Volume 2 — CHAPTER II. THE COLONEL LAYS A PLOT.

Musing on this unexpected discovery, Colonel Norcott sauntered slowly onwards under the spreading lime-trees, now in their full gush of sweetness, to that portion of the Park where the scene which was the only one of interest to him in that day’s programme of sports was to be enacted.

On a broad portion of level road, about three-quarters of a mile in length, and bordered on either side by a grassy ride, it had been announced that a trotting-match between the respective horses of two sporting farmers would take place. The match had been made at the Bell Inn at Gawthorpe, one social evening after market-day was over; and Lord Guernsey, who was a liberal promoter of all legitimate “sport,” had kindly consented that it should come off on one of the gala-days in Danescourt Park. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the two animals, on whose respective merits, nevertheless, a good deal of money (for such an obscure occasion as the present) had been risked on either side. Colonel Fred—who was an habitué at the Bell, “hanging out,” as he termed it, at that highly-respectable hostelry whenever either filial solicitude or the world-known Gawthorpe races brought him to Sandyshire—took a very decided part in the affair, backing his high opinion of Farmer Scroop’s rat-tailed brown cob for more money than he could well afford to lose. This being the case, and experience on sporting matters—to say nothing of a natural tendency to mistrustfulness—having combined to put him on the qui-vive, the Colonel had his eyes well open to ascertain that all was on the square, and that the race, humble though it might be considered, was not going to be “sold.”

But for the expected “coming off” of this sporting event, it is more than probable that Fred Norcott would not have honoured the sports that day with his presence. He had no taste for innocent amusements—the hospitable and kindly owners of Danescourt, were very far, and well he knew it, from looking upon him with friendly eyes. Since the days when his family were “county people,” the days when old Mr. Norcott was a magistrate, a subscriber to the hounds, a man having authority, in short, with tenants under him, society in general had grown to take a very different view of the Norcotts whilom of Lingfield. With humble Mrs. Baker, as representative in Sandyshire of the family honour and “respectability,” and with loafing Fred Norcott, lying very decidedly under one of those social clouds which nothing but the sunshine of wealth and prosperity can pierce through and cast aside, it was scarcely surprising that that gentleman’s associates should stand on a rung of the social ladder lower than that on which his forefathers had found themselves. Daily, hourly even, this fact was brought home, in not the pleasantest manner in the world, to the notice of the quondam admired and popular London man, who had returned, as he had hoped, whitewashed and renovated by his temporary absence, and by his marriage with a woman who, he had taken great pains to make generally known, was a colonial heiress on the largest scale. Very much disgusted was Fred, when he found that certain never thoroughly cleared-up accusations were still standing in array against him; and it was decidedly under protest that he took the lower room to which he found himself reduced. In the “sporting world,” that world whose limits as regards “respectability” are so ill defined, Fred Norcott was still allowed admittance. He had committed no flagrant act of dishonesty—above all, his payments of “debts of honour” had been both prompt and undisputed; though in what way, or from what fund, those debts were paid, his confrères never cared to inquire. As Fred was a good fellow so long as he paid his way, and possessed a little spare cash in his pocket, he might be seen hand and glove with certain persons of good standing, betting-men so called, amateurs of racing matters, who neither under nor above the rose made racing a profession, and who, falling in accidentally at sporting meetings with the Colonel, accepted his acquaintance as a matter of course, and thus, to a certain extent, linked him with the more high-principled and exclusive portion of the community.

The stumbling upon the surprising truth, as regarded his connection with John Beacham’s beautiful wife, had set Colonel Norcott’s busy brain a-working in good earnest. Of feeling, whether parental or remorseful, he could literally be accused of none on the occasion; but there might—it was an important opening—be something to be done in consequence of this tardy revelation; and Fred was too much in the habit of turning odds and ends to account, not to perceive at once that he must not exactly go to sleep on the knowledge that he was father-in-law to the largest horse-breeder in the United Kingdom.

He had arrived at this decision (not a hair’s-breadth beyond; for if Colonel Fred was not given to do “all things decently,” he yet took time to do them prudently and “in order”) when on emerging from the comparatively private lime-walk, he came suddenly face to face upon Arthur Vavasour.

“My dear fellow, I was never more surprised!” was his opening greeting. “Why, you told me three days ago that there was not the slightest chance of your being here.”

“Quite true,” Arthur said a little coldly; for he did not exactly encourage familiarity from the middle-aged roué. “Quite true; but a thousand things happen to make one change one’s mind. The Pembertons, to begin with, gave a holiday to their servants, having decided, after finding what a fuss was made about this stupid business, to come themselves. I couldn’t stay in an empty house, and—”

“And there’s a pretty face, eh? that would bring you, I suspect, a good deal farther than from the Pembertons’ here to look at it. I say, old fellow, I hear you’re devilish spoony, and, by Jove! I’m not surprised. That little wife of John Beacham’s is a glorious girl. One wonders where such a creature was picked up. So deuced thoroughbred-looking, and all that kind of thing. I have been trying to find out something about her;” and linking his arm confidentially in that of his young friend, he drew him on in the direction of the course.

Glancing furtively at the young untutored countenance by his side, the man experienced in all the turns and twists, the vagaries and the madnesses of the master passion, read in Arthur Vavasour’s face that the time had come for him when

had been freely drunk, and when all around seemed dark and lifeless that had not its root and being in the one fair woman that he loved.

The time, however, had not yet come when he could desire to confide in mortal man or woman the soft secret of his passion. A very young man, whose love is very fresh and real, cares little to discuss with another the delicate question of

The mere sentiment of his adoration is sufficient for him when devotion alone, without any admixture of vanity, stirs the bright flame within. So Arthur Vavasour turned a deaf ear to the Colonel’s libertine allusions. To him there seemed profanation of his purely fair divinity in thus chaffingly alluding to her delicate loveliness. Neither Colonel Norcott’s age nor his character, to say nothing of the little real intimacy existing between him and Arthur, could justify, he felt, the former in claiming the privileges of a confidant; and this being so, Honor’s devoted admirer, without much preamble or excuse, changed the conversation abruptly to one that happened to be sufficiently interesting to both; for so long as Rough Diamond was first favourite for the Derby, neither Colonel Frederick Norcott nor the heir-apparent of Gillingham could be troubled by any lack of a subject for conversation.