Part 11 (1/2)

”Oh, I know, I know,” Fielden sighed. ”But that's all past and done with. But don't talk about me. I am far more interested in you. I hope nothing has happened to increase your anxiety. You know what I mean.”

May looked irresolutely at her companion.

”I ought not, perhaps, to tell you,” she said. ”I ought not to tell anybody. But, then, well, you are Harry Fielden, and I have known you all my life. If you didn't care for me quite as much as you do, if I had not cared for you--but, there, we need not go into that. It is my father who has worried me. It is extraordinary what a change has come over him lately. He used to be so kind to me, to let me do as I liked, and even when we were so poor that we didn't know where to turn for money he was always happy and cheerful. Why, a few months ago he would have laughed at the idea of my marrying a man like Mr. Copley. Now he is almost eager for it.”

Fielden made no reply for a moment. A wave of indignation came over him.

He caught his lip between his teeth and bit it fiercely. A year or two ago he would have smiled at the suggestion that Sir George would sanction a match between his daughter and a man like Copley. But during the hard and bitter months of his wanderings he had learnt some amount of cynical wisdom. He was no longer inclined, as he had been in the old days, to take every man at his face valuation. And, no doubt, when the pinch came, Sir George was just like the rest. He would speak loudly enough of his willingness to give up the old house and live in humble lodgings rather than have any slur cast upon his honour. But it would be different when this pretty theory came to be put to the test. Fielden forgot all about the racecourse. He heard nothing of the shouting crowd.

The horses streaming to the post conveyed nothing to his eye.

”I want you to be candid with me,” he said. ”Is Sir George putting pressure upon you to marry that blackguard?”

There was something so vehement in Fielden's speech that May looked at him in astonishment.

”Surely you are going too far,” she said. ”Mr. Copley is not a gentleman, of course----”

”I tell you, he is a scoundrel,” Fielden interrupted. ”Believe me, May, I would not have spoken unless I had been bound to. That man is not fit to go into any respectable house. I cannot say more than that at present, because the secret is not altogether mine. But this much I tell you: Had there been no such person as Raymond Copley I should be a rich man at the present moment. I know that, but for the merest accident, there would be blood on that man's hands. You must not marry him, May.

You must not give him the slightest encouragement. When I think of your a.s.sociating with that rascal my blood boils. If the worst comes to the worst, I must tell Sir George what I know myself. It is with the greatest reluctance I entered Copley's employment; indeed, I only did so because there are certain things I want to find out and this seemed to provide a favourable opportunity. Otherwise, I would rather get my living by selling race-cards and sleep under a furze bush. But do you mean to say your father really insists on this?”

A rush of tears filled May's eyes.

”That is what it comes to,” she rejoined. ”It is only the last two days that I have noticed such a change in my father. Harry, do you think it is as bad as he says it is? He tells me that unless I consent to marry Mr. Copley we shall be ruined and be turned out of the house without so much as a penny. It seems incredible. I can't understand a man with an atom of self-respect who would compel a girl to marry him against her will. It isn't as if I were rich, or intellectual, or beautiful.”

Harry thought he could understand. Indeed, any man could understand who looked down into the pretty, pleading, anxious face that was turned up towards Fielden.

”There is no accounting for people like Copley,” he said. ”He is the kind of man that has not an atom of consideration for anybody but himself. He has no heart or conscience, and the more unattainable a thing is the more he longs for it. He cannot win you; therefore, you are the one thing in the world that he pa.s.sionately desires. G.o.d help the woman, however fascinating and beautiful, who becomes Copley's wife! It would mean years of brutality and neglect and self-contempt. You mustn't, May. I understand the duty you owe to your father, but no man has a right to exact such a sacrifice as that. Don't you think I had better see Sir George and give him a hint of the sort of man Copley is?”

May shook her head resolutely.

”I am afraid that would do more harm than good,” she said. ”I must fight my battle alone, Harry, and if you interfered my father might forbid you Haredale Park. He has already hinted that, if you had not come home again, I should have been willing to become Mrs. Raymond Copley, and if I were not allowed to see you I don't know what I should do. There is n.o.body else I could confide in. But I will let you know how things go on. We had better go back. I feel better for this confession.”

But it seemed a hopeless business, and Fielden's face was sad and gloomy as he strode alongside May towards the stand.

Ah! but hope was not dead yet.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN EVENING VISIT

For once Sir George Haredale did not seem to be in the least pleased to see Fielden. He was standing on the lower steps of the stand talking to Major Carden with the air of one who is conversing with an old acquaintance. By Carden's side was his daughter, eager and interested, following all that was going on around her with the zest and enjoyment of a child.

”Oh, here you are,” Sir George said fussily. ”I was beginning to wonder what had become of you. Carden, this is my daughter. Major Carden and I were at Eton together. We used to do a good deal of racing before you were born.”

The Major took off his hat with a flourish.

”Charmed to meet the daughter of my old friend,” he said, ”charmed. Ah, those were pleasant days when one had youth and strength and a banking account which appeared to be inexhaustible. Now I deem myself fortunate if I can steal a day off occasionally to get down to a suburban racecourse. Let me present you to my daughter. My dear Alice----”

”But I know her already,” May Haredale cried. ”We were at school together. I had no idea that my father and yours knew one another. I am so pleased to see you again. Father, Alice Carden was my greatest friend all the years I was at Eastbourne. We parted promising to write to one another regularly, but somehow or another we have never corresponded.

But now that I have met you I won't lose sight of you any more. Major Carden, you really must let Alice come and stay at Haredale Park with me. I want her for a long visit.”