“You will wait—you must wait,” Arthur broke in imperiously. “I tell you what, Colonel Norcott, I can’t stand the bother and the wear and tear of this any longer; Rough Diamond, as we know, is all right again, and the odds are—”
“Five to four on the favourite! We all know that. What then?” and Fred replaced his cigar between his lips, and smoked away with a nonchalance which, to an excited man, was not a little provoking.
“What then? Why, simply this: I’d rather sell the horse, upon my soul I would, than go on in this way. If Rough Diamond loses—”
“Well, if he does?”
“Nonsense, man, what’s the use of asking? you know nearly as much of my affairs as I do. You know how devilishly I’m dipped, and how everything depends on my horse winning the Derby to-morrow.”
“Well, and he will win it. Don’t be a fool. I mean don’t be out of heart. I’m sure if I thought there were the ghost of a chance against him, I should be pretty considerably down in the mouth too. Why, man, I’ve backed the favourite with every farthing I’m worth, and—”
“Ah, yes—I know; but my case is different. Only fancy if old Dub was to find out (which he would be almost sure to do if the horse didn’t win) that the brute is mine, and has been all along; what a row there would be! And then there’s that infernal fellow Nathan—it’s ruinous work renewing—so ruinous that, by Jove, I sometimes think—though of course I couldn’t decide anything without speaking to you. I sometimes think whether it wouldn’t be better—you see it would never do for the old fellow to get wind of these confounded bills—I sometimes think whether it wouldn’t be the best thing I could do to let Lord Penshanger have Rough Diamond, and so get out of the infernal bother of the business altogether.”
Fred Norcott, at these words turning a hot and angry face to his companion, looked by no means at his pleasantest. “What, sell the favourite!” he said. “By Jove, you must be mad! I couldn’t allow or hear of such a thing. I must say that—but I beg your pardon, Vavasour; you can understand that when a man has so much at stake he loses his head, and hardly knows what he’s talking about. The fact is that Honor—that poor girl in there” (and he pointed to the house, before which they had been slowly pacing to and fro) “is deuced miserable with that brute of a farmer fellow that she married. She’s staying on with me because he and an old mother that he has bully her so confoundedly between them; and I should be glad to know if any tricks were to be played on Rough Diamond (and I’ll answer for nothing if there’s any change made) what would become of that poor child? I shouldn’t have a home to offer her, and—but, by George, there are the horses! Honor will be down in a minute, and I shall be late,” consulting his watch again, “if I’m not off to Waterloo in double quick time. Not going down to-day, eh? Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. See you at Opera to-night, I suppose?” And on receiving an affirmative nod from Arthur, who already had his foot on the first step of No. 14, Colonel Norcott went his way towards the station, where almost countless crowds were waiting to be conveyed to the same goal—namely, the racecourse on Epsom Downs.
“What a lovely morning! I should like to be out of doors the whole entire day!” exclaimed Honor, as she and Arthur rode along the least frequented road within the precincts of the Regent’s Park, “and what is more, I long to be in the country. Lydia had a holiday on Sunday, and she says that all the beautiful chestnut-trees in Bushy Park are in full blossom, and I should so like to go there! Have you ever seen the avenue? Mrs. Norcott has not, and she would like, she says, to drive there this afternoon better than anything. Mr. Vavasour, couldn’t we do it?” in a pretty tone of beseechment. “I have so little more time; and”—her cheeks flushing, half with anger and half with shame at this betrayal of her home secrets,—“I have had such a letter to-day! so cross—so unfeeling! O, Mr. Vavasour, I am afraid,” looking very piteous, “that it will be all so dreadful when I go home. What shall I do? I almost wish that I had never come to London, the Paddocks will seem so dull, so miserable when I go back!”
“Miserable? Are you quite sure of that?” coming nearer, and resting his hand on the pommel of his companion’s saddle. “Don’t think me very selfish, but I should not like you to be too happy, Honor, not too happy when you are away from me. You sweet, beautiful creature!” gazing passionately on her downcast eyes, “why did not I see you, know you, in the lost time gone by, when you might have loved me, Honor? Am I too bold, too vain, to think, to hope that had we met sooner—met before you were tied and bound to another man—we two might have been happy? Speak to me, Honor. How can you be so cold, so quiet, when I—”