London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"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.