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.”