CHAPTER XV
THE RESULT OF THE DISCOVERY
"You have been a long time," said Mrs. Hoffman to Janet.
"I went for a walk through the Park; it is such a nice morning," she replied.
Irene heard her voice and started at the sound. It was familiar. Where had she heard it before? She felt she was on the verge of a startling discovery, and became agitated. She determined not to appear at a disadvantage, and therefore controlled her feelings.
Janet entered, unaware there was anyone in the room, and as Irene was hidden from view behind the opened door she did not see her. She walked to the table to put down a parcel and Irene saw her. At first she was too bewildered to speak; then she said sharply —
"Janet, what are you doing here?"
Janet Todd looked round, frightened and startled at the unexpected question. When she saw Irene she staggered back and sank into a chair, covered with shame and confusion. She made no answer, and Irene stood looking at her, still unable to grasp the full meaning of the situation.
"How is it you are living here?" she asked. "Are you a friend of Mrs. Hoffman or Mrs. Warren?"
Janet looked at her with tears in her eyes, and said, in a broken voice —
"Oh, why have you come here? Please go away and leave me; I am a miserable, wretched woman."
It was far from Irene's intention to leave her without learning the truth. The appearance of Janet was totally unexpected, and she could not account for it.
"I shall not leave you until you tell me why you are in this house, and who induced you to leave your home. I know it was not Mr. Maynard."
"It was not; he is a good, brave man, and would never wrong any woman," said Janet. "I cannot tell you why I am here – I dare not."
"I was told to ask for Mrs. Warren. Where is she?"
"Who told you to ask for her?"
"That does not matter." Then it suddenly occurred to her that Janet might be Mrs. Warren, and the thought seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. She came forward and, bending over her, said in a low voice —
"You are not Mrs. Warren, are you? Tell me you are not, Janet, for pity's sake."
She made no reply, but sobbed convulsively, her body shook, and she shivered painfully.
"Are you Mrs. Warren?" asked Irene again, in a tone which demanded an answer.
"Yes," faintly sobbed Janet.
"And Mr. Warren is my husband. Janet, how could you do me such a bitter wrong? I have always been your friend," said Irene.
Despite the trouble and confusion she was in, Janet saw there was a misunderstanding, and she must do all in her power to make the best of things.
"I did not wrong you," said Janet. "I ran away with Mr. Courtly before you were married to him. If there be any wrong, you did it to me by taking the place I ought to have occupied."
Irene started; Janet was putting a different complexion on the case.
"So it was my husband who induced you to leave your home?" she asked.
"Yes, and he promised to marry me."
"And you believed him?"
"Yes."
"Did you leave your father's house with him the night Mr. Maynard had the quarrel about you?"
"I did."
"You saw him that night?"
"Yes, and he told me everything, but forbid me to speak about it to the Squire. He was very angry, and said his father had no right to accuse him, and that he would not return to Hazelwell until he asked his forgiveness."
"Did you tell him you had arranged to leave home with Mr. Courtly?"
"No, I dare not; he would have told my father, and I should have been detained."
"And you have known all this time that suspicion rested upon Mr. Maynard, and that he was suspected of having gone away with you?" asked Irene.
"That is so, but he has forbidden me to speak about it."
"He knows you are here!" exclaimed Irene.
"Promise you will not mention it to anyone, and I will tell you all," said Janet.
Irene sat down and, as she did so, said —
"If I promise I will not mention what you tell me to anyone but my husband, will that satisfy you?"
"Why inform him?"
"Because I may find it necessary," said Irene.
"It will be better not to do so."
"I am the best judge of that," she replied.
Janet then gave Irene a full account of her life since leaving home with Warren Courtly, and how Ulick had called to see her, after accidentally catching sight of her in Feltham, and of his presence in the house when Warren Courtly called.
"Mr. Maynard knows all?" exclaimed Irene, in consternation.
"Everything," replied Janet, "and he was most anxious you should not discover the truth. He will be very angry if he finds out I have told you."
Then it was to save her pain and shame Ulick had allowed the blame to rest upon his shoulders, knowing at the same time her husband was guilty. Why had he done this for her sake? Her heart answered her, and she knew he loved her and that she loved him. What a mistake it had all been. The Squire had blundered, and Ulick had thrown away his chance of happiness and her own by his hasty conduct. It was done, and could not be undone, and she must bear it as well as she was able. How she wished Janet had told him, the night he left Hazelwell, that she was about to leave her home with Warren Courtly. Ulick would have prevented it, and everything would have been so different.
It was some time before she spoke; then she asked —
"What is my husband to you now?"
"Nothing," said Janet, colouring. "Since he married you we have lived entirely apart. You can believe what I say. I have no love for him, he has none for me. He makes me an allowance, which he has a right to do. We are not even good friends, and I do not care if I never see him again. I was a vain, foolish girl when I ran away with him, and have bitterly repented it ever since. Mr. Maynard told me my father was anxious for me to return home, and he strongly advised me to do so, until he discovered who Mr. Warren was; then for your sake he bade me keep silent and remain where I am."
Irene was somewhat relieved at this. From Janet's statement she gathered her husband had been faithful to her since their marriage, and that, to a great extent, condoned his offence towards herself, but she could not forgive him for so cowardly allowing the blame to rest upon Ulick. The contrast between the two came vividly before her. Her husband hiding his wrongs by sacrificing a friend; Ulick Maynard knowingly bearing the blame to shield her from sorrow and shame. She felt sorely tempted to go to Ulick, fling herself into his arms, and ask him to take her away from it all. She knew he would resist this temptation for her sake, and after a moment's consideration she also knew it was impossible for her to act in such a manner.
"We must keep this interview to ourselves," said Irene. "No one must know of my visit, and you must tell Mrs. Hoffman I am a friend, any name will suffice to satisfy her. I am very sorry for you, Janet, and advise you to return to your father."
"I cannot. Mr. Maynard made me promise not to do so until he gave me permission, and I could not face the people in Helton after what has happened."
"You will live that down," said Irene. "I will take care no one talks about you, as far as I am able, and I can do a good deal to help you."
"It is very kind of you," replied Janet, "and I hope some day to see my father and live with him again. I am not so bad, and I have kept myself respectable since I ran away."
"I quite believe that," replied Irene. "Do you think my husband will call here again?"
"I hardly know; he has posted me money lately. I have no desire to see him," replied Janet.
"You will oblige me by not seeing him," said Irene. "Forbid him the house. If you require money write to me, and I will send it."
"He might see the letter and recognise my handwriting."
"That is of no consequence. If he does he will soon learn I have seen you and know everything," said Irene.
"I will write and tell him I wish him to keep away from the house, and I feel sure he will do as I desire," said Janet.
Irene remained some time longer, for they had much to talk about. When she was leaving Janet said she would write to her at once if there was anything of importance she thought she ought to know.
When Irene returned to the Walton, her maid told her Warren Courtly had called, and was very angry when he discovered his wife had come up to London without informing him.
"The manager told him you were here," said Mary. "I expect he thought he had come to see you."
"Did you see Mr. Courtly?"
"Yes, and he asked me where you had gone. I told him I did not know, but that I expected you back in the afternoon, and he said he would be here for dinner."
Irene went to her room, and after dismissing her maid thought over the best course to pursue. Should she tell him of her meeting with Janet, and that she had learned everything, or would it be better to leave him in the dark? What excuse could she give for her journey to London? State she had come to give him a pleasant surprise, and that the Squire would be there in a day or two for the Epsom week. Perhaps that would be the better plan. If he was unreasonably cross and irritable, she might possibly throw out a hint that would startle him and make him more careful.
It was four o'clock, and she did not expect him for dinner before seven, so there was ample time to review the eventful morning she had spent with Janet Todd. This she was doing when her maid knocked at the door and said Mr. Ulick Maynard had called to see her.
Irene did not expect him, his father must have written at once to inform him she had gone to town.
"Where is he?" asked Irene.
"In the reading-room."
"I will see him in my sitting-room," she said; and her maid went away to give the necessary instruction.
"I am glad to see you," said Ulick, as she entered the room. "It is an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you were in town until my father wrote me a hurried note."
She shook hands with him, and as she did so the thought that he knew what her husband had done, and how he had acted, caused her some confusion, at which Ulick wondered.
"I came to town to give Warren a surprise," she said, hurriedly. "I have not seen him yet, but he has called, and my maid says he did not seem overwhelmed with joy at my presence."
"Then he ought to have been," said Ulick.
"He is joining me at dinner. Will you make one of the party?" she asked.
"If you wish it, and you think he will have no objection?"
"I am sure he will be pleased to see you."
"In that case I have no hesitation in accepting. I will run home and dress."
How lovely Irene looked; he felt he must go away, leave her presence, or he would be tempted to betray his feelings. He little knew how strongly she controlled herself, and how deeply she loved him. It was well for them that it should be so.
Warren Courtly's temper had not improved when he arrived again at the Walton. He went to Irene's room and waited impatiently for her, and she did not keep him long.
"What brings you to town in such a hurry?" he asked.
"I felt lonely and thought I would give you a surprise," she said, with a faint smile.
"You had no business to come without first writing me about it."
"I saw no harm in it."
"Harm, no; but it is a strange proceeding on your part," he replied.
"Are you not pleased to see me?" she asked.
"Of course I am," he answered, testily. "It's the manner of your coming I do not approve of."
"You will soon recover from the shock," she said, carelessly. "Shall we dine at seven. I have invited Ulick Maynard to join us. He called this afternoon, and I thought it only polite. He accepted on condition you had no objection, and I said you would be very pleased to see him."
Warren Courtly with difficulty suppressed an oath. Of late he had avoided Ulick, and he was the last man he cared to meet.
"I would rather have had you to myself," he said.
"Ulick is such an old friend, he will make no difference," she replied.
"You are precious fond of his society still," he said, showing his ill-temper; "I should have thought you would have preferred being alone with me, if you came down to give me a surprise. Perhaps you wrote and informed him you were coming here."
Irene was angry at this remark, and said —
"You know I did no such thing, and I am surprised at you insulting me by such a remark. His father wrote and gave him the information."
"At your suggestion," sneered Warren.
"You are in a bad temper, and forget yourself," she replied. "I will leave you to recover your manners. Remember one thing, if you make any more suggestions of a similar kind at dinner I shall retaliate. I am quite capable of giving you a very unpleasant surprise if you fail to treat me with respect."
She went out of the room, and he stood looking at the closed door. Then he said to himself —
"What has come over her? I never found her in this mood before. I must get to the bottom of it. Retaliate, will she? Well, we shall see."
CHAPTER XVI
A RACE TO BE REMEMBERED
It was not a social meal, anything but that, and they were glad when it was over. Warren Courtly, irritable and ill at ease, spoke once or twice to his wife in such a manner that Ulick glared at him savagely; he noticed it, and enjoyed it.
Unfortunately, Warren was going from bad to worse. He realised the truth of the saying that evil communications corrupt good manners. At his club he played bridge and lost large sums. On the racecourse he tried to repair these losses, with the inevitable result. His fortune, at one time ample, gradually dwindled away, and he knew that if he did not pull up Anselm Manor would be in the market in a couple of years or so.
Irene had no idea things were as bad as this; her mind was occupied with other matters. The knowledge she possessed of her husband's conduct towards Janet Todd and Ulick she found burdensome. She was positively certain Ulick would not tell the Squire, and she felt he ought to know, but she had promised Janet to tell no one but her husband. When she left them to retire for the night, Warren commenced to talk about racing. He had a substantial bet about Sandstone for the Derby at very fair odds, and was sanguine of winning. He discussed the race with Ulick, who was of the same opinion that Sandstone would win.
"If he does," Ulick remarked, "I should put part of the winnings on my horse for the Coronation Cup."
"Your horse!" exclaimed Warren. "I had no idea you owned one."
"More than one – several," replied Ulick; "but the Saint is the best."
"You own the Saint!" said Warren, more and more surprised. "I have heard it said he is the best three-year-old we have."
"He is not far short of it," he replied. "At least, that is the opinion of Fred May, and he is a very good judge."
"You are lucky to own such a colt. Where did you pick him up?"
Ulick explained how he came to possess him, and Warren said, grumbling, that some people had all the luck.
"I have been deuced unfortunate of late," he went on, "and a big win is the only way out of the difficulty that I can see. If Sandstone lands the Derby I will have a plunge on your horse. I am much obliged to you for telling me."
"I shall be glad to hear of your winning a good round sum," replied Ulick. "I was sorry to hear you were compelled to part with Holme Farm."
Warren's face clouded. He had heard quite enough about that, and said —
"I don't see what there is to make such a fuss about. Something had to go; why not that part of the estate as well as another?"
"My father says he would have given you half as much again for it."
"I could not have accepted it; he would merely have done it out of kindness."
Ulick thought this probable, and knew his father would do that, and more, for Irene's sake.
The Squire arrived at the Walton, and was feverishly anxious for the Saint's race to be decided. Fred May had sent glowing accounts of the colt's progress, and considered he had a chance second to none.
"We will show them what he is capable of this time; it will be the race of his life. He has never been quite so fit as he is now, and I fear nothing, not even Vulture," he wrote.
"By Jove! that is good news," said the Squire. "The olive green will win, my boy."
On Derby Day they all went to Epsom, where Redmond Maynard had a box, and the great scene was repeated as it has been for many years.
It was one of the sights of the world, most uncomfortable, but unique.
Sandstone won somewhat easily, and Warren was jubilant. He meant to invest the bulk of his winnings on the Saint.
He confided to Irene that if Ulick's colt won his difficulties would be well-nigh at an end.
"I had no idea you were in difficulties," she said.
"Not very serious," he replied, in an off-hand manner, which did not deceive her, "but still bad enough to be unpleasant."
Thursday, the day after the Derby, was fixed for the Coronation Cup, and the half-dozen horses that were likely to go to the post were all great performers.
It was a meeting of champions, a race to be remembered, and a thorough sporting affair. The crowd was much larger than usual on this day, and the race was looked forward to with as much eagerness as the Derby had been the previous day.
Warren Courtly was in a fever of excitement. He had backed the Saint to win him several thousands, and when he saw him in the paddock felt inclined to put more on.
The colt's peculiar colour rendered him easily distinguishable, and he was mobbed in the paddock, taking it as unconcernedly as usual.
Ben Sprig was to ride him again, and he felt a trifle anxious as to the result. He had never been beaten on the Saint, having scored five victories in succession; but he knew the five horses he was to meet in about a quarter of an hour were probably the best in the country.
Vulture had won the Derby the previous year, as easily as Sandstone, and followed it up by a St. Leger victory. Coralie, a handsome mare, had an Ascot Gold Cup to her credit. Avenger made hacks of the last Cesarewitch field. Decoy Duck was an Eclipse winner; and Mermaid landed the Oaks in Vulture's year. Well might men gasp and exclaim, "What a field. It beats the Derby into a cocked hat."
No wonder the betting was fast and furious, and backers were split up into half-a-dozen parties. It was the more venturesome speculators who stood by the Saint. The old hands preferred one of the other tried stayers.
"It is too much to expect of him," they said of the Saint. "It's more than Sandstone could do, and look how he won the Derby yesterday."
Vulture was favourite, then Coralie and Avenger, and the Saint figured at eight to one.
"It is a real good price," said the Squire. "I must have a hundred on," and when he had booked that he longed for more, hesitated a moment or two, and then doubled it.
Irene caught the fever and made Warren put a "pony" on for her.
Ulick had a small amount going, and Warren had plunged.
Cautious Fred May departed from his usual custom of having "a tenner on" and invested fifty, and had done the same for Ben Sprig, who was not supposed to indulge in such iniquitous practices, for fear of the far-reaching arm of the stewards of the Jockey Club. Ben was a cautious man, and could conscientiously say he had never made a wager in his life – it was always done for him.
Great was the excitement as the horses went on to the course. Vulture, wearing the stars and stripes of his American owner, was first out, his jockey sitting crouched on his withers – an ugly sight, but often effective. Then came the handsome Coralie, in purple and scarlet, followed by Avenger's yellow and red cap, with Decoy Duck and Mermaid close behind.
"There's only five of 'em," said one spectator. "Where's the other? What is it?"
"The Saint, of course; Ben Sprig's up, he's always last out."
The Saint cantered slowly down as the others galloped past, and Ben, whipping him round, followed in the rear before half the onlookers were aware the colt had come out of the paddock.
Away they went to the famous Derby starting-post. Here Vulture showed his scant respect for decorum by lashing out all round, and in a final flourish tried to dash through the tapes, but did not succeed.
After a quarter of an hour wasted by these vagaries on the part of the favourite, the half-dozen started on their journey.
Coralie dashed off with the lead, followed by Vulture and Avenger, with the other three close up. It was evident it was to be a race from start to finish between the lot. They disappeared from view, and as they came in sight again, the mare still led, and the horses ran wide. The half-dozen were all on terms with each other. Tattenham Corner was reached and the crowd on the new stand cheered wildly as they swept past. It was here that Ben Sprig always looked out for a chance of gaining a few lengths. He wanted them more than ever on this occasion, and meant getting them if possible. He hugged the rails, and kept the Saint well in hand. He lost no ground but he gained none, as they were all adopting similar tactics, and none of the horses ran wide. The half-dozen seemed dangerously heaped together as they rounded the bend, and the crowd on that part of the course anticipated a spill, but happily it did not occur. Coralie led down the hill, the purple and gold glittering and shining royally in the sunlight.
The party in the Squire's box were unusually excited, which was not to be wondered at. Fred May was invited to join them, and he was more anxious than he had ever been before over the result of a race.
He had said he "feared nothing," with the Saint, and meant it. If he had a dread of one, it was Vulture, for he knew him to be a great horse, despite his temper.
"They keep their places," said the Squire, "but I fancy the Saint is drawing up a trifle."
Warren Courtly was very pale, and his hand shook as he held his glasses. Irene glanced at him, and thought —
"Much depends on this race, or he would not be like that." She turned to Ulick, who stood at her side, and said, "You take it coolly, are you confident of winning?"
"Yes, I think he will win; I know Ben is riding a splendid race, and saving him for the finish up the rise. That is where it tells."
"I do hope he will win, Ulick," she said.
He looked into her eyes and read more than he dared hope for.
Coralie had run well, but now they were racing in deadly earnest.
Vulture wrested the lead from her, and his giant stride told its tale. He shot out like a greyhound, and a great shout greeted the favourite's move. Avenger was close on his heels, and Ben was gradually creeping up with the Saint.
They were in the hollow now, in full view of the crowded stands, and the battle was watched with the greatest interest.
Not more than five lengths between the six horses – a sight seldom seen in such a race. Decoy Duck and Mermaid were in the rear.
"I am afraid he will hardly do it," said the Squire, "but what a race it is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten."
Warren Courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. Would the Saint get up and win? It seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and Ulick looked confident, so there must be a chance. The victory of Ulick's horse meant much to him, of his defeat he dare not think.
Seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle.
Ben Sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the Saint to go one better than he had ever done before. He knew what a good colt he was, he never doubted his courage, but in front of him was Vulture, a more than ordinary Derby winner, Avenger, the Newmarket crack, and the handsome Coralie. He knew he had the Ascot Cup winner at his mercy, he fancied Avenger would have to play second fiddle to the Saint, but what about Vulture? Would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? For the first time since he had ridden the Saint he doubted. Vulture was three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. It seemed almost impossible to catch him, but Ben knew the impossible often became the possible with a good horse. Win he must; the Saint should not lower his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and stripes, and he, Ben Sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding, would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little Yankee in front of him. Ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat fast.
The Saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. The colt was full of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would.
Who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable day? Who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of victory? Who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed to shoot forward with lightning speed? Ben Sprig fancied he was being hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the Saint.
Ulick's colt passed Coralie like a flash, drew level with Avenger, beat him, and ran up to the Vulture's quarters before people had time to grasp the wonderful feat.
Fred May shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore expected to regard everything as a matter of course. Ulick shouted, the Squire waved his hat, Warren Courtly sat down, the strain was too great, and Irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head.
Vulture's jockey was not caught napping – Americans seldom are – and he rode his best, but he had met his match. The grim determination of the elder man was not to be denied. Ben Sprig felt his honour was at stake, he must "beat this kid." The two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they knew what it all meant as well as the riders. There is no sight in the world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his eyes.
Vulture and the Saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive green were locked together. Only for a second or two it lasted, and then Ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "Mr. Lanark's" champion won the Coronation Cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever witnessed on any course.