The news that John Beacham had carried his wife into the country, without even allowing that ill-used young woman to return to Stanwick-street, was communicated on the following morning by Colonel Norcott to his young friend, to whom he wrote a hurried note as follows:
“Only fancy! John Beacham, after behaving like a bear, carried off my poor girl, just as she was, to Updown. I had half a mind to interfere; but the Derby before everything! We shall meet on the course, I suppose. If not, at the club afterwards. Good luck to Rough Diamond, and to us! We are in the same boat. Sink or swim?—with me, at least.
“Yours in haste,
“F. N.”
Many hours sped by after the receipt by Arthur of this note ere the important telegram arrived which told the world remaining in London which horse had won “the race.” In spite of his mad love for Honor Beacham, Arthur Vavasour heard the news with all-absorbing rapture. There were “take-offs,” it is true, from his joy. He was deprived of the pleasure of openly revelling in the fact that a horse of his had won the Derby by a head. Rough Diamond, running in the name of Colonel Norcott, was generally supposed to be the bonâ-fide property of that fortunate individual; but although he could not hold his head high as the owner of a Derby winner, Arthur could, and did, rejoice with exceeding joy over the result of the race. He was, virtually, free from the debts of honour which had so long oppressed and disgraced him. The sale of the winner to the highest bidder would enable him to walk once more with a free step, and boldly, amongst the young men his fellows. That the heir-apparent of so fine a property as Gillingham Chace should have been reduced to such shifts, and have suffered from such pecuniary anxieties as had sometimes rendered sleepless the luxurious couch of Arthur Vavasour, may seem to some an abnormal, if not, indeed, an impossible, state of things; but it must be remembered, in the first place, that the heir to many thousands per annum had been but for a short period legally “of age;” and in the next, that the raising of money by that individual would have been at all times—in consequence of Lady Millicent’s well-known intention to dispute her father’s will—an affair very difficult of arrangement. Ever since his purchase of John Beacham’s powerful and, as his former owner—one of the best judges in England—boldly affirmed, most promising colt, Arthur had seen, with the confident eye of youth, a limit to the annoyance which had so long pressed upon his spirits. They had been very good-natured to him, those sporting friends of his to whom he owed some fifty, some a hundred, and one more hundreds than it was pleasant to remember. They had bided their time. Arthur Vavasour had been such a mere lad when he became their debtor, and the men were, without an exception, far older, both in years and experience, than Lady Millicent’s thoughtless son; so, as I said, they had treated the young man tenderly. No cold shoulders had been turned to him either at the clubs or on the racecourse; and Arthur, thankful for the indulgence, was doubly glad of the opportunity which his success afforded him of paying with grateful thanks those who, somewhat singular to say, had not ceased to be his friends.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed after Arthur read the welcome telegram, when he betook himself to the gratifying business of preparing for his long-delayed settling-day. His first act was to put himself in indirect communication with the sporting earl who, as all the world was well aware, possessed a purse long enough to gratify his lordship’s desire to become possessor of the Derby winner; and his next object of interest was the promised visit of Colonel Norcott, who, although he did not greatly admire his character, had, both as the nominal owner of Rough Diamond and the father of Honor Beacham, peculiar claims on his time and attention. Very early on that day, and soon after receiving Fred Norcott’s billet, he had despatched a note to that gentleman’s abode, and in that note he had informed his friend of the interesting domestic reason of his absence on the previous day from Tattenham Corner on that all-important occasion.
“I will call in Stanwick-street about nine P.M.,” so wrote the newly-made father, “when I hope to find you at home, and shall be truly glad if there is good news for us in the interim.” Arthur was well pleased to escape a meeting at “the club,” id est, his club, with Colonel Norcott. That gentleman was in the habit—a propensity which was rather annoying to Arthur Vavasour—of showing off, at the Travellers’, his intimacy with the popular young heir of Gillingham, the former being well aware that he stood on unsafe ground, and that it behoved him to make the most of such respectable acquaintances as fade, or rather conduct, had left him. The indomitable Fred, not content with linking his arm within that of Arthur Vavasour, when the two chanced to meet in the haunts of fashionable men and women, would, whenever he could either seize or make an opportunity for so doing, parade his acquaintanceship with his young friend in the most unwarrantable manner. It was in order to prevent a repetition of this inconvenience that Arthur Vavasour (who would probably have been more careful of hurting the Colonel’s vanity had Honor Beacham still remained under his protection) indited the epistle above alluded to, namely, that which appointed Stanwick-street as a place of rendezvous between himself and the owner of his most cherished secret. Well aware of the fact that Colonel Norcott, who belonged to no regular “club,” but only to a sporting réunion of doubtful respectability, was in the habit of making the best of his lodging-house dinner at home, Arthur Vavasour entertained but little doubt of finding his middle-aged friend (whose health, albeit he would have strenuously denied the fact, was beginning to betray some of the consequences of an ill-spent life) resting from the excitement of the day in the bosom, so-called by courtesy, of his family.
Sophy—the happy, grateful Sophy—watched over by loving eyes, and surrounded by all the comforts and luxuries that wealth could procure, was “going on,” as the hall-porter was now officially instructed to say, “as well as could possibly be expected.” Old Duberly, whose heart, in spite of the strength of his prejudices, had in it some very soft and tender spots, had as yet only partially recovered from the state of almost frantic ecstasy into which the birth of his grandson and the certainty of his daughter’s safety had thrown him. It is true that he no longer insisted upon shaking hands (each time that he encountered them on the stairs or in the passages) with Arthur, the doctor, or maybe the nurse—anyone and everyone, in short, who could by any possibility sympathise with his grandpaternal joy. He was less demonstrative, and more quietly thankful to the God of all mercies for the great blessing that He had bestowed upon him; but for all that he was more outwardly composed; the old man’s inward condition—whether sleeping or waking, alone or in company with his fellow-rejoicer by Sophy’s bedside—was one of exceeding gratitude and bliss.
“I am thinking of going out for an hour, sir,” Arthur said, suppressing with some difficulty one of the troublesome and desperate yawns which a lengthened dialogue with his respected father-in-law was apt to induce. “Sophy is asleep, the nurse says, and I want to stretch my legs and have a smoke.”
Mr. Duberly, who as a rule was rather an enemy to the favourite vice of the day, and who had sometimes felt a little jealous when he had seen his “girl’s” white fingers busy in Arthur’s tobacco-jar, and pressing down with her dainty thumb the weed into her husband’s meerschaum, was at that especial moment in too good a humour not only with Arthur, but with the world in general, for any idea of opposition to enter his brain.
“Want a smoke, do you, eh?” he said good-humouredly. “I don’t know what you young fellows are made of to stand drawing so much poison into your lungs. And what you’ll all be like when you come to be my age is more than I can guess. But get along with you, boy—only don’t be long, for Sophy may wake up and want to say ‘good-night.’ I shall be in the boudore though, ready, if anything’s wanted.” And so saying, the doating old man, gathering up his spectacles, and the newspaper which he was in the habit of digesting with his dinner, a meal which at that moment sat—if the truth must be told—rather heavily on his stomach, toddled out of the room, to pass a dozy hour or two within hearing of his daughter’s gentle voice.