"Jackie, dear, go away; leave your father alone. Go into the next room," said Mrs. Lewis.

"No, he can stop here; let him be," said Esther. "I want to have no more to say to him, he can look to his father for the future." Esther turned on her heel and walked straight for the door. But dropping his boat with a cry, the little fellow ran after her and clung to her skirt despairingly. "No, mummie dear, you mustn't go; never mind the boat; I love you better than the boat—I'll do without a boat."

"Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen."

"No, I won't listen to you. But you shall listen to me. When I brought you here last week you asked me in the train what I had been doing all these years. I didn't answer you, but I will now. I've been in the workhouse."

"In the workhouse!"

"Yes, do that surprise you?"

Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him as if they were half-bricks, she told him the story of the last eight years—Queen Charlotte's hospital, Mrs. Rivers, Mrs. Spires, the night on the Embankment, and the workhouse.

"And when I came out of the workhouse I travelled London in search of sixteen pounds a year wages, which was the least I could do with, and when I didn't find them I sat here and ate dry bread. She'll tell you—she saw it all. I haven't said nothing about the shame and sneers I had to put up with—you would understand nothing about that,—and there was more than one situation I was thrown out of when they found I had a child. For they didn't like loose women in their houses; I had them very words said about me. And while I was going through all that you was living in riches with a lady in foreign parts; and now when she could put up with you no longer, and you're kicked out, you come to me and ask for your share of the child. Share of the child! What share is yours, I'd like to know?"

"Esther!"

"In your mean, underhand way you come here on the sly to see if you can't steal the love of the child from me."

She could speak no more; her strength was giving way before the tumult of her passion, and the silence that had come suddenly into the room was more terrible than her violent words. William stood quaking, horrified, wishing the earth would swallow him; Mrs. Lewis watched Esther's pale face, fearing that she would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open round, held his broken boat still in his hand. The sense of the scene had hardly caught on his childish brain; he was very frightened; his tears and sobs were a welcome intervention. Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried to soothe him. William tried to speak; his lips moved, but no words came.

Mrs. Lewis whispered, "You'll get no good out of her now, her temper's up; you'd better go. She don't know what she's a-saying of."

"If one of us has to go," said William, taking the hint, "there can't be much doubt which of us." He stood at the door holding his hat, just as if he were going to put it on. Esther stood with her back turned to him. At last he said—

"Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don't want to see me again?"

For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to Mrs. Lewis for protection. William's face showed that he was pained by Jackie's refusal.

"Try to get your mother to forgive me; but you are right to love her best. She's been a good mother to you." He put on his hat and went without another word. No one spoke, and every moment the silence grew more paralysing. Jackie examined his broken boat for a moment, and then he put it away, as if it had ceased to have any interest for him. There was no chance of going to the Rye that day; he might as well take off his velvet suit; besides, his mother liked him better in his old clothes. When he returned his mother was sorry for having broken his boat, and appreciated the cruelty. "You shall have another boat, my darling," she said, leaning across the table and looking at him affectionately; "and quite as good as the one I broke."

"Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter-rigged, like that?"

"Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three sails."

"When will you buy me the boat, mummie—to-morrow?"

"As soon as I can, Jackie."

This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he looked—

"Is father coming back no more?"

"Do you want him back?"

Jackie hesitated; his mother pressed him for an answer.

"Not if you don't, mummie."

"But if he was to give you another boat, one with four sails?"

"They don't have four sails, not them with one mast."

"If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would you take it?"

"I should try not to, I should try ever so hard."

There were tears in Jackie's voice, and then, as if doubtful of his power to resist temptation, he buried his face in his mother's bosom and sobbed bitterly.

"You shall have another boat, my darling."

"I don't want no boat at all! I love you better than a boat, mummie, indeed I do."

"And what about those clothes? You'd sooner stop with me and wear those shabby clothes than go to him and wear a pretty velvet suit?"

"You can send back the velvet suit."

"Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another velvet suit," and she embraced the child with all her strength, and covered him with kisses.

"But why can't I wear that velvet suit, and why can't father come back? Why don't you like father? You shouldn't be cross with father because he gave me the boat. He didn't mean no harm."

"I think you like your father. You like him better than me."

"Not better than you, mummie."

"You wouldn't like to have any other father except your own real father?"

"How could I have a father that wasn't my own real father?"

Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie began to talk about the possibility of mending his boat; and feeling that something irrevocable had happened, Esther put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewis and Jackie accompanied her to the station. The women kissed each other on the platform and were reconciled, but there was a vague sensation of sadness in the leave-taking which they did not understand. And Esther sat alone in a third-class carriage absorbed in consideration of the problem of her life. The life she had dreamed would never be hers—somehow she seemed to know that she would never be Fred's wife. Everything seemed to point to the inevitableness of this end.

She had determined to see William no more, but he wrote asking how she would like him to contribute towards the maintenance of the child, and this could not be settled without personal interviews. Miss Rice and Mrs. Lewis seemed to take it for granted that she would marry William when he obtained his divorce. He was applying himself to the solution of this difficulty, and professed himself to be perfectly satisfied with the course that events were taking. And whenever she saw Jackie he inquired after his father; he hoped, too, that she had forgiven poor father, who had never meant no harm at all. Day by day she saw more clearly that her instinct was right in warning her not to let the child see William, that she had done wrong in allowing her feelings to be overruled by Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her for the best. But it was clear to her now that Jackie never would take kindly to Fred as a stepfather; that he would never forgive her if she divided him from his real father by marrying another man. He would grow to dislike his stepfather more and more; and when he grew older he would keep away from the house on account of the presence of his stepfather; it would end by his going to live with him. He would be led into a life of betting and drinking; she would lose her child if she married Fred.



XXVII

It was one evening as she was putting things away in the kitchen before going up to bed that she heard some one rap at the window. Could this be Fred? Her heart was beating; she must let him in. The area was in darkness; she could see no one.

"Who is there?" she cried.

"It's only me. I had to see you to-night on——"

She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in.

William had expected a rougher reception. The tone in which Esther invited him in was almost genial, and there was no need of so many excuses; but he had come prepared with excuses, and a few ran off his tongue before he was aware.

"Well," said Esther, "it is rather late. I was just going up to bed; but you can tell me what you've come about, if it won't take long."

"It won't take long.... I've seen my solicitor this afternoon, and he says that I shall find it very difficult to get a divorce."

"So you can't get your divorce?"

"Are you glad?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean? You must be either glad or sorry."

"I said what I mean. I am not given to telling lies." Esther set the large tin candlestick, on which a wick was spluttering, on the kitchen table, and William looked at her inquiringly. She was always a bit of a mystery to him. And then he told her, speaking very quickly, how he had neglected to secure proofs of his wife's infidelity at the time; and as she had lived a circumspect although a guilty life ever since, the solicitor thought that it would be difficult to establish a case against her.

"Perhaps she never was guilty," said Esther, unable to resist the temptation to irritate.

"Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven't I told you how I found them the day I came up from Ascot?... And didn't she own up to it? What more proof do you want?"

"Anyway, it appears you haven't enough; what are you going to do? Wait until you catch her out?"

"There is nothing else to do, unless——" William paused, and his eyes wandered from Esther's.

"Unless what?"

"Well, you see my solicitors have been in communication with her solicitors, and her solicitors say that if it were the other way round, that if I gave her reason to go against me for a divorce, she would be glad of the chance. That's all they said at first, but since then I've seen my wife, and she says that if I'll give her cause to get a divorce she'll not only go for it, but will pay all the legal expenses; it won't cost us a penny. What do you think Esther?"

"I don't know that I understand. You don't mean——"

"You see, Esther, that to get a divorce—there's no one who can hear us, is there?"

"No, there's no one in the 'ouse except me and the missus, and she's in the study reading. Go on."

"It seems that one of the parties must go and live with another party before either can get a divorce. Do you understand?"

"You don't mean that you want me to go and live with you, and perhaps get left a second time?"

"That's all rot, Esther, and you knows it."

"If that's all you've got to say to me you'd better take your hook."

"Do you see, there's the child to consider? And you know well enough, Esther, that you've nothing to fear; you knows as well as can be that I mean to run straight this time. So I did before. But let bygones be bygones, and I know you'd like the child to have a father; so if only for his sake——"

"For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn't done enough for him. Haven't I worked and slaved myself to death and gone about in rags? That's what that child has cost me. Tell me what he's cost you. Not a penny piece—a toy boat and a suit of velveteen knickerbockers,—and yet you come telling me—I'd like to know what's expected of me. Is a woman never to think of herself? Do I count for nothing? For the child's sake, indeed! Now, if it was anyone else but you. Just tell me where do I come in? That's what I want to know. I've played the game long enough. Where do I come in? That's what I want to know."

"There's no use flying in a passion, Esther. I know you've had a hard time. I know it was all very unlucky from the very first. But there's no use saying that you might get left a second time, for you know well enough that that ain't true. Say you won't do it; you're a free woman, you can act as you please. It would be unjust to ask you to give up anything more for the child; I agree with you in all that. But don't fly in a rage with me because I came to tell you there was no other way out of the difficulty."

"You can go and live with another woman, and get a divorce that way."

"Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I'd speak to you on the subject. For if I did go and live with another woman I couldn't very well desert her after getting a divorce."

"You deserted me."

"Why go back on that old story?"

"It ain't an old story, it's the story of my life, and I haven't come to the end of it yet."

"But you'll have got to the end of it if you'll do what I say."

A moment later Esther said—

"I don't know what you want to get a divorce for at all. I daresay your wife would take you back if you were to ask her."

"She's no children, and never will have none, and marriage is a poor look-out without children—all the worry and anxiety for nothing. What do we marry for but children? There's no other happiness. I've tried everything else—"

"But I haven't."

"I know all that. I know you've had a damned hard time, Esther. I've had a good week at Doncaster, and have enough money to buy my partner out; we shall 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I don't think we'll 'ave much difficulty in building it up into a very nice property, all of which will in time go to the boy. I'm doing pretty well, I told you, in the betting line, but if you like I'll give it up. I'll never lay or take the odds again. I can't say more, Esther, can I? Come, say yes," he said, reaching his arm towards her.

"Don't touch me," she said surlily, and drew back a step with air of resolution that made him doubt if he would be able to persuade her.

"Now, Esther——" William did not finish. It seemed useless to argue with her, and he looked at the great red ash of the tallow candle.

"You are the mother of my boy, so it is different; but to advise me to go and live with another woman! I shouldn't have thought it of a religious girl like you."

"Religion! There's very little time for religion in the places I've had to work in." Then, thinking of Fred, she added that she had returned to Christ, and hoped He would forgive her. William encouraged her to speak of herself, remarking that, chapel or no chapel, she seemed just as severe and particular as ever. "If you won't, I can only say I am sorry; but that shan't prevent me from paying you as much a week as you think necessary for Jack's keep and his schooling. I don't want the boy to cost you anything. I'd like to do a great deal more for the boy, but I can't do more unless you make him my child."

"And I can only do that by going away to live with you?" The words brought an instinctive look of desire into her eyes.

"In six months we shall be man and wife.... Say yes."

"I can't... I can't, don't ask me."

"You're afraid to trust me, is that it?"

Esther did not answer.

"I can make that all right: I'll settle L500 on you and the child."

She looked up; the same look was in her eyes, only modified, softened by some feeling of tenderness which had come into her heart.

He put his arm round her; she was leaning against the table; he was sitting on the edge.

"You know that I mean to act rightly by you."

"Yes, I think you do."

"Then say yes."

"I can't—it is too late."

"There's another chap?"

She nodded.

"I thought as much. Do you care for him?"

She did not answer.

He drew her closer to him; she did not resist; he could see that she was weeping. He kissed her on her neck first, and then on her face; and he continued to ask her if she loved the other chap. At last she signified that she did not.

"Then say yes." She murmured that she could not. "You can, you can, you can." He kissed her, all the while reiterating, "You can, you can, you can," until it became a sort of parrot cry. Several minutes elapsed, and the candle began to splutter in its socket. She said—

"Let me go; let me light the gas."

As she sought for the matches she caught sight of the clock.

"I did not know it was so late."

"Say yes before I go."

"I can't."

And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. "I'm too tired," she said, "let me go."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, "My own little wife."

As he went up the area steps she remembered that he had used the same words before. She tried to think of Fred, but William's great square shoulders had come between her and this meagre little man. She sighed, and felt once again that her will was overborne by a force which she could not control or understand.



XXVIII

She went round the house bolting and locking the doors, seeing that everything was made fast for the night. At the foot of the stairs painful thoughts came upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes; for she was whelmed with a sense of sorrow, of purely mental misery, which she could not understand, and which she had not strength to grapple with. She was, however, conscious of the fact that life was proving too strong for her, that she could make nothing of it, and she thought that she did not care much what happened. She had fought with adverse fate, and had conquered in a way; she had won countless victories over herself, and now found herself without the necessary strength for the last battle; she had not even strength for blame, and merely wondered why she had let William kiss her. She remembered how she had hated him, and now she hated him no longer. She ought not to have spoken to him; above all, she ought not to have taken him to see the child. But how could she help it?

She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was moved by a sudden impulse to go in and tell her the story of her trouble. But what good? No one could help her. She liked Fred; they seemed to suit each other, and she could have made him a good wife if she had not met William. She thought of the cottage at Mortlake, and their lives in it; and she sought to stimulate her liking for him with thoughts of the meeting-house; she thought even of the simple black dress she would wear, and that life seemed so natural to her that she did not understand why she hesitated.... If she were to marry William she would go to the "King's Head."

She would stand behind the bar; she would serve the customers. She had never seen much life, and felt somehow that she would like to see a little life; there would not be much life in the cottage at Mortlake; nothing but the prayer-meeting. She stopped thinking, surprised at her thoughts. She had never thought like that before; it seemed as if some other woman whom she hardly knew was thinking for her. She seemed like one standing at cross-roads, unable to decide which road she would take. If she took the road leading to the cottage and the prayer-meeting her life would henceforth be secure. She could see her life from end to end, even to the time when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her hand as she had seen his father and mother sitting side by side. If she took the road to the public-house and the race-course she did not know what might not happen. But William had promised to settle L500 on her and Jackie. Her life would be secure either way.

She must marry Fred; she had promised to marry him; she wished to be a good woman; he would give her the life she was most fitted for, the life she had always desired; the life of her father and mother, the life of her childhood. She would marry Fred, only—something at that moment seemed to take her by the throat. William had come between her and that life. If she had not met him at Woodview long ago; if she had not met him in the Pembroke Road that night she went to fetch the beer for her mistress's dinner, how different everything would have been! ...If she had met him only a few months later, when she was Fred's wife!

Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife of one or the other, she fell asleep to dream of a husband possessed of the qualities of both, and a life that was neither all chapel nor all public-house. But soon the one became two, and Esther awoke in terror, believing she had married them both.



XXIX

If Fred had said, "Come away with me," Esther would have obeyed the elemental romanticism which is so fixed a principle in woman's nature. But when she called at the shop he only spoke of his holiday, of the long walks he had taken, and the religious and political meetings he had attended. Esther listened vaguely; and there was in her mind unconscious regret that he was not a little different. Little irrelevant thoughts came upon her. She would like him better if he wore coloured neckties and a short jacket; she wished half of him away—his dowdiness, his sandy-coloured hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the long loose frock-coat. But his voice was keen and ringing, and when listening her heart always went out to him, and she felt that she might fearlessly entrust her life to him. But he did not seem wholly to understand her, and day by day, against her will, the thought gripped her more and more closely that she could not separate Jackie from his father. She would have to tell Fred the whole truth, and he would not understand it; that she knew. But it would have to be done, and she sent round to say she'd like to see him when he left business. Would he step round about eight o'clock?

The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a tap at the window. She opened the door and he came in, surprised by the silence with which she received him.

"I hope nothing has happened. Is anything the matter?"

"Yes, a great deal's the matter. I'm afraid we shall never be married, Fred, that's what's the matter."

"How's that, Esther? What can prevent us getting married?" She did not answer, and then he said, "You've not ceased to care for me?"

"No, that's not it."

"Jackie's father has come back?"

"You've hit it, that's what happened."

"I'm sorry that man has come across you again. I thought you told me he was married. But, Esther, don't keep me in suspense; what has he done?"

"Sit down; don't stand staring at me in that way, and I'll tell you the story."

Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine suffering, Esther told her story, laying special stress on the fact that she had done her best to prevent him from seeing the child.

"I don't see how you could have forbidden him access to the child."

He often used words that Esther did not understand, but guessing his meaning, she answered—

"That's just what the missus said; she argued me into taking him to see the child. I knew once he'd seen Jackie there'd be no getting rid of him. I shall never get rid of him again."

"He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low blackguard fellow that he is, to come after you, persecuting you. But don't you fear; you leave him to me. I'll find a way of stopping his little game."

Esther looked at his frail figure.

"You can do nothing; no one can do nothing," she said, and the tears trembled in her handsome eyes. "He wants me to go away and live with him, so that his wife may be able to divorce him."

"Wants you to go away and live with him! But surely, Esther, you do not——"

"Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that his wife can get a divorce," Esther answered, for the suspense irritated her; "and how can I refuse to go with him?"

"Esther, are you serious? You cannot... You told me that you did not love him, and after all——" He waited for Esther to speak.

"Yes," she said very quickly, "there is no way out of it that I can see."

"Esther, that man has tempted you, and you have not prayed."

She did not answer.

"I don't want to hear more of this," he said, catching up his hat. "I shouldn't have believed it if I had not heard it from your lips; no, not if the whole world had told me. You are in love with this man, though you may not know it, and you've invented this story as a pretext to throw me over. Good-bye, Esther."

"Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You'll not go away in that hasty way. You're the only friend I have. Let me explain."

"Explain! how can such things be explained?"

"That's what I thought until all this happened to me. I have suffered dreadful in the last few days. I've wept bitter tears, and I thought of all you said about the 'ome you was going to give me." Her sincerity was unmistakable, and Fred doubted her no longer. "I'm very fond of you, Fred, and if things had been different I think I might have made you a good wife. But it wasn't to be."

"Esther, I don't understand. You need never see this man again if you don't wish it."

"Nay, nay, things ain't so easily changed as all that. He's the father of my child, he's got money, and he'll leave his money to his child if he's made Jackie's father in the eyes of the law."

"That can be done without your going to live with him."

"Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants a 'ome, and he won't be put off with less."

"How men can be so wicked as——"

"No, you do him wrong. He ain't no more wicked than another; he's just one of the ordinary sort—not much better or worse. If he'd been a real bad lot it would have been better for us, for then he'd never have come between us. You're beginning to understand, Fred, ain't you? If I don't go with him my boy'll lose everything. He wants a 'ome—a real 'ome with children, and if he can't get me he'll go after another woman."

"And are you jealous?"

"No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like as not I should have children, and they'd be more in your sight than my boy."

"Esther, I promise that——"

"Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, you can't make sure that he'd love you."

"Jackie and I——"

"Ah, yes; he'd have liked you well enough if he'd never seen his father. But he's that keen on his father, and it would be worse later on. He'd never be contented in our 'ome. He'd be always after him, and then I should never see him, and he would be led away into betting and drink."

"If his father is that sort of man, the best chance for Jackie would be to keep him out of his way. If he gets divorced and marries another woman he will forget all about Jackie."

"Yes, that might be," said Esther, and Fred pursued his advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther said—

"Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father's money; the public-house would—"

"So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther?"

"A woman must be with her husband."

"But he's not your husband; he's another woman's husband."

"He's to marry me when he gets his divorce."

"He may desert you and leave you with another child."

"You can't say nothing I ain't thought of already. I must put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment for the first sin. We can't do wrong without being punished—at least women can't. But I thought I'd been punished enough."

"The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, Esther—you who I thought so religious."

"Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other times when it don't seem to fit in with one's duty. I may be wrong, but it seems natural like—he's the father of my child."

"I'm afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice before it's too late."

"Fred, I can't help myself—can't you see that? Don't make it harder for me by talking like that."

"When are you going to him?"

"To-night; he's waiting for me."

"Then good-bye, Esther, good—"

"But you'll come and see us."

"I hope you'll be happy, Esther, but I don't think we shall see much more of each other. You know that I do not frequent public-houses."

"Yes, I know; but you might come and see me in the morning when we're doing no business."

Fred smiled sadly.

"Then you won't come?" she said.

"Good-bye, Esther."

They shook hands, and he went out hurriedly. She dashed a tear from her eyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had rung for her.

Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, slanting ray entered the room; the bead curtain glittered, and so peaceful was the impression that Esther could not but perceive the contrast between her own troublous life and the contented privacy of this slender little spinster's.

"Well, miss," she said, "it's all over. I've told him."

"Have you, Esther?" said Miss Rice. Her white, delicate hands fell over the closed volume. She wore two little colourless rings and a ruby ring which caught the light.

"Yes, miss, I've told him all. He seemed a good deal cut up. I couldn't help crying myself, for I could have made him a good wife—I'm sure I could; but it wasn't to be."

"You've told him you were going off to live with William?"

"Yes, miss; there's nothing like telling the whole truth while you're about it. I told him I was going off to-night."

"He's a very religious young man?"

"Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told him I didn't want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose any money he might have a right to. It don't look right to go and live with a married man; but you knows, miss, how I'm situated, and you knows that I'm only doing it because it seems for the best."

"What did he say to that?"

"Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a second time—and, he wasn't slow to add, with another child."

"Have you thought of that danger, Esther?"

"Yes, miss, I've thought of everything; but thinking don't change nothing. Things remain just the same, and you've to chance it in the end—leastways a woman has. Not on the likes of you, miss, but the likes of us."

"Yes," said Miss Rice reflectively, "it is always the woman who is sacrificed." And her thought went back for a moment to the novel she was writing. It seemed to her pale and conventional compared with this rough page torn out of life. She wondered if she could treat the subject. She passed in review the names of some writers who could do justice to it, and then her eyes went from her bookcase to Esther.

"So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther? You're going to-night? I've paid you everything I owe you?"

"Yes, miss, you have; you've been very kind to me, indeed you have, miss—I shall never forget you, miss. I've been very happy in your service, and should like nothing better than to remain on with you."

"All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very good servant, and I'm very sorry to part with you. And I hope you'll remember if things do not turn out as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be glad to do anything in my power to help you. You'll always find a friend in me. When are you going?"

"As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about finished by the time the new servant comes in. She's expected at nine; there she is, miss—that's the area bell. Good-bye, miss."

Miss Rice involuntarily held out her hand. Esther took it, and thus encouraged she said—

"There never was anyone that clear-headed and warm-hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of trouble, miss.... If I wasn't yer servant I'd like to kiss you."

Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. "You're not angry with me, miss; I couldn't help myself."

"No, Esther, I'm not angry."

"I must go now and let her in."

Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a sense of the solitude of her life coming upon her suddenly caused her to burst into tears. It was one of those moments of effusion which take women unawares. But her new servant was coming upstairs and she had to dry her eyes.

Soon after she heard the cabman's feet on the staircase as he went up for Esther's box. They brought it down together, and Miss Rice heard her beg of him to be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and faithful servant to her; she was sorry to lose her. And Esther was equally sorry that anyone but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kind soul. But what could she do? She was going to be married. She did not doubt that William was going to marry her; and the cab had hardly entered the Brompton Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life that awaited her. This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she excused herself with the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred, but as she had failed to get him, it was only right that she should think of her husband. Then quite involuntarily the thought sprang upon her that he was a fine fellow, and she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as he walked down the street. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in which she would sit. She would be mistress of the house. There would be a servant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid.

The cab swerved round the Circus, and she wondered if she were capable of conducting a business like the "King's Head."

It was the end of a fine September evening, and the black, crooked perspectives of Soho seemed as if they were roofed with gold. A slight mist was rising, and at the end of every street the figures appeared and disappeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had never been in this part of London before; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and she wondered where she was going and which of the many public-houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside, having a glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after the horses. He offered to take down Esther's box, and when she asked him if he had seen Mr. Latch he took her round to the private bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw William leaning over the counter wrapped in conversation with a small, thin man. They were both smoking, their glasses were filled, and the sporting paper was spread out before them.

"Oh, so here you are at last," said William, coming towards her. "I expected you an hour ago."

"The new servant was late, and I couldn't leave before she came."

"Never mind; glad you've come."

Esther felt that the little man was staring hard at her. He was John Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as they used to call him at Barfield.

Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered a "Glad to see you again," But it was the welcome of a man who regards a woman's presence as an intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt with which he looked at William. "Can't keep away from them," his face said for one brief moment. William asked Esther what she'd take to drink, and Mr. Leopold looked at his watch and said he must be getting home.

"Try to come round to-morrow night if you've an hour to spare."

"Then you don't think you'll go to Newmarket?"

"No, I don't think I shall do much in the betting way this year. But come round to-morrow night if you can; you'll find me here. I must be here to-morrow night," he said, turning to Esther; "I'll tell you presently." Then the men had a few more words, and William bade John good-night. Coming back to Esther, he said—

"What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain't it?" But before she had time to reply he said, "You've brought me good luck. I won two 'undred and fifty pounds to-day, and the money will come in very 'andy, for Jim Stevens, that's my partner, has agreed to take half the money on account and a bill of sale for the rest. There he is; I'll introduce you to him. Jim, come this way, will you?"

"In a moment, when I've finished drawing this 'ere glass of beer," answered a thick-set, short-limbed man. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he crossed the bar wiping the beer from his hands.

"Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine, Jim, Miss Waters."

"Very 'appy, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance," said Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the counter. "You and my partner are, I 'ear, going to take this 'ere 'ouse off my hands. Well, you ought to make a good thing of it. There's always room for a 'ouse that supplies good liquor. What can I hoffer you, madam? Some of our whisky has been fourteen years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you'd like to try some of our best unsweetened."

Esther declined, but William said they could not leave without drinking the health of the house.

"Irish or Scotch, ma'am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch."

Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther decided that she would try the unsweetened. The glasses were clinked across the counter, and William whispered, "This isn't what we sell to the public; this is our own special tipple. You didn't notice, perhaps, but he took the bottle from the third row on the left."

At that moment Esther's cabman came in and wanted to know if he was to have the box taken down. William said it had better remain where it was.

"I don't think I told you I'm not living here; my partner has the upper part of the house, but he says he'll be ready to turn out at the end of the week. I'm living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we'd better keep the cab on."

Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. William said he'd stand the cabby a drink, and, winking at Esther, he whispered, "Third row on the left, partner."



XXX

The "King's Head" was an humble place in the old-fashioned style. The house must have been built two hundred years, and the bar seemed as if it had been dug out of the house. The floor was some inches lower than the street, and the ceiling was hardly more than a couple of feet above the head of a tall man. Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, according to the latest fashion. There were but three. The private entrance was in Dean Street, where a few swells came over from the theatre and called for brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany what-not on the counter, and Esther served her customers between the little shelves. The public entrance and the jug and bottle entrance were in a side street. There was no parlour for special customers at the back, and the public bar was inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. The "King's Head" was not an up-to-date public-house. It had, however, one thing in its favour—it was a free house, and William said they had only to go on supplying good stuff, and trade would be sure to come back to them. For their former partner had done them much harm by systematic adulteration, and a little way down the street a new establishment, with painted tiles and brass lamps, had been opened, and was attracting all the custom of the neighbourhood. She was more anxious than William to know what loss the books showed; she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and when he laughed at her she said, "But you're never here in the daytime, you do not have these empty bars staring you in the face morning and afternoon." And then she would tell him: a dozen pots of beer about dinner-time, a few glasses of bitter—there had been a rehearsal over the way—and that was about all.

The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed through the heavy heat of a summer afternoon. Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to come home from school. William was away at Newmarket. The clock struck five and Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter, and ran into his mother's arms.

"Well, did you get full marks to-day?"

"Yes, mummie, I got full marks."

"That's a good boy—and you want your tea?"

"Yes, mummie; I'm that hungry I could hardly walk home."

"Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that?"

"Yes, mummie. There's a new shop open in Oxford Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think that if all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, father would buy me one?"

"I thought you was so hungry you couldn't walk home, dear?"

"Well, mummie, so I was, but——"

Esther laughed. "Well, come this way and have your tea." She went into the parlour and rang the bell.

"Mummie, may I have buttered toast?"

"Yes, dear, you may."

"And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make it?"

"Yes, you can do that too; it will save her the trouble of coming up. Let me take off your coat—give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane to make the toast."

Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger than the private bar, holding with difficulty a small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, a cupboard. In the morning a dusty window let in a melancholy twilight, but early in the afternoon it became necessary to light the gas. Esther took a cloth from the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie's tea. He came up the kitchen stairs telling Jane how many marbles he had won, and at that moment voices were heard in the bar.

It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey frock-coat, a pair of field glasses slung over his shoulders. He was with his clerk, Ted Blamy, a feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit, covered with white dust.

"Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a drink."

Esther saw at once that things had not gone well with him.

"Have the favourites been winning?"

"Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites straight off the reel, three yesterday, and two second favourites the day before. By God, no man can stand up against it. Come, what'll you have to drink, Teddy?"

"A little whisky, please, guv'nor."

The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy to take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into the parlour. She could see that he had been losing heavily, but she refrained from asking questions.

"Now, Jackie, you keep your father company; tell him how you got on at school. I'm going downstairs to look after his dinner."

"Don't you mind about my dinner, Esther, don't you trouble; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I'll be back at nine."

"Then I'll see nothing of you. We've hardly spoken to one another this week; all the day you're away racing, and in the evening you're talking to your friends over the bar. We never have a moment alone."

"Yes, Esther, I know; but the truth is, I'm a bit down in the mouth. I've had a very bad week. The favourites has been winning, and I overlaid my book against Wheatear; I'd heard that she was as safe as 'ouses. I'll meet some pals down at the 'Cri'; it will cheer me up."

Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and asked what there was for dinner. "A sole and a nice piece of steak; I'm sure you'll like it. I've a lot to talk to you about. Do stop, Bill, to please me." She was very winning in her quiet, grave way, so he took her in his arms, kissed her, and said he would stop, that no one could cook a sole as she could, that it gave him an appetite to think of it.

"And may I stop with father while you are cooking his dinner?" said Jackie.

"Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father then."

Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was about to hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. "It won't matter to you," he said; "you've to go downstairs to fry the steak."

But when she came up with the steak he was unwilling as ever to leave. She said he must go to bed, and he knew from her tone that argument was useless. As a last consolation, she promised him that she would come upstairs and kiss him before he went to sleep.

"You will come, won't you, mummie? I shan't go to sleep till you do." Esther and William both laughed, and Esther was pleased, for she was still a little jealous of his love for his father.

"Come along," Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs, chattering to her about the toys he had seen in Oxford Street. Charles was lighting the gas, and Esther had to go into the bar to serve some customers. When she returned, William was smoking his pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, he had forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; Ginger had come up as cordial as you like, and had asked him what price he was laying.

"Did he bet with you?"

"Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five."

Once more William began to lament his luck. "You'll have better luck to-morrow," she said. "The favourites can't go on winning. Tell me about Ginger."

"There isn't much to tell. We'd a little chat. He knew all about the little arrangement, the five hundred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy's married. I've forgotten the chap's name."

"The one that you kicked downstairs?"

"No, not him; I can't think of it. No matter, Ginger remembered you; he wished us luck, took the address, and said he'd come in to-night to see you if he possibly could. I don't think he's been doing too well lately, if he had he'd been more stand-offish. I saw Jimmy White—you remember Jim, the little fellow we used to call the Demon, 'e that won the Stewards' Cup on Silver Braid?... Didn't you and 'e 'ave a tussle together at the end of dinner—the first day you come down from town?"

"The second day it was."

"You're right, it was the second day. The first day I met you in the avenue I was leaning over the railings having a smoke, and you come along with a heavy bundle and asked me the way. I wasn't in service at that time. Good Lord, how time does slip by! It seems like yesterday.... And after all those years to meet you as you was going to the public for a jug of beer, and 'ere we are man and wife sitting side by side in our own 'ouse."

Esther had been in the "King's Head" now nearly a year. The first Mrs. Latch had got her divorce without much difficulty; and Esther had begun to realise that she had got a good husband long before they slipped round to the nearest registry office and came back man and wife.

Charles opened the door. "Mr. Randal is in the bar, sir, and would like to have a word with you."

"All right," said William. "Tell him I'm coming into the bar presently." Charles withdrew. "I'm afraid," said William, lowering his voice, "that the old chap is in a bad way. He's been out of a place a long while, and will find it 'ard to get back again. Once yer begin to age a bit, they won't look at you. We're both well out of business."

Mr. Randal sat in his favourite corner by the wall, smoking his clay. He wore a large frock-coat, vague in shape, pathetically respectable. The round hat was greasy round the edges, brown and dusty on top. The shirt was clean but unstarched, and the thin throat was tied with an old black silk cravat. He looked himself, the old servant out of situation—the old servant who would never be in situation again.

"Been 'aving an 'ell of a time at Newmarket," said William; "favourites romping in one after the other."

"I saw that the favourites had been winning. But I know of something, a rank outsider, for the Leger. I got the letter this morning. I thought I'd come round and tell yer."

"Much obliged, old mate, but it don't do for me to listen to such tales; we bookmakers must pay no attention to information, no matter how correct it may be.... Much obliged all the same. What are you drinking?"

"I've not finished my glass yet." He tossed off the last mouthful.

"The same?" said William.

"Yes, thank you."

William drew two glasses of porter. "Here's luck." The men nodded, drank, and then William turned to speak to a group at the other end of the bar. "One moment," John said, touching William on the shoulder. "It is the best tip I ever had in my life. I 'aven't forgotten what I owe you, and if this comes off I'll be able to pay you all back. Lay the odds, twenty sovereigns to one against—" Old John looked round to see that no one was within ear-shot, then he leant forward and whispered the horse's name in William's ear. William laughed. "If you're so sure about it as all that," he said, "I'd sooner lend you the quid to back the horse elsewhere."

"Will you lend me a quid?"

"Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping in one after another!—you must take me for Baron Rothschild. You think because I've a public-house I'm coining money; well, I ain't. It's cruel the business we do here. You wouldn't believe it, and you know that better liquor can't be got in the neighbourhood." Old John listened with the indifference of a man whose life is absorbed in one passion and who can interest himself with nothing else. Esther asked him after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation on the subject was always disagreeable to him, and he passed it over with few words. As soon as Esther moved away he leant forward and whispered, "Lay me twelve pounds to ten shillings. I'll be sure to pay you; there's a new restaurant going to open in Oxford Street and I'm going to apply for the place of headwaiter."

"Yes, but will you get it?" William answered brutally. He did not mean to be unkind, but his nature was as hard and as plain as a kitchen-table. The chin dropped into the unstarched collar and the old-fashioned necktie, and old John continued smoking unnoticed by any one. Esther looked at him. She saw he was down on his luck, and she remembered the tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she had met weeping by the sea-shore the day that Silver Braid had won the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, in what corner did she live, and where was the son that John Randal had not allowed to enter the Barfield establishment as page-boy, thinking he would be able to make something better of him than a servant.

The regular customers had begun to come in. Esther greeted them with nods and smiles of recognition. She drew the beer two glasses at once in her hand, and picked up little zinc measures, two and four of whisky, and filled them from a small tap. She usually knew the taste of her customers. When she made a mistake she muttered "stupid," and Mr. Ketley was much amused at her forgetting that he always drank out of the bottle; he was one of the few who came to the "King's Head" who could afford sixpenny whisky. "I ought to have known by this time," she said. "Well, mistakes will occur in the best regulated families," the little butterman replied. He was meagre and meek, with a sallow complexion and blond beard. His pale eyes were anxious, and his thin, bony hands restless. His general manner was oppressed, and he frequently raised his hat to wipe his forehead, which was high and bald. At his elbow stood Journeyman, Ketley's very opposite. A tall, harsh, angular man, long features, a dingy complexion, and the air of a dismissed soldier. He held a glass of whisky-and-water in a hairy hand, and bit at the corner of a brown moustache. He wore a threadbare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under his arm. Ketley and Journeyman held widely different views regarding the best means of backing horses. Ketley was preoccupied with dreams and omens; Journeyman, a clerk in the parish registry office, studied public form; he was guided by it in all his speculations, and paid little heed to the various rumours always afloat regarding private trials. Public form he admitted did not always come out right, but if a man had a headpiece and could remember all the running, public form was good enough to follow. Racing with Journeyman was a question of calculation, and great therefore was his contempt for the weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all occasions. But Ketley was pluckier than his appearance indicated, and the duels between the two were a constant source of amusement in the bar of the "King's Head."

"Well, Herbert, the omen wasn't altogether up to the mark this time," said Journeyman, with a malicious twinkle in his small brown eyes.

"No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents."

"One of them unfortunate accidents," repeated Journeyman, derisively; "what's accidents to do with them that 'as to do with the reading of omens? I thought they rose above such trifles as weights, distances, bad riding.... A stone or two should make no difference if the omen is right."

Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that Journeyman's retort had produced in the group about the bar. He drank his whisky-and-water deliberately, like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over the course before.

"I've 'eard that argument. I know all about it, but it don't alter me. Too many strange things occur for me to think that everything can be calculated with a bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book."

"What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it?" replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled and nodded. "You says that signs and omens is above any calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be depended on than the best stable information."

"I thought that you placed no reliance on stable information, and that you was guided by the weights that you calculated in that 'ere pocket-book."

"What's my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see my pocket-book; well, here it is, and I'll bet two glasses of beer that it ain't greasier than any other pocket-book in this bar."

"I don't see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not greasy, has to do with it," said William. "Walter put a fair question to Herbert. The omen didn't come out right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn't come out right."

"That was it," said Journeyman.

All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. "You want to know why the omen wasn't right? I'll tell you—because it was no omen at all, that's why. The omens always comes right; it is we who aren't always in the particular state of mind that allows us to read the omens right." Journeyman shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same expression of placid amusement. "You'd like me to explain; well, I will. The omen is always right, but we aren't always in the state of mind for the reading of the omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but why should omens differ from other things? Some days we can get through our accounts in 'alf the time we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks all present if that is not so."

Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman's remark about closing time only provoked a momentary titter. Ketley looked long and steadily at Journeyman and then said, "Perhaps closing time won't do no more for your calculation of weights than for my omens.... I know them jokes, we've 'eard them afore; but I'm not making jokes; I'm talking serious." The company nodded approval. "I was saying there was times when the mind is fresh like the morning. That's the time for them what 'as got the gift of reading the omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and it points straight like a ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it.... Now do you understand?" No one had understood, but all felt that they were on the point of understanding. "The whole thing is in there being nothing to interrupt the light."

"But you says yourself that yer can't always read them," said Journeyman; "an accident will send you off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to the same thing, omens or no omens."

"A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street, but that don't prove he can't walk, do it, Walter?"

Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley scored another point over his opponent. "I made a mistake, I know I did, and if it will help you to understand I'll tell you how it was made. Three weeks ago I was in this 'ere bar 'aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early; none of you fellows had come in. I don't think it was much after eight. The governor was away in the north racin'—hadn't been 'ome for three or four days; the missus was beginning to look a bit lonely." Ketley smiled and glanced at Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, and was listening as intently as the rest. "I'd 'ad a nice bit of supper, and was just feeling that fresh and clear 'eaded as I was explaining to you just now is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in perticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a conversation I 'ad with a chap about American corn. He wouldn't 'ear of the Government taxing corn to 'elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as clear as if the dawn had begun to break. I could positively see the bloody corn; I could pretty well 'ave counted it. I felt there was an omen about somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper; it was lying on the bar just where your hand is, Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to cast my eye down the list of 'orses, a cab comes down the street as 'ard as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar, and we rushed out—the shafts was broke, 'orse galloping and kicking, and the cabby 'olding on as 'ard as he could. But it was no good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to pieces; his leg was broke, and we'd to 'elp to take him to the hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that I should have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, I rolled up 'alf a pound of butter in a piece of paper on which 'Cross Roads' was written."

"But if there had been no accident and you 'ad looked down the list of 'orses, 'ow do yer know that yer would 'ave spotted the winner?"

"What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn in my 'ead? Is it likely I'd've missed it?"

No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of the group said, and he seemed to express the general mind of the company—

"I don't know if omens be worth a-following of, but I'm blowed if 'orses be worth backing if the omens is again them."

His neighbour answered, "And they do come wonderful true occasional. They 'as 'appened to me, and I daresay to all 'ere present." The company nodded. "You've noticed how them that knows nothing at all about 'orses—the less they knows the better their luck—will look down the lot and spot the winner from pure fancy—the name that catches their eyes as likely."

"There's something in it," said a corpulent butcher with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. "I always held with going to church, and I hold still more with going to church since I backed Vanity for the Chester Cup. I was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes up hearing, 'Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.'"

Several similar stories were told, and then various systems for backing horses were discussed. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" said Mr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock coat with brass buttons. A curious-looking man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty growth of beard, and a loud, assuming voice. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" he reiterated.

"I didn't say that no 'orse was never pulled," said Journeyman. He stood with his back leaning against the partition, his long legs stretched out. "If one was really in the know, then I don't say nothing about it; but who of us is ever really in the know?"

"I'm not so sure about that," said Mr. Stack. "There's a young man in my mansions that 'as a servant; this servant's cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the lads in the White House stable. If that ain't good enough, I don't know what is; good enough for my half-crown and another pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you'll be that kind."

Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He too had heard of something; he didn't know if it was the same as Stack had heard of; he didn't expect it was. It couldn't very well be, 'cause no one knew of this particular horse, not a soul!—not 'alf-a-dozen people in the world. No, he would tell no one until his money and the stable money was all right. And he didn't care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he couldn't get a sovereign or two on the horse he'd let it alone. This time he'd be a man or a mouse. Every one was listening intently, but old John suddenly assumed an air of mystery and refused to say another word. The conversation worked back whither it had started, and again the best method of backing horses was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone whose theories seemed intolerably ludicrous, Journeyman said—

"Let's 'ear what's the governor's opinion; he ought to know what kind of backer gets the most out of him."

Journeyman's proposal to submit the question to the governor met with very general approval. Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he had collected, came forward, interested to know what kind of backer got most out of the bookmaker.

"Well," said William, "I haven't been making a book as long as some of them, but since you ask me what I think I tell you straight. I don't care a damn whether they backs according to their judgment, or their dreams, or their fancy. The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs a jockey's mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, 'cording to a system—the cove, yer know, what doubles every time—or the cove that bets as the mood takes him—them and all the other coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I'm glad to do business with. I cries out to one as 'eartily as to another: 'The old firm, the old firm, don't forget the old firm.... What can I do for you to-day, sir?' There's but one sort of cove I can't abide."

"And he is—" said Journeyman.

"He is Mr. George Buff."

"Who's he? who's he?" asked several; and the vagrant caused some amusement by the question, "Do 'e bet on the course?"

"Yes, he do," said William, "an' nowhere else. He's at every meeting as reg'lar as if he was a bookie himself. I 'ates to see his face.... I'd be a rich man if I'd all the money that man 'as 'ad out of me in the last three years."

"What should you say was his system?" asked Mr. Stack.

"I don't know no more than yerselves."

This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado.

"But did you ever notice," said Mr. Ketley, "that there was certain days on which he bet?"

"No, I never noticed that."

"Are they outsiders that he backs?" asked Stack.

"No, only favourites. But what I can't make out is that there are times when he won't touch them; and when he don't, nine times out of ten they're beaten."

"Are the 'orses he backs what you'd call well in?" said Journeyman.

"Not always."

"Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?" said Stack.

"I dun know," said William; "have it that way if you like, but I'm glad there ain't many about like him. I wish he'd take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do."

"What sort of man should you say he was? 'as he been a servant, should you say?" asked old John.

"I can't tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that 'ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don't bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn't see the people, and he don't care that for the 'orses. Knowing he don't mean no business, I cries to him, 'The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.' He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm 'un; he is just about as 'ot as they make 'em."

"What I can't make out," said Journeyman, "is why he bets on the course. You say he don't know nothing about horses. Why don't he remain at 'ome and save the exes?"

"I've thought of all that," said William, "and can't make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six 'undred a year."

At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all—a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman.

"Won't you step round, sir, to the private bar?" said William. "You'll be more comfortable."

"Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I'd come in and have a look round.... I see that you haven't forgotten the old horses," he said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer's Dean which William had hung on the wall. "That was a great day, wasn't it? Fifty to one chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry.... Hullo, John! very glad to see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?"

The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, and as the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across the bar.

"I 'ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir," said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne.

Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six.

"Do you know him?" said William.

"Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night—Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton."

The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat.

"You'd better 'ave the coat," he said; "you won't better it;" and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. "Glass of porter; nice warm weather, good for the 'arvest. Just come up from the country—a bit dusty, ain't I?"

"Ain't you the chap," said William, "what laid Mr. Ketley six 'alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads?"

Charles nodded, and William continued—

"I like your cheek coming into my bar."

"No harm done, gov'nor; no one was about; wouldn't 'ave done it if they had."

"That'll do," said William. "... No, he don't want the coat. We likes to know where our things comes from."

Bill Evans finished his glass. "Good-night, guv'nor; no ill-feeling."

The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. "Take it for love," she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together.

"I don't like the looks of that chap," said William, and he let go the champagne cork. "Yer health, sir." They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next week's racing.

"I dun know about next week's events," said old John, "but I've heard of something for the Leger—an outsider will win."

"Have you backed it?"

"I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky with me lately. But I'd advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It's the best tip I 'ave had in my life."

"Really!" said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, "so I will, and so shall you. I'm damned if you shan't have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the odds. What is it?"

"Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir."

"Why, I thought that—"

"No such thing, sir; Briar Rose's the one."

Ginger took up the paper. "Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken."

"You see, sir, it was taken."

"Will you lay the price, William—twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?"

"Yes, I'll lay it."

Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker.

"I never take money over this bar. You're good for a thin 'un, sir," William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money.

"But I don't know when I shall see you again," said Ginger. "It will be very inconvenient. There's no one in the bar."

"None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don't matter?"

Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless.



XXXI

Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, between which the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night at the "King's Head." Ketley's wife used to wear a string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn't certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that—not being much of a reader. So what with one thing and another Ketley didn't believe much in this 'ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn't Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John's experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. "When they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about enough of it." Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on Dewberry. He didn't know much about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him; "and when I know the stable-money is right I says, 'That's good enough for me!'"

Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to with awed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he described how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn't have ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider's opinion worth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger's magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was good enough for him. He didn't suppose the guv'nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten.

"Turn it up, old mate," said William.

"All right, guv'nor, I never presses my goods on them that don't want 'em. If there's any other gentleman who would like to look at this 'ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they're in for fifteen shillings. Here's the ticket. I'm a bit short of money, and have a fancy for a certain outsider. I'd like to have my bit on, and I'll dispose of the ticket for—what do you say to a thin 'un, Mr. Ketley?"

"Did you 'ear me speak just now?" William answered angrily, "or shall I have to get over the counter?"

"I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?" said Ginger.

"No, sir. I've heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a race run."

"How's that, shouldn't you care?"

"You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there's the house to look after."

"I never thought of it before," said William. "You've never seen a race run, no more you haven't. Would you care to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther?"

"I think I should."

At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, "We shall lose our licence if——"

"If we don't get out," said Ginger.

William apologised.

"The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can't serve any more liquor to-night.... Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in.... Now, gentlemen, gentlemen."

Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. A few minutes after the house was closed.

A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour's work before bed-time, and then they lighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs.

William flung off his coat. "I'm dead beat," he said, "and all this to lose——" He didn't finish the sentence. Esther said—

"You've a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider'll win."

"I 'ope so.... But if you'd care to see the race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you."

"I don't know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither."

They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes....

"I wonder if there's any one going who you'd care for?"

"I don't care a bit about it, Bill." The conversation paused. At the end of a long silence William said—

"It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much should never have seen a race." Esther didn't answer. She was falling asleep, and William's voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a great shove. "Wake up, old girl, I've got it. Why not ask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she's out of situation. It'll be a nice treat for her."

"Ah.... I should like to see Sarah again."

"You're half asleep."

"No, I'm not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us."

William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides, the road wasn't what it used to be; every one goes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah's address.

Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed and said—

"I think it will be a fine day, Esther." He took out his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said—

"Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes."

"Is it time to get up?"

"Yes, I should think it was. For God's sake, get up."

She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the door.

"All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife's not dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther."

Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but there isn't no time to lose if the governor don't want to lose his place on the 'ill."

"Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don't stand there talking."

The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly as large as a sixpence.

"You'll wear the green tie, sir?" William nodded. The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. "I've got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?"

William glanced at the bouquet. "They look a bit loud," he said; "I'll wait till we get on the course; put them in the bag."

The card to be worn in the white hat—"William Latch, London," in gold letters on a green ground—was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, on which was written in gold letters, "William Latch, 'The King's Head,' London. Fair prices, prompt payment."

It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul's on one side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men—here and there a girl's dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said—

"We shall be late; we shall have to go without her."

Esther's face clouded. "We can't go without her; don't be so impatient." At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, "I think that that's Sarah."

"You can chatter in the train—you'll have a whole hour to talk about each other's dress; get in, get in," and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarah was the first to speak.

"I was kind of you to think of me. So you've married, and to him after all!" she added, lowering her voice.

Esther laughed. "It do seem strange, don't it?"

"You'll tell me all about it," she said. "I wonder we didn't run across one another before."

They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil.

The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, 'buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago.

The men puffed at their pipes, and old John's anecdotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofs which they carried on their arms.

They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line was blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreading trees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer's day.



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 caught 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.