A POISONOUS ATMOSPHERE
It is impossible for a man to change the habits of a lifetime,
especially when he has reached the age to which Sir George Haredale had
attained. He tried hard to justify himself in his present embroilment.
He juggled with his conscience, but the ways of the transgressor are
hard, and the master of Haredale Park was having anything but a good
time. He knew that he was doing wrong, that he was about to commit
something in the shape of a crime. When a man has pledged himself to
this kind of thing, it is marvellous how circumstances combine to help
him.
On the face of it things were not going well. The victory of the
Blenheim colt in the Champion Stakes was a blow to him. He had expected
the colt to lose, thereby giving him occasion to scratch it. If this had
turned out as he had expected, he would have been the object of popular
sympathy and his reputation as a sportsman and an honourable man would
have been enhanced. But to his surprise and vexation, the colt had
proved his sterling worth and within the last few hours the public had
established him more firmly than ever in the betting. There was always
the chance, of course, that the race would leave its mark on the colt
and that some ill effects might supervene, in which case the original
programme could be carried out without exciting the suspicions of the
many-headed.
This was precisely what did happen. Three days later Mallow came into
his employer's study with a long face and the information that the
colt's lack of condition was rather more manifest than before. For once
in a way Mallow was not polite and forgot the respect due to his master.
"It's just as I told you, Sir George," he exclaimed. "The colt's been
ruined. I don't say it isn't possible to get him fit in time for the
Derby, because he's a wonder. But if you had tried to ruin the horse you
couldn't have gone about it in a better way. I can almost cry when I
think of it."
"You are forgetting yourself, Mallow," Sir George said.
"Oh, maybe I am, sir, maybe I am. I have been dealing with fools and
knaves all my lifetime, and I ought to be accustomed to them by now. I
feel as if I had been a party to cutting that colt's throat. You don't
deserve to have a horse like that in your stable; you don't deserve to
win another race as long as you live."
Sir George was vastly indignant. He wanted to know if Mallow realized
whom he was talking to. But Mallow was in no mood for politeness and
told his employer a few home truths. He sketched graphically what the
better-class sportsmen would say when they realized what had happened.
It was useless to be angry, all the more so because he knew that every
word Mallow spoke was true. On the spur of the moment he had intended to
give Mallow instructions to have the horse struck out of all his
three-year engagements, but looking his irate servant in the face he
lacked the pluck to do so. So he proceeded to compromise.
"At the worst," he said with some dignity, "it was only an error in
judgment. If you can get the colt fit again before the Derby the public
will have no grievance against me. They will win their money and that's
all they care about."
Mallow appeared to be somewhat mollified.
"Then things are to go on as they are, Sir George?" he asked. "There has
been a lot of mischief done, but it is not yet too late. But it is no
use crying over spilt milk."
This was going rather too far and too fast. Sir George's fears were
aroused again.
"Your instructions are not quite indefinite," he corrected. "We will let
the matter stand over for a week. At the end of that time we will see
the colt's condition. If there is no material change for the better,
then I must scratch him."
With this perforce Mallow had to remain content and went out muttering
to himself. He wanted to know what Sir George was driving at and what
this new policy meant. The trainer had a shrewd idea, though he hardly
dared to whisper it even to himself. Still, a week was a week, and much
might be done in that time. Besides, if necessary, he knew Raffle had a
great card to play. For some reason or other Sir George wanted the colt
scratched and Mallow had no difficulty in laying this somewhat shady
diplomacy on the shoulders of Raymond Copley.
Meanwhile, the week drifted on and things remained in much the same
position at Haredale Park. Sir George had said nothing more to his
daughter, neither had she alluded to the detestable topic. But she was
ready to take a step which would have considerably alarmed her father
had he known of it. Copley was away on business. He came back on
Saturday and made his way across to Haredale Park after dinner. In the
drawing-room he was coldly informed that Sir George was in the library.
He appeared to take this curt dismissal in good part and went off in
search of Sir George whom he found sitting moodily over the fire.
"Where have you been lately?" the Baronet asked.
"Oh, my dear sir," Copley explained, "you forget that I have my business
to look after. I have been exceedingly busy. When things take a turn
for the better that is the time to follow your fortune closely. During
the last few days I have been making money with both hands."
It appeared to be no idle boast, for Copley was looking less gloomy than
usual. Fortune was smiling upon him again. He and his confederates had
had a rare haul over the Longhill Handicap. They were in funds, and
unless things went very wrong indeed by the time the Derby was over they
would be all rich men. But Sir George guessed nothing of this. He was
only sorry to think that May should be so obstinate in refusing to take
her share in the spending of these phenomenal riches.
"I am exceedingly glad to hear it," he said.
"Oh, thank you very much. You see, fortune cuts all round. What's good
for me is good for you. In the first place, you can make your mind easy
about that affair of Absalom & Co., because they won't trouble you any
more. After the Derby we need not worry ourselves as to money matters.
That brings me to my reason for coming here this evening. I understand
that the colt has broken down permanently. From what I see in the papers
there is not the remotest chance of his winning a race as a three-year
old."
"It looks like it," Sir George answered. "At the same time, Mallow
doesn't share my opinion. He is very obstinate."
"Oh, what the devil does it matter what he says or thinks?" Copley said
impatiently. "He is only a servant. Surely you can do what you like with
your own. Besides, in this matter the opinion of the whole racing world
will sustain you. At the worst people can only say that you have made an
error in judgment. The Press recognizes that you have acted like a good
fellow and a sportsman in running this risk simply with the object of
taking the public into your confidence. They don't know, of course, that
you don't want the horse to win, nor what a surprise the Mirst Park
victory was to you. And on the top of that they tumble over one another
to back the colt, and if he doesn't start at all they are to blame.
Still, it has been a good thing for me. I have laid against your animal
thick and thin and after the Derby is over I shan't need to do any more
work."
Sir George made no reply. He sat gazing dubiously into the fire. Looking
back at the course of events, he could hardly see how he had got himself
into this mess. He ought to have refused to listen to Copley, and should
have supported the opinion of such a sound judge as Raffle. Besides, he
had never won a Derby in his racing career, and it seemed to him that he
was wasting a splendid chance. But it was too late to repent, too late
to draw back, and all Sir George could hope was that no one would ever
have an inkling of his shame. He did not know, neither did Copley, that
May was standing in the doorway. She had come in for something she
required. Her evening shoes had made no sound on the thick carpets, and
she had heard every word that was said. Not that she intended to play
the eavesdropper. But one remark of Copley's had fascinated her and she
stood as if rooted to the spot.
She knew her ears did not deceive her. She had been brought up all her
life in an atmosphere of racing. She knew almost as much about it as
Raffle himself. The thing was plain and a wave of shame and humiliation
rushed over the girl as she stood there drinking in every word.
She could not blind herself to the truth. She could not get away from
the fact that her father was a conscious participant in a disgraceful
action. It mattered little that her father was in Copley's hands, or
that Copley had suggested the whole thing. The shock was none the less
painful. It seemed incredible that a man in Sir George's position should
stoop so low as this. These plots had happened before and no one had
spoken of them with greater contempt than had Sir George. Now was he
self-confessed as a principal in one of the shadiest of them all.
May stole away. For a moment she had been on the point of an outburst.
But perhaps it would be better to wait and speak to her father quietly
later, to try to find some means of averting this dreadful dishonour.
"I cannot stay here," she murmured. "The atmosphere poisons me. I must
get away, I must get away."