# A Wager at Brooks's

Extracted from The Pall Mall Magazine, Nov 1908, pp. 547–572. Accompanying illustrations by A. C. Ball may be omitted.
A WAGER AT BROOKS'S.
A STORY OF THE GORDON RIOTS.
BY H. C. BAILEY
Illustrated by A. C. Ball.
THE stone skeleton of Newgate stood dark with smoke, and odorous, in a mass of glowing ruin. From the Sessions House at the side came a stream of men stamped by every sign of the rogue in grain. They were laden with plunder. Robes and wigs and gowns, silk hangings, lumbering furniture, masses of metal-work—they had all but walls and beams. None hindered them. The mob was king.
Among the few who dared to watch stood a big old man in a threadbare, grease-stained coat. He leant upon a knotted oak staff, and swayed to and fro and snorted. “So, sir,” says one at his elbow, “you laugh at all schemes of political improvement?”
The big man rumbled. “Why, sir, the truth is, most schemes of political improvement are very laughable things.” They turned off towards Holborn, and when they laboured up Holborn Hill his blowings became articulate again: “Sir, no system of government will ever fortify a nation. It's a matter for each man in it.”
The nation was in need of fortification. Men and women and children lay senseless all over the roadway. There was a strange, sickly odour. Ragged wretches were lapping at the puddles in the gutter, and some ventured among the great masses of smoking ruin to see if the sacked distillery had any vat of gin unbroached or unburnt. High Holborn was silent as a street cursed with plague. Windows were all shuttered or blocked dark with planks, all the doors made fast. Some were dinted and splintered and scorched, some bore a rude scrawl—“No Popery.” The madman's following of stupid knaves had done their best.
With languid grace, an exquisite person in green brocade lounged along. The few blackguards sober stared at his splendours, his jewelled chain and his ivory stick, and he loitered to meet them, smiling contempt. They did not venture upon him. There was some disappointment in his gait, and his eyes roved. As he went westward the street grew more desolate, and he halted. There were some signs of life in the narrow gloom of Red Lion Street, and he turned by that way.
The blacksmith was talking with the drysalter by the new railings before his smithy door. To them came the exquisite, brought out a snuff-box of gold and turquoise, and offered it with an elaborate bow. “I will lay,” said he in delicate tones, “twenty to three you are honest men.”
“We win,” said the drysalter, and held out his hand.
“You please me,” said the exquisite. “Let me please you.” He interpolated himself between them, and hanging his ivory cane from his wrist, linked one green-embroidered arm with each amazed gentleman. “I am Geoffrey Craddock, your servant to game with you, fight with you, anything but yawn with you. I laid an even wager with Mr. Fox, five thousand guineas to five thousand, that I will go save some fair-bosomed prey from Lord George Gordon's ill-bred hounds, wed her (hapless woman!) and offer my Mrs. Craddock to the critic eyes of Brooks's. But I have tramped these Avernal streets a day and a night and a day, and found no single soul with the good taste to be persecuted. I pray you then, address me to some she that needs a saviour. I do not ask much, God knows. Two eyes I would have, but I protest one nose will content me. If she be straight my sisters will be pleased; but if she be crooked we shall attract the more attention. Any imperilled she suffices. Advise, my friends.”
The drysalter gaped; but the blacksmith gave Mr. Craddock the grin of understanding. “Well, brother,” said he, “if you would be a saving, there is one who could show you plenty folks to save.” He pointed down the street. Mr. Craddock beheld a plump and dapper person. A vast blue cockade overshadowed his face. His coat was mighty splendid, and fitted him villainously. His breeches were rusty black. “It is Mr. Bawdon, the broke attorney,” the blacksmith explained.
“His legs are all I could love,” said Mr. Craddock.
Mr. Bawdon was enjoying himself. He ogled, smirked and winked with the grace of the Fleet. The victim was a slim girl in black. She sought to escape, and Mr. Bawdon hung upon her, pouring forth compliments of the gutter.
It was the fall of her waist that took Mr. Craddock's eye. With swift, lazy ease he closed upon Mr. Bawdon and tapped his shoulder. “Sir,” says he, in his dainty tones, “I will lay a hundred to three that you are a fool.”
Mr. Bawdon turned about in wrath. A handsome dark face, with ill-fitting lips and eyes too adjacent, was presented to Mr. Craddock—who did not see it. He was approving each end of the girl in black. Her hair was like corn at harvest, her feet swift and light. “You curst Papist!” cried Mr. Bawdon. The girl escaped into a tiny shop.
Mr. Craddock consented to see Mr. Bawdon. “As a repartee your remark was imperfect,” he pointed out.
Mr. Bawdon, who, on the evidence of more senses than one, had plainly been drinking, swore and struck. Mr. Craddock caught the vicious hand and crushed it like an orange. Mr. Bawdon squeaked. He was let go. “I do wonder why you were made,” said Mr. Craddock pensively.
Mr. Bawdon muttered something, slunk away, and proceeded to exhibit some infirmity of purpose. He passed the shop which the girl had entered, turned back to it, hovered about it, and plunged in.
Mr. Craddock, a person of no infirmity, followed. The shop seemed to sell haberdashery. It had no customers. A pale child behind the counter received him nervously. “If you please, sir—what can I show you, sir?”
“The lady,” said Mr. Craddock.
“Miss Cranley?”
“I am glad to know her name.”
The pale child's face expressed extreme distrust of Mr. Craddock. “I agree,” said Mr. Craddock heartily. “Tell her—tell her I beg leave to present her to my mother.”
The pale child, looking hopeless and helpless, went with laggard feet down the shop, and Mr. Craddock followed hard upon her heels. So that she had but just opened the door of a tiny parlour and announced that there was a gentleman who wanted to bring his mother, when Mr. Craddock slid past. “The gentleman is myself, ma'am. Behold me, I beg,” and he made a bow worthy his fame as a jessamy. From which he arose to discover both the girl in black and Mr. Bawdon regarding him with amazement. Mr. Craddock devoted himself to Mr. Bawdon. “You again!” he exclaimed without joy. “You are as ubiquitous as the atmosphere—and much less wholesome.”
The amazement in the eyes of Mr. Bawdon made way for venom. “What are you doing here?” he snarled.
“I add vastly to the beauty of the apartment,” said Mr. Craddock. “There is but one way in which you could do that——” and he pointed out to Mr. Bawdon the door.
Mr. Bawdon swore an oath in the name of the Protestant Association, and blood flickered in his cheeks. He was drunk enough to be stupid, not drunk enough to be bold. “Who are you?” he growled.
Mr. Craddock shook his head. “I shall never love you till you are hanged.” He considered Mr. Bawdon critically. “I think I want to love you.”
Nothing in Mr. Bawdon's career argues courage. He was sober enough to remember how much of his work in the mad night riots deserved a hanging. He blenched as he looked at Mr. Craddock, and moistened his lips. Then he slunk out.
Mr. Craddock was left alone with the girl in black. She saw inside his exquisite green brocade a man not above the common in bulk or height, who bore himself with an air of strength. Beneath the unpowdered bronze hair his face was ruddy and full, with something of quality in its lines. She stood to the height of his eyes, slim and straight. Her cheeks had something of the mellow tone of her golden hair, with which dark eyebrows made a piquant harmony.
She endeavoured to recall Mr. Craddock—who behaved like a vision—to reality. “You were to present to me your mother, sir.”
Mr. Craddock continued to attend to her brown eyes. “But my mother,” he complained, “thoughtlessly omits to be here.”
[Illustration:“Tearing her dress, wrenching her limbs, the mob bore the child away.”]
“Then where is she, sir?”
Mr. Craddock examined a jewelled watch. “At this moment, ma'am, I suspect her of being in the still room at Boxley—which is in the kingdom of Kent. Pity her misfortune.”
“La, sir!” (You will forgive Miss Cranley an exclamation). “Then why do you come here?”
Mr. Craddock's grey eyes became more intent. “Is it impossible for you to guess why I come?” he said gravely.
She drew back and stood to her full height, proud, virginal.
“You inform me that I am impudent,” said Mr. Craddock, without emotion. “I could be decent in fifty lies. I prefer the truth: which is that I come to you because I wish—to beg that I may come again.” He made his bow.
“Why, tell me who I'm laughing at, at least!” cried Miss Cranley.
“Naturally, I shall give you my name. I present to you Geoffrey Craddock.” And he was gone.
Miss Cranley ate a dinner in which amusement was tempered by agitation. Calm was not possible to a woman who had the misfortune to rouse the desires of one of Lord George Gordon's lieutenants. The impudent face might mean her no better than Mr. Bawdon, and to be honest. to be honest ... he gave her more fear.... For a sedative Miss Cranley began to darn stockings.
She had been two hours at this occupation when Mr. Craddock adventured again. He bore an engaging smile and a bunch of white roses. She flung back in her chair, startled, frightened, angry. “I have no time for you, sir,” she cried, and thrust her arm viciously down a stocking leg.
Mr. Craddock sat down. “I also am much occupied,” he remarked, and began to look at her. Miss Cranley continued to darn. Mr. Craddock continued to look.
Miss Cranley became uniformly pink. “Well, sir?” she cried sharply.
“You interrupt my occupation, ma'am,” Mr, Craddock complained.
“Which is to annoy me, sir.”
“I had hardly hoped to succeed so soon,” said Mr. Craddock with satisfaction.
Miss Cranley started up. “Is it impossible for me to be rid of you, sir?”
“Quite,” said Mr. Craddock, and crossed his legs. Miss Cranley, erect, looked down upon him with helpless disdain. “Pray, ma'am,” said Mr. Craddock, “consider the roses. They also are fragrant and fair, but they do not disdain to give me joy. Pray, ma'am, consider,” he held them out to her, “the roses.”
A warmer tone touched her cheek a moment; she bit her lip, but her eyes had begun to laugh. “The whole world,” said she, “is just to amuse Mr. Craddock.”
“And Mr. Craddock wholly to amuse you. Admire the scheme of existence.”
Miss Cranley admired it in a smile. Diffidently she put her hand to his roses.
An uncomely sound disturbed her. Another guest had come unannounced. Mr. Bawdon stood in the doorway, and saw her smile for Mr. Craddock, saw their hands together. Mr. Bawdon had been drinking to more purpose. His face wriggled. “You jilt! You Papist jilt!” he shouted, and fouler words. He came forward and thrust his face upon hers. “You want a mort of lovers, do you?” He grinned and showed his yellow teeth: “I'll find you some, my blowen.” He flung a coarser taunt and rushed out.
Miss Cranley shrank from Mr. Craddock and flung down his roses.
“What is that person to you?” he asked calmly.
“What do men want of women?” she cried, and her eyes flamed at him for Mr. Bawdon's foulness.
“Have you no friends, no kinsmen here?”
“If I had, would you and he dare treat me so?”
Mr. Craddock made his bow. “I beg you consider the likeness between us,” said he, and left her.
Miss Cranley looked at the shut door in confusion and amazement—then blushed, and turning swiftly with a hand to her brow saw his white roses. She stooped down slowly and took them with dubious fingers.
The blacksmith was shortly surprised by the presence of a sturdy stranger in Red Lion Street. This was Dale, Mr. Craddock's pet prize-fighter, detailed for sentry-go. Mr. Craddock was looking for Mr. Bawdon.
Mr. Bawdon was busy in the lanes about Smithfield, whipping together a mob of blackguards. There was no lack. Newgate and Bridewell, the King's Bench, the Fleet, had all been broken down, and the prisoners cast loose to seek new prey. Though the threat to empty the madhouses was not yet a fact, Lord George Gordon had madmen enough in his company. The riot that began in the sacred name of “No Popery!” with as sound reason as if it had been “No Confucius!” was now a frenzy of destruction. The great part of the mobs was made of honest folk enough, lusty fellows throbbing with strength unruled by disciplined brain, who plunged boisterously into a tumult as boys run to a bonfire, till they were drunk with disorder and ruin, and not to be reckoned sane. The madman led on to madness, and all the rogues of the town made their profit of it. It was an age quick with rude life, when the mass of common men, waking to knowledge of their freedom and their rights, had not heard that the use of either is hard enough to learn. They were the ready tools of any creature with an ability in words—sometimes of a sane man like John Wilkes, sometimes of. a Lord George Gordon. Which they would follow was a mere chance, and no one saw any reason to school them into certainty. That they should break out into madness was as unreasonable as an earthquake. No one knew what to do but the King. Among his few ideas was one of a king's business being to keep order. The army took charge of the town.
It was not till nightfall that Mr. Craddock met Mr. Bawdon again. He was discovered upon a horseblock by Snow Hill, and a sturdy ruffian held a torch on either hand. He had gathered a wild horde of men and sexless women, and was driving them mad. He flung his arms out and aloft, and rolled his head, and roared and raved bombast, a drunken dithyramb of murder and ruin. The swollen seared faces below swayed to him through the smoky light and shrieked to his tune. He was promising them fresh warehouses to sack and a tender wench to hunt. They broke into the grating yells of blood lust, and surging forward, swept Mr. Bawdon before them. On they went westward, baying like hounds. Mr. Craddock had come late.
He kept in the front of them—it was all that he could—and they hurled him into the narrow neck of Red Lion Street. The noise of their roaring had gone before them. Every house was shuttered and close-barred and dark. The street was bare. Only one man loitered, hands in pockets, beneath the eaves. It was Dale, Mr. Craddock's prize-fighter. The torches showed him his master in front of the howling mob. Waiting calmly in the right place, he was swept on at Mr. Craddock's elbow—one clean man by another, helpless in a mob of beasts.
They dashed at the door of Miss Cranley's shop, and, kindling more torches, with knife and cudgel they beat upon the door, men and women fighting each other in their haste, half-naked, steaming, toiling like fiends. Mr. Bawdon halloed them on.
Soon the door was down, and they flooded into the shop. The neat store of goods was tossed hither and thither in search of plunder. Mr. Bawdon, struggling in, lifted his voice to remind them of murder, and they crowded to the rooms beyond. The shriek of a woman's terror, a chorus of mad yells, told that their prey was found. Mr. Bawdon screamed joy. In the fierce hands of madness the girl, convulsed, shrieking, was dragged out to the street.
Very close to her, very close to each other, went Dale and Mr. Craddock. Mr. Craddock was whispering to Dale's battered ear. His own face was calm, like a sleeping child's.
Tearing at her dress, wrenching her limbs, the mob bore the girl away. Suddenly the blue cockaded hat of Mr. Bawdon was beaten down over his eyes. While he could see nothing a fierce grip caught his throat. He fought, blind, choking, impotent. Then a crushing, tearing pain smote at each side of his head, and his breath came back, and he hung, gasping, writhing.
In fact, Dale had caught Mr. Bawdon, and jammed his large head between the bars of the new rails that guarded the smithy door. Mr. Bawdon did not know that. Blind, he only felt a steady force that crushed on his temples. “Help! help!” he yelled with all the force of his well-trained lungs. “Papists are murdering me. Help!”
The mob heard him, heard its master, and in sudden wonder stayed and turned, and surged back to him while still he screamed. Only a few were left, gripping Miss Cranley, hesitating. Mr. Craddock fell upon them. She and they went down in a heap. Mr. Craddock caught her up and ran for his wager. Dale came placidly and fought a moment or two with those who would have pursued. Then he too ran, and ran by a different way. And along Holborn came the roll of drums.
The detachment of guards posted at Lincoln's Inn sent out a strong picket to find what the noise meant. The picket found Mr. Bawdon's mob packed in the neck of Red Lion Street, wrangling about his miraculous position, and trying to get him out of it. Platoon firing sent most of them scurrying back to their holes; a bayonet charge, in which Mr. Bawdon, suspended from the railings, received ignominious wounds, swept the rest away. The picket was withdrawing, when Mr. Bawdon's screams attracted particular attention. He was hauled out, he was recognised, and very carefully preserved for the gallows.
In the morning Mr. Craddock stood at the window of his lodging in Piccadilly and watched a pair of starlings. He turned swiftly to the footfall of Miss Cranley. She was pale, but her step light and eager. She came to him holding out her band. “It would be stupid to say anything,” said Miss Cranley, smiling with misty eyes.
“You have taste,” Mr. Craddock agreed. “So have I,” and he kissed her hand.
Miss Cranley recovered it at her leisure. A blush had come to her pale face, but lips and eyes smiled still. “I have great good luck,” she said.
“A pleasant delusion. I trust it may last.”
“Indeed, who could have a better friend?”
“I have no intention of being your friend,” said Mr. Craddock calmly. “Consider me a thief.” The girl started away from him. There was a maid's fear in her eyes, and worse fear than that. Mr. Craddock came close, till her shoulder touched his breast. He bent till his lips were upon the gleaming crown of her hair and its fragrance in his breath. “You were not made to be your own, child.”... She was silent. Her face was white against the sunlight, and strangely sad.
The door opened, and the girl started into shadow. With rollicking gait there came a slovenly fat man. His blue coat and buff waistcoat were dappled with stains. Neither neckcloth nor face was clean, and he wore a two-days' black beard.
“What, Geoffrey!” he cried, and saw the girl, “Oh, oh! have you landed your fish already? By my soul, ma'am, you would be worth taking even if there were no wager upon you. Faith, I give you joy. You have got a good gambler, and what more can a woman want of a husband?” The girl had whirled round upon Mr. Craddock with knit brow and kindling eyes. Mr. Fox looked from one to the other. “Oh, Lord, am I spoiling the delicacies of the honeymoon? Nay, your servant, your servant!” He went out smiling.
“Wager?” the girl repeated in a low voice. “Wager, sir?” Her eyes accused Mr. Craddock.
Mr. Craddock was scowling after Mr. Fox, but he turned and contrived to smile. “If the fool knew what we know he would know better, child,” he said, and took her hands.
She freed herself quickly, she drew away from him, erect, defiant. “What wager had you on me, sir?”
“I shall stake my soul, I think,” said Mr. Craddock in a low voice.
The virginal stern face began to be kind. “Was that the wager, sir?... Ah, be true now—be true!”
Mr. Craddock was disconcerted. He began to lie, and broke off and stammered and flushed.
“What was your wager, sir?”
Mr. Craddock avoided her eyes, and was restless. He walked to the window. The starlings were still being humorous. “I suppose I should bet about my mother's salvation,” he said calmly. “When the riots began, I laid a five thousand guineas with Charles Fox that I would find some maid in peril of the rabble, and get her safe away and make her wed me.” He turned to face her. “On my soul I am glad of it.”
A moment there was silence between them ... then, “I see now,” said the girl under her breath. “Yes! I see now.” And then her laughter rang. “Why, sir, of course you love me. I am worth twice five thousand guineas to you.”
[Illustration:“He caught her hands so fiercely that she gave a little cry of pain.”]
Mr. Craddock turned away with a shrug.
“Oh, indeed, the noble delicacy of your suit affects me vastly. But I'm not high enough for it. Your humble, grateful servant, sir. To help you to win your wager, find another maid.” Suddenly her cheeks were white and her voice shrill. “Go, bet on your fine ladies, not me!”
“You are in the right to punish me, child,” said Mr, Craddock gravely.
“Punish?” she laughed. “O la! how dare I presume? I'm only a beast to win money for you, the sister of your horse or your greyhound.”
“There's a relish when the dice are risking what's dearest,” said Mr. Craddock calmly. “Child, last night we trafficked with death together, and our lives found some strange matter of joy. Will you dare cast it away?”
“Why, indeed, it is worth many guineas,” she laughed.
Mr. Craddock gripped her arm. “Do you know what your womanhood is for?” he cried.
“Oh, indeed, as well as a man who'll take any woman for a wager.”
“I have never wanted any but you,” said Mr. Craddock. “Nor ever thought to want any. I wonder if it is hard to believe. I have never tried.”
She stood silent, turned from him, her arm still in his hand, Mr. Craddock's eyes kindled. “I forgive you,” she said, slowly. “I believe you. And indeed—and I am most sorry for you. I will trust you to bring me to the man I love.”
Mr. Craddock let her arm go. He stepped back a pace. “To the man you love?” he repeated in a strange voice.
“Yes!” she turned upon him with a glad smile. “To the man I have to love always.... He lives far away.... At—at Conway, in Wales.”
“I was always a good loser, child,” Mr. Craddock said quietly. “You may trust me as you would him.”
“I shall,” the girl said.
It was planned that they should set out from London in the morning, and he left her alone. Cloaks and matters for travelling were brought her, but when she asked for him, no one knew anything.
In that morrow morning when the carriage waited, Miss Cranley did not answer the servant's call. Her chamber door was open. She had gone.
In the cool golden hours first after dawn she had stolen out and away. She met no insult. The soldiers had the mob underfoot. She came to her old lost home, and crept in timidly among the ruins. She was crying. Through to the bedroom she made her way, and searching in the wreck found something that she caught up and wrapped in a scarf. Then she kissed the walls—the walls that were the home of her maidenhood—and sped away.
She found Mr. Craddock fuming in the doorway. “A good morning, sir,” says she gaily. “Oh, I trust I have not disturbed your temper.”
“Where have you been, child?” he growled.
“To my old home, sir.”
“It was a mad folly.”
“La, sir, I could not but go,” said the girl meekly. “I could not live without the tokens my dear love gave me. And see! I have them all!” She held up the bundle in the scarf, then clasped it to her heart, smiling at him.
Mr. Craddock swung on his heel.
Heavy air blurred the sunlight and made the horizon near. The billowy meadows lay dull. They did not trouble Miss Cranley, who sat alone in the carriage, holding her precious bundle and smiling at it. A portion of Mr. Craddock and Mr. Craddock's horse stood dark against the window. So they sped on all day, holding a round pace stage after stage, up and over the breezy green plateau of the southern midland and through the rich tilth of the vales beyond. The late June night was black before Mr. Craddock thought of rest, and the girl, falling to a still seat at last, with great content smiled between yawns, and reflected that he was in great haste to be rid of her. She was served sumptuously, but alone. Mr. Craddock came only to ask if she had all she needed, and left her at once.
Early in the morning they hurried away from the spires of Coventry, and made good speed again, so that through the twilight she saw the dark blue mountain masses against the western sky, and night found them within the walls of Chester. Again Mr. Craddock provided for all her needs and effaced himself.
On the next day she was moved to thank him. They had baited at Holywell, and Mr. Craddock held the carriage door for her. She stayed upon the step, her eyes level with his, and looked at him, smiling. “Pray, sir, do not look so unhappy, for you're making me very happy.” Her dark eyes were flaming with life, and there was a glow in her mellow cheeks.
“I believe I am glad of that,” he said gravely.
“Why, then, give me company”—she pointed into the carriage—“you must be happy in my happiness.”
Mr. Craddock flinched, and his face was white. Then he bowed. “You honour me, madame.” So he sat by her side, and a servant took his horse.
The girl, one hand staying the precious white bundle on her knee, turned to him. Her red lips were eager and joyous. “Oh yes, you make me very happy. You bring me so quickly—so quickly to the man I love; and—and”—she was blushing, but her eyes laughed still—“and he wants me, you know.”
Mr. Craddock, stiff and white, bent his head.
“You know, once I did not know what love could be.... Now....”
Mr. Craddock moved in his seat. Mr. Craddock bit his lip. “I do not doubt that he is worthy, child.”
The laugh faded from her eyes a moment. “No. Do not doubt,” she said in a low voice. Then gaily, “Ah, I am glad that I saved his gifts! All are here.” She held up the white bundle before Mr. Craddock's ungrateful eyes. “Look!” She pointed to the mark upon the scarf. “H. M. C. That is my name, you know. Hester Margaret. Hester—he would love to call me that, you know.” Mr. Craddock was staring away from her. “Oh, do you not like to hear about him?”
“I happen to be a man,” said Mr. Craddock.
“He ... you know ... I think sometimes he is more,” said the girl in a low voice, and fell silent. Some of the gaiety passed from her eyes, but there lingered a grave joy. She looked no more at Mr. Craddock.
The sound and the scent of the sea were about them. Mr. Craddock was staring away through the sunlight, over jewelled foam and waves of gold that were merged in a sapphire glow. Arches of fragrant woodland shut out the shore awhile, and they came upon the gleam of the Conway, and a lake of burnished silver, guarded by the dark army of mountains.
On the ferry hard the carriage stayed, and Mr. Craddock handed her to the boat without a word. It was a long passage against the swirling tide. Mr. Craddock looked at the grey towers of the castle and the little town clustering below. “So that's to be your home, child?” he said.
The girl looked at her toes. “If he wishes,” she said with a demure smile.
The boat was made fast. The servant with the baggage looked expectant at Mr. Craddock. He handed the girl ashore.
“It's to end here, child,” he said, “and if you are happy it is well enough. I shall be glad always that I made my wager. Good-bye.”
“And you—what will your life be?”
“I shall try to make it amusing still,” he smiled. “Well, child, there is Conway—there is a gentleman who will be most happy——”
“But you must take me to him,” she cried. “Ah, you deserve that!”
Mr. Craddock bowed.
Side by side they went up the steep street and out beyond the walls, up the pass. The lucid air was glowing with the splendour of the gorse, and they breathed the subtle fragrance. The girl loitered and stood still. Mr. Craddock looked at her curiously. “It is you must guide me, child.”
“Not any more,” she said in a low voice. She hung her head, and her cheeks were crimson. She stole closer. He caught her hands so fiercely that she gave a little cry of pain, but there was no mercy. She raised her head and looked in his eyes. Then for a long while she had no power to move or speak, nor any more desire.... “There was no one else, indeed, no one ever,” she laughed through tears. “My love tokens—my dear love tokens—see—help me!” With unsteady hands she and he untied the bundle of the white scarf.... Mr. Craddock saw the shattered faded petals of his roses.... “Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I could not know. I had to be sure. It matters so much.” Her bosom beat against him in a storm of sobs, and she clung the closer: “Oh, I dare not, I dare not! I am a common girl to shame you. Oh, my dear!”
Mr. Craddock compelled her burning face to his.
Two months after, amidst a wondering throng at Brooks's, “I protest,” cries Mr. Charles Fox “I protest he called it an infamy to wager upon a woman. And so it is, by Bathsheba! And I'll lay you a thousand to fifty he changes his mind in a year.”
Mr. Fox lost as usual. And this time had to pay.
Copyright 1908 by H. C. Bailey.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1961, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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