London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"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. How could the horse lose after that? He laughed gleefully, and would not 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, if Pax is not what is represented--or, if a mistake has been made in Marmora's trial--or, if Phosphorus gets off badly--or, if Kingcraft 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.