THE COLONEL LAYS A PLOT.
Musing on this unexpected discovery, Colonel Norcott sauntered slowly
onwards under the spreading lime-trees, now in their full gush of
sweetness, to that portion of the Park where the scene which was the
only one of interest to him in that day’s programme of sports was to be
enacted.
On a broad portion of level road, about three-quarters of a mile in
length, and bordered on either side by a grassy ride, it had been
announced that a trotting-match between the respective horses of two
sporting farmers would take place. The match had been made at the Bell
Inn at Gawthorpe, one social evening after market-day was over; and Lord
Guernsey, who was a liberal promoter of all legitimate “sport,” had
kindly consented that it should come off on one of the gala-days in
Danescourt Park. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the two
animals, on whose respective merits, nevertheless, a good deal of money
(for such an obscure occasion as the present) had been risked on either
side. Colonel Fred--who was an _habitué_ at the Bell, “hanging out,” as
he termed it, at that highly-respectable hostelry whenever either filial
solicitude or the world-known Gawthorpe races brought him to
Sandyshire--took a very decided part in the affair, backing his high
opinion of Farmer Scroop’s rat-tailed brown cob for more money than he
could well afford to lose. This being the case, and experience on
sporting matters--to say nothing of a natural tendency to
mistrustfulness--having combined to put him on the _qui-vive_, the
Colonel had his eyes well open to ascertain that all was on the square,
and that the race, humble though it might be considered, was not going
to be “sold.”
But for the expected “coming off” of this sporting event, it is more
than probable that Fred Norcott would not have honoured the sports that
day with his presence. He had no taste for innocent amusements--the
hospitable and kindly owners of Danescourt, were very far, and well he
knew it, from looking upon him with friendly eyes. Since the days when
his family were “county people,” the days when old Mr. Norcott was a
magistrate, a subscriber to the hounds, a man having authority, in
short, with tenants under him, society in general had grown to take a
very different view of the Norcotts whilom of Lingfield. With humble
Mrs. Baker, as representative in Sandyshire of the family honour and
“respectability,” and with loafing Fred Norcott, lying very decidedly
under one of those social clouds which nothing but the sunshine of
wealth and prosperity can pierce through and cast aside, it was scarcely
surprising that that gentleman’s associates should stand on a rung of
the social ladder lower than that on which his forefathers had found
themselves. Daily, hourly even, this fact was brought home, in not the
pleasantest manner in the world, to the notice of the quondam admired
and popular London man, who had returned, as he had hoped, whitewashed
and renovated by his temporary absence, and by his marriage with a woman
who, he had taken great pains to make generally known, was a colonial
heiress on the largest scale. Very much disgusted was Fred, when he
found that certain never thoroughly cleared-up accusations were still
standing in array against him; and it was decidedly under protest that
he took the lower room to which he found himself reduced. In the
“sporting world,” that world whose limits as regards “respectability”
are so ill defined, Fred Norcott was still allowed admittance. He had
committed no flagrant act of dishonesty--above all, his payments of
“debts of honour” had been both prompt and undisputed; though in what
way, or from what fund, those debts were paid, his _confrères_ never
cared to inquire. As Fred was a good fellow so long as he paid his way,
and possessed a little spare cash in his pocket, he might be seen hand
and glove with certain persons of good standing, betting-men so called,
amateurs of racing matters, who neither under nor above the rose made
racing a _profession_, and who, falling in accidentally at sporting
meetings with the Colonel, accepted his acquaintance as a matter of
course, and thus, to a certain extent, linked him with the more
high-principled and exclusive portion of the community.
The stumbling upon the surprising truth, as regarded his connection with
John Beacham’s beautiful wife, had set Colonel Norcott’s busy brain
a-working in good earnest. Of _feeling_, whether parental or remorseful,
he could literally be accused of _none_ on the occasion; but there
might--it was an important opening--be something to be done in
consequence of this tardy revelation; and Fred was too much in the habit
of turning odds and ends to account, not to perceive at once that he
must not exactly go to sleep on the knowledge that he was father-in-law
to the largest horse-breeder in the United Kingdom.
He had arrived at this decision (not a hair’s-breadth beyond; for if
Colonel Fred was not given to do “all things decently,” he yet took time
to do them prudently and “in order”) when on emerging from the
comparatively private lime-walk, he came suddenly face to face upon
Arthur Vavasour.
“My dear fellow, I was never more surprised!” was his opening greeting.
“Why, you told me three days ago that there was not the slightest chance
of your being here.”
“Quite true,” Arthur said a little coldly; for he did not exactly
encourage familiarity from the middle-aged _roué_. “Quite true; but a
thousand things happen to make one change one’s mind. The Pembertons, to
begin with, gave a holiday to their servants, having decided, after
finding what a fuss was made about this stupid business, to come
themselves. I couldn’t stay in an empty house, and--”
“And there’s a pretty face, eh? that would bring you, I suspect, a good
deal farther than from the Pembertons’ here to look at it. I say, old
fellow, I hear you’re devilish spoony, and, by Jove! I’m not surprised.
That little wife of John Beacham’s is a glorious girl. One wonders
where such a creature was picked up. So deuced thoroughbred-looking, and
all that kind of thing. I have been trying to find out something about
her;” and linking his arm confidentially in that of his young friend, he
drew him on in the direction of the course.
Glancing furtively at the young untutored countenance by his side, the
man experienced in all the turns and twists, the vagaries and the
madnesses of the master passion, read in Arthur Vavasour’s face that the
time had come for him when
“That draught of sorcery which brings
Phantoms of fair forbidden things,”
had been freely drunk, and when all around seemed dark and lifeless that
had not its root and being in the one fair woman that he loved.
The time, however, had not yet come when he could desire to confide in
mortal man or woman the soft secret of his passion. A very young man,
whose love is _very_ fresh and real, cares little to discuss with
another the delicate question of
“Whether his love loves him or no--
Whether his love loves him.”
The mere sentiment of his adoration is sufficient for him when devotion
alone, without any admixture of vanity, stirs the bright flame within.
So Arthur Vavasour turned a deaf ear to the Colonel’s libertine
allusions. To him there seemed profanation of his purely fair divinity
in thus chaffingly alluding to her delicate loveliness. Neither Colonel
Norcott’s age nor his character, to say nothing of the little real
intimacy existing between him and Arthur, could justify, he felt, the
former in claiming the privileges of a confidant; and this being so,
Honor’s devoted admirer, without much preamble or excuse, changed the
conversation abruptly to one that happened to be sufficiently
interesting to both; for so long as Rough Diamond was first favourite
for the Derby, neither Colonel Frederick Norcott nor the heir-apparent
of Gillingham could be troubled by any lack of a subject for
conversation.