Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  XXXII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Is this the Derby?” said Sarah.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed?”

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

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

  “Where do they start?” said Sarah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to meet a friend who would give him the very latest news respecting a certain horse; and Esther, Sarah, and Journeyman wandered along the course in search of William. Along the rails strangely-dressed men stood on stools, satchels and race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in their button-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was stretched a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of these names out: “Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All bets paid.” “Tom Wood’s famous boxing rooms, Epsom.” “James Webster, Commission Agent, London.” And these betting men bawled the prices from the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filled with money, to attract custom. “What can I do for you to-day, sir?” they shouted when they caugh
t the eye of any respectably-dressed man. “On the Der-by, on the Der-by, I’ll bet the Der-by…. To win or a place, to win or a place, to win or a place — seven to one bar two or three, seven to one bar two or three…. the old firm, the old firm,” — like so many challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I think I can, guv’nor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And my husband making a book yonder?”

  An awkward silence intervened, and then he said —

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

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

  Fred followed her out.

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

  “No, I never could forget that.”

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

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

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

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

  “So he married you?” Fred answered bitterly.

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

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

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

  “Esther, it was I who loved you.”

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

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

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

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

  XXXIII

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