"Love you, little gipsy! you know I'd die for you," said he—and, with all his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. "Come, Nell, kiss me again, my dear—no long faces—don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book; you know the saying, 'Never venture, never win—faint heart never won fair ladye!' Good-bye, love—'bye, Ned—good-bye, mother's darling," said he, addressing the children as he left the house.
He reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses. "All's safe!" said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the festival—the important St. Leger—arrived. Hundreds were ready to back Highlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he would take any odds—he did take them—he staked his all. "A thousand to five hundred on Highlander against the field," he cried, as he stood near a betting-post. "Done!" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in a barouche by his side. "Done!" cried Fen-wick, "for the double, if you like, my lord." "Done!" added the peer; "and I'll treble it if you dare!" "Done!" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of the moment—"Done! my lord." The eventful hour arrived. There was not a false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led the way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the rails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen. His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight. "The tartan yet! the tartan yet!" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his eyes—he was blind with anxiety—he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of "The tartan! the tartan!" and his heart sprang to his mouth. "Well done, orange!—the orange will have it!" was the next cry. He again looked up, but he was more blind than before. "Beautiful!—beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!" shouted the spectators; "a noble race!—neck and neck; six to five on the orange!" He became almost deaf as well as blind. "Now for it!—now for it!—it won't do, tartan!—hurrah!—hurrah!—orange has it!"
"Liar!" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next him by the throat—"I am not ruined!"—In a moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. "Eleanor!—my poor Eleanor!" cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post—he was left alone. The peer with whom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with his whip—"Well, my covey," said the nobleman, "you have lost it."
Fen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and repeated—"Lost it!—I am ruined—soul and body!—wife and children ruined!"
"Well, Mr. Fen-wick," said the sporting peer, "I suppose, if that be the case, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day is to-morrow—you know I keep sharp accounts; and if you have not the 'ready' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent—you understand me."
So saying, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he chose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his misery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he gave the winner a bill for the money—payable at sight. My feelings will not permit me to tell you how the poor infatuated madman more than once made attempts upon his own life; but the latent love of his wife and of his children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering on insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply injured.
I might describe to you how poor Eleanor was sitting in their little parlour, with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on her knee, telling them fondly that their father would be home soon, and anon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme—
"Hush, my babe, baby bunting,
Your father's at the hunting," etc.;
when the door opened, and the guilty father entered, his hair clotted, his eyes rolling with the wildness of despair, and the cold sweat running down his pale cheeks.
"Eleanor! Eleanor!" he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa.