"And you say this," pursued Mr. Sheldrake with remorseless tenacity--he had been so goaded that it was necessary he should revenge himself upon some one--"you say this not because it is for your interest to say it--not because you are in my debt, and I could shut you up at any moment I please--but because you believe it, because you know that I am straightforward, honest-minded, open-hearted?"
"What other motive can I have for saying it?"
"But say it plainly. You wish me to continue your friend, and to be my friend, for the reasons that I have given?"
"Yes, for those reasons, and no other." And as Alfred spoke the lie which was forced from him by fear, Mr. Sheldrake laughed lightly, and with an open scorn of the avowal, which brought the blood to the younger man's cheek.
It brought the blood also to the cheek of another person, not in the room. Crouching outside the door, at the top of the landing, was Lizzie, listening with beating heart, and hearing every word that passed. She could see clearly everything in the room, and being in the dark herself, could not be detected. A small lumber-room, the door of which she had partly opened, and which swung noiselessly on its hinges, was ready to afford her the means of concealment should the suspicions of Mr. Sheldrake be aroused. She saw the insolent triumphant manner of Mr. Sheldrake, and she thought for a moment that if she were a man, she would kill him; but she saw also the abject manner of her lover, and her passion was subdued by fear.
"If I thought you were deceiving me, Alf," said Mr. Sheldrake, "I should know what to do."
"What makes you speak in this way to me?" Alfred mustered up sufficient courage to ask. "If you doubt me, try me."
"I will. I was at your house to-day, as I have told you. I offered your grandfather assistance; he declined it. Both he and Lily were anything but cordial to me. For the old man I don't care one jot; but he influences Lily, and has power over her. She follows the cue he gives her. The old man said they wanted for nothing; that they had a friend, who had come forward at the nick of time--a friend, said that railway man's little girl, that they all loved--old man, little girl, Lily, and all."
Mr. Sheldrake bit his lips at the remembrance of the blush which had come to Lily's cheek when Pollypod asked her if she didn't love this friend.
"Children talk all sorts of nonsense," said Alfred, "and Polly more than most children."
"Perhaps; but that isn't the question just now. Who is this friend, this paragon, this model of goodness, that everybody loves?"
Alfred hesitated for one moment only. Felix asked them, as a particular favour, not to mention his name as having befriended them, and they had given him the promise. But Alfred felt that to hesitate now, and to beat about the bush with Mr. Sheldrake in that gentleman's present humour, would be fatal to him. So he answered,
"His name is Felix Creamwell. He in an old acquaintance."
"I thought so; the same young cub who interrupted my conversation with Lily after we came from the theatre. What is the special tie that binds him to your people?"
This direct questioning of Felix s motive for befriending them staggered Alfred. It had never occurred to him before; and with the sudden introduction of the subject came a glimpse of light--a new revelation--which enabled him but dimly at present to place a possible correct construction on Lily's unhappiness. Policy impelled him to reply,
"Friendship for my grandfather, I suppose."
But he stammered over the words, and Mr. Sheldrake said sharply,
"You don't seem quite certain as to his motive, Alf."
"I know that there's a great friendship between him and my grandfather," said Alfred, and with a fuller consciousness of what was at stake; "and although I have never asked myself the question, I should say that what he has done has been prompted by friendship."
"Not by love?"
"Love for whom?" inquired Alfred in his turn, with ready cunning.
"Well, let that pass," replied Mr. Sheldrake, only too willing not to have his doubts confirmed. "I daresay I can square the account between us, if we ever come across each other. IknowI can make it even with you. He has a motive, doubtless, and I don't believe in disinterested friendship. Now we will come to our own business." He took the papers which he had laid aside, and looked over them. "You know what these are?"
"I see some of my bills among them."
"Accounts of money you owe me--dishonoured acceptances, and other documents equally valuable. Here is your bill for sixty pounds, due three weeks since, dishonoured, and for which you were served with a writ."
"As a mere matter of form, I understood you to say," put in Alfred, trembling.
"I have obtained judgment upon it, nevertheless."
"What for?"
"So as to be ready," said Mr. Sheldrake coolly, "in case I find you are playing the double with me. It will be best for you to understand at once that I am in serious earnest. Miss Lizzie would not say many more uncivil things to me if she knew this. I suppose you couldn't say how much you owe me?"
"I haven't kept an account."
"It being no business of yours. Well, I have, feeling interested in it, naturally; and what between me and Con Stavely, the debt is as near three hundred pounds as possible. Is it convenient to you to settle this small account?"
"You know it isn't," answered Alfred, with a groan; and added entreatingly, "If you will advance me what you promised for the City and Suburban, I shall be able to pay you a good lump after the race."
"How if you lose?"
"I can't lose I must win; I must! Even if I didn't do what I am going to do--even if I trusted entirely to chance--luck must turn. You have told me so yourself a dozen times. But I don't depend upon that."
"How much do you want?"
"Forty pounds;" and Alfred twined his fingers nervously. Indeed, it seemed to him, as it had seemed a dozen times in the course of the year gone by, that the result was a certainty, if he had only the money to back his opinion. "If I can but once get clear," he thought, not for the first time, "I'll never back another horse as long as I live--never, never!"
It was not his debt to Mr. Sheldrake that pressed so heavily upon him; there was a sharper and more terrible sword hanging over him.
"What horses would you back for this money, Alf?"
Alfred, encouraged by a tinge of the old cordiality in Mr. Sheldrake's tone, answered confidently:
"I would put ten pounds on Xanthus, and twenty pounds on Kingcraft."
"And the other ten pounds?"
"I want that to speculate with on the race-course on the day of the race."
"No," said Mr. Sheldrake in a decided tone, "I can't consent to that. I shall give you no money in hand to play ducks and drakes with."
"Well, then, I'll put itallon Kingcraft and Xanthus--fifteen pounds on Xanthus, and twenty-five on Kingcraft."
"What makes you fancy Kingcraft? Xanthus I know is good--all the papers speak up for him."
"Didn't Kingcraft win the Derby?" cried Alfred excitedly. "I'm told that the horse has come back to his old form, and that he's certain to win. A man told me who knows all about it. The stable have been keeping it dark, and they're all going to put their money on. I shall be able to pay you every penny back, and I shall never know how to thank you enough. I've told Liz and Lily that no man ever had such a friend as you are to me, and I'll tell them again. Will you do it for me?"
"Let me see. The odds about Kingcraft are—"
"Fifteen to one," interposed Alfred eagerly; "and six to one about Xanthus. I only back Xanthus to save myself. One or other is certain to pull off the race."
"Very well; Ill give you the odds myself."
"You will! You are a trump, and no mistake. How can I thank you! Are you making a book on the race?"
"Yes, and it will be better for you that I should take the bet rather than anybody else; for then," he added with a quiet chuckle, "the money will be safe."
"Yes, that it will," said Alfred in all sincerity. "Fifteen to one to twenty-five pounds--that will be three hundred and seventy-five pounds if I win on Kingcraft, and ninety pounds, if Xanthus wins."
He felt as if he had the larger sum already in his pocket, and the despair which filled him but a few minutes since was swallowed up in the false hope.
"I will send you the vouchers to-morrow, and now I wantyourvoucher for this money that I am going to lend you."
Always willing enough to give his signature, Alfred waited, pen in hand, while Mr. Sheldrake drew up the paper. It was to the effect that Alfred had borrowed of him forty pounds, with which he had backed two horses named for the City and Suburban Race, to be run at Epsom on Tuesday 23rd of April, and that he promised to pay back the money the Saturday after the race.
Alfred read it carelessly, and remarked, as he signed it,
"This is differently worded to any of the other things I have signed."
"I have a purpose in drawing it up in this way," said Mr. Sheldrake, as he folded the paper and placed it in his pocket-book. "This document and the protested bills would be awkward things to take to your employers, Messrs. Tickle and Flint, in case you didn't pay, or in case I found that you were playing me false--or in case of other contingencies I need not mention just now. It might induce them to make an mediate examination of the vouchers and books in your care. You are cashier there, I believe, Alf. A tempting thing is the handling of other people's money, Alf--a devilish tempting thing--when one is in debt and wants to get rich too quick."
"What do you mean?" cried Alfred, with such terror in his face and in his voice that Lizzie on the outside of the door was compelled to cling to the baluster for support. "For God's sake!— "
"Don't agitate yourself, Alf. I am only putting an extreme case. I hope I may not be driven to such a course. It depends more on others than on yourself. And now I think our little conference is ended. Anything more to say? No? Well, you shall have your vouchers to-morrow."
Lizzie glided down-stairs noiselessly, and when, a few moments afterwards, Mr. Sheldrake came down and shook hands with her, she accompanied him to the gate and wished him good-bye with a smile on her lips, although her hand was like ice in his grasp.
"You've tamed that little devil, David," he mused as he walked along; "she'll be twice as civil and polite the next time you meet her. Now if Kingcraft pull off the City and Suburban— Well, Con Staveley can give the odds. I'll tell Alfred that my book is full, and that, as I can't lay any more, I got Con to take his bets. And Con Staveley needn't pay if the horse wins."
Lizzie went back to Alfred, and found him racked by despair one moment, buoyed up by hope another. She went up to him and kissed him, saying cheerfully,
"Am I not a good girl, Alf, for behaving so well to Mr. Sheldrake?"
"Yes, dear Liz, you are; I wish I were as good."
"Nonsense, dear; you're not strong-minded, that's all. And I don't think you love me enough."
"You mustn't say that, Liz. I love no other."
"I don't think you do, Alf; but if you loved me as well as I love you, you would not keep secrets from me."
He looked at her with sudden alarm.
"Secrets, Liz! Who told you I had secrets?"
"My heart," she replied, with a yearning look, and then, at sight of his troubled face, altered her tone as if she were schooling herself, and said archly, "Girls are artful guessers. And I'm jealous."
"Of whom?"
"Of Mr. Sheldrake. You have been talking secrets with him up-stairs; and I have a better right than he to share them with you. I hate that man!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. "There's nothing mean that he wouldn't do; he has a false heart, and his smooth words can't hide his bad thoughts. I saw in his face to-day what seems to be hidden from you. O, how I wish you had never known him!"
"It's of no use wishing, Liz. Perhaps it will all turn out for the best. Don't worry me, there's a dear! I want cheering up badly."
He laid his head upon the table wearily; his folly had made life very bitter to him. One of its sweetest blessings was his, and he had set it far below worthless things. As Lizzie's arms stole tenderly round his neck, and as her sweet words fell upon his ears, he was conscious that he had never rightly appreciated her love. He thought now how happy his life might be if he had been contented and honest, and if he had not yielded to temptation.
"Lizzie," he said with his face hidden, "I have not acted rightly to you. If I could commence over again—"
"Nonsense, Alf," she interposed, in as cheerful a tone as she could command, for his remark, with the meaning it conveyed, brought the tears to her eyes; "I'll not allow you to speak like that. I should be satisfied if I could see you happier in your mind. You have some grief that you will not let me share, and that pains me. You seem to be frightened of something that you cannot see. I have noticed that you have often been unconscious of what is passing, and that you seem to be listening— There! as you are now!"
He had risen to his feet with wild eyes, and was listening, with a terrible expression of fear in his face, to the sound of loud voices in the street. The speakers had stopped outside the house, and Alfred crept softly to the window. They passed away presently, and Alfred, with a sigh of relief, returned to Lizzie's side.
"What's the meaning of this, Alf?" she asked, with a fainting heart. "I have a right to know. Tell me."
"Not now," he replied, taking her cold hand and placing it on his forehead. "I dare not. If you love me, don't ask me questions. I have been foolish, and have not taken care of myself. It will be all right after next Tuesday, and we'll be happy again as we used to be. Come," he cried, with an attempt at gaiety, facing her with his hands on her shoulders, "if you want to do me good, wish me luck next Tuesday."
"I wish you luck, dear, with all my heart."
"That's right, Liz; and when you go to bed, pray that I may be lucky, my dear. For if I am, all this trouble will be over, and we'll commence a happy life--you, and I, and Lily. And we'll tell our secret then--our own secret, dearest, that no one knows but you and me."
He drew her towards him, and she laid her head upon his shoulder. Something in his words made him the consoler now.
"It will have to be told soon, Alf dear, or it will tell itself," she said, in a tone in which joy and pain were subtly mingled.
"I know it, darling; and I've been working, and trying to get money for you and me and Lil, and bad fortune has pursued me so steadily that I have been driven almost mad. Ah, Liz, I love you! You'll see how I love you when all this trouble comes to an end. And itwillcome to an end now that you've wished me luck, and will pray for it."
She pressed him in her arms, grateful for his calmer and tenderer mood.
"May I say something to you, dear?" she asked.
"Anything, darling; kiss me first."
She kissed him, and he said softly.
"What a pity it is that time will not stand still, isn't it, Liz? Now, if we could be like this for a long, long time, what happiness it would be! I almost feel as if I should like to die now, with you in my arms. What is it you want to say, darling?"
"Something about Lily."
"Dear Lily! Go on."
"Have you noticed that Mr. Sheldrake has been paying her a great deal of attention?"
"I think he likes her, Liz."
"You think! You know, you mean. But, Alf, if I had a sister that I loved as you love Lily, and who loved me as Lily loves you, I would rather see her in her grave than see her placed as Lily is now."
"Lizzie!"
"I mean what I say, Alf, and you ought to have seen it more clearly before. Do you believe that Mr. Sheldrake has any honourable intentions in his open admiration for Lily?"
"If I thought otherwise—" cried Alfred hotly.
"What would you do?" interrupted Lizzie; "whatcouldyou do, placed as you are with that man? He has been working for this, Alf dear, and you haven't seen it. So deep and true is Lily's love for you, that if he were to say to her, 'I have your brother in my power, and I can bring misery and shame upon him, and will, if you are cold to me!'--if he were to say this to Lily in his own bad way, and work upon her loving heart in his own bad way—O, Alfred, I could almost pray that somebody would kill him!--if he were to do all this, as he may, I tremble to think what Lily would do."
"What would she do?" The words came faintly from a throat parched by remorse.
"Can you ask, Alf? What wouldIdo for you? To secure your happiness, is there any sacrifice that I would not make? Lily's love for you, although it is the love of a sister, is not less strong than mine. But I have learnt harder lessons than Lily has had to learn, and I should not be so easily led as she would be. A bad, calculating man, as Mr. Sheldrake is, could work upon such a simple nature as hers more easily than upon mine. I should be strong where she, through innocence and simplicity, would be weak. And when she felt, as she would feel, that any sacrifice of happiness which she would be called upon to make would be made to secure the happiness of a beloved brother—"
"Stop, Lizzie!" cried Alfred, rising in his agitation, and turning from her. "Stop, for God's sake! I have been blind."
Yes, he had been blind; and blindly had walked, step by step, to the terrible abyss which lay before him now, deliberately taking with him a pure devoted girl, whom, despite all his selfishness, he loved next in the world to Lizzie. All the sweet memories of his life, until he met Lizzie, were of his sister, and he had conspired against her happiness. He was powerless now to undo the past; but he might atone for it. He silently swore that if he were fortunate on Tuesday he would become a better man.
"I have something else to tell you, Alfred," said Lizzie, after a long pause. "Lily is in love."
"In love! Ah, I see more clearly now, dear Lizzie. With Felix?"
"Yes, a happy life is before her, with that true man, if happily they come together."
"And he?"
"Loves her."
"Has he told you?"
"No; but there are things that need no telling. We women know. He has not spoken to her, because, because—"
"Go on, Lizzie."
"Because he sees what you have been blind to, and out of the nobleness of his heart will not add to her distress."
"It would have been better for her," groaned Alfred, "and for you, if I had never been born."
"Nay," remonstrated Lizzie, in a gentle loving tone, "we must not repine: we must try to do better. Promise--and I will help you, with all my strength, and so will Lily and Felix--ah, you don't know what a heart he has! And your grandfather, Alfred, that good old man—"
"I know what you would say about him, Lizzie. I am punished enough already."
Indeed, he was very humble and repentant; and, when he went home, he knocked at his grandfather's door. It was dusk, and they could but dimly see each other's faces.
"I have come to ask your forgiveness, sir," said Alfred.
Old Wheels started to his feet, in joyful agitation. He understood it all immediately.
"My dear boy," he said, with a sob, taking Alfred's hand, "Not another word; not another word."
He pressed the young man to his heart and kissed him. Lily, hearing the voices, came into the passage.
"Come here, Lily," cried Old Wheels. "Come hear, dear child."
Lily flew into the room, and after the joy that this glad meeting brought to them, they settled down quietly, and talked, and thought, and hoped, while the evening shadows deepened. The tender movements she made towards Alfred and her grandfather, the expressions of exquisite happiness she uttered, almost unconsciously, every now and then, the loving caresses, the musical little laughs, the words, "O, I am so happy now! so happy!" that escaped again and again, like music from her lips, delighted the old man.
"We want Lizzie here," said Old Wheels tenderly.
"And Felix," thought Lily. This reunion seemed to bring Felix nearer to her.
"Pray that I may be lucky, my dear."
Alfred had spoken these words to Lizzie with fullest meaning. He did not ask for a wish; he asked for a prayer. He was not himself given to praying, but on this night, before he went to bed, he knelt at his bedside for the first time for many, many months, with a distinct devotional purpose, in his mind, and prayed with all his mental power that Kingcraft, the horse he had backed, might win the City and Suburban race on the following day.
He remained at his devotions for fully a quarter of an hour, and had his grandfather seen him in his attitude of contrition, the old man would indeed have been comforted. But during this quarter of an hour no entreaty for forgiveness of folly and crime passed Alfred's lips. Remorse he felt, but it was the remorse born of fear. Every form of prayer with which he had been familiar in childhood was unconsciously made subservient to his present purpose. His one prayerful thought shaped in silence by his lips was, "I pray with all my soul that Kingcraft may win the City and Suburban. Let Kingcraft win, O Lord! I pray that Kingcraft may win. Kingcraft! Kingcraft! Win the race! Win the race!" He transposed these words in a hundred different ways, and thought them with as much agonising intensity as the most righteous saint could have done. When he rose to his feet, he felt strengthened by the charm he had laid upon himself. He felt that nothing could prevent Kingcraft from winning; and he already began to look ahead beyond the day, when, with the money he would receive, he could set himself free, and begin again; already his better resolutions were beginning to be weakened by the prospect of large gains easily obtained. He argued with himself, as he had done scores of times before. There was no harm in betting; there was only harm in losing. If there were any harm in it, would the newspapers encourage it? It was reading the newspapers that first put the idea into his head; what followed had followed naturally. He had been unlucky, that was all. Well, luck would turn now. Why, here he would prove that luck would turn. He did, as he had often done before; once again he wrote on separate pieces of paper the names of the horses that were likely to run in the race; he folded them up separately, and shook them in his hat; he shut his eyes, and putting his hand among the papers, fumbled with them until he selected one. He drew it forth and opened it. Kingcraft! There was a plain proof. Howcouldthe horse lose after that? He laughed gleefully, andwouldnot entertain the thought that he had purposely written the name of this horse on a larger piece of paper than the others, so that he might be sure of drawing out the one he wanted. He went to bed, and dreamt of the race. The whole of the familiar scene passed before him in his dream; he had staked a lot of money on Kingcraft, and he saw the horse sailing past the winner's post, an easy winner, and found himself the winner of a thousand pounds. "Why not?" he asked of himself, as he awoke exultant; "why shouldn't I win a thousand pounds? If I could borrow money somehow, I could pay it back at once. No one would know, and we should all be happy." He read the daily newspapers eagerly, and sucked fresh hope and renewed incentives from them. The papers said that Kingcraft was in blooming health; that the stable believed in him; that a fine jockey was to ride him to probable victory; and that the public were backing him. Even, thought Alfred, in his endeavours to come to a fair conclusion, even if Kingcraft should, by some strange and unaccountable chance, not come in first, what horse was to beat him? For, notwithstanding the honest and upright manner in which the national sport is carried on, strange and unaccountable occurrences do sometimes happen; roguery does occasionally triumph. Well, what horse would win, if Kingcraft came in second instead of first? Xanthus, of course. Xanthus, the horse that was rising daily in popular favour. Were not all the honest and disinterested tribe of prophets and tipsters warning their miserable public to look after him? Said one, "Xanthus must not be lost sight of;" said another, "Keep Xanthus on the right side;" said another, "Put a bit on Xanthus;" said another (a cautious prophet, who never allowed himself to be caught tripping), "But--if--notwithstanding--nevertheless--such or such a thing occurred to Bertram--or,ifPax is not what is represented--or,ifa mistake has been made in Marmora's trial--or,ifPhosphorus gets off badly--or,ifKingcraft has entirely lost his old form--or if, notwithstanding, and nevertheless, with half-a-dozen other horses--why,then, keep your eye on Xanthus; he may be dangerous." With what zest and animation did Alfred read the words of these inspiring writers! How attentively he studied their elegant English, and read their prophecies again and again! They all spoke well of Kingcraft, but none gave the horse as the absolute winner. Well, but was not Alfred as good a judge as any of them? Had not the secret been revealed to him, as it was to Daniel, in a night-vision? But the course of reading such worshippers as he goes through is of an intensely distracting nature, and Alfred could not be blind to the fact that there were other horses that might have a chance. If he only had some money to back these horses, and to back Kingcraft and Xanthus to be first, second, or third, in the race, winning would be an absolute certainty, beyond the possibility of doubt. On Saturday morning he rushed to the sporting papers, and read dozens of columns concerning the race. Some of the most respectable and reputable of these papers gave Xanthus as the winner, coupling him, however, in most instances, with other horses. Alfred was tortured by doubt--now thinking this, now that, until his mind was in a whirl of bewilderment over the miserable affair. Other papers gave other horses as the certain winners. One said, Pax or Bertram would win; another, Pax or Bridgwater; another, Bertram or Hector; and so on and so on; and Alfred had not backed one of these horses. If either of them won, he was ruined past redemption. But his favourite prophet had to speak yet; a prophet whose name was in every backer's mouth. On Monday morning this prophet would unbosom himself, and Alfred determined to wait till then before he decided his course of action.
He went by train to his office, and on Monday he read the deliverances of his favourite prophet as he sat in the railway carriage. The prophecy recorded, with an appearance of satisfaction, that backers of certain horses who had made their bets weeks ago had burnt their fingers, as the horses they had backed would not run in the race. The horse named Pax, who held the position of first favourite, had been backed heavily in every part of the country by those connected with the stable the owner, it was said, having played a waiting game with his horse, now intended to win a fortune with him. Alfred's prophet declared he did not believe in Pax, although, after the usual fashion of prophets, he put in a saving clause in a few words which he could quote by-and-by, in proof of his own sagacity, in case the horse should win. He pinned his faith, after much wavering, on Xanthus and Bertram, chiefly on the former, and in an elaborate and confusing summing up, declared, in capital letters, that one of these must win, and that either Kingcraft or Marmora would be certain to be among the first three. Alfred was much excited by the hopes held out in this prophecy; and, with some difficulty, obtained from his employers leave of absence for the following day. He had not been too attentive to his duties lately, and his employers demurred at first; but he pleaded the fire that had taken place in Soho, and said that his sister and grandfather required his assistance to set their new home in order. "You shall have no cause to complain of me after this," he said humbly, and received a reluctant assent to absent himself from his duties. He stopped at the office later than usual that evening, and was very careful and painstaking in what he did. Early in the morning he was up and away. He had told Lizzie that he was going to the races, but had made her promise not to let any one know. Lily and Old Wheels supposed he was going to his office as usual, and they stood at the window watching him with smiling faces. Lily kissed her hand to him as he looked back, and he waved his gaily towards the window, and smiled brightly.
"A great change has come over him," said Old Wheels thoughtfully, "for the better, thank God! It makes you happier, Lily."
"Yes, dear; and you, too. Things seem brighter and happier than they did a little while ago. He is coming back to us!"
She ran down-stairs, and Old Wheels followed her. Alfred was at the door.
"I've come back to give you another kiss," he said; "you looked so pretty standing at the window, that I could not help it."
"Prettier than Lizzie?" she asked saucily and affectionately.
"As pretty, I do believe," he replied gaily, and shook hands with Old Wheels, whose face, notwithstanding its kind expression, had a trace of seriousness in it.
"Isn't he good?" asked Lily, as she and Old Wheels stood at the gate. "Dear Alf! See! He's running into Lizzie's house, and Lizzie's opening the door for him!"
"I have had such nice dreams about you," said Lizzie, as she stood in the passage with Alfred's arm around her.
He laughed blithely, and took her face between his hand, and kissed her lips seven times.
"Because seven's a lucky number, Liz."
"O that's the reason!" she cried, with a little toss of her head.
"Yes," he replied merrily, "and not because I love you the least bit in the world. Here's seven more--and seven more--three times seven."
And, the charm being complete, he pressed her in his arms again, and darted away.
There was something more than idle meaning in his words; in the excited state of his mind he was impelled to place an important construction upon every little incident that occurred. It was not merely an affectionate impulse that caused him to turn back and kiss Lily again. Something seemed to whisper to him, "If you don't go back, you will be unlucky to-day;" and if he had resisted the impulse, he would have fretfully made that the cause of any ill-luck that might befall him. In the same manner, he kissed Lizzie the number of times which seemed to him to bear the most fortunate significance. In this way he strove to make assurance doubly sure, and drew the most favourable auguries from his attention to these details, connecting them, with strange sophistry, with the great stake he was about to play. Once as he walked under a ladder; and the thought occurring to him that it was an unlucky omen, he retraced his steps, so as to undo the evil consequences that might result from his act, and walked outside the ladder the second time, and congratulated himself upon his wisdom. When he was in the train that was to convey him to Epsom, he bought the newspapers containing the last outpourings of his favourite prophet upon the City and Suburban race. He read a glowing account of the appearance of the course, of "straggling gipsy women wandering about," of "knots of men in the middle of the road, or leaning against the public-house corners, talking in quiet and almost solemn tones, which indicated that they were absorbed in considerations much more important to them than racing--the means of living from hand to mouth, of which one sees so much on the turf." He read how one individual "in the centre of these groups, footsore, wretched, ragged, and deplorable, had formerly been a tout in highly prosperous circumstances, and absolutely won close upon £1500 when Blair Athol won the Derby;" and how this unfortunate man was "exciting the compassion of his almost equally forlorn companions by narrating how he had walked, or rather crawled, for weeks by road from Liverpool, as nigh starving as makes no matter." He read how the mysterious horse, known as Pax, was conveyed to the scene of action in high state, in a "private van drawn by four grey horses:" and how his owner and backers, confident of victory, declared, in racing phraseology, that the horse would "walk in." This and much more Alfred read, and then came to the kernel--the prophecy--which stated that either Pax, Xanthus, Bertram, Kingcraft, or Phosphorus would be certain to win, and that of the five, Xanthus, Bertram, and Kingcraft were the three upon which this wise prophet pinned his faith. Alfred looked round triumphantly. The carriage in which he was seated was crowded, and the occupants were reading the prophets' predictions in the newspapers with avidity. Alfred, fingering some crisp bank-notes in his pocket, soon made up his mind as to his course of action. He had twenty new £5 bank-notes, and these he would judiciously invest upon all five of the horses named by his favourite prophet, backing them all to win and to be in the first three, in such proportions as to be certain to win. He took pencil and paper from his pocket, and made his calculations; so much upon one horse, so much upon another, and so much upon the others, at the current odds. Against one of the horses named--Phosphorus--he could get as much as forty to one. He would put £20 upon this horse, so as to gain £800 if the horse won. He gloried at the thought of it. By the time the train reached Epsom he had made his calculations, and had determined so to invest that he could win from a hundred to nearly a thousand pounds. "How happy I shall be to-night," he thought, "with the money in my pocket! I'll be at the office early in the morning to make everything straight, and then—" The perspective that stretched itself out in his imagination was too delightfully vague for words or distinct thought. It contained a hazy vista of delight, and in this he basked, and saw Lizzie and himself, and Lily and Felix perhaps, the happiest of the happy.
It was a bright clear morning, and a fresh breeze was blowing over the Surrey Downs. Gipsies, beggars, thieves, sharpers, and others of that ilk were about and on the alert, and Alfred moved briskly through them to the scene of action. Every species of rascaldom was there represented, and the noble sport afforded a lawful outlet for roguery in every shape--for roguery in broadcloth as well as roguery in fustian. There was something hideous in the Babel of sound round the betting-men, and everything that was degrading in the features which most prominently presented themselves. The first race was a race between two horses, and was in no respects interesting. Alfred paid no attention to it, nor to the two races which followed. He was too busy "getting his money on" for the great event of the day, which was the fourth on the card. He staked his money with men whom he considered to be good--that is, "sufficient," as Shylock has it--and when the bell rang to announce the appearance of the horses on the course, he had but five shillings left. But his pockets would soon be filled. His mind was thronged with intricate calculations, as to how much he would win if this horse that he had backed came in first and that second, or that first and this second; as to how much he would win under the most favourable circumstances, supposing three of his horses came in first, second, and third. Indeed, he worked himself into a state of belief that it was certain two of his horses would be first and second; and if fortune favoured him out and out, he would go home with twelve hundred pounds in his pocket. Losing was an impossibility. If a shadow of doubt intruded itself, he banished it instantly by a reference to his prophet. Twelve hundred pounds! He parcelled it out. So much to pay Mr. Sheldrake--so much to replace what he had "borrowed" from the office--so much left. There they were! All the horses were out, and the course was clear. Such bright colourings of jockeys' caps and jackets--such grand action from the beautiful creatures they bestrode--such confident smiles on some of the jockeys' lips--such eager scrutinising on the part of anxious investors. There was Kingcraft--there Xanthus--there Bertram--there Phosphorus--there Pax, that was to bring anything but peace to those who believed in him. Alfred had no eyes for any others. On these his hopes and salvation were staked. Away they went--thirty of them in all--in a gay line to the starting-post; and they pranced, and hung back, or were held back by astute jockeys, or falsely started, for at least an hour. Alfred was ablaze with excitement, and was eating his heart away with impatience. Another false start--another--another. This torture of suspense was agonising. At last they were off, and Alfred, craning forward, muttered the names of Lizzie and Lily for luck. Away they sailed over the hill to Tattenham Corner. In little more than two minutes the mile and a quarter was compassed, and there came in, first, Digby Grand; second, Lord Glasgow; third, Hector. Not one of the prophet's five horses was in the first three, and Alfred had not backed one of the winning horses for a penny. He put his hand to his forehead, to clear away the mist; but it gathered upon him thicker and thicker. He could not distinguish a face in all the throng of persons around him. A man behind him placed his hand somewhat firmly on Alfred's shoulder, with the intention of passing him.
"No, no!" cried Alfred hoarsely, cowering down. But the man passed on, not heeding him; and Alfred, hiding his face as well as he could, slunk through the crowd to the rear of the race-course, bearing in his face and manner the air of a hunted animal, with death on his track.