Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 150.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE PORTABLE THEATRE.

A few wagon-loads of large and square wooden shutters; numerous poles of various lengths; a quantity of seat-planks and their supports; some scene-painted canvas wrapped around long rollers, some nailed and glued upon framework; a collection of ropes and pulleys; various ‘stage properties;’ two open coke-fire grates; an amount of dark and soiled drapery and cheap carpeting, and a mass of other things—meet these on the highway, and you may know that a portable theatre is shifting its quarters.

Soon after the wagons reach their destination, the work of building commences. The town chosen is no doubt a small one, with interests which may be manufacturing, mineral, or agricultural. The theatre had arranged for its stance before moving—some waste ground let at a nominal rent, or a field bordering the town. Then beardless men, dressed in stained and ragged cloth garments, start hacking up the ground, digging narrow holes wherein to erect uprights. While some erect the framework, others build at one end a gallery, at the other a stage; and so bit by bit. After an adornment of the interior by draping the walls with some material and giving a scant covering to the best seats, and a sawdust carpet to the whole concern, the labour of erection is about at an end, and the actor-builders are at liberty to cleanse—and shave themselves if they have time, and throw off their working clothes. If they perform the same night and are late, they will have little time for rest; and in the impersonator of Hamlet, who enters the stage at a quarter to eight to a flourish on brass and string, you may recognise the man who, forty-five minutes before, had been walking to his lodgings in a state of grime and weariness and with a stubbly chin. When he appears as the Prince, he is clean shaven, all but the heavy moustache—for that is his pride, and is never sacrificed.

The portable theatre is generally ‘run’ by the proprietor, who is often also stage-manager and leading man or comedian. The usual method of fixing the amount of payment to employees is by share. In this way every individual worker is a sort of partner, and so feels an interest in the welfare of the business; and if the receipts are large, he, and she, participate in the benefit. This method is favourable to the manager and proprietor too, even when business is not brisk, though he is never heard to admit as much. The mode of procedure is very simple, and may be worthy the attention of those who admire simplicity and promptitude in business. The sharing takes place nightly after performance, when the audience have dispersed and the curtain has been drawn up, and all the company are dressed for home and assembled on the stage. The proprietor sits at a table in the centre, the receipts in cash and a slip of paper before him. ‘The “house” is three pounds and fourpence,’ the manager proceeds to explain; ‘and from that is to be taken two shillings for ground-rent; that leaves two-eighteen-four. Now, twenty-five shares into that is two shillings and fourpence a share. It’s very bad, especially for an opening night; but the show went well, so we may hope business’ll pick up, now they know what we are like. I hope it will, for all our sakes.’ And then does the gentleman proceed to give to each member his one share, which on this night amounts to two shillings and fourpence; but to the low comedian is given an extra half-share, according to agreement, for his services are very valuable to the firm, and he is expected to sing humorous songs during the interval between drama and farce.

Now, all this looks very fair on the face of it; but much may be learned by an analysis of the arrangement. The proprietor has given twelve and a half shares among twelve people, in which are included the small orchestra; the remainder he has put in his pocket. For his own services as leading man and stage-manager, and for his wife, who plays the feminine leading parts—when they are good—he takes up four shares each night; for supplying the wardrobe!—which is scanty and worn—he takes another share; he has another to recoup him for that night’s outlay in stage properties; a half-share to pay for the coke the fires have burned; and lastly, he takes six shares as rent of the theatre, which is his property. So, of the twenty-five shares into which the receipts are nightly divided, the proprietor receives altogether twelve and a half. Much of this he would tell you is but the return of money previously laid out, and the melancholy sigh with which he accompanies the ceremony of division is meant to indicate the fact that he is losing money rapidly.

His wife, when not in the cast, or his offspring, or a decrepit father, are generally assigned to the post of money-taker at the theatre door. The company are supposed to have a check against them by appointing as their representatives those who collect the tickets. The person who receives the cash from the public as they enter is familiarly known to the fraternity by the name of ‘first robber.’

Now, many who know the business have been heard to declare that the manager seldom loses—if ever—and generally gains, however slack business may be, and even while his fellow-actors are pinched for necessities. If it is asked, ‘Why do the workers agree to such an arrangement?’ it may be replied: ‘The proprietor and manager is master in his own establishment; and those who won’t conform to the rules of the theatre may go and make way for those who will.’

Altogether, portable actors, or, as many of the labouring classes prefer to call them, showfolk, make but a precarious living, and they have often many troubles, for which they receive little sympathy. At times they are heard speaking of how some years ago, during the fair at a certain town, they performed five times during the day, and individually amassed three pounds seven shillings for the day’s work. But that was a rare occurrence, and they dwell with pleasure upon the memory of it. The usual share in ordinary times rises to five shillings nightly during good business, and perhaps as much as seven or eight on the Saturday, and very often it drops to the amount of but a few coppers. There is all the excitement of chance in this mode of remuneration, and that may offer an inducement to some speculative minds. If trade is bad, or the people are too poor or anti-theatrical, the strolling Thespian may find that his reward after work is something less than a shilling, and upon that he may have to feed and lodge himself until the next night brings a further supply.

Many who dwell in towns think that the portable theatre is now little more than a remnant of a bygone age, that the drama has cast off this itineracy; and such thinkers would doubtless be surprised if they were shown a list of the playhouses that move about the country. They are certainly very numerous. These buildings seldom look well in the morning light; there is a dissipated look about them, as though they kept bad hours. This more particularly applies to the interior, to whose good appearance the glare of gas is very essential. When the actors assemble for rehearsal, which is generally at eleven o’clock, the drapery looks dull and tawdry, the woodwork seems rough, the sawdust over the earth-floor is dirty, and the scenes appear daubs. If there be a little breeze astir, the canvas roofing overhead will flap with a sound like that of the sails of a ship at sea. The curtain and scene-cloths are rolled up, that the dust may not settle upon them.

When the players have gathered together, rehearsal commences. They seem a motley group. There is the proprietor and manager, a portly man, who is troubled with occasional rheumatism—which he calls gout; he wears a heavy moustache and a heavy gold albert, and has much power of voice—which at times is decidedly throaty. There is the low comedian, who is small of stature, with an expansive face deeply lined; his legs are misshapen, and he walks with the gait of one who suffers the affliction of many corns and bunions. Naturally, his countenance has the most serious aspect of any one in the company; but usage has trained it otherwise; he would be a melancholy man were it not that he gained his living by provoking mirth, and has a reputation to keep up. In his youth, his soul aspired to tragedy, but his legs were against it. Within his quaint figure he holds more sentiment than many of his companions of more symmetrical mould, and he professes to be a diligent and critical reader. He values ‘low comedy’ now, because it has many advantages; it gains an extra half-share, makes him popular with the audience, and secures him the best benefit in each town.

The middle-aged man with the stiff carriage, and with the hair grown long and well oiled and curved, so that at the bottom it lies like a roll upon the neck, is the ‘heavy man,’ who claims the chief-villain parts; he glories in his deep tones and in his dark scowl. It seems he does not much admire the smooth-faced scoundrels of the drama; you cannot mistake the villainy _he_ portrays; directly he enters the stage, you say, ‘That is the villain of the piece.’ And he is not without a speciality in his particular line of business; to use his own words—‘He likes his scoundrel’s “game;” no chicken-hearted repentance at the end of the last act.’ His favourite final exit speech is thus: ‘Ah! soh, you have counterplotted and balked me. But I-a haave played a bold and desper-rat game, and now I leave you with contempt-a! My curses light-a ’pon ye!’ If, however, he is killed when villainy has done its allotted work, he makes the most of his death, and invariably dies with a terrific backward fall. He has been heard to complain that in his stage career he receives small encouragement; ‘for,’ argues he, ‘after my heavy night’s work, anybody may come on with a stuffed stick and knock me down, and they’ll get all the applause.’

One of the company is a young man whose face has already lost its pristine freshness; he wears his hat with an inclination to the right, and looks to be a knowing, wayward, idle, and thriftless wanderer. A great amount of cheap beer enters into his idea of life. He drinks this liquor at any hour; and when counting his cash, calculates it not by pence, but by the half-pints it represents. He is a weed who benefits nobody, not even himself. Enough has been said about him.

The man who throughout his life has never ceased to do his best, honestly and cheerfully, and has failed through no fault of his own, must be worthy of some respect. This has been the way of the old gentleman—he may be called that—whose age is more than any other of the company. In his work he is painstaking, even amid the inartistic surroundings of a portable theatre. He now possesses an extensive stage wardrobe, gathered for his own private use; it is the collection of years, and he is proud of it. You won’t hear him speak so often of his own future now, but he is always chattering about what he thinks his daughter will do. She is a darling girl, he says, and will be the blessing of his old age.

His daughter matches well with the morning sunshine. A fresh, rosy-faced girl, with shining hair and laughing eyes, in great contrast to these yellow women and blue-chinned men. She always shows neatness and good taste. Her father has often told her that they are merely ‘birds of passage’ in this cheap playhouse, and she is anxiously anticipating their migration. If that indulgent old dad of hers isn’t careful, she’ll become a vain young woman.

As this girl is now, so was at one time that blear-eyed, bedraggled woman, who seems to prefer sitting to standing and idling to working. She is untidy and careless, and walks out with her boots unbrushed. Her rising this morning is yet quite a recent affair; traces of sleep still cling to her eyes. Not many years ago, she was as fair and modest as the old man’s daughter is now, and not a soul anticipated such a change. Who can answer that the other may not alter likewise?

The man who is hammering at some repair to the building is the degenerated female’s husband, and candour must confess that he looks it. He has many of his wife’s characteristics; the same dissipated face, impolite manner at times, and general attitude of discontent. But these parallel ways of theirs are not productive of concord; quite the contrary, for, as one of their acquaintance tersely observes, ‘They quarrel like old boots,’ a simile which must be more fantastic than correct.

Among the company is an old woman who only needs the sugar-loaf-shaped hat to resemble the familiar pictures of a witch. She is indigenous to the portable theatre, was cradled in one, and knows little of any life beyond it. Her daughter is that scraggy, uncanny-looking young female, whose dominant passion at present is jealousy of the old man’s daughter, whom she never ceases to malign.

The rehearsal here is not generally a long ceremony. A partial or complete repetition of the words, and a comparing of notes respecting the various entrances, exits, and general business of the play, and that is all. Then the healthy-minded people do their marketing, and go off for a short walk. The others continue to ‘hang about.’

The audience that comes here likes its dramatic food strong—no parlour comedies and talky dramas, but plenty of incident, of action, passions, stirring speeches, combats, and a little coloured fire burned off the wings. The probability of the sequence of events as here dramatically represented, or the possibility of their occurrence at all, are not matters which trouble the mind of either the actor or his audience. In the matter of denouements the author’s published idea is quite regularly departed from in the portable theatre, and of greatest playwrights’ masterpieces it is frequently said: ‘Oh, we can bring the curtain down better than that.’ So, directly vice is unmasked with a taste of punishment, the virtuous gather together—perhaps without explanation of why they were so near—and the hero spouts a short speech in a victorious spirit, and thus—finale.

At one travelling theatre where the manager followed the usual custom of announcing during each evening the succeeding night’s programme, the drama in question had been billed. In the managerial speech occurred the following words: ‘I have very great pleasure in announcing for next Thursday night the production, for the first time during our visit, of the favourite play, entitled _Maria Martin, or the Murder at the Red Barn_. I have further pleasure in stating that the version we play has _never_ been performed in this town; and was written expressly for this company by a relative of the Martin family, and has been secured by me at great expense.’

This information was received with much satisfaction and applause; that it had had the desired effect was proved conclusively by a view of the Thursday night’s house. And the gentleman faithfully kept his promise, for he played a version that had certainly never been performed in that town; he introduced into the drama as usually given, a part of a gypsy family of vengeful proclivities, and so got two sets of murders, and as both were constantly repeated in visions, it may be supposed the audience had a fair dose of dramatic crime for its money.

But there is many a good performance to be seen in a portable theatre; and extremely good, when the surroundings are considered. The writer remembers a very creditable performance of the play of _Hamlet_—given one dreadfully wild night in a portable that was not the best of its kind. The rain had penetrated the roof in many places before the performance began, and the wind had been all day threatening to blow off the tilt. With the combined damp and cold, it was a very undesirable task to don long hose and thin velvet shirts, and to wear them for three hours in such a draughty and rain-sodden place. But this discomfort was necessary there, as a slight mitigation of a state of poverty. Perhaps there was a want of repose in the acting that night, for it was advisable to dodge those places where the water found the roof weakest, and so descended as from a spout. The Ghost, who had a cold, coughed during his scenes in a most unspectral manner. In the ‘play-scene’ there was a crash, and it was feared the tilt was gone, and one of the courtiers ran out to see what had given way. Two of the rope-fastenings were loose and flying about wildly. They were secured during the performance, but not without some trouble, each male actor throwing a coat over his shoulders, and giving a hand when the scene in progress did not require him. But as these were fastened, others broke, and it was altogether a night of trouble. Before the last act was reached, there was little to be gained by dodging; the rain penetrated steadily all over, and would fall on heads and run down backs and disturb projecting noses, wherever their owners stood. Hamlet died on a damp couch that night, for the stage carpet was soaked and flooded, but he would be artistic and die lying full length. I can testify that the Horatio, who had to kneel and support the Prince’s head, wished he would die quicker. But ‘The rest is silence,’ came at last; and Hamlet jumped up again, and then looked radiantly happy; for just as the curtain was descending, one of the audience stood and threw to the actor a rose. It was a pretty compliment, and the recipient deserved it.

When the audience had dispersed, the actors received their reward—fifteenpence each. They deserved it. But their labour was not yet ended for the day. The rain had abated, but the wind lashed with greater force and blew with louder voice. ‘Nothing short of a miracle will save that roof to-night,’ said somebody. So its safety had to be guarded; that is, the company were to attend in turns and keep watch, two or three at a time. One of the coke-fires in the auditorium was replenished, and round it the men sat, talking of absent acquaintances, recounting the peculiarities of some, and giving anecdotes; while above their heads the swaying of the canvas sounded loud, and the wind whirled in fury round the creaking shutters. And thus, as they drowsily sit, wishing for rest, we will leave them.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XIII.

For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’

‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the “Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’

‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps, through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’

‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her eyes.’

The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How did I come here?’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You had an accident, and they brought you here.’

For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’ she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’

‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly, marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to you.’

‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness, what is the name they know you by?’

‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’

At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated, so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’

‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’

But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh, what have I done? O that I could have known before!’

Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak.

‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to speak to her, it would have a good effect.’

‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’

‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when she has become quieter.’

Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’

‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’

‘I do not know who _he_ is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my mistress from a great harm.’

‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’

Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’

‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’

‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I did not know then how good and noble she is.—My head is queer and strange, Lucrece; I cannot tell you now. To-morrow, perhaps, if I am better, I will tell you everything. I am glad now that they brought me here.’

Meanwhile, Maxwell was pacing about the drawing-room, having entirely forgotten the unfortunate woman in his own perplexity. He had been there perhaps half an hour, when Enid entered. She was not too occupied to notice the moody, thoughtful frown upon his face.

‘What a sad thing for her, poor woman!’ she said.—‘How did it happen, Fred?’

‘Poor woman?’ Maxwell asked vaguely. ‘How did what happen?’

‘Why, Fred, what is the matter with you?’ Enid exclaimed with vague alarm. ‘How strange you look! Surely you have not forgotten the poor creature you brought here not more than half an hour ago?’

Maxwell collected himself by a violent effort. ‘I had actually forgotten. I was thinking of something else.—Enid, dear, I am going away!’

‘Going away! Any one would think, from the expression of your face and the tone of your voice, you were never going to return. Where are you going?’

There was a very considerable chance of his not returning, he felt, and he smiled at the grim idea. ‘I am not going far—at least not very far, in this age of express trains and telegraphs. I wish I could take you with me, darling; for I am going to a place you have often longed to see—I am going to Rome.’

‘To Rome? Is it not very sudden? You never told me before.’

‘Well, it is rather sudden. I have not known it long. You see, I could not tell you a thing I was ignorant of myself.’

‘I wish you were not going,’ Enid said reflectively. ‘I have a feeling that some evil will come of this. And yet I suppose you must go. Is it business of your own, Fred?’

Maxwell hesitated. He could not prevaricate with those clear truthful eyes looking up so earnestly to his own. The soul of honour himself, he could not forgive the want of it in others; but he temporised now. ‘Well, not exactly my own,’ he stammered, trying to make the best of a bad case, ‘or I would not go. It is a secret, which I cannot tell even you; but I shall not be long away.’

‘A secret which you cannot tell even me,’ Enid repeated mechanically. ‘Then it must be something you are very much ashamed of.’

‘Indeed, it is not,’ Maxwell began eagerly, hesitated, and stopped. After all, she was right. It was a secret, a terrible, shameful secret, against which all the manliness in him revolted. For a time he was silent, hanging down his head for very shame, as the whole force of his position came upon him. For the first time, he realised where his rashness had led him, and what he was about to lose.

Enid looked at him in amazement, strangely mixed with a terrible and nameless fear. ‘Fred!’ she cried at length, white and trembling, ‘you are going away upon the mission of that awful League! You cannot deny it.—O Fred! Fred!’

He tried to soothe her as she lay sobbing in his arms, but to no avail. The most fervent promises and the most endearing words she heeded not, crying that he was going from her never to return; and her fears were strengthened when he mournfully but firmly declined to speak of his mission. Presently, when she grew a little calmer, she raised her wet cheeks to him and kissed him. She was pale now, but confident, and striving with all the artifices in her power to persuade him from his undertaking; but tears and prayers, threats even, could not avail.

He shook his head sadly. ‘I would that I could stay with you, Enid,’ he said at length, holding her close in his arms; ‘but this much I can tell you—that I dare not disobey. It is as much as my life is worth.’

‘And as much as your life is worth to go,’ echoed the sobbing girl. ‘What is life to me without you? And now this thing has come between us, parting us perhaps for ever!’

‘I hope not,’ Maxwell smiled cheerfully. ‘I trust not, darling. My time away is very short; and doubtless I shall not be called upon again for a time—perhaps never.’

Enid dried her eyes bravely and tried to smile. ‘Good-bye, Fred,’ she said brokenly; ‘and heaven grant that my fears are groundless! If anything happened to you, I believe I should die.’

‘I shall come back, darling.—And now, good-bye, and God bless you.’

After he was gone, Enid threw herself down upon the lounge and wept.

* * * * *

Le Gautier’s star was in the ascendant. His only dangerous rival would soon be hundreds of miles away on a hazardous mission, out of which, in all human probability, he could not come unscathed, even if he escaped with life; a prospective father-in-law wholly in his power; and a bride _in posse_, upon whose fears he could work by describing graphically her father’s danger, with the moral, that it would be her duty to her parent to wed his preserver, Le Gautier. This, in fine, was the pretty scheme the wily adventurer had sketched out in his busy brain, a scheme which at present looked like being brought to a successful issue.

Another source of congratulation to this inestimable young man was the progress he was making with the fair stranger, known to him as Marie St Jean. By the time a fortnight had passed, he had been in Ventnor Street more than once, and quite long enough to feel a passion stronger than he had ever experienced before. It was absolutely dangerous to him, he knew, to be with her so often; but like the moth and the candle, the attraction was so great that he found it impossible to keep away—not that he lost his head for a moment, though he well knew that Marie St Jean could turn him round her finger; but he had formed his plans even here. The first step was to betray the League—the scheme was not quite ripe yet, and the news of Maxwell uncertain—and then take Marie St Jean for a tour upon the continent. There would be plenty of time to return and marry Enid afterwards without any unnecessary bother; for he had already made up his mind that Miss St Jean was too proud to show her wrongs to the world.

On the Monday afternoon following Maxwell’s departure, Le Gautier turned his steps in the direction of Grosvenor Square, feeling on good terms with himself and all mankind. His schemes were prospering hugely. It was clearly useless, he determined, now to hesitate any longer; the blow must be struck, and the sooner the better for all parties concerned. With this intention upmost in his mind, he trippingly ascended the steps of Sir Geoffrey’s house and knocked.

He found the baronet in the library, engaged as usual over some volume of deep spiritualistic research; the thing had become a passion with him now, and every spare moment was spent in this morbid amusement. He was getting thin and haggard over it, and Le Gautier thought he looked very old and careworn as he watched him now.

‘You have come just in time,’ he cried, placing a paper-knife in the book and turning eagerly to Le Gautier. ‘I have a passage here that I am unable to understand. Listen to this.’

‘I have something more important to speak of,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘I have something more pressing on hand than that attractive subject. Sir Geoffrey, next week I am summoned to Warsaw.’

The baronet began to feel anxious; he knew perfectly well what was coming, and, like all weak men, he dreaded anything like evil. The part that he had to play was a despicable one, and he feared his daughter’s angry scorn. Like a recalcitrant debtor, he began to cry for time, the time that never comes. ‘So you informed me last week,’ he replied, twisting a paper-knife in his hands uneasily. ‘I hope you will have a pleasant journey. How long do you expect to be detained there?’

‘I cannot tell; it depends upon the amount of business to be done. I may be away six weeks; but, at the very least, I do not see how I can get back to England under the month.’

Sir Geoffrey’s face lighted, in spite of his air of regret. Le Gautier noticed this; nothing escaped the ken of those keen black eyes.

‘And when you return, we will complete our little arrangements,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed cheerfully. ‘No hurry, you know, no haste in such matters as these; and, referring to our previous conversation, we cannot be too careful in treading such uncertain ground. Enid’——

‘Precisely,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘With all due deference to your opinion, there is need of action, which is a very different matter from that raw haste which your poet tells us is half-sister to delay. I must have something definite settled before I leave England.’

‘’Pon my honour, you know, you young men are very hasty,’ the baronet fidgeted; ‘there is no controlling you. In my time, things were quite different; men professed a certain deference to women, and did not take so much for granted as you do now’——

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ Le Gautier interrupted again, ‘things change; men alter; but perfect love is the same for all time. I love your daughter, and would make her my wife.’

In spite of the baronet’s feeble-mindedness, there was always something in the Frenchman’s higher flights which jarred upon his nerves, a sense of insincerity, a certain hollow, grotesque mockery, which pained him. The last word struck upon him like some chords played out of tune. Still the spell was upon him; he had nought to do but obey.

‘We perfectly understand that,’ he replied, ‘and therefore need say no more about it. You have my promise; indeed, how can it be otherwise with the memory of that awful manifestation before me? And the word of a Charteris is always sufficient. But I do think, Le Gautier, that you are pushing this thing too far.’

‘Let the depth of my love excuse my impetuosity;’ and again the words struck harshly on the listener’s ears. ‘Surely the excuse is a good one. I am leaving England shortly; and before I go, I must—nay, I will have an answer to the question which affects my happiness so deeply. It is only fair, only just that I should know my fate.’

Sir Geoffrey speculated feebly what he was to do with a man like this. ‘But have a little patience; let me prepare her for your proposal.’

‘Which you will promise to do, and put off day after day, as a man does who has an unpleasant task to perform. No, Sir Geoffrey; I do not wish to conduct my wooing second-hand. There is no time like the present; my motto is “Now.” I do not ask you to help me; but before I leave this house, it is my intention to speak to your daughter.’

In sheer desperation, not unmixed with a little irritation, Sir Geoffrey rang the bell, and desired the servant to conduct Le Gautier up-stairs. The thing must come sooner or later, he knew; and so long as he was not asked personally to interfere, he did not so much mind, though he was not unconscious of sundry twinges of conscience as his arbitrary visitor disappeared.

RACING ROGUERIES.

To a man not infected with the disease, Turf-mania must appear the blindest of all infatuations. The gambler who trusts to the fall of the cards, arguing that in the natural fitness of things he is certain to be a winner some day, and spends all his time in calculating the doctrine of chances, is a rational person to the gull who, knowing what a mass of roguery leavens the Turf, will yet stake money, honour, and life upon its eventualities. Yet this is done every day, not only by greenhorns, but by men who are quite alive to the mysterious workings of the betting ring, who are fully aware that the ability of the horse or the jockey is the last factor to be taken into consideration; who can amuse you for hours with stories of the swindles practised by owners, trainers, jockeys, ‘rings,’ and who yet go on putting their money on the horse ‘that must win’—and never wins—in utter defiance of their foregathered knowledge. The racing ‘prophet’ who is behind the scenes, who makes ‘the turf’ the business of his life, not only fools the readers of the newspaper to which he sells his vaticinations, but himself as well, and often returns from a race as penniless as the silly ones who pin their faith upon his oracular utterances. Even the bookmaker has his ‘fancies,’ upon which he stakes, and loses, the money that fools have put into his purse, with a blind confidence that is almost incredible.

A certain horse has acquitted himself well in his trial gallops; there is not one in the race can beat him; and _if_ he were allowed to do his best, would undoubtedly be the winner. But, as Touchstone says, ‘There is much virtue in an if.’ In the first place, the owner may not intend him to win, and may have actually made arrangements for laying against his own horse. Or if the owner be ‘straight,’ the jockey may have been bribed to check the horse’s speed as he nears the winning-post by some one whose interest it is that the horse shall not win. All these may work together, or each may have different interests in the event. And even should the animal be meant in all honesty to win, a stable lad for a five-pound note may secretly physic the horse, and good-bye the chances of the favourite on the morrow. Or some lurking ruffian in the pay of another owner or bookmaker may contrive to gain admission into the stable unknown to the animal’s guardians, and ‘nobble’ for himself. But even after every form of knavery has been set aside, there are contingencies that still render the risks of backing horses enormous. The jockey may spend the night before the race in dissipation, and mount with swimming head and nerveless hands; or in his cups he may betray some secret of the stable that will give the advantage to a rival; or the horse himself may become sick, or be out of form, or stumble, or be thrown out by a cur running across the course, or other accidents easy of occurrence; and yet, knowing all this, men will madly risk large sums upon the supposition that no such _contretemps_ will happen.

A few anecdotes, however, of undeniable authenticity will better illustrate the tricks of the Turf than would pages of reflections and generalisations.

About half a century ago, at Newmarket, several horses who stood high in the betting, at different times suddenly went off sick just before the race for which they were entered; some died, others recovered, but all were disabled for the time being, and favourites that a few hours previously outstripped every rival, would come straggling yards behind the field. Every one knew they had been ‘nobbled;’ but for a long time the perpetrator remained undiscovered; at last, however, a notorious scoundrel, one Dan Dawson, was caught red-handed poisoning the troughs. During the trial, it came out that he had made a regular trade of these nefarious practices, and it was more than suspected that not a few of the biggest men on the Turf were his employers. But although he was condemned to death, whether from the hope that some among his influential patrons would intercede for a reprieve, or from that hatred which certain men of his class have against ‘peaching,’ he never betrayed them, and remained silent to the end. The most minute precautions are taken to guard the racehorse from such dangers, yet the cunning or daring of his enemies frequently proves more than a match for the care of his owners.

In 1842, Lanercost was regarded as the certain victor for the Ascot Cup. While he was being conveyed to the course in a van, the grooms in charge stopped at an inn between Leatherhead and Sunninghill to refresh, leaving one to keep watch. Just after they had gone into the house, two sailors came out of it. ‘Hillo,’ cried one, ‘here’s Lanercost; let’s have a peep at him;’ and he sprang up on the side of the van, while his companion at the same time diverted the attention of the man on guard. A moment afterwards, the first jumped down again, and then the two disappeared into a copse: it was all done so quickly that the groom had no time to interpose; and before he could summon his mates, the men were out of sight. When the race came on, instead of achieving the anticipated victory, poor Lanercost came in last. In the course of the ensuing month, he entirely changed colour, and was never fit to run again. There is no doubt that the pretended sailor had contrived to administer some powerful drug to the animal during the few seconds he hung over his box.

Somewhere about the same time, a horse named Marcus was the favourite for the St Leger. The day before the race, while he and some other horses were standing at the _Doncaster Arms_, an ill-looking fellow entered the kitchen of that tavern and seated himself beside a boiler from which the stable lads were every now and then drawing water for their charges. There was no one in the kitchen save a maid-servant, whom the stranger sent out to bring him a pot of beer. When she returned, the girl was going to fill her tea-kettle from the boiler, but the fellow stopped her by saying: ‘I wouldn’t take my tea-water from there if I was you, it looks so yellow and greasy.’

‘All right; I’ll get it outside,’ she answered. When she came back the second time, the man had gone.

The next morning two horses were found dead in their stalls; while Marcus, who was just able to run, came in last, and also died during the day. Upon the bodies being opened, arsenic was found in their stomachs. The girl then remembered the incident of the loafer, who had no doubt poisoned the water in the copper; and had she been as stubborn as most of her kind, several human victims would have been added to the equine list. By the defeat of Marcus, the owner of a horse named Chorister won seven thousand pounds.

Sometimes the defeat of the favourite is brought about by less bold but more subtle means; and occasionally the tables are turned in a very unexpected manner, as in the following instance. For the Doncaster of 1824, Jerry—a horse belonging to a well-known sporting man named Gascoigne—was the favourite. A little before the event came off, however, George Payne, a noted Turfite, got ‘the tip’ from John Gully, the ex-prizefighter, that Jerry would not win; and the day before the race, these two worthies, doubtless well knowing _why_, laid six thousand against him. Gascoigne could not understand how it was that the more he backed his horse, which was in magnificent condition, the less it advanced in favour. He felt sure there was a screw loose somewhere, but he could not tell in what direction to look for it. Two nights before the race, as he was taking a walk in the outskirts of Doncaster, he paused at a turnpike gate, and just at that moment a postchaise stopped to pay toll. By the light of the lamp which the toll-keeper held in his hand, Gascoigne observed the jockey who was to ride Jerry next day seated within, almost helplessly drunk, between two of the most notorious blacklegs of the time. In a moment he saw it all. Hurrying away, lest he should be recognised, he went back to his hotel, and set about concocting measures to counteract the plot that he perceived had been formed against him. Without making known his discovery to any one, he secured the services of another jockey, bound the man down to silence; and at the last moment, just as the traitor was going to mount, his substitute slipped into the saddle, and won the race, to the discomfiture and well-merited loss of the conspirators, who had betted all they possessed upon the event.

Men called ‘Touts’ are employed by bookmakers and others to watch racehorses at exercise and report upon their condition; these spies are abhorred by trainers and owners, and have to pursue their espionage under many difficulties, sometimes lying in a dry or a damp ditch, or a hole covered over with brambles, or on the roof of a stable, to be ready to witness the morning gallop. When detected, they do not often escape under a horsewhipping or a ducking. On one bitterly cold night, a fellow had crawled upon the roof of a stall to listen if the favourite had a cough. Aware of his presence, though pretending to be ignorant of it, the trainer ordered the stable boys to throw up pails of water upon the spot where he was ensconced until the very clothes froze upon the poor wretch’s back; but he had the consolation of hearing the horse stabled beneath cough several times, and next morning the odds were heavy against the favourite. Unfortunately for the rogues, however, the favourite on the previous night had been moved into another stable, and a horse with a cough had been substituted, to deceive the tout, with the result that those who ventured their money on his information, lost.

A much cleverer ruse was the following. An owner named Wilson was about to try a two-year-old colt. ‘We shall be watched, and his white right fore-leg will be sure to be noticed,’ remarked the trainer.—‘Leave that to me,’ said Mr Wilson. Next morning, he was at the stable at daybreak, and with some black paint soon changed the colour of the leg; while a brush dipped in white transferred the distinguishing mark to a far inferior horse, which showed but poorly beside the other. The tout on the watch naturally took one for the other, and reported accordingly. The next day, a certain nobleman gave fifteen hundred for the falsified animal, which was worth about four.

We have purposely omitted the more celebrated Turf swindles, such as the ‘Running Rein’ fraud, and others that made a sensation in their day, confining ourselves to the less known affairs, which were not found out until reparation to the victims was impossible, our principal desire being to make clear to ‘the outsiders’ the enormous odds against which they stake their money.

Those who are not behind the scenes may suppose that the bookmakers (pencillers) and the ‘knowing ones’ generally, enjoy a perfect immunity from the perils and dangers, pitfalls and temptations, of horseracing; but that is not the case. Not unfrequently they walk blindly into the trap they set for others; the biter is frequently bitten; and many an ingenious fraud has been put upon the ‘pencillers’ by outside betting-men, as the two following stories will show. For obvious reasons, all data are suppressed, but the truth of the anecdotes can be vouched for.

One day a City man, who was given to betting, and whom we shall call A, received a visit from a friend addicted to the same weakness, who shall be designated B. Locking the room door and sinking his voice to a whisper, B announced that he had made a wonderful discovery by which betting could be reduced to a system of all prizes and no blanks, and consequently a fortune very quickly realised. ‘Now is your chance,’ he said, ‘if you like to join me. I shall give no explanation of the method; come and see for yourself.’

An appointment was made for the next morning, the date of the X races, at the Z (betting) Club.

‘Have you anything on this race?’ was the first inquiry made by B as A came into the room.

The answer was in the negative.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said B, drawing him into a corner, for the place, as usual at such times, was crowded with betting-men; ‘the final list for the twelve o’clock race will be telegraphed here in a few minutes.’ (The Z, it need scarcely be said, had its private tape.) ‘Lay all the money you like, at any odds, upon the horse I shall select, and I will guarantee that it shall be the winner. But mind, you must not lose a second after I have given you the hint. Go to the nearest bookmaker in the room and make your bet on the instant.’

A minute or two afterwards, the electric bell gave the signal, and there was a general rush to the machine. B was one of the first to scan the list: there were five runners. He passed his finger down the names until he paused almost imperceptibly upon Y, and looked at his companion, who, although it was the very last horse he would have thought of backing, boldly called out: ‘I’ll take the odds against Y.’

Y being a rank outsider, a bookmaker laid the odds on the instant. One minute afterwards came the announcement that Y was the winner.

After they left the club together, B unfolded the mystery. ‘When the list of runners was telegraphed,’ he said, ‘the race was already won.’

‘But how could that be?’ asked A. ‘The race was run at twelve, and the time on the telegram was three minutes to twelve.’

‘The time was falsified,’ was the reply. ‘The message was not wired until past the hour, nor until the winner was declared.’

‘And how could you fix upon the right one?’ demanded A.

‘There was the minutest dash on the tape against the name of the winner, only noticeable by one in the secret. You see, the clerks are in the pay of an Association. There are three or four other clubs beside this where we get the telegrams in the same manner, so that we vary our times. Here, for instance, we put upon the twelve o’clock race; at another, upon the one; at a third, upon the two, and so on.’

We may add that the fraud was ultimately discovered, and the clerks who worked it severely punished.

The next trick we shall relate could not be practised now, in consequence of an alteration in the Turf customs. It was worked in this fashion by two confederates. Let us suppose it to be the Lewes races. One of the two goes down to Lewes on the previous day, and by the last post sends a letter addressed _in pencil_ and unsealed to his brother-rogue in London. Inside the envelope is a note addressed to a bookmaker, simply containing the words, ‘Please back ____ for so much.—Yours truly, JONES’—a blank being left for the horse’s name. This missive arrives in town by the morning post, and the instant the race is run the name of the winner is telegraphed to rogue number two, who then inserts the name of the horse, rubs out his own name and address from the envelope, writes that of the bookmaker instead, and seals it up. Everything is now perfect in appearance: there are the Lewes postmark of the previous night, the London of the morning, and the seal untampered with. We need scarcely say that the handwriting appears to be the same, and, according to the rules of racing at that time, if a letter be delayed in transmission through the post, the bookmaker is still made answerable for its contents.

And now, how is it to be got into his hands without exciting suspicion? There are several ways of doing this: sometimes he may be at the club, and then the letter is dropped into the letter-box; but the favourite dodge is to dress up a man as a postman, with bag and a bundle of letters in his hand, who will deliver it at the victim’s office; or the confederate will watch for the real postman, walk behind him, drop the letter on the pavement, and then call out to the carrier: ‘Hillo, you’ve dropped one of your letters.’

The man will pick it up, and, being almost certain to have others addressed to the same person, innocently play the rogue’s game. As to the bookmaker, all he can do is to write a letter of complaint to St Martin’s-le-Grand and pay the money.

You cannot touch pitch without being defiled, or play with edged tools without being cut, says the old proverb; and you cannot associate with rogues and play the rogue without occasionally being swindled yourself.

MISS MASTERMAN’S DISCOVERY.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.