It was the eve of the great race, and scarcely a member of Lady Susan's
house-party had as yet a single bet on. It was one of those
unsatisfactory years when one horse held a commanding market position,
not by reason of any general belief in its crushing superiority, but
because it was extremely difficult to pitch on any other candidate to
whom to pin ones faith. Peradventure II was the favourite, not in the
sense of being a popular fancy, but by virtue of a lack of confidence
in any one of his rather undistinguished rivals. The brains of
clubland were much exercised in seeking out possible merit where none
was very obvious to the naked intelligence, and the house-party at Lady
Susan's was possessed by the same uncertainty and irresolution that
infected wider circles.
"It is just the time for bringing off a good coup," said Bertie van
Tahn.
"Undoubtedly. But with what?" demanded Clovis for the twentieth time.
The women of the party were just as keenly interested in the matter,
and just as helplessly perplexed; even the mother of Clovis, who
usually got good racing information from her dressmaker, confessed
herself fancy free on this occasion. Colonel Drake, who was professor
of military history at a minor cramming establishment, was the only
person who had a definite selection for the event, but as his choice
varied every three hours he was worse than useless as an inspired
guide. The crowning difficulty of the problem was that it could only
be fitfully and furtively discussed. Lady Susan disapproved of racing.
She disapproved of many things; some people went as far as to say that
she disapproved of most things. Disapproval was to her what neuralgia
and fancy needlework are to many other women. She disapproved of early
morning tea and auction bridge, of ski-ing and the two-step, of the
Russian ballet and the Chelsea Arts Club ball, of the French policy in
Morocco and the British policy everywhere. It was not that she was
particularly strict or narrow in her views of life, but she had been
the eldest sister of a large family of self-indulgent children, and her
particular form of indulgence had consisted in openly disapproving of
the foibles of the others. Unfortunately the hobby had grown up with
her. As she was rich, influential, and very, very kind, most people
were content to count their early tea as well lost on her behalf.
Still, the necessity for hurriedly dropping the discussion of an
enthralling topic, and suppressing all mention of it during her
presence on the scene, was an affliction at a moment like the present,
when time was slipping away and indecision was the prevailing note.
After a lunch-time of rather strangled and uneasy conversation, Clovis
managed to get most of the party together at the further end of the
kitchen gardens, on the pretext of admiring the Himalayan pheasants.
He had made an important discovery. Motkin, the butler, who (as Clovis
expressed it) had grown prematurely grey in Lady Susan's service, added
to his other excellent qualities an intelligent interest in matters
connected with the Turf. On the subject of the forthcoming race he was
not illuminating, except in so far that he shared the prevailing
unwillingness to see a winner in Peradventure II. But where he
outshone all the members of the house-party was in the fact that he had
a second cousin who was head stable-lad at a neighbouring racing
establishment, and usually gifted with much inside information as to
private form and possibilities. Only the fact of her ladyship having
taken it into her head to invite a house-party for the last week of May
had prevented Mr. Motkin from paying a visit of consultation to his
relative with respect to the big race; there was still time to cycle
over if he could get leave of absence for the afternoon on some
specious excuse.
"Let's jolly well hope he does," said Bertie van Tahn; "under the
circumstances a second cousin is almost as useful as second sight."
"That stable ought to know something, if knowledge is to be found
anywhere," said Mrs. Packletide hopefully.
"I expect you'll find he'll echo my fancy for Motorboat," said Colonel
Drake.
At this moment the subject had to be hastily dropped. Lady Susan bore
down upon them, leaning on the arm of Clovis's mother, to whom she was
confiding the fact that she disapproved of the craze for Pekingese
spaniels. It was the third thing she had found time to disapprove of
since lunch, without counting her silent and permanent disapproval of
the way Clovis's mother did her hair.
"We have been admiring the Himalayan pheasants," said Mrs. Packletide
suavely.
"They went off to a bird-show at Nottingham early this morning," said
Lady Susan, with the air of one who disapproves of hasty and
ill-considered lying.
"Their house, I mean; such perfect roosting arrangements, and all so
clean," resumed Mrs. Packletide, with an increased glow of enthusiasm.
The odious Bertie van Tahn was murmuring audible prayers for Mrs.
Packletide's ultimate estrangement from the paths of falsehood.
"I hope you don't mind dinner being a quarter of an hour late
to-night," said Lady Susan; "Motkin has had an urgent summons to go and
see a sick relative this afternoon. He wanted to bicycle there, but I
am sending him in the motor."
"How very kind of you! Of course we don't mind dinner being put off."
The assurances came with unanimous and hearty sincerity.
At the dinner-table that night an undercurrent of furtive curiosity
directed itself towards Motkin's impassive countenance. One or two of
the guests almost expected to find a slip of paper concealed in their
napkins, bearing the name of the second cousin's selection. They had
not long to wait. As the butler went round with the murmured question,
"Sherry?" he added in an even lower tone the cryptic words, "Better
not." Mrs. Packletide gave a start of alarm, and refused the sherry;
there seemed some sinister suggestion in the butler's warning, as
though her hostess had suddenly become addicted to the Borgia habit. A
moment later the explanation flashed on her that "Better Not" was the
name of one of the runners in the big race. Clovis was already
pencilling it on his cuff, and Colonel Drake, in his turn, was
signalling to every one in hoarse whispers and dumb-show the fact that
he had all along fancied "B.N."
Early next morning a sheaf of telegrams went Townward, representing the
market commands of the house-party and servants' hall.
It was a wet afternoon, and most of Lady Susan's guests hung about the
hall, waiting apparently for the appearance of tea, though it was
scarcely yet due. The advent of a telegram quickened every one into a
flutter of expectancy; the page who brought the telegram to Clovis
waited with unusual alertness to know if there might be an answer.
Clovis read the message and gave an exclamation of annoyance.
"No bad news, I hope," said Lady Susan. Every one else knew that the
news was not good.
"It's only the result of the Derby," he blurted out; "Sadowa won; an
utter outsider."
"Sadowa!" exclaimed Lady Susan; "you don't say so! How remarkable!
It's the first time I've ever backed a horse; in fact I disapprove of
horse-racing, but just for once in a way I put money on this horse, and
it's gone and won."
"May I ask," said Mrs. Packletide, amid the general silence, "why you
put your money on this particular horse. None of the sporting prophets
mentioned it as having an outside chance."
"Well," said Lady Susan, "you may laugh at me, but it was the name that
attracted me. You see, I was always mixed up with the Franco-German
war; I was married on the day that the war was declared, and my eldest
child was born the day that peace was signed, so anything connected
with the war has always interested me. And when I saw there was a
horse running in the Derby called after one of the battles in the
Franco-German war, I said I MUST put some money on it, for once in a
way, though I disapprove of racing. And it's actually won."
There was a general groan. No one groaned more deeply than the
professor of military history.