When Lady Mary came to think over the events of the night she found considerable cause for dissatisfaction, but it was as nothing to the further discomfiture awaiting her at the breakfast-table the next morning. Her scheme of seclusion of a quiet party which, contenting themselves with their own society, should seek for no other amusement than was comprised within the resources of the Grange had been already rudely broken in upon. And now she was confronted by an arrangement which her son had entered into without consulting her. On entering the breakfast-room she found Jim explaining the programme of the day, how they were all to lunch at the mess of the th regiment and witness the athletic sports of Rockcliffe camp.

“Cold collation all over the camp, five o’clock tea, fresh air, fun and flirtation, society and sunshine; if all that does not realize ’a dream of fair women,’ well, then, I know nothing about them,” were the first words that greeted Lady Mary’s ear. Lady Mary Bloxam was no weak vacillating woman a woman, on the contrary, wont to carry her point, and who contrived to have her own way, perhaps, rather more than most people; but she saw at once that it would be hopeless to stem the tide upon this occasion. With all her guests on a lovely spring day anxious to attend an entertainment not three miles off, what was there to be said? No possible pretext could be devised for preventing them. Why, oh, why had she persuaded that graceless dragoon to leave Aldershot and share the peace and tranquillity of home? She might have remembered how foreign peace and tranquillity were to Jim’s mercurial disposition; and then, Lady Mary reflected ruefully, that flirting Suffolk girl was certain to be present at the sports. In her dismay, she for a second thought of taking counsel with Pansey Cottrell as to what it were best to do under the circumstances; but after such festivities as that of the previous night Mr. Cottrell was always invisible to every one save his valet till past midday.

The hierarchy of Olympus had apparently taken the Rockcliffe games under their special protection. A more glorious April day never dawned than the Tuesday appointed for its athletic sports. Here and there a few fleecy clouds flecked the sky, as here and there a snowy patch of canvas dotted the sea. The sun shone forth in all his majesty, and the soft south-west wind just rippled the waters of the treacherous Channel and fluttered the flags with which the huts were decorated. Over every mess-room flew the regimental burgee as a signal that therein was lunch for all comers; while in front of those near the course, flanked on either side by rows of chairs and benches, were pitched marquees for the convenience of those who might desire lighter refreshment. As the Todborough carriages drove up, Captain Conyers and one or two of his brother officers stepped forward to welcome the party, and, as Lady Mary had anticipated, almost the next people to greet them were the Reverend Austin Chipchase, his daughters, and niece.

“Good morning, Mr. Cottrell,” said Sylla, with an arch glance at her fellow-conspirator of last night. “May I hope that the sweet sleep that waits on virtuous actions was vouchsafed to you?”

“Thanks, yes,” replied that gentleman. “I slept as a good man should. I am afraid some of us were a little over-tired. I regret to say there was a little irritability manifest in my carriage on the way home;” and the twinkle in Cottrell’s eyes told Sylla Chipchase that Lady Mary had made due note of her offending.

“You have heard of course that Captain Bloxam means trying for the ’All Army Cup.’ Great excitement it will be for us, will it not? We are all bound to bet recklessly upon the Todborough champion. I should like to see this Mr. Montague. I must get Captain Conyers to point him out to me. But, ah, look! here they come!” and as she spoke the girl pointed to some half-score figures who, clad in gaily-coloured jerseys, came racing down over six flights of hurdles. The leading three or four were well together till they cleared the last hurdle save one; but immediately they were over that, a pink jersey shot to the front, left his antagonists apparently without an effort, and, clearing the last hurdle in excellent style, ran in an easy winner by some half-score yards, amid tumultous cheering.

“Oh, do find out what this is all about; who won that? what was it? Ah, Captain Braybrooke, please come here and explain all this to me. Why are they cheering?”

“That was the two hundred yard race over hurdles, Miss Chipchase. They are cheering the winner, Mr. Montague, our opponent, you know. It seems ever since Jim’s name appeared in the ‘All Army Cup’ this morning, excitement has run high; you see, of course they know that Jim won the quarter of a mile race at Aldershot last year. It becomes a case of Rockcliffe versus Aldershot, and of course all the sympathies of Rockcliffe are with their own champion. I don’t think, Miss Chipchase, they will throw things at us; but you mustn’t expect Jim’s victory to be received with enthusiasm. It’s great fun to see the excitement his appearance in the lists has occasioned. It was looked upon as a foregone conclusion for Montague before; and though he is still favourite, they know now that he has not got it all his own way.”

“Thank you so much,” said Sylla, in her most dulcet tones. “And now, Captain Braybrooke, I want you to do me a great favour. It’s of no use denying it, but I am an arrant gambler at heart; I must and will have a gamble on this. Will you please put five pounds for me on Captain Bloxam?” and as she spoke Sylla saw with infinite satisfaction that she had Lady Mary for an auditor.

“Certainly, Miss Chipchase,” replied Braybrooke. “There can be no manner of difficulty about that. I have backed Jim myself, and you can stand in that much with my bets.”

“Once more, thank you,” replied Sylla; “and pray let Captain Bloxam know that the fortunes of all Todborough depend upon his exertions.”

But Sylla made a great mistake if she thought that her making a bet on the result of this race would shock Lady Mary. The Ladies Ditchin had known what it was as girls to lose their quarter’s allowance over one of their father’s unlucky favourites for a big race; and Lady Mary all her life had been far too accustomed to regard backing an opinion as the strongest proof of sincere belief in it to feel in the least shocked at anybody holding similar views. She had indeed told her husband, as soon as the fact of her son being entered for this race came to her knowledge, that she must have her usual wager of ten pounds on the result. All the sporting instinct of her nature had been aroused, and Jim’s entering the lists against the Rockcliffe champion had gone far to reconcile her to such an infringement of her programme as was involved in their attending the Rockcliffe games.

“Your brother is a good runner, I presume, Miss Bloxam?” inquired Lionel Beauchamp, who was sitting with Blanche on the other side of the marquee.

“Yes, Jim is fast and has won several ‘gentlemen’s’ races. I don’t want to brag, Mr. Beauchamp, but we Bloxams are all pretty good at those sort of things, and of course that’s all as it should be with my brothers; but with us girls I don’t know that it works quite so well. We can all dance, but we can none of us draw. We all play lawn tennis pretty well, but we can’t play the piano; can all ride an awkward horse, but can neither sing a note in Italian nor any other language. And you are you fond of any of these things? It is so difficult to tell what a man likes in London.”

“Yes,” rejoined Beauchamp, “in the London world we are wont to rave about matters we really don’t care a rush about, to affect aesthetic tastes which we have not got, and the pretension to which entraps us into much foolish speaking. We go to all sorts of entertainments we don’t care about, simply because other people go. You must not betray me, Miss Bloxam, but I declare I think one passes no pleasanter afternoon in London than when witnessing a good match at Lord’s with a pleasant party on a warm day.”

“Ah, we are all cricketers down here in Fernshire, boys and girls, men and women; we believe we invented the game, and in the old days stood pre-eminent in it. However, we now number so many disciples, and they have profited so much by our teaching that we are like the old man who,

“’To teach his grandson draughts then his leisure did employ,
Until at last the old man was beaten by the boy.’”

“Well, we must hope the old county is not going to be beaten this afternoon; for I take it your brother represents Fernshire, and Montague England, and the race by all accounts is reduced pretty well to a match between them. But see, there go the competitors!” and Beauchamp pointed to five men who, with overcoats thrown loosely over their flannels, were making their way down to the quarter-mile starting-post.

In spite of their reputation of being swift-footed, Montague and Bloxam found three other competitors bent on testing whether they really were as fast over a quarter of a mile as rumour credited them: men of the stamp always to be found in the army, who do not believe they are to be beaten till they have had actual experience of it, and who are wont to be a little incredulous even then about their conqueror’s ability to repeat his victory. As one of these philosophers remarked, “Montague means running in the hurdle race; there is always a possibility of his breaking or straining something in that, and so being hors de combat for the Cup.” However, Mr. Montague had won that race without damage to himself, and was evidently perfectly fit to take part in the fray. There is some slight delay at the start, owing to the praiseworthy but mistaken attempts of a gentleman in a dark blue jersey to get off somewhat in advance of his companions an undue eagerness which, having resulted in his twice jumping off before the word, terminates in his getting two or three yards the worst of the start when the word “go” is finally given. A green and white jersey dashes to the front, and assuming a longish lead, brings them along at a great pace. Next come the all white of Jim Bloxam and the pink of Montague running side by side and eyeing each other closely. They take but little heed of their leader, as they know very well that he can never last the quarter of a mile at the pace that he is going. As they anticipated, the green and white champion is in difficulties before they have travelled half-way, and the two favourites come on side by side. They are as nearly level as possible, but, if anything, the pink jersey has a slight advantage. The conviction is gradually stealing over Jim that his opponent has a little the speed of him; his only chance, he thinks, is that his adversary may not quite “stay” home. The marquee of the th regiment, of which the Todborough party are the guests, is close to the winning-post, and as the competitors near it the excitement becomes intense. Just opposite it, and not thirty yards from the winning-post, Montague makes his effort, and for a second shows a good yard in advance; but Jim instantly replies to the challenge and partially closes the gap. But it is all of no use: though he struggles with unflinching pluck he can never quite get up, and the judge’s fiat is in favour of the pink jersey by half a yard.

“A terrible result that, Mrs. Sartoris,” said Conyers, when the judge’s decision was made known: “not only have we lost our money, but there will be no holding Montague at all now he has lowered the colours of the Aldershot champion.”

“Well,” replied the lady, “I don’t think Mr. Montague can crow much over his victory.”

“No, indeed!” chimed in Sylla Chipchase; “Captain Bloxam struggled splendidly, and Mr. Montague had nothing in hand if I know anything about it.”

“Ah, you don’t know the man,” replied Conyers. “The closeness of the contest will not prevent his talking very big about his victory.”

“Now that reminds me of a serious omission on your part, Captain Conyers; remember we have not yet been introduced to the hero of the hour, and you know what hero-worshippers our sex are.”

“That’s an omission easily rectified, Miss Chipchase, for here come the two antagonists. And as he spoke Jim and his conqueror came up to the marquee.

“Ah, Miss Sylla,” exclaimed the dragoon gaily, “I am afraid I have disappointed all Todborough; I did my level best, but it was of no use. Montague here is just a little too good for me. Allow me to introduce him to you.”

“You must not expect very warm congratulations from us Todborough people, Mr. Montague. As you may easily suppose, both our money and our sympathies were with Captain Bloxam.”

“That would naturally be the case,” replied the young officer; “and I am myself indebted to Bloxam’s putting in an appearance for a victory worth winning. I should have beaten my other opponents without much difficulty.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Sylla, “we fell into what you military men call the weakness of underrating our opponent. We did not half believe in your prowess, Mr. Montague.”

“I can only hope that I have convinced you now,” he rejoined, smiling; “and that another time you will range yourself amongst my supporters.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the young lady, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “We are obstinate in our convictions at Todborough, are we not, Lady Mary? We still think we can beat Rockcliffe Camp over a quarter of a mile.”

Those around her were listening with no little interest to Sylla Chipchase’s badinage. Pansey Cottrell, who knew the girl better than the others, felt pretty sure, from the mischief dancing in her eyes, that this was not mere idle talk, and awaited the disclosure of her design with considerable curiosity; while Lady Mary, although putting Sylla down as the most audacious little piece of sauciness she had ever come across, showed no little admiration for the stanchness with which the girl stood to her guns in thus upholding their defeated champion.

“No doubt, Miss Chipchase,” replied Montague, “a race is sometimes reversed when run over again, but you must excuse my clinging to the conviction that what I have once done I can also do again.”

“Ah, well,” replied the young lady, with an air of mock resignation; “I told you Todborough fell into the error of underrating the enemy, and Todborough has paid the penalty of defeat. Had we deemed you so swift of foot, Mr. Montague, we should certainly have entered the best runner we had against you.”

Sylla’s auditors were now thoroughly nonplussed. What could the girl be driving at? Mr. Cottrell’s curiosity was raised to the highest pitch, whilst Jim Bloxam stared at the fair speaker with undisguised astonishment. He most certainly deemed that he was fleeter of foot than any one in Todborough, and, having lived there all his life, Jim was not likely to fall into any mistake on that point.

“With the greatest deference for your opinion,” rejoined Montague, “I think, perhaps, we men are better judges on that point than you can be, Miss Chipchase. I think, if you ask Bloxam, he will tell you that he not only can beat everybody at Todborough, but, with the exception of professionals, can dispose of most men that he comes across.”

“That is so like you lords of the creation,” replied Sylla, with a wicked little laugh; “you never will allow that we know anything about sporting affairs; and yet I have heard my father say that the best judge of racing he ever knew was a woman, and I am sure some of us take the best of you to keep with us in the hunting-field. I have no doubt that Captain Bloxam thinks, as you do, that there is nobody that can beat him at Todborough.”

“I most undoubtedly don’t know it if there is,” interposed Jim.

“And yet, Mr. Montague,” continued Sylla, “if you had not run such a severe race to-day, I would challenge you to beat my champion over the same course.”

“Oh, pray don’t let that be any consideration,” replied Montague, now somewhat nettled. He had felt no little elated at defeating Bloxam, and did not relish any disparagement of his victory. “Running a quarter-mile race,” he continued, “does not place one hors de combat for the afternoon.”

“Ah, well,” cried Sylla gaily, “I told you Todborough was stubborn to believe itself beaten. If you dare, I’ll wager my bracelet” and she touched a very handsome bangle on her wrist “against the cup you have just won that my champion beats you this afternoon.”

“It shall be a match if you wish it. I can merely say I have beaten the only man I considered dangerous, and am afraid of none other. Don’t blame me if I rob you of your bracelet; but remember, Miss Chipchase, this match was none of my seeking. However, your champion is on the ground, I presume; perhaps, now, you don’t mind naming him.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “Will somebody please tell Lionel Beauchamp I want him?”

“Lionel Beauchamp!” ejaculated Jim, and then he shook his head; for he regarded Sylla’s proceedings now as mere temper.

To the bystanders, of course, the name of Lionel Beauchamp told nothing. He was a stranger to all except the Todborough party. His name had never been heard of in connection with athletic sports in any way. Lionel Beauchamp, in fact, was a young man who, what between taking a degree at Oxford and foreign travel, had scarcely is yet been either seen or heard of in the London world. He was known only in his own country as one of those quiet reserved dispositions little given to vaunt their accomplishments. Both Braybrooke and Jim Bloxam, having been appealed to by Captain Conyers, said they could form no idea whatever of his capabilities. They had never heard him say a word about running; and if he ever had done anything in that way, it was odd that he had never mentioned it in the smoking-room last night, when, in consequence of Jim’s entry for the “All Army Cup,” discussion had run high concerning such things. Lady Mary, on her part, was lost in conjecture not so much as to whether Mr. Beauchamp could run, but as to where Sylla Chipchase could have attained such intimate knowledge of his accomplishments; while Mr. Cottrell alone showed faith in this unknown champion, observing cynically to Mrs. Sartoris, that when women went the length of wagering their bracelets, he thought it most advisable to be upon their side.

“They really must know they have an immense deal the best of it when they do that, depend upon it.” Further speculation on the match was here interrupted by the appearance of Lionel Beauchamp, whom Mr. Sartoris had duly fetched from the other side of the marquee, where he had discovered him what Lady Mary would have called profitably employing himself by the side of Miss Bloxam.

“Oh, Lionel!” exclaimed Sylla, and to Mr. Cottrell’s intense amusement she stole a glance at Lady Mary to see how she liked this familiar address, “I have sent for you to preserve me from the fruits of my rashness. If you don’t beat Mr. Montague for me over a quarter of a mile, I shall have to go home without my bracelet.”

“But I am sure,” interrupted Beauchamp, “that Mr. Montague has no wish to hold you to so foolish a wager.”

“Certainly not,” interposed Montague; “I have no wish whatever to press it. The match, I assure you, is of Miss Chipchase’s making, not mine.”

“Ah, well, then,” exclaimed Sylla, “perhaps it is my obstinacy, not my rashness. I can be obstinate, you know, Lionel; but you will run for me all the same, won’t you?”

“I think it a very foolish wager,” he replied, “and that you will probably lose your bracelet; but I cannot say no if you insist upon it, and must only do my best.”

“You must run,” she replied, quickly. “I could not be so cowardly as to ‘cry off’ now. You must run, and you will win, I feel. Nobody here believes it but me; but I know it.” Then, leaning towards him, she said, with a light laugh, and in tones so low that the others could not overhear her words, “Lose if you dare, sir!”

Blanche Bloxam, who had come up with Mr. Sartoris and Beauchamp, was no better pleased than her mother at hearing her late cavalier so familiarly addressed by such an extremely pretty girl as Sylla Chipchase. As for Lionel, he turned away in a quiet matter-of-fact manner, and said,

“I suppose somebody here can lend me a pair of shoes; and as soon as I have fitted myself out with those, I am at your disposal, Mr. Montague, whenever you like.”

Any amount of cricket and racket-shoes were speedily placed at Beauchamp’s disposal; and Montague having said that he should be prepared to try conclusions with the new-comer in half an hour, the match at once became the subject of animated discussion. But if the Engineer had been favourite before, he was still more so now. With all the prestige of having beaten the Aldershot champion, it was but natural that the camp should proffer liberal odds on their “crack” against an unknown man, and the stanchest adherents of Todborough stood aloof, with the exception of Mr. Cottrel, and his faith, to speak correctly, was the result of his belief in Sylla Chipchase.

“Won’t you wish me luck, Miss Bloxam?” said Lionel, quietly, as the bugle summoned the competitors in the match to the starting-post.

“Certainly, with all my heart,” rejoined Blanche. “All our sympathies are of course with you. But do you think you can win?”

“I really don’t know. If it was only a mile, Montague would find me troublesome to get rid of; but this is hardly far enough for me.”

The “novice,” as the camp with much promptitude christened him, was keenly scanned when, having divested himself of his coat, he appeared at the post. A slight, dark, wiry young fellow, with a terrible wear-and-tear look about him that should make an antagonist judge him difficult to dispose of in a struggle of any duration. There was no delay this time about the start; for the two jumped off at the first attempt, Montague having decidedly somewhat the best of it. By the time they had gone a hundred yards the Engineer felt sure that he had the speed of his opponent, and then, sad to say for his supporters, he fell into the very error which Sylla Chipchase had so deprecated, viz., holding his antagonist too cheap. Mr. Montague’s vanity had been considerably wounded by that young lady’s disbelief in his prowess. She had contrived, as she had most assuredly intended, to irritate him by her persistent scepticism as to his being the swift-footed Achilles he so loved to pose as. He determined to show her and all other unbelievers what he could really do. He would make a veritable exhibition of his antagonist. He would cut him down and run clean away from him. Fired with this idea, he shot well to the front, and came along the next hundred yards at a great pace, and a shout went up from the marquees near the winning-post of “Montague wins anyhow!” But we all know what comes of the attempt to astonish the gallery. Although the Engineer had undoubtedly established a strong lead, yet his wiry foe, running well within himself, hung persistently on his track, and was a long way from beaten off. During the next hundred yards it was palpable that Beauchamp was slowly but steadily diminishing the gap between them, and thence up to the marquees he closed rapidly on his leader. Thirty yards from the winning-post Lionel made his effort, fairly collared his antagonist about ten yards from home, and, leaving him without an effort, won a good race by a couple of yards. Whether the result would have been different had Mr. Montague held his opponent in higher esteem, as in all such cases, it is impossible to determine; but there can be no doubt that the ostentatious victory he aspired to made Lionel Beauchamp’s task considerably more easy.

Gratulations and condolences welcomed the victor and vanquished as they walked slowly back to the marquees; but it was with somewhat of a crestfallen air that Montague advanced to present Sylla with the cup that she had won. He feared that she would be merciless in this her hour of triumph, and dreaded the banter to which he might be subjected. But Sylla knew well the virtue of moderation, and was, besides, far too pleased with her success to be hard upon any one.

“No, no, Mr. Montague!” she exclaimed, with the sunniest of smiles; “I cannot take it; I cannot, indeed. I am not entitled to it, for my champion is not even a soldier. I know without Lionel telling me that I have been very lucky to save my bracelet. I am well content to leave my cup in your hands, for I feel quite sure that you will keep it for me against all comers.”

But if Sylla Chipchase was content, Lady Mary Bloxam was very much the reverse. Mr. Beauchamp’s victory had gratified her, it was true; but then how came this sparkling brunette not only to call him “Lionel,” but apparently to know all his habits and capabilities? She felt, too, exceedingly wroth at the manner in which Sylla had unexpectedly usurped the position of queen of the revels, and again determined that she would see as little as possible of the Chipchase girls as long as their cousin was with them.