A FAIR DAY'S SPORT
At Mirst Park there was not very much for Fielden to do. The horses he
had brought with him were a moderate lot, and, in the words of the
stud-groom, there was not a racer amongst them. With his intimate
knowledge of horse-flesh Fielden wondered why Copley kept such an
indifferent stable, and where he got his animals. They were even worse
than the ordinary run of equine rubbish usually foisted on the
millionaire whose ambition it is to figure as a patron of the turf.
Perhaps the whole thing was a blind. Perhaps the stud at Seton Manor was
merely intended to cover Copley's rascality in another direction. At any
rate, Fielden watched the first two races with mingled feelings of
contempt and amusement. He had seen his employer's horses figure in both
in the sorriest fashion, and till the four o'clock race was free to do
as he pleased.
It was strange to move about the paddock, by the weighing-room and on
the stand, rubbing shoulders with a score of men whom he knew well. The
course was familiar to him, too. Were the past two years but a dream,
and had he never left the scene of his former recreations? But no one
recognized him. He strolled about listening to the roar of the
betting-ring and the cries of the multitude, or threaded his way in and
out among the horses. He even spoke to one or two jockeys whom he had
once known, but none seemed to identify him.
Despite the crowd and the horses, the ladies on the stand and the
members in the enclosure, however, it was a lonely business, and his
face lightened as he caught sight of May Haredale seated by herself on
one of the stands. He made his way eagerly to her side. She turned and
smiled upon him. There was a healthy flush on her face. Her eyes were
sparkling, and yet there was a suspicion of anxiety about her which
Fielden had noticed more than once lately.
"Why are you alone?" he asked.
"Oh, it has only been the last few minutes," May explained. "We have a
colt running in this race, and my father has gone to give instructions
to his jockey. By the way, how badly your horses have cut up to-day. No,
I am not particularly interested in this race, and I haven't so much as
a pair of gloves on it."
"Then what do you say to a stroll?" Fielden suggested. "It is cold, and
we look like having another fall of snow. I couldn't see the three
o'clock race for the snow. Positively I hadn't the faintest notion what
had won till I saw the numbers go up. Let us walk across the course to
the starting-point and back. We shall have plenty of time."
May consented, and soon they were beyond the enclosure and past the
white posts and rails towards the patch of gorse across the Downs, where
the starter was already fidgeting about on his cob. Away from the noise
and excitement of the ring the flush faded from May's face, and her eyes
seemed inexpressibly sad.
"What's the matter?" Fielden asked anxiously. "We all change as we grow
older. I suppose I am different from what I used to be. But I don't like
to see you so quiet. It is so foreign to your nature, May. There was a
time when you were all laughter and sunshine. Oh, dear, what a fool I
have been, to be sure. How different things might have been if I had
only had a little common sense. You don't know how I blame myself."
"Were you altogether to blame?" May asked. "I don't think so. You had no
one to look after you from the time you were at school till you came
into your property. You were merely a boy then, and you behaved like
one."
"Oh, I know, I know," Fielden sighed. "But that's all past and done
with. But don't talk about me. I am far more interested in you. I hope
nothing has happened to increase your anxiety. You know what I mean."
May looked irresolutely at her companion.
"I ought not, perhaps, to tell you," she said. "I ought not to tell
anybody. But, then, well, you are Harry Fielden, and I have known you
all my life. If you didn't care for me quite as much as you do, if I had
not cared for you--but, there, we need not go into that. It is my father
who has worried me. It is extraordinary what a change has come over him
lately. He used to be so kind to me, to let me do as I liked, and even
when we were so poor that we didn't know where to turn for money he was
always happy and cheerful. Why, a few months ago he would have laughed
at the idea of my marrying a man like Mr. Copley. Now he is almost eager
for it."
Fielden made no reply for a moment. A wave of indignation came over him.
He caught his lip between his teeth and bit it fiercely. A year or two
ago he would have smiled at the suggestion that Sir George would
sanction a match between his daughter and a man like Copley. But during
the hard and bitter months of his wanderings he had learnt some amount
of cynical wisdom. He was no longer inclined, as he had been in the old
days, to take every man at his face valuation. And, no doubt, when the
pinch came, Sir George was just like the rest. He would speak loudly
enough of his willingness to give up the old house and live in humble
lodgings rather than have any slur cast upon his honour. But it would be
different when this pretty theory came to be put to the test. Fielden
forgot all about the racecourse. He heard nothing of the shouting crowd.
The horses streaming to the post conveyed nothing to his eye.
"I want you to be candid with me," he said. "Is Sir George putting
pressure upon you to marry that blackguard?"
There was something so vehement in Fielden's speech that May looked at
him in astonishment.
"Surely you are going too far," she said. "Mr. Copley is not a
gentleman, of course----"
"I tell you, he is a scoundrel," Fielden interrupted. "Believe me, May,
I would not have spoken unless I had been bound to. That man is not fit
to go into any respectable house. I cannot say more than that at
present, because the secret is not altogether mine. But this much I tell
you: Had there been no such person as Raymond Copley I should be a rich
man at the present moment. I know that, but for the merest accident,
there would be blood on that man's hands. You must not marry him, May.
You must not give him the slightest encouragement. When I think of your
associating with that rascal my blood boils. If the worst comes to the
worst, I must tell Sir George what I know myself. It is with the
greatest reluctance I entered Copley's employment; indeed, I only did
so because there are certain things I want to find out and this seemed
to provide a favourable opportunity. Otherwise, I would rather get my
living by selling race-cards and sleep under a furze bush. But do you
mean to say your father really insists on this?"
A rush of tears filled May's eyes.
"That is what it comes to," she rejoined. "It is only the last two days
that I have noticed such a change in my father. Harry, do you think it
is as bad as he says it is? He tells me that unless I consent to marry
Mr. Copley we shall be ruined and be turned out of the house without so
much as a penny. It seems incredible. I can't understand a man with an
atom of self-respect who would compel a girl to marry him against her
will. It isn't as if I were rich, or intellectual, or beautiful."
Harry thought he could understand. Indeed, any man could understand who
looked down into the pretty, pleading, anxious face that was turned up
towards Fielden.
"There is no accounting for people like Copley," he said. "He is the
kind of man that has not an atom of consideration for anybody but
himself. He has no heart or conscience, and the more unattainable a
thing is the more he longs for it. He cannot win you; therefore, you are
the one thing in the world that he passionately desires. God help the
woman, however fascinating and beautiful, who becomes Copley's wife! It
would mean years of brutality and neglect and self-contempt. You
mustn't, May. I understand the duty you owe to your father, but no man
has a right to exact such a sacrifice as that. Don't you think I had
better see Sir George and give him a hint of the sort of man Copley is?"
May shook her head resolutely.
"I am afraid that would do more harm than good," she said. "I must fight
my battle alone, Harry, and if you interfered my father might forbid you
Haredale Park. He has already hinted that, if you had not come home
again, I should have been willing to become Mrs. Raymond Copley, and if
I were not allowed to see you I don't know what I should do. There is
nobody else I could confide in. But I will let you know how things go
on. We had better go back. I feel better for this confession."
But it seemed a hopeless business, and Fielden's face was sad and gloomy
as he strode alongside May towards the stand.
Ah! but hope was not dead yet.