Love Romances of the Aristocracy written by Thornton Hall

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But proud as Sir John Spencer was of his money-bags, he was prouder
still of his only child, Elizabeth, heiress to his vast wealth, who, as
she grew to womanhood, developed a beauty of face and figure and graces
of mind which pleased the merchant more than all his gold. So fair was
she that Queen Elizabeth, on one of her many progressions through the
city, attracted by her sparkling eyes and beautiful face at a Cheapside
window, stopped her carriage, summoned her to her presence, and, patting
her blushing cheeks, vowed that she had "the sweetest face I have seen
in my City of London."

That a maiden so dowered with charms and riches should have an army of
suitors in her train was inevitable. A lovely wife who would one day
inherit nearly a million of money was surely the most covetable prize in
England; and, it is said, the bewitching heiress had more than one
coronet laid at her feet before she had well left her school-books. But
to all these offers, dazzling enough to a merchant's daughter, Elizabeth
turned a deaf, if dainty ear. "It is not me they want," she would
laughingly say, "but my father's money. I shall live and die, like the
good Queen, my namesake, a maid."

And so has many another much-sought maiden said in the pride of an
untouched heart; but to them as to her the "Prince Charming," before
whom all her defences crumble, comes at last. In Elizabeth Spencer's
case, the conquering prince was William, second Lord Compton, one of the
handsomest, most accomplished and fascinating young men in London. In
person, as in position, he was alike unimpeachable--an ideal suitor to
win even the richest heiress in England; and it is little wonder that
the heart of the tradesman's daughter began to flutter, and her pretty
cheeks to flame when this gallant, whose conquests at the Royal Court
itself were notorious, began to pay marked homage to her charms.

That his reputation in the field of love was none of the best, that he
was as prodigal as he was poor, mattered little to her--probably such
defects made him all the more romantic in her eyes, and his attentions
all the more welcome. To Sir John, however, who was even more jealous of
his treasure than of all his gold, the young lord's reputation and,
above all, his poverty were fatal flaws in any would-be son-in-law of
his. As soon as he realised the danger he put every obstacle in the way
of his daughter's silly romance, even to the extent, it is said, of
locking her in her room, and closing his door in the face of her lover.
"If your reputation, my lord, were equal to your rank," he told him in
no ambiguous terms; "and if your fortune matched your family, I should
have naught to say against your suit. But as it is, I tell you frankly,
I would rather see my girl dead than wedded to such as you."

To his daughter's tears and pleading he was equally obdurate. She might
ask anything else of him and he would grant it gladly, though it were
half his wealth; but he would be unworthy to be her father if he
encouraged such folly as this. But Spencer's daughter, when she found
conciliatory measures of no avail, proved that she had a will as strong
as her father's; she told him to his face that with or without his
sanction she meant to be my Lady Compton. "I will marry him," she
declared with flushed face and panting breast, "even if you make me a
beggar." "And that, madam," the defied and furious father retorted, "I
can promise you I will do; for not a shilling of mine shall Lord
Compton's wife ever have."

For a time the artful Elizabeth feigned submission to Sir John's anger;
and he began to congratulate himself that this trouble at least,
whatever others might follow, was at an end. But how little he knew his
daughter, or her lover, the sequel proved.

One day, a few weeks after Sir John's fierce ultimatum, a young baker,
carrying a large flat-topped basket, called at his house, from which he
soon emerged, touching his cap to the merchant as he passed him in the
garden, and giving him a respectful "good day." "A civil young man," Sir
John said to himself, as he continued his promenade; "his face seems
somehow familiar to me." And well might it be familiar; for the baker
who gave him such a civil greeting was none other than the scapegrace,
Compton; and inside the basket, which he carried so lightly, was the
merchant's only daughter and heiress, whom her lover had taken this
daring and unconventional way of abducting under the very nose of her
parent.

It was not long before Sir John's disillusionment came. His daughter
was nowhere to be seen; and none of his domestics knew of her
whereabouts. Alarm gave place to suspicion, and suspicion to fury
against his child and against the young reprobate who, he felt sure, had
outwitted him. Messengers were despatched in all directions in chase of
the runaways; but the escapade had been much too cunningly planned to
fail in execution. Before Sir John set eyes on his daughter again--now
becomingly penitent--she had blossomed into the Baroness Compton, wife
of the last man her father would have desired to call his son-in-law.

To "Rich Spencer" the blow was crushing, humiliating. It was bad enough
to be defied and outwitted, to be made a fool of by his own daughter;
but to know that the treasure he had lost had fallen into such
undesirable hands was bitter beyond words. His home and his heart were
alike desolate; and, in his despair and wrath, he vowed that he would
never own his daughter as his child, and that not one penny of his
should ever go into the Compton coffers.

In this mood of sullen, unforgiving anger Sir John remained for a full
year; when to his surprise and delight he received a summons to attend,
at Whitehall, on the Queen, whose graciousness during his mayoralty he
remembered with pleasure and gratitude; and no man in England was
prouder or more pleased than he when, at the time appointed, he made his
bow to his Sovereign-Lady and kissed her hand.

"I have summoned you, Sir John," Her Majesty said, "to ask a great
favour of you. I do not often stoop, as you know, to beg a favour of
any man; nor should I now, did I not know that I have no more dutiful
subject than yourself, and that to ask of you is to receive. I am
interested in two young people who have had the misfortune to marry
against the wishes of the lady's father, and who have thus forfeited his
favour. And I wish you to give me and the youthful couple pleasure by
taking his place and standing sponsor to their first child."

To such a request made by his Sovereign Sir John could but give a
delighted consent. He would do much more than this, he vowed, to give
her a moment's gratification; and he not only attended the baptismal
ceremony, but on the suggestion of the Queen, who was also present,
allowed the child to bear his own Christian name. "More than this, your
Majesty," he declared, "as I have now no child of my own, I will gladly
adopt this infant as my heir."

"Your goodness of heart, Sir John," Her Majesty answered, beaming with
pleasure, "shall not go unrewarded; for the child you have now taken to
your heart and made inheritor of your wealth is indeed of your own flesh
and blood--the first-born son of your daughter, and my friend, Elizabeth
Compton."

Such was the dramatic plight into which "Rich Spencer's" loyalty and
generosity had led him. He had innocently pledged himself to adopt as
his heir, the son of the daughter he had disowned for ever. "And now,
Sir John," continued the Queen, "that you have conceded so much to make
me happy, will you not go one step farther and take your wilful and
penitent daughter to your heart again?" What could the poor merchant do
in such a predicament, when his Sovereign stooped to beg as a favour
what his lonely heart yearned to grant? Before he was many minutes older
he was clasping his child to his breast; and was even shaking hands with
her graceless husband.

* * * * *

When, full of years, Sir John died in 1609, his obsequies were worthy of
his wealth and fame. He was followed to his grave in St Helen's Church
by a thousand mourners, clad in black gowns; and three hundred and
twenty poor men, we are told, "had each a basket given them, containing
a black gown, four pounds of beef, two loaves of bread, a little bottle
of wine, a candlestick, a pound of candles, two saucers, two spoons, a
black pudding, a pair of gloves, a dozen points, two red herrings, four
white herrings, six sprats and two eggs"--a quaint and lavish symbol of
his charity when alive.

So enormous was the fortune he left, that it is said Lord Compton, on
hearing its amount (L800,000) "became distracted, and so continued for a
considerable length of time, either through the vehement apprehension of
joy for such a plentiful succession, or of carefulness how to take up
and dispense of it."

That my Lady Compton, who a few years after her father's death blossomed
into a Countess, proved a devoted and dutiful wife to her lord there is
no reason to doubt; but that she had an adequate idea of her own
importance and a determination to have her share of her father's
money-bags is shown by the following letter, which is sufficiently
remarkable to bear quotation in full.

"My sweet life,--Now that I have declared to you my mind
for the settling of your estate, I suppose that it were
best for me to bethink what allowance were best for me;
for, considering what care I have ever had of your
estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those which
both by the laws of God, nature, and civil policy, wit,
religion, government, and honesty, you, my dear, are
bound to, I pray and beseech you to grant to me, your
most kind and loving wife, the sum of one thousand pounds
per an., quarterly to be paid.

"Also, I would, besides that allowance for my apparel,
have six hundred pounds added yearly for the performance
of charitable works; these I would not neither be
accountable for. Also, I will have three horses for my
own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow; none
lend but I, none borrow but you. Also, I would have two
gentlewomen, lest one should be sick; also, believe that
it would be an indecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand
mumping alone, when God has blest their Lord and Lady
with a great estate. Also, when I ride hunting or
hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will have
them attending, so for each of those said women I must
have a horse. Also, I will have six or eight gentlemen,
and will have two coaches; one lined with velvet to
myself, with four very fair horses; and a coach for my
women lined with sweet cloth, orelaid with gold; the
other with scarlet, and laced with watchet lace and
silver, with four good horses. Also, I will have two
coachmen, one for myself, the other for my women. Also,
whenever I travel, I will be allowed not only carroches
and spare horses for me and my women, but such carriages
as shall be fitting for all, orderly, not pestering my
things with my women's, nor theirs with chambermaids, nor
theirs with washmaids.

"Also, laundresses, when I travel; I will have them sent
away with the carriages to see all safe, and the
chambermaids shall go before with the grooms, that the
chambers may be ready, sweet, and clean.

"Also, for that it is indecent for me to croud myself
with my gentleman-usher in my coach, I will have him have
a convenient horse to attend me either in city or
country; and I must have four footmen; and my desire is
that you will defray the charges for me.

"And for myself, besides my yerely allowance, I would
have twenty gowns apparel, six of them excellent good
ones, eight of them for the country, and six others of
them excellent good ones. Also, I would have to put in my
purse two thousand and two hundred pounds, and so you to
pay my debts. Also, I would have eight thousand pounds to
buy me jewels, and six thousand pounds for a pearl chain.

"Now seeing I have been, and am, so reasonable unto you,
I pray you to find my children apparel, and their
schooling, and all my servants, men and women, their
wages.

"Also, I will have all my houses furnished, and all my
lodging-chambers to be suited with all such furniture as
is fit, as beds, stools, chairs, cushions, carpets,
silver warming-pans, cupboards of plate, fair hangings,
etc.; and so for my drawing-chambers in all houses, I
will have them delicately furnished with hangings, couch,
canopy, cushions, carpets, etc.

"Also, my desire is that you would pay your debts, build
up Ashby House and purchase lands and lend no money (as
you love God) to the Lord Chamberlain, which would have
all, perhaps your life from you; remember his son, my
Lord Wildan, what entertainments he gave me when you were
at the Tilt-yard. If you were dead, he said, he would be
a husband, a father, a brother, and said he would marry
me. I protest I grieve to see the poor man have so little
wit and honesty to use his friend so vilely; also, he fed
me with untruths concerning the Charter-House; but that
is the least; he wished me much harm; you know how. God
keep you and me from him, and such as he is.

"So now I have declared to you my mind, what I would
have, and what I would not have; I pray you, when you be
Earl, to allow a thousand pounds more than now I desire
and double allowance.--Your loving wife, ELIZABETH COMPTON."

CHAPTER XII

TRAGEDIES OF THE TURF

In the whole drama of the British Peerage there are few figures at once
so splendid in promise and opportunities, so pathetic in failure and so
tragic in their exit as that of the fourth and last Marquess of
Hastings. Seldom has man been born to a greater heritage; scarcely ever
has he flung away more prodigally the choicest gifts of fortune.

When Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet was born one July day in 1842 it
was a very fair world on which he opened his eyes, a world in which rank
and wealth and exceptional personal gifts should have ensured for him a
leading _role_. He was still in the cradle when his father, the second
lord, died; and he was barely nine years old when the death of his elder
brother made the school-boy a full-blown Marquess, the inheritor of vast
estates and a princely rent-roll.

But Fate, which had showered such gifts on the young lord had, as so
often happens, marred them all by the curse of heredity. The taint of
gambling was in the boy's blood. His mother had won an unenviable
reputation throughout Europe by her passion for gambling; indeed there
were few gaming-tables in Europe at which the "jolly fast Marchioness"
was not a familiar and notorious figure. And his father, the Marquess,
was as devoted to horses and turf-gambling as his wife to her cards and
roulette. That the child of such parents should inherit their depraved
tastes is not to be marvelled at. And it was not long before they
manifested themselves in a dangerous form.

While he was still an undergraduate at Oxford the young Marquess who,
from childhood, could not bear the sight of a book when there was a dog
or a horse to claim his attention, began that career on the turf which
was to be as tragic in its end as it was dazzling in its zenith. He
bought from a Mr Henry Padwick for L13,500 a horse called Kangaroo,
which was not worth the cost of his keep. What a fraudulent animal he
was is proved by the fact that he never won a penny for his purchaser,
and ended his career, as he ought to have begun it, between the shafts
of a hansom.

But, so far from being disheartened by this initial experience, Lord
Hastings had barely thrown aside his cap and gown before he was owner of
half a hundred race-horses, with John Day as trainer; and was fully
embarked on his turf-career. From the very first year of his enlarged
venture success smiled on him. Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire for him,
in 1864; the Duke captured the Goodwood Cup two years later; and the
Earl carried off the Grand Prix de Paris. In the four years, 1864 to
1867 the Marquess won over L60,000 in stakes alone, while his winnings
in bets were larger still. So excellent a judge of a horse was he that
he only spoke the truth when he boasted, "I could easily make L30,000 a
year by backing other men's horses." Indeed on one race, Lecturer's
Cesarewitch, he cleared L75,000. Such was the brilliant start of a
racing-career which was to close so soon in failure and disgrace.

In the world of the Turf the youthful Marquess was hailed as a new
deity. At Epsom, Newmarket, and a dozen other race-courses his
appearance created as much sensation as that of the Prince of Wales
himself; he was greeted everywhere with cheers and a salvo of doffed
hats; and the way in which he scattered his smiles and his bets was
regal in its prodigality.

"As he canters on to the course," we are told, "he
slackens speed as he passes through the line of
carriages, from which come shrill, plaintive cries, 'Dear
Lord Hastings, do come here for one second,' and others
to like purpose. Conveniently deaf to the voice of the
charmers, he rides straight into the horseman's circle,
and takes up his position on the heavy-betting side.
'They're laying odds on yours, my lord,' exclaims a
bookmaker. 'What odds?' blandly asks the owner. 'Well, my
lord, I'll take you six monkeys to four!' 'Put it down,'
is the brief response. 'And me, three hundred to two--and
me--and me!' clamour a score of pencillers, who come
clustering up. 'Done with you, and you, and you'--the
bets are booked as freely as offered. 'And now, my lord,
if you've a mind for a bit more, I'll take you
thirty-five hundred to two thousand.' 'And so you shall!'
is the cheery answer, as the backer expands under the
genial influence of the biggest bet of the day. Then,
with their seventies to forties, and seven ponies to
four, the smaller fry are duly enregistered, and the
Marquess wheels his hack, his escort gathers round him,
and away they dash."

Such was the splendid, reckless fashion in which the Marquess would
fling about his wagers until he frequently stood to win or lose L50,000
on a single race. If he had always kept his head under the intoxication
of this wild gambling he might perhaps have made another fortune equal
to that he had inherited. But his wagering was as erratic as himself,
and his gains were punctuated by heavy losses which began to make
inroads on even his enormous resources.

The first crushing blow fell on that memorable day when Hermit struggled
through a blinding snowstorm first past the post in the Derby of 1867,
to the open-mouthed amazement of every looker on; for Mr Chaplin's colt
had been considered so hopeless that odds of forty to one were freely
laid against him.

Hermit's sensational victory was the climax of a singular and romantic
story. Three years earlier Lady Florence Paget, daughter of the second
Marquess of Anglesey, had been the affianced bride of Mr Henry Chaplin,
who was passionately devoted to her, little dreaming that another had
stolen her heart from him. One day Lady Florence, with Mr Chaplin for
escort, drove to Messrs Swan & Edgar's, ostensibly on shopping bent; but
the shopping was merely a cloak to another and treacherous design. She
entered the shop, slipped out through the back entrance where Lord
Hastings was awaiting her, jumped into his cab, and was whirled away
while her _fiance_ patiently and unsuspectingly awaited her return at
the opposite side of the building.

When Mr Chaplin realised the dastardly trick that had been played on
him, he bore the blow to his pride and affection right bravely. No trace
of resentment was ever shown to the world; but he would have been less
than a man if he had not cherished thoughts of retaliation. His
opportunity came when Hermit was offered for sale by auction, and Lord
Hastings was among the keenest bidders for the son of Newminster and
Eclipse. At any cost Mr Chaplin determined to baffle his betrayer for
once--and he succeeded; for, when the Marquess stopped short at 950
guineas, Mr Chaplin secured the colt by a further bid of 50 guineas.

At the time he little realised--nor did he much care--what a bargain he
had got; for Hermit not only sired two Derby winners in Shotover and St
Blaise, before he died his sons and daughters had won among them
L300,000 in stake-money alone. Not much later came that ill-starred
Derby, which none who saw it can ever forget. Lord Hastings, angry at
having lost the horse to his rival, laid the long odds against Hermit
so recklessly that he stood to lose a large fortune by his success; and
Hermit's last few gallant strides cost him over L100,000.

It was a staggering blow, under which the most stoical man with the
longest purse might well have reeled; but the Marquess met it with a
smile of indifference; and when, a few minutes later, he drove off the
course, with his friends, in a barouche and four to dine at Richmond, he
seemed the gayest of the company. A few days before his death, recalling
this tragic moment in his life, he said proudly, "Hermit fairly broke my
heart. But I didn't show it, did I?"

That his smiling face must have masked a very heavy heart, it scarcely
needed his own confession to prove. Rich as he still was, the loss of
more than L100,000 was a very serious matter. Indeed we know that he was
only able to meet his liabilities by parting with his magnificent estate
of Loudoun in Scotland, which realised L300,000. When the doors of
Tattersall's opened on the morning of settling-day, the first to present
themselves were his agents, who handed over L103,000 in settlement of
all claims against the Marquess. Mr Chaplin had scored, and scored
heavily; but at least it should never be said that his defeated rival
had shrunk from paying the last ounce of the penalty the moment it was
due.

When next his lordship appeared on a race-course--it was at Ascot, a few
months later--he was greeted with thunders of cheers from the
bookmakers, a tribute to his pluck and sportsmanship, which must have
taken away some of the sting of defeat. But fate which had dealt this
merciless blow to the Marquess was in no mood to spare him further
disaster. The second stroke fell within five months of the first--at the
Newmarket second October Meeting. The favourite for the Middle Park
Plate was Lord Hastings' filly, Elizabeth, whose chances he fancied so
much that he backed her heavily, confident that he would recover a great
part of his Derby losses.

When Elizabeth, instead of running away from her rivals, passed the
winning-post a bad fifth, even his iron nerve failed him for once. He
uttered no word; but he grew pale as death, and staggered as if about to
fall. A moment later, however, he had pulled himself together and was
helping Lady Aylesbury to count her small losses. "Tell me how I stand,"
asked her ladyship, as she placed her betting-book in his hand. The
Marquess made the necessary calculation; and with a smile of sympathy,
answered: "You have lost L23." And he, who could thus calmly calculate
so trifling a loss, was L50,000 poorer by his filly's failure to win the
Plate!

He knew well that he was a ruined man--worse than this, unutterably
galling to his proud spirit--he knew that he was a disgraced man. His
vast fortune had crumbled away until he had not L50,000 in the world to
pay this last debt of honour. And yet he continued to smile in the face
of ruin, carrying through this crowning disaster the brave heart of an
English gentleman and a sportsman.

He sold the last of his remaining acres, his hunters and hounds, and
all his personal belongings; and all the money he could raise from the
wreckage of his fortune was a pitiful L10,000. His last sovereign was
gone, and he was L40,000 in debt, without a hope of paying it. When he
next appeared on a race-course the very men who had cheered him to the
echo at Ascot greeted him with jeers and angry shouts at Epsom. The hero
of the Turf, the idol of the Ring, was that blackest of black sheep, a
defaulter!

And not only was he thus branded as a defaulter. Strange stories were
being circulated to his further discredit as a sportsman. The running of
Lady Elizabeth in one race was, it was said, more than open to
suspicion. The Earl, who was considered a certainty for the Derby, was
unaccountably scratched on the very evening before the race, though the
Marquess stood to win L35,000 by her, and did not hedge the stake-money.

The public indignation at these discreditable incidents found a vent in
the columns of the _Times_; and although Lord Hastings denied that there
was "one single circumstance mentioned as regards the two horses,
correctly stated," and offered a frank explanation in both cases, the
public refused to be appeased, and the stigma remained.

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