It was some minutes before Chris opened that paper, and then he had to
turn it over and over before he found the racing intelligence, and even
then he did not begin to read, for plainly before him were the words,--
"_Back the Prince's filly_."
Then in a quick, excited way he looked down the column he had found, and
before long saw that the important race on the _tapis_ was at Liverpool,
and the last bettings on the various horses were before him, beginning
with the favourite at four to one, and going on to horses against which
as many as five hundred to one was the odds.
But the Prince's horse! What Prince? What horse? He stood thinking,
and recalled a rumour which he had heard to the effect that the Prince's
horses were run under the name of Mr Blanck, and there, sure enough,
was in the list far down:--
"Mr Blanck's ch. f. Simoom, 100 to 1." Chris dashed down the paper in
a rage.
"What have I to do with such things as this?" he said aloud. "Even if I
were a racing man I could not do it. It is too dishonourable."
Then he set to work to argue the matter out. He had come upon the
information by accident, and it might be perfectly worthless. Even if
the advice was good, the matter was all speculation--a piece of
gambling--and if a man staked his money upon a horse it was the merest
chance whether this horse would win; so if he used the "tip," he would
be wronging no one, except, perhaps, himself, by risking money he could
not spare.
Anxiety, love, jealousy and disappointment had combined to work Chris
Lisle's brain into a very peculiar state of excitement, and he found
himself battling hard now with a strange sense of temptation.
Here was a message giving Glyddyr information how to make money, and it
had fallen into other hands. Why should not he, Christopher Lisle,
seize the opportunity, take advantage of such a chance as might never
come to him again, and back the Prince's horse to the extent of four or
five hundred pounds? Poor as he called himself, he had more than that
lying at his bankers; and if he won, it might be the first step towards
turning the tables on Gartram, and winning Claude.
True, the information was meant for his rival, but what of that? All
was fair in love and war. Glyddyr would stand at nothing to master him:
so why should he shrink? It would be an act of folly, and like throwing
away a chance.
Then his training stepped in, and did battle for him, pointing out that
no gentleman would stoop to such an act, and for the next six hours a
terrible struggle went on, which ended in honour winning.
"I would not do such a dirty action; and she would scorn me if I did,"
he said to himself. "Eh? Want me, Mrs Sarson?"
"Which it's taking quite a liberty, Mr Lisle, sir," said his landlady,
who had come for the fifth time into his room; "but if you would let me
send for Doctor Asher, it would ease my mind--indeed it would."
"Asher? Send for him? Are you ill?"
"I? No, my dear boy, but you are. You are quite feverish. It's
terrible to see you. Not a bit of dinner have you tasted, and you've
been walking up and down the room as if you had the toothache, for
hours. Now, do trust to me, my dear, an old motherly body like me; I'd
better send for him."
"My dear Mrs Sarson, he could not do me the least good," said Chris,
smiling at the troubled face before him. "It was a fit of worry, that's
all; but it's better now--all gone. There, you see, I'm quite calmed
down now, and you shall prescribe for me. Give me some tea and meat
together."
"But are you really better, my dear?"
"Yes; quite right now."
"And quite forgive me for calling you my dear, Mr Lisle, sir? You are
so like my son out in New Zealand, and you have been with me so long."
"Forgive you? Yes."
"That's right," said the woman, beginning to beam; and hurrying in and
out she soon had a comfortable-looking and tempting meal spread waiting
before her lodgers eager eyes, and he made a determined attack upon that
before him.
"That's more like you, Mr Lisle," she said, smiling her satisfaction.
"Would you mind opening the window a little more, Mrs Sarson?" said
Chris, as he drove the Prince's horse right out of his mind; and races,
jockeys, grand stands, and even Glyddyr faded from his heated brain.
"Certainly, sir. And what a lovely evening it is--beautiful. Hah!
there goes that Mr Glyddyr's boat off to his yacht; and there's Mr
Gartram in it, and the young ladies. Going for an evening sail, I
suppose."
Chris dropped his knife and fork upon his plate.
"Bless me!" ejaculated the landlady, turning sharply round.
"Nothing, nothing, Mrs Sarson," said Chris hastily; "that will do now.
I'll ring. Don't wait."
The landlady looked at him curiously, and left the room; and as soon as
she was gone, Chris sprang from his chair, took a binocular glass from
where it hung in its case against the wall, focussed it, and fixed it
upon the smart gig being rowed out on the bright water.
"I've fought all I knew, and I'm beaten," he muttered, as he saw Glyddyr
leaning towards Claude, and talking to her. "Every man has his
temptations, and the best and strongest fall if the temptation is too
strong. I am only a poor, weak, blundering sort of fellow, I suppose;
and I've fallen--low--very low indeed.
"Claude, my darling!" he groaned, as he lowered the glass and gazed
wistfully out toward the boat, "if it were some good, true fellow whom
you loved, and I was going to see you happy, I'd try and bear it all
like a man. But you can't be happy with a fast scoundrel like that; and
you love me. I know, I'm sure you do, and I'd do anything to save you
from such a fate."
He pitched the glass on to the sofa, took a time table from where it
lay, and, after satisfying himself as to the hours of the trains, he
went quickly towards the door, just as it was opened and Mrs Sarson
appeared.
"There, my dear," she said, holding up a large glass dish; "there's a
junket of which any woman might be proud, and--"
"No, no; not now, Mrs Sarson. I'm going out."
"Going out, sir?"
"Yes; up to London."
"To London, sir?"
"Yes; for a day or two," and he hurried by her.
Half-an-hour later, he was on his way in the town fly to the railway
station, just as the sun, low down in the west, was shining full on the
white sails of Glyddyr's yacht, as it glided slowly on over the bright,
calm sea.
Chris turned his eyes away, and looked straight before him as he
mentally conjured up the gathered thousands--the bright green course,
the glossy horses making their preliminary canter, with the gay silken
jackets of the jockeys filling out as they rose in their stirrups, and
flashing in the bright sunshine. There was the trampling of hoofs over
the springy turf, the starting as the flag was dropped, the dashing of
one to the front, of others challenging, and the minutes of excitement
as, in a gathering roar, one horse seemed to glide out from a compressed
group, gradually increasing its distance as it sped.
Hiss, rush, roar! Then the vision had parsed away, and Chris Lisle was
seated, not in a saddle, but on a cushion in a first-class carriage, the
speed increasing and the wind rushing by the windows as, with cheeks
flushed, he rode on, his teeth set, and completely now under the
domination of one thought alone as he softly repeated to himself the
words he had read upon the telegram,--
"_Back the Princes filly_."
and a few minutes later the figures he had seen in that day's news,--
"_100 to 1_."
The simoom seemed to be scorching up his brains.
It was all one whirl of excitement to Chris Lisle--that railway journey
to town, and there were moments when he asked himself whether he was
sane to go upon such a mission. The night journey of the train seemed
like a race, and the rattle of the bridges and tunnels suggested the
shouts and cheers of the crowd as the horses swept on. But he had
determined to persevere, and with stubborn determination he went on,
reached town, and without hesitation laid his money--four hundred
pounds, in four different sums so as to insure himself as well as he
could, in each case getting the odds of 100 to 1, so that, should the
Prince's horse come in first, he would be the winner of forty thousand
pounds.
As soon as this was done, he went to a quiet hotel to try and get some
rest.
But that was impossible, for he was face to face with his folly. Four
hundred pounds gone in an insane hope of winning forty thousand, and he
could see now how absurd it was.
"Never mind," he said bitterly; "I shall not be the first fool who has
lost money on a race, and I shall have had the excitement of a bit of
gambling."
His idea was to stay in town and go to a theatre, so as to divert the
current of his thoughts; then have a long night's rest and go to some
other place of amusement the next day, so as to pass the time till the
race had been run, and he knew the worst.
He dined, or rather tried to dine, and for the first time in his life
drank heavily, but the wine seemed not to have the slightest effect.
Then in a feverish heat he went to one of the best theatres, and saw a
social drama enacted by the people who filled his brain, what was going
on upon the stage being quite a blank.
He saw himself as a disappointed hero, and Glyddyr, as the successful
man, carrying all before him, winning Claude's love, and then, in what
seemed to be the last act, there was a wedding, and a wretched man going
afterwards right along to one of the towering cliffs overhanging the
sea, below Danmouth, and leaping off to end his woes.
"I'm glad I came to the theatre," he said mockingly to himself, in one
of his lucid intervals. "Better have gone to a doctor for something to
send me to sleep."
Then he became conscious of the fact that people in the pit were saying
"Hush!" and "Sit down!" and that somebody had risen and come out from
the place where he was jammed in, right in the centre of the stalls,
just as the climax of the play was being reached.
Then he grew conscious that he was the offender, and breathed more
freely as he got out into the cool night air.
It was not ten, and he found a chemist's open near the Strand.
"I'm not very well," he said to the gentlemanly-looking man behind the
counter. "Had a lot of trouble, made me restless, and I want to take
something to give me a good nights rest. Can you give me a dose of
laudanum?"
The man looked at him curiously.
"You ought to go to a doctor," he said.
"Doctor! Absurd! What for? I'm as well as you are. Give me something
calming. It will be better than going back to the hotel and taking
brandy or wine."
The chemist nodded, and prepared a draught.
"What's that? Laudanum--morphia?"
"No; a mild dose of chloral. Try it. If it does not act as you wish, I
should advise you to go to a physician in the morning."
Chris nodded, took the bottle, and strolled back to his hotel, where he
at once went to bed after swallowing his draught.
It did not have the desired effect. His idea was to take a draught
which would plunge him in oblivion for a few hours; but this dose of
chloral seemed to transport him to a plain, surrounded by mountains
covered with the most gloriously-tinted foliage, where flowers rippled
all over the meadow-like pastures, and cascades of the most brilliant
iridescent waters came foaming down, sparkling in the glorious sunshine.
All deliciously dreamy and restful, but when the morning came it did not
seem to him that he had slept. Still, he was calmer, and felt more
ready to think out the inevitable.
"How many hours shall I have to wait?" he said.
The race would probably be run about three o'clock, and till then he
must be as patient as he could.
"Better go back at once," he thought, "and repent at leisure over my
madness."
But he did not, for he accepted the last suggestion of his brain,
partook of a hurried breakfast, and jumped into a hansom; had himself
driven to the station, and soon after was being borne away by the
express.
The rest of that day's proceedings were a dreamy whirl of confusion.
The rushing noise of the train seemed to bring back the old excitement,
and this increased as he reached the station, and had himself driven to
the course, where one of the first things he learned was that the case
was hopeless; for the horse he had backed had gone down in the betting,
till two hundred to one could be obtained, and for the first time he
felt sick at heart.
He went up into the principal stand, securing a good place to see the
race, and waited while two others were run, the horses flying by without
exciting the slightest interest; the only satisfaction he gained was in
having them pass, so as to be nearer to the great feature of the day.
At last, just as he had pictured it from old recollections of a minor
race he had once seen, there was the shouting and bawling of the odds,
the clearing of the course, and then the preliminary canter of the ten
competitors, among which he now made out the colours of Simoom, a big
ordinary-looking horse, with nothing to draw attention to it, while the
three first favourites of the _cognoscenti_ were the perfection of
equine beauty, and their admirers shouted with excitement as they
flashed by.
Then, after five false starts, each of which was maddening to Chris,
who, while thinking the worst, could not help a gleam of hope piercing
the dark cloud which overshadowed him, the cry arose that they were off,
and amid a babel of sounds, as the parti-coloured throng of jockeys
swept along the green course and disappeared, spasmodic cries arose,
"Lady Ronald," "Safflower--Safflower leads," "Rotten race," "The
favourite shows 'em all her heels," "Look! The favourite!"
The horses, after a period of silence, had swept round into sight again,
and it was seen that three were together, then there was an interval,
and there were four, another interval, and the rest behind.
The second group excited no notice, save from Chris, who made out that
his horse was with them; and while every eye was fixed on the exciting
race between the favourite and the two horses which strove hard to get
abreast, there was suddenly a yell of excitement, for Simoom all at once
shot out from among the second lot, and going well, with her jockey
using neither whip nor spur, began rapidly to near the leaders.
The shouts increased, and a thrill ran through Chris as he saw the
plain-looking mare glide on, but apparently too late to overtake the
others.
Another roar as it was seen that the favourite's jockey was beginning to
use his whip, and the roar increased as Safflower was level with her
shoulder, was head to head, was head in front, and the next moment,
hopelessly beaten, the favourite was passed by Lady Ronald as well, who
now challenged Safflower, and they were racing level for fifty yards.
The excitement grew frantic. "Safflower! Lady Ronald! Safflower!
Safflower!"
"No, no, no!" shouted a man on Chris's left. "Look!"
Chris heard all he said, and stood there bending forward, his lips
apart, and eyes starting, as if turned to stone, living a very life in
those seconds, as, amid a roar like the rushing of the tempest itself,
the contemned mare came on.
"By George, sir, if the course had been a hundred yards more, she'd have
won," roared the man on Chris's left. "Safflower's done. It's Lady
Ronald; by--, no. Hurrah! Simoom! Simoom!" and in the midst of the
frantic excitement, the mare upon which Chris's hopes were fixed passed
Safflower. There was a quick touch of the whip and she was alongside of
Lady Ronald, and then Simoom's nose showed in front, and in the next few
bounds she was half-a-length ahead, and swept past the post--winner.
The man on Chris's left suddenly seized his arm.
"Hurrah for the dark horse," he cried. "Just for the fun of the thing,
I put a sov on her, and I've won two hundred pounds. I beg your pardon,
sir, I see you're hit. Forgive my excitement. Don't be down-hearted;
come and have a glass of champagne."
"Thank you," said Chris quietly; but he did not move, for the place
seemed to be spinning round him, and he held tightly by the rails till a
hand was laid upon his arm.
"Can I help you? You look ill."
"Help me? No; I'm all right now," said Chris, making an effort. "It
was so sudden."
"Have you lost heavily?"
"Lost?" said Chris, looking at him wildly. "No; I've won."
He felt his hand being shaken warmly, and then he sank back into a wild,
confused dream, in the midst of which he knew that he was being borne
back by one of the express trains, with the roar of the race in his
ears, and the sight of the horses sweeping by before his eyes.
As he neared town he began to grow more calm, and he found himself
repeating the words,--
"Forty thousand pounds! I've won; but shall I win her now?"
And then, like a dark cloud, came the recollection of how he had
obtained the information upon which his success was based.
"I can never name it to a soul," he muttered. "I must have been mad."
Volume One, Chapter XVI.