CHAPTER LIII.—AFTER THE MANNER OF “BELL’S LIFE.”
“I DARE say the lazy young dog isn’t up yet,” was Coverdale’s mental comment, as he knocked at the door of Lord Alfred Courtland’s lodgings. Although, as a general rule, the idea might not be a mistaken one, yet this particular occasion was evidently an exception, for, on entering Lord Alfred’s sitting-room, Coverdale found that young gentleman most elaborately got up in an unimpeachable sporting costume, but sitting with an open letter and his betting-book before him, looking the picture of despair. As Coverdale entered, he glanced upward with a slight start; then, without waiting to be spoken to, he exclaimed, in a strange reckless tone, as different from his usual manner as a tempest from a zephyr, “Well! which is it to be? peace or war? either will suit me, though I should rather prefer the latter; about the best thing that can happen to me would be for you to put a bullet through my head; at all events, it would save me the trouble of blowing my own brains out, for I expect that is what it will come to before long.”
“Nonsense!” was the reply. “What do you mean by talking such childish rubbish? what is the matter with you, man?”
“First answer my question, and let me know whether I am speaking to a friend or a foe,” rejoined Lord Alfred.
“A friend, as I always have been, and always will be, to you, as long as you deserve an honest man’s friendship,” returned Coverdale, heartily. “Alice has sent me your letter, and it does you great credit; but I always knew you had a good heart; so, for any trouble or annoyance you have caused me, I freely forgive you, and I’ll answer for it Alice does the same; and I don’t know that you may not have taught her a lesson which may be very useful to her in after life. She was young and giddy, and pleased with admiration and gaiety; and this has shown her the danger and folly of such frivolous pursuits as these tastes lead to.”
As he spoke, he held out his hand; Lord Alfred seized and shook it warmly.
“My dear Coverdale,” he said, “you have made me happier, or I might more truly say, less miserable, than five minutes ago I would have believed it possible for anything to do; it was not your anger, or its consequences, I dreaded; but the truth is, I always had the greatest regard and respect for you—I was proud of your friendship—and the idea that, by my faults, I had forfeited it, lowered me in my own estimation, and was a source of continued uneasiness and regret to me. You thought I was talking exaggerated nonsense just now, but I assure you when you came into this room five minutes ago, I was thoroughly reckless; just in the frame of mind in which men commit suicide, or any other act of wicked folly.”
Coverdale, though he by no means comprehended the “situation” (as it is now the fashion to term all possible combinations of events), yet perceived that his companion was thoroughly in earnest, and required sympathy and assistance; so he evinced the first by getting up and laying his hand encouragingly on Lord Alfred’s shoulder, while he offered the latter in the following words: “What is it, my boy? anything that I can help you in?”
“If anybody can, you are the very man,” replied Lord Alfred, as he eagerly grasped his friend’s hand; “but really,” he continued, while the tears that sparkled in his clear blue eyes proved his sincerity, “really, I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness, when I have deserved so differently at your hands too; but you always were the most generous, best-hearted——”
“There! that will do, you foolish boy,” interrupted Coverdale, who, like all simple truthful characters, felt uncomfortable at hearing his own praises; “we’ll take it for granted that I’m no end of a fine fellow, and proceed to learn what particular scrape your wisdom has failed to keep you out of.”
“Scrape, you may call it,” was the reply; “partly through my own folly, partly through the rascality of others, I am almost certain to lose a couple of thousand pounds on a steeple-chase, for which I’ve been idiot enough to enter a horse, and where to lay my hands on as many hundreds is more than I know. I shall not be able to meet my engagements, and shall be stigmatized as a blackleg and a swindler, at the very time when it is through the villainy of blacklegs and swindlers that I shall be placed in such a position!”
“Can’t your father?” began Coverdale.
“If you don’t wish to render me frantic, don’t mention my father,” was the unexpected rejoinder; he paused, then resumed—“Coverdale, I will not trust you by halves, I know you will hold my confidence sacred. My father is most kind and liberal to me, more liberal almost than he should be, for he is not a rich man, and has many calls upon him, and this year I know he has met with severe losses. I had an allowance on which I could have lived well, and as becomes my rank; but Horace D’Almayne, under pretence of showing me life, took me to a gaming-house, I acquired a taste for play, or rather I played, because I thought it the ‘correct thing’ and I am now not only without money, but actually in debt. Then came this horse business,”—here Lord Alfred gave Coverdale a succinct account of the various particulars of the affairs with which the reader has been already made acquainted. “I felt, up to this morning,” he resumed, “tolerably confident of success, relying chiefly on Tirrett’s riding, which is said to be first-rate; imagine, then, my rage and disgust when half an hour ago this was given me!”—As he spoke, he handed Coverdale the following note:—
“I am sorry to inform your lordship that circumstances, over which I have no control, oblige me to decline the honour of riding Don Pasquale for you to-day.
“I am,
“Your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“Philip Tirrett.”
“Pleasant and encouraging, certainly,” observed Coverdale, when he had finished reading the note.
“That fellow Tirrett is the greatest scoundrel unhung!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, crushing the paper in his hand with an action suggestive of his willingness to perform a similar process of annihilation upon its writer.
“By no means,” returned Harry, coolly; “he is simply a very average specimen of his class, half-jockey, half-dealer, and whole blackleg of a low stamp—there are hundreds such on the turf; however, he seems to have got you into an awful fix this time—we must try and find out what can be done. I’ll stay and see you through it at all events; it’s fortunate to-day is the day, for I could not have remained beyond; I dare say I shall be back in time to catch the eight o’clock train, and I shall then be at home by eleven. What time do you start, and how do you get down?”
“I go down on a drag which leaves the Pandemonium at twelve. I’ll take care to keep a seat for you, if you really are kind enough to go with me. I am really quite ashamed to avail myself of your kindness, when I know how anxious you must be to get back, and calm Mrs. Coverdale’s fears; but I feel your presence and your knowledge of the right way in which to deal with these people will be so invaluable to me, that I have not sufficient self-denial to deprive myself of them.”
“All serene! don’t make fine speeches about it,” rejoined Harry. “I’ve one or two places to call at, and I’ll meet you at the Frying Pan, as they call that diabolically named club of yours, five minutes before twelve; and, above all, don’t look so woe-begone, or you’ll have the odds against Don Pasquale increased to a frightful degree; put on a cool nonchalant air, like your precious friend and adviser, D’Almayne, who may thank his stars that the German Ocean lies between him and me just now, for I’d have horsewhipped him, as sure as I stand here, so that he should have spent the next fortnight in his bed at all events, and it would have been a mercy if I hadn’t broken some of his bones for him; but I’m glad he’s away, for, after all, I suppose one has no right to take the law into one’s own hands. Well, I must be off, but depend upon my meeting you, and in the meantime look alive, and don’t sit poring over that stupid betting-book; you’re in a mess, that I don’t deny, but that is no reason why you should lose heart: on the contrary, you’ll have need of all your pluck to get you through it. Never despond, man! when things come to the worst, they’re sure to mend. Look at me: since I received that letter from my little wife, and read your notable composition, I’m a different creature.” So saying, Coverdale resumed his hat, and was about to quit the room, when glancing at his companion’s countenance, he suddenly stopped.
“Alfred, my poor boy,” he said kindly, “I can’t leave you with such a face as that! listen to me, I’ll do all I can for you, to get you out of this scrape to-day, and very likely things may turn out better than we expect; but if the worst come to the worst, you have only to promise me two things, viz., to give up your intimacy with Horace D’Almayne, and not to enter a gambling-house again for the next ten years; and whatever money you require, shall be placed in your banker’s hands before settling-day.”
As he spoke, Lord Alfred grasped his hand, endeavoured to falter forth a few words of gratitude, but, utterly breaking down in the attempt, burst into tears.
Harry, nearly as much affected at the sight of his friend’s emotion, muttered, “Pshaw! there’s nothing to make a fuss about,” wrung his hand cordially, and hastily quitted the room.
At ten minutes to twelve a well-appointed drag, with four slapping greys, excited the admiration of street boys in the vicinity of the Pandemonium, by drawing up at the door of that fastest of clubs, and five minutes later, Harry Coverdale, habited in a loose dust-coloured wrapper, made his appearance, and tossing a small carpet-bag to one of the grooms, desired him to put it in the boot. Lord Alfred was eagerly waiting to receive him, and introduced him to sundry noble sportsmen, or men desiring so to be considered, who were to compose the live freight of the drag; one or two of them were old acquaintances of Coverdale’s, amongst them being the facetious Jack Beaupeep, who appeared in his usual charming spirits, and took an early opportunity of informing Coverdale, in the strictest confidence, that a certain young man, with pale and swollen features, who, he declared, lived only to play on the cornopean, might be expected to produce new and startling effects upon his next performance, he (Jack Beaupeep) having already contrived to insinuate percussion crackers into all three valves of his victim’s instrument. One minute before twelve a tall, good-looking man, attired in a white hat, and a wonderful driving cape, whose Christian name was William, and his patronymic Barrington, but who, from his passion for driving, was more commonly known by the sobriquet Billy Whipcord, descended the steps of the Pandemonium, and, arranging the reins scientifically between his fingers, mounted the box and assumed his seat, at the same time not taking, but bestowing, the oaths for the benefit of an obtuse helper, who had “presumed to buckle the off leader’s billet in the check, instead of the lower bar, when he knew the mare pulled like——” well, suppose we say, “like a steam-engine!” As the first stroke of twelve pealed from the high church steeple of St. Homonovus, which, as everybody knows, stands exactly opposite the Pandemonium, the aforesaid Billy Whipcord obligingly made his team a present of their respective heads, the attendant helpers seized the corners of the horsecloths which had hitherto guarded their thorough-bred loins from whatever may be the equine equivalent for lumbago, and jerked them off with a degree of energy which threatened to take hide and all together, with a bound and a plunge the denuded quadrupeds sprang forward, the boys cheered, the club servants performed pantomimic actions, indicative of admiration and respect, and the drag started.
Monsieur de Saulcy, Mr. Kinglake, and other travellers, French, English, and American, who take pleasure in going to the East to make mistakes about the site of Sodom and Gomorrah, hazard a futile hypothesis in regard to the Holy Sepulchre, or, in some similar fashion, exert themselves to prove that other than wise men come from the West in these latter days, inform us, that when a camel dies, vultures and other strange fowl suddenly congregate around the body, though in what way the intelligence (for those birds can have no Bell’s Life) reaches them, is a point on which no savant has yet been found wise enough to enlighten us—wherefore, in general terms, the fact is stated to result from instinct. By a like instinct do strange creatures mysteriously appear on the face of the earth, when a steeple-chase, or other sporting event, is arranged to come off in any given locality: human vultures, hawks, carrion-crows, bats, and owls, all (singular as an ornithologist may deem it) with very black legs, attracted by the fascinations of horse-flesh, assemble from the four quarters of—heaven, we were going to say, but, on second thoughts, we cannot so conclude the paragraph. Still, from whatever locality they come, come they do in flocks, and gather at certain points, whence they may witness the start, or, “the jump into the lane,” or, “crossing the brook,” or the “awkward place,” over which the horse that leaps, tumbles, or scrambles first, is safe to win, as their various tastes may lead them.
There is one feature in these affairs, for which we have never been able to account, viz., the mysterious presence of a certain average amount of babies; they invariably arrive in taxed carts, and entirely engross the mental and bodily faculties of one mother and one female and sympathetic friend each, so that every ten babies necessitate the presence of twenty women, who, from the moment they set out, to the time at which they return, never appear conscious of the race-course, the company, the jockeys, the horses, or, indeed, of anything save their infant tyrants. That these women can have brought the babies for their own pleasure, is an hypothesis so absurd, that no one who had seen the goings on of these young Pickles towards their parents and guardians, can for a moment entertain it; a more, perhaps the most, probable one is, that the infants come to please themselves, for, although we have never observed that they pay much attention to the strict business of the race, yet, in their own way, they appear to enjoy themselves very thoroughly. Their manners and customs are marked by an easy conviviality, and absence from the restraints which usually fetter society, which we can conceive must render their babyhood one epicurean scene of gay delight. Thus, monopolizing the best place in the cart, shaded by the family umbrella, and dressed in the latest fashion from Lilliput, these young Sybarites recline languidly on the maternal bosom, or sit erect, “mooing,” crowing, and “wa wa-ing” in the faces of the company generally, roaring at the sight of family friends whose acquaintance they do not desire to cultivate, or clawing at the eyes and hair of the select few whose homage they are willing graciously to receive. Then, wildly reckless of appearances, and consulting only their own ungoverned appetites, they not only resolve to dine in public, at the maternal expense, but when their desire has been gratified by their self-sacrificing parents, betray a thankless indifference to the safe custody of the good things afforded them, which renders their vicinity dangerous to all decently attired Christians (those only excepted, who consider a “milky way” the way in which they should go), during the remainder of the festivities. Thus (we say it boldly, though we know we are provoking the enmity of all our female readers, who consider a darling baby can never be de trop), we hereby declare our opinion, that by the laws of the Jockey Club, all dogs and infants found unmuzzled on any race-course, should be seized by the police, and instantly—————we leave the minds’ eyes of the anxious mothers of England to supply the blank. But we are slightly digressing.
As they reached the field whence the start was to take place, in which a booth or two and a very mild specimen of a grand stand had been erected, Harry found an opportunity to whisper to Lord Alfred——
“Now, remember what I told you; appear as cool as if you hadn’t sixpence depending on this race; if long odds are offered against the horse, take ’em; I’ll stand the risk up to a fifty-pounder; if it has transpired that Tirrett won’t ride for you, say quietly that you are provided with an efficient substitute—as soon as I see clearly how the land lies, I’ll tell you more.”
Lord Alfred looked—as he was—singularly puzzled, but of the hundreds who were flocking to that race-course, Coverdale was the only man on whom he felt he could rely, and he most willingly placed himself in his hands.
Having insinuated the drag into the most favourable position for beholding from its roof the line of the course, the Hon. Billy Whipcord, having acquitted himself so as to call forth an encomium even from Harry Coverdale, who was a severe critic in such matters, descended from his seat, and, with most of the others, repaired to an extempore betting-ring, composed of all the knowing ones present.
Lord Alfred was about to accompany them, when Harry laid his finger on his arm to detain him.
“What time did you order the Don to be on the ground?”
Lord Alfred referred to his watch.
“He won’t be here for the next half-hour,” was the reply. “It was considered advisable to spare his excitable nerves as much of the noise and bustle as possible.”
“He is at a farm somewhere near, is he not?” continued Coverdale. “I see your saddle-horses on the ground; let us canter down and have a look at him.”
Lord Alfred agreeing, at a signal from his master the packgroom rode up, and resigning his horse to Coverdale, the friends mounted, and were about to ride off in the direction of the farm-house, when the Honourable Billy Whipcord intercepted them with a face expressing the deepest concern.
“My dear Courtland,” he began, “a report has somehow got abroad that Tirrett won’t ride for you, and that Irish blackguard, Captain O’Brien, does not scruple openly to declare that he is to ride Broth-of-a-Boy for him instead; the rumour gains ground every minute, and the Don is going down accordingly; all his best friends are hedging wherever they can get a bet taken. I hope there’s no truth in it.”
Coverdale glanced for a moment towards Lord Alfred, who replied carelessly, “Don’t alarm yourself, my dear fellow, I can hardly suppose even Phil Tirrett would have the face to throw me over and ride for O’Brien; but, if he should indulge in such a caprice, I know my man, and am prepared with a substitute so efficient, that I rather hope your tidings may be true.” Seeing that the Honourable William looked incredulous, he continued, “If you’re inclined to follow the hedging dodge yourself, I’m as willing as ever to back the Don against the field: how do the odds stand?”
Reassured by this practical proof of his Lordship’s sincerity, the Honourable William (who, in spite of his innate honourableness, was rather a “leg” than otherwise), hastily muttered “that he’d a very safe book as it stood, and that if the Don was all serene, he had no wish to alter it,” and returned to reap some advantage from the information he had acquired.
“How did I do that?” asked Lord Alfred, as they cantered off.
“Splendidly!” was the reply; “when all other trades fail you, you’ll be able, with a little of my able tuition, to turn horse-chaunter and blackleg.”
Lord Alfred shook his head, adding, “Only let me get out of this affair safely, and if you find me doing anything in the horse line again, write me down the veriest idiot that ever ran his head, open-eyed, against a brick wall.”
Five minutes’ brisk riding brought them to the gate at which Tirrett had entered on the morning after the Blackwall dinnerparty. As they did so, a horseman left the yard by a hand-gate at the opposite corner. Lord Alfred gazed after him eagerly.
“Who is your mysterious friend?” inquired Harry.
“I can’t be certain,” was the reply, “but the figure, and the way in which he sits his horse, are very like that young scoundrel, Tirrett; I’ve a great mind to gallop after him, and either make him ride for me, or horsewhip him;” and Lord Alfred looked quite fierce and determined, as if he meant to do as he said, and was able; but Coverdale, smiling at his energy, restrained him—
“Gently there—take it coolly! why, you’re becoming quite a fire-eater,” he said, laughing; “but, seriously, if you could make him ride for you against his will, he would only contrive to lose you the race. And, as to horsewhipping, if you were to horsewhip every blackleg who breaks down with you in turf affairs, you’d require a portable thrashing-machine, for mortal arm could never stand it.”
As he spoke, they reached the stable, dismounted, and, tying their horses up to a couple of rings in the wall, Lord Alfred drew a key from his pocket, and, applying it to the lock, admitted Harry and himself. So quietly did they enter, and so engrossed was the groom with his occupation, that they had full time to observe him before he was aware of their presence. Fully equipped (with the exception of his coat) for appearing on the race-course, he was stooping over a pail of water bathing his nose, from which the blood was still rapidly dropping. Coverdale glanced expressively at Lord Alfred, then whispered, “Speak to him—I want to see his face.”
“Why, Dick, what is it? have you hurt yourself, my lad?” he inquired, good-naturedly.
Raising himself, with a start, the man looked round. “No, my Lord, it is nothin’ to sinnify; honly, has I wos a reching hup to get the Don’s saddle, hit slipped, hand fell right hon my blessed nose, hand set hit a bleeding howdacious!”
“Did you obtain that genius, with the horse, from Tirrett?” inquired Harry, sotto voce; receiving a reply in the affirmative, he continued, “Then let me have a word or two with him in private—I think he may be made useful, but one never can get anything out of these fellows, except in a tête-à-tête.”
Lord Alfred nodded assent, and, feigning some plausible excuse, left the stable.
As soon as they were alone, Harry addressed the groom with an intelligent half-nod, half-wink, which, however ineffectual it might have proved in the case of a blind horse, produced a decided impression on the sharp-sighted Dick.
“Hark ye, my friend,” he began, “it strikes me you and I are old acquaintances.”
“Can’t say as I ever remembers setting heyes on your honour afore,” was the reply, though something in the expression of the man’s face contradicted his assertion.
“Did you never live with Count Cavalho, a Spanish nobleman?”
The man paused, then answered in a surly tone, “And suppose I did, what then?”
“Merely, that while I was in Paris, a groom in his employ was detected selling the corn and hay; the moment the charge was brought against him the fellow decamped, but the evidence of his dishonesty was so clear, that the Count offered a reward of fifty pounds for his apprehension; the man was not found, but I should know him by sight if I were to meet him,” and again Coverdale fixed his piercing glance upon his companion’s features.
Having paused for a minute, during which time the groom stood eyeing him furtively, and shifting uneasily from leg to leg—at the expiration of that period, Harry asked abruptly, “Why did young Tirrett strike you in that brutal manner, before he left the stable just now?”
He spoke at a venture, but the arrow hit the bull’s-eye. Thrown completely off his guard, the man exclaimed, with an oath, “You know everything! who in the world are you?”
“My name’s Coverdale,” was the reply. “I’m no wizard, but I’ve been on the turf long enough to keep my eyes and ears open; and now listen to me; you know all I’ve said is true, you perceive that I could expose you if I were so inclined; you have no cause to entertain any very strong affection for Mr. Philip Tirrett; therefore I see many reasons why you should do as I wish you—none why you should not.”
He paused for a reply, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the groom began, “I see it ain’t o’ no use trying to gammon you, Mr. Coverdale, you’re right about Tirrett, he cum here a wantin me to lame that horse, and so git myself into trouble, may be; when, as I told him, there ain’t no need for it, for he ain’t agoing to ride it, and barrin myself and him, there ain’t nobody else as can ride it to win, I’ll take my davy o’ that, so he’d no call to cut up rough, and knock a feller about like that—but I owe him one for it, and I’ll pay it some of these days. As to that hay and corn business of the Count’s, I didn’t do the correct thing altogether by him, I know, but though I had to cut, and it was all laid on to me, there was others more to blame nor me, I do assure you, I was but a boy like at the time, and I wor led on, don’t ye see? Still, it’s true enough; I don’t want the thing brought up again. My lord here, he’s a nice young feller—precious green, tho’! I never did—” he added parenthetically, with a sympathy-demanding wink at Coverdale, “and he’s treated me very kind and liberal, and so the long and the short of it is, if I can oblige you, sir, why I’m agreeable.”
“Well, you can oblige me, and it shall be worth your while to do so,” was the reply; “and as I see you’ve got an honest side to your nature, I’ll be frank with you. Lord Alfred has trusted Tirrett to win this race for him, and has betted very largely on the faith of his riding for him; Tirrett, being a scoundrel, has thrown him over, and we’re in a fix—the only way I see of getting out of it is to ride the horse myself.”
Here the groom interrupted, by audibly ejaculating, “The Lord have mercy on your poor neck!”
“To ride the horse myself,” continued Coverdale, coolly; “and I want you to tell me honestly, first, whether if the brute is properly ridden, he has a fair chance to win, and secondly, if you were going to ride, and try all you knew to come in first, how you would set about it.”
For a minute, the man remained mute with surprise, then muttering, “Well, I’ve seen you ride, and you’ve a better seat, and nearly as good a bridle-hand as Phil Tirrett himself; but, lor, to think of riding a steeple-chase on that beast the first time you’re on his back! however, if you will do it, listen to me,” and, drawing Harry aside, he whispered innumerable hints and directions in his ear, in as low a tone as if he feared the very winds of Heaven would reveal the matter.