AN ULTIMATUM
Copley rose as if the interview were over, and he had done all he could
for his friend. But Sir George lingered. He stood gazing into the fire
thoughtfully and moodily. Copley's last shaft had gone home. Sir
George's whole nature revolted from spending a week in the company of
the man in possession. He wanted to gain time, to have an opportunity to
consider matters, and, above all, to get rid of the incubus which, in
his mind's eye, he could see seated patiently in the library at Haredale
Park. Yet he also knew what he ought to have done. He ought either to
have knocked Copley down out of hand, or to have walked out of the house
with a curt intimation that he and Copley must be strangers in the
future.
But, like the weak man he was, when the pinch came he did neither of
these things. It would never have occurred to him to assert that he was
a man of honour. All the world had taken it for granted, and in this
opinion Sir George shared. But, on the other hand, he was face to face
with disgrace, and in a few days would be homeless and penniless, a mark
for the finger of scorn, and the object of pity of those whom he had
looked down upon from a lofty standpoint. But was there, after all, any
great harm in what Copley suggested? Scores of owners of horses had done
such things before, and he had a genuine excuse for drawing the pen
through the name of the Blenheim colt, since it had fallen ill. If other
people benefited by the knowledge, it was no concern of his. If the colt
were no better at the end of a fortnight, he could be scratched and
things go on as they were. Besides, the colt was a good one, and in the
autumn there would be every chance of winning the St. Leger with him.
This reasoning was all very specious and wrong, but it wasn't long
before Sir George had justified himself, as Copley felt sure he would
do.
"Wait a little," Sir George said. "You can't expect me to make up my
mind at once. I must have time to think it over. But I can't do anything
as long as that man is at Haredale Park. If you can get rid of him for
me----"
"Oh, I think I can do that," Copley interrupted. "But if I telephone to
Absalom & Co. from here they will want some guarantee from you
that--well, you know what I mean. They won't want any writing, your word
will be good enough for that."
Sir George expanded at this suggestion. It never struck him that a mere
negotiation on this point from Copley's view would be as good as a
written document.
"I think I can give it," he said.
"Very well," Copley said briskly. "I am glad to hear you talk like that.
It is a commonsense view of the situation. Sit down and smoke your cigar
in peace and don't worry any more about the matter. I'll go into my
office and ring up Absalom & Co., and in an hour's time you will be free
from your trouble."
For three-quarters of an hour Sir George sat immersed in gloomy
thoughts. Manipulate the transaction as he might, deceive himself as he
pleased, there was no getting away from the fact that he was
contemplating a shameful thing, and the knowledge that he was saving
himself did not mend matters. The best part of an hour had passed before
Copley returned with a cheerful face.
"I thought I could manage," he exclaimed. "I felt sure there would be
little difficulty, if we only convinced Absalom & Co. that there was a
good thing for them here. But, mind you, I had to give them my word.
They wouldn't accept anything in the least vague. Nothing is to be done
for a fortnight; in fact, not till after the next meeting at Mirst Park,
and at the end of that time the Blenheim colt is to be scratched. You
have only to keep him short of exercise, and the public will conclude
that something serious is amiss with the colt. I had to promise this
before I could move these people at all. Of course, if you don't want to
go as far as that I can ring them up again. It would be a pity to do so,
however, seeing that by this time Absalom's have taken steps to withdraw
their action, and in a few minutes the man at Haredale Park will receive
a telegram calling him back to London at once. You had better think the
matter over. Don't say that I persuaded you, for, if you wish to break
off negotiations, it is not too late to do so."
Copley's voice was gentle, but there was nothing persuasive about him.
He meant to leave the matter entirely in Sir George's hands. But, as he
had confidently expected, Sir George did not repudiate the bargain. On
the contrary, he thanked Copley for what he had done, and when they left
the library a few minutes later the arrangement was ratified. As they
made for the stable-yard Copley paused as if something had suddenly
occurred to him.
"There is one other matter," he said. "I didn't like to mention it
before for fear you should imagine I was forcing your hand. Now I can
speak freely. It relates to your daughter. When I lent you that money I
expected to have the privilege of calling myself your son-in-law. I
have not yet had anything definite from Miss Haredale; in fact, I am
afraid she dislikes me. But things can't go on like this, and you
promised to put in a good word for me. I daresay you will think it
strange, but I have set my heart on this marriage. It will be well,
perhaps, to let your daughter know how things stand. I fear she doesn't
comprehend the position. Tell her yourself."
There was no mistaking the ring of command in the last words.
"Certainly," Sir George promised. "I will do so without delay. I can't
for the life of me understand May's hesitancy. Almost every girl in the
county would jump at the chance of being Mrs. Raymond Copley. Besides,
May must marry a rich man. But leave it to me, Copley. Come over after
dinner this evening and see if we can't fix this thing up once and for
all."
Sir George returned to Haredale trying to feel on good terms with
himself and elated with the turn things had taken. But he could not
disguise that he had done wrong. He could not still the voice of
conscience. However, he was relieved to hear from his butler of the
departure of Brown on receipt of a telegram. The man had made certain
promises. He would call again later in the day, but had left his address
in case Sir George wanted to write to him. It was very correct and
discreet, no one was any the wiser, nobody had guessed about this black
disgrace, and in the fullness of his heart Sir George wrote a short note
to Brown enclosing a cheque. He was sealing up the envelope and putting
on the stamp when May entered.
She was fresh from her ride. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks
glowed. There was something in her gay abandon and her clear light of
innocence that jarred upon Sir George. Why should she have none of this
trouble? Why should she be outside of it all? To some extent, she was
the cause of the mischief. But for her Copley would never have lent Sir
George any money; but for her he would never have found himself in the
clutches of Absalom & Co. This was as specious as his other moralizing,
and he never imagined that he had fallen into a trap set by Copley. What
he wanted was some one to vent his anger upon.
"Where have you been?" he asked irritably. "I have been looking for you
everywhere. I have just been having a conversation about you with Mr.
Copley. He wants to know----"
"He already does know," May said coldly. "I thought I had made that
quite clear. I shall be glad if you will not allude to this again. It is
most distasteful to me."
Sir George brought his fist with a bang on the table.
"You are a fool," he cried. "I beg pardon, but I can't think of any
other word. You don't seem to realize what obligations we are under to
Mr. Copley. Do you know that if he liked he could turn us out of the
house to-morrow? Do you know that even this morning he has saved us from
a great disgrace? And he has done all this out of affection for you. I
can assure you that Mr. Raymond Copley is not the man to be played
with."
"My dear father," May protested, "why this violence? I don't in the
least want to play with Mr. Copley."
"Oh, this is no joking matter. You ought to be proud to think that a man
like that is ready to lay his wealth at your feet. Now, I want you to
understand that if you treat him in this way he will very likely teach
you a lesson. It is no use beating about the bush. We are in his hands.
And, therefore, you must marry him."
"Must, my dear father. Surely----"
"Oh, I am not going to listen to any more. I won't argue with you. You
are either going to marry Mr. Copley or I wash my hands of you
altogether. I will not be ruined for the mere whim of a girl. Now you
quite understand me? If this thing isn't settled to-morrow, Haredale
will be no place for you."