Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on her hand. By turning her eyes she could see William. Sarah noticed one of these stealthy backward glances and a look of anger crossed her face, and calling to William she asked him when the sweepstakes money would be divided. The question startled William from a reverie of small bets, and he answered that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money should not be divided at once.

  “There was twelve. That’s right, isn’t it? — Sarah, Margaret, Esther, Miss Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and Swindles and Wall…. Well, it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to the second, and two to the third. No one got the third ‘orse, so I suppose the two shillings that would have gone to him ‘ad better be given to the first.”

  “Given to the first! Why, that’s Esther! Why should she get it?… What do you mean? No third! Wasn’t Soap-bubble third?”

  “Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn’t in the sweep.”

  “And why wasn’t he?”

  “Because he wasn’t among the eleven first favourites. We took them as they were quoted in the betting list published in the Sportsman.”

  “How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?”

  “Yer needn’t get so angry, Sarah, no one’s cheating; it is all above board. If you don’t believe us, you’d better accuse us straight out.”

  “What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included? — he wasn’t among the eleven first favourites.”

  “Oh, don’t be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we agreed to make an exception in favour of our own ‘orse — a nice sweep it would ‘ave been if we ‘adn’t included Silver Braid.”

  “And suppose,” she exclaimed, tightening her brows, “that Soap-bubble had won, what would have become of our money?”

  “It would have been returned — everyone would have got his shilling back.”

  “And now I am to get three shillings, and that little Methodist or Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to call her, is to get nine!” said Sarah, with a light of inspiration flashing through her beer-clouded mind. “Why should the two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble, if anyone ‘ad drawn ’im, go to the first ‘orse rather than to the second?”

  William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good reason why the extra two shillings should be given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceiving her advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to favour Esther.

  “Don’t we know that you went out to walk with her, and that you remained out till nearly eleven at night. That’s why you want all the money to go to her. You don’t take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any place I ever was in before would such a thing be allowed — the footman going out with the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot.”

  “I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare you?” And Esther started up from her place; but William was too quick for her. He grasped her arm.

  “Never mind what Sarah says.”

  “Never mind what I says! …A thing like that, who never was in a situation before; no doubt taken out of some ‘ouse. Rescue work, I think they call it — —”

  “She shan’t insult me — no, she shan’t!” said Esther, tremulous with passion.

  “A nice sort of person to insult!” said Sarah, her arms akimbo.

  “Now look you here, Sarah Tucker,” said Mrs. Latch, starting from her seat, “I’m not going to see that girl aggravated, so that she may do what she shouldn’t do, and give you an opportunity of going to the missis with tales about her. Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on betting if they will; I never saw no good come of it.”

  “That’s all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, and we have to divide the money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” said Esther, sullenly; “I wouldn’t take it.”

  “What blooming nonsense! You must take your money. Ah, here’s Mr. Leopold! he’ll decide it.”

  Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other circumstances would have gone to the third horse must be divided between the first and second; but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it was proposed that the matter should be referred to the editor of the Sportsman; and as Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offered her choice between the Sportsman and the Sporting Life.

  “Look here,” said William, getting between the women; “this evening isn’t one for fighting; we have all won our little bit, and ought to be thankful. The only difference between you is two shillings, that were to have gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says it ought to be divided; you, Sarah, won’t accept his decision. We have offered to write to the Sportsman, and Esther has offered to give up her claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you want?”

  She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a protracted argument with William, largely composed of insulting remarks, she declared that she wasn’t going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them; let them give her the three she had won — that was all she wanted. William looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his conviction that women wasn’t intended to have nothing to do with horse-racing, he took up his pipe and tobacco-pouch.

  “Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for to-night; I am going to finish my smoke in the pantry. Don’t scratch all your ‘air out; leave enough for me to put into a locket.”

  When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked some moments in silence, William said —

  “Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chesterfield Cup?”

  “He’ll win in a canter if he’ll only run straight. If I was the Gaffer I think I’d put up a bigger boy. He’ll ‘ave to carry a seven-pound penalty, and Johnnie Scott could ride that weight.”

  The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straight with another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interesting reminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was the Gaffer’s private servant — before either of them had married — when life was composed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short his tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and, not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he did not know how to act — he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings for the double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? William thrilled with admiration. What a ‘ead, and who’d think it? that little ‘ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fifty pounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Who could tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity to break into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn’t come back. William felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before been known to let anyone know what he had on a race.

  Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the “Red Lion” was full of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the customers were heard calling, “Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter, three of whiskey cold.” There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen, shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had come for their winnings.

  Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, had just run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr. Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, into which you could walk from the street.

  “Talk of favourites!” he said; “I’d sooner pay over the three first favourites than this one — thirty, twenty to one starting price, and the whole town onto him; it’s enough to break any man…. Now, my men, what is it?” he said, turning to the railway porters.

  “Just the trifle me and my mates ‘av won over that ’ere ‘orse.”

  “What was it?”

  “A shilling at five and twenty to one.”

  “Look it o
ut, Joey. Is it all right?”

  “Yes, sir; yes, sir,” said the clerk.

  And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forth filled with gold and silver.

  “Come, come, mates, we are bound to ‘ave a bet on him for the Chesterfield — we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?”

  “Done for a shilling each,” said the under-porter; “finest ‘orse in training…. What price, Musser Watkins?”

  “Ten to one.”

  “Right, ‘ere’s my bob.”

  The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into his pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet.

  “And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?”

  William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten shillings to one on one race and had lost; he had had half-a-crown on another and had lost; in a word, three-and-sixpence had to be subtracted from his winnings on Silver Braid. These amounted to more than five pounds. William’s face flushed with pleasure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped four sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket. Should he put a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for the Chesterfield? Half-a-sovereign was enough! …The danger of risking a sovereign — a whole sovereign — frightened him.

  “Now, Mr. Latch,” said old Watkins, “if you want to back anything, make up your mind; there are a good many besides yourself who have business with me.”

  William hesitated, and then said he’d take ten half-sovereigns to one against Silver Braid.

  “Ten half-sovereigns to one?” said old Watkins.

  William murmured “Yes,” and Joey booked the bet.

  Mr. Leopold’s business demanded more consideration. The fat betting man and the scarecrow little butler walked aside and talked, both apparently indifferent to the impatience of a number of small customers; sometimes Joey called in his shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to one, or five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would then raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold’s face and nod or shake his head, or perhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he was prepared to lay. With no one else would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much deference. Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery, and the deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as if dismissing matters of first importance, the two men approached William, and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fifty pounds.

  “I’ll take twelve to one — twenty-four pounds to two. Shall I book it?”

  Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatically, said he must be getting back. William was much impressed, and congratulated himself on his courage in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold knew a thing or two; he had been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn’t been all right he would have laid off some of the money.

  Next day one of the Gaffer’s two-year-olds won a race, and the day after Silver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup.

  The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins. He declared that he had never been so hard hit; but as he did not ask for time and continued to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his capacious pockets, his lamentations only served to stimulate the happiness of the fortunate backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self ringing in their hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the health of the horse.

  So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit and colourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. The dear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lightening the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear gold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again. The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship and sorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could have thought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird on the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, the colour it flaunted was bright.

  The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortune that this horse’s hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life the glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder’s wife, and the feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers on the young man’s legs, the cigar in his mouth — all is Goodwood gold. It glitters in that girl’s ears and on this girl’s finger.

  It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on the race; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that William Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won five-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousand pounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of the Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call; even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and down the lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A golden prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under its elm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said that large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and grander entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of, balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, many more race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slender creatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth hoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commenting crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs and downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants’ ball given at the Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch, were there; likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote’s, and those from Sir George Preston’s — two leading county families. A great number of servants had come from West Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing — altogether between two and three hundred. “Evening dress is indispensable” was printed on the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks, ladies’ maids, housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification to keep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn Esther to play again the part of Cinderella.

  X

  A GROUP OF men turned from the circular buffet when Esther entered. Miss Mary had given her a white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleeves reaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarks as she passed were, “A nice, pretty girl.” William was waiting, and she went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka.

  Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few couples had begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising their legs into curious geometrical positions.

  Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet — they must dance whether they knew how or not.

  “The Gaffer has told me partic’lar to see that the ‘gals’ all had partners, and just look down that ’ere room; ‘alf of that lot ‘aven’t been on their legs yet. ‘Ere’s a partner for you,” and the butler pulled a young gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She entered slowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground, and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. It was whispered that she had never worn a low dress before, and Grover came to the rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief.

  But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those who possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousers and red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touch suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother’s wedding dress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue coastguardsman’s coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personal taste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlers seemed on the watch for side di
shes, and the valets suggested hair brushes and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars, and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their late husbands; and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive of ease and leisure, made Ginger’s two friends — young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote — noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the upper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht’s bowsprit, and, his coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who were bobbing up and down, hardly advancing at all.