we want a Cup or two left in the country.”
Something responded within Soames’ breast. If it was against a Frenchman, he would do his best to help.
“Put me five pounds on him,” he said, suddenly, to Jack Cardigan.
“Good for you, Uncle Soames. He’ll start about evens. See his head and his forehand and the way he’s let down–lots of heart room. Not quite so good behind the saddle, but a great horse, I think.”
“Which is the Frenchman?” asked Soames. “That! Oh! Ah! I don’t like HIM. I want to see this race.”
Jack Cardigan gripped his arm–the fellow’s fingers were like iron.
“You come along with me!” he said. Soames went, was put up higher than he had been yet, given Imogen’s glasses–a present from himself–and left there. He was surprised to find how well and far he could see. What a lot of cars, and what a lot of people! ‘The national pastime’–didn’t they call it! Here came the horses walking past, each led by a man. Well! they were pretty creatures, no doubt! An English horse against a French horse–that gave the thing some meaning. He was glad Annette was still with her mother in France, otherwise she’d have been here with him. Now they were cantering past. Soames made a real effort to tell one from the other, but except for their numbers, they were so confoundedly alike. “No,” he said to himself, “I’ll just watch those two, and that tall horse”–its name had appealed to him, Pons Asinorum. Rather painfully he got the colours of the three by heart and fixed his glasses on the wheeling group out there at the starting point. As soon as they were off, however, all he could see was that one horse was in front of the others. Why had he gone to the trouble of learning the colours? On and on and on he watched them, worried because he could make nothing of it, and everybody else seemed making a good deal. Now they were rounding into the straight. “The favourite’s coming up!” “Look at the Frenchman!” Soames could see the colours now. Those two! His hand shook a little and he dropped his glasses. Here they came–a regular ding-dong! Dash it–he wasn’t–England wasn’t! Yes, by George! No! Yes! Entirely without approval his heart was beating painfully. ‘Absurd!’ he thought. ‘The Frenchman!’ “No! the favourite wins! He wins!” Almost opposite, the horse was shooting out. Good horse! Hooray! England for ever! Soames covered his mouth just in time to prevent the words escaping. Somebody said something to him. He paid no attention; and, carefully putting Imogen’s glasses into their case, took off his grey hat and looked into it. There was nothing there except a faint discoloration of the buff leather where he had perspired.
Chapter III.
THE TWO-YEAR-OLDS
The toilet of the two-year-olds was proceeding in the more unfrequented portions of the paddock. “Come and see Rondavel saddled, Jon,” said Fleur.
And, when he looked back, she laughed.
“No, you’ve got Anne all day and all night. Come with me for a change.”
On the far side of the paddock the son of Sleeping Dove was holding high his intelligent head, and his bit was being gently jiggled, while Greenwater with his own hands adjusted the saddle.
“A race-horse has about the best time of anything on earth,” she heard Jon say. “Look at his eyes–wise, bright, not bored. Draft horses have a cynical, long-suffering look–racehorses never. He likes his job; that keeps him spirity.”
“Don’t talk like a pamphlet, Jon. Did you expect to see me here?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t keep you away? How brave!”
“Must you say that sort of thing?”
“What then? You notice, Jon, that a racehorse never stands over at the knee; the reason is, of course, that he isn’t old enough. By the way, there’s one thing that spoils your raptures about them. They’re not free agents.”
“Is anyone?”
How set and obstinate his face!
“Let’s see him walk round.”
They joined Val, who said gloomily:
“D’you want to have anything on?”
“Do YOU, Jon?” said Fleur.
“Yes; a tenner.”
“So will I then. Twenty pounds between us, Val.”
Val signed.
“Look at him! Ever see a two-year-old more self-contained? I tell you that youngster’s going far. And I’m confined to a miserable ‘pony’! Damn!”
He left them and spoke to Greenwater.
“More self-contained,” said Fleur. “Not a modern quality, is it, Jon?”
“Perhaps, underneath.”
“Oh! You’ve been in the backwoods too long. Francis, too, was wonderfully primitive; so, I suppose, is Anne. You should have tried New York, judging by their literature.”
“I don’t judge by literature; I don’t believe there’s any relation between it and life.”
“Let’s hope not, anyway. Where shall we see the race from?”
“The enclosure rails. It’s the finish I care about. I don’t see Anne.”
Fleur closed her lips suddenly on the words: “Damn Anne.”
“We can’t wait for them,” she said. “The rails soon fill up.”
On the rails they were almost opposite the winning post, and they stood there silent, in a queer sort of enmity–it seemed to Fleur.
“Here they come!”
Too quickly and too close to be properly taken in, the two-year-olds came cantering past.
“Rondavel goes well,” said Jon. “And I like that brown.”
Fleur noted them languidly, too conscious of being alone with him–really alone, blocked off by strangers from any knowing eye. To savour that loneliness of so few minutes was tasking all her faculties. She slipped her hand through his arm, and forced her voice.
“I’m awfully worked up, Jon. He simply must win.”
Did he know that in focussing his glasses he left her hand uncaged?
“I can’t make them out from here.” Then his arm recaged her hand against his side. Did he know? What did he know?
“They’re off!”
Fleur pressed closer.
Silence–din–shouting of this name–that name! But pressure against him was all it meant to Fleur. Past they came, a flourishing flash of colour; but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were closed.
“By Gosh!” she heard him say: “He’s won.”
“Oh, Jon!”
“I wonder what price we got?”
Fleur looked at him, a spot of red in each pale cheek, and her eyes very clear.
“Price? Did you really mean that, Jon?”
And, though he was behind her, following to the paddock she knew from the way his eyes were fixed on her, that he had not meant it.
They found their party reunited all but Soames. Jack Cardigan was explaining that the price obtained was unaccountably short, since there was no stable money on to speak of; somebody must have known something; he seemed to think that this was extremely reprehensible.
“I suppose Uncle Soames hasn’t been going for the gloves,” he said. “Nobody’s seen him since the Gold Cup. Wouldn’t it be ripping if we found he’s kicked over and had a ‘monkey’ on?”
Fleur said uneasily:
“I expect Father got tired and went to the car. We’d better go too, Auntie, and get away before the crowd.”
She turned to Anne. “When shall we see you again?” She saw the girl look at Jon, and heard him say glumly:
“Oh! sometime.”
“Yes, we’ll fix something up. Good-bye, my dear! Good-bye, Jon! Tell Val I’m very glad.” And, with a farewell nod, she led the way. Of a sort of rage in her heart she gave no sign, preparing normality for her father’s eyes.
Soames, indeed, was in the car. Excitement over the Gold Cup–so contrary to his principles–had caused him to sit down in the Stand. And there he had remained during the next two races, idly watching the throng below, and the horses going down fast and coming back faster. There, quietly, in the isolation suited to his spirit, he could, if not enjoy, at least browse on a scene strikingly unfamiliar to him. The national pastime–he knew that everybody had ‘a bit on’ something now-a-days. For one person who ever went racing there were twenty–it seemed–who didn’t, and yet knew at least enough to lose their money. You couldn’t buy a paper, or have your hair cut, without being conscious of that. All over London, and the South, the Midlands and the North, in all classes, they were at it, supporting horses with their bobs and dollars and sovereigns. Most of them–he believed–had never seen a race horse in their lives–hardly a horse of any sort; racing was a sort of religion, he supposed, and now that they were going to tax it, an orthodox religion. Some primeval nonconformity in the blood of Soames shuddered a little. He had no sympathy, of course, with those leather-lunged chaps down there under their queer hats and their umbrellas, but the feeling that they were now made free of heaven–or at least of that synonym of heaven the modern State–ruffled him. It was almost as if England were facing realities at last–Very dangerous! They would be licensing prostitution next! To tax what were called vices was to admit that they were part of human nature. And though, like a Forsyte, he had long known them to be so, to admit it was, he felt, too French. To acknowledge the limitations of human nature was a sort of defeatism; when you once began that, you didn’t know where you’d stop. Still, from all he could see, the tax would bring in a pretty penny–and pennies were badly needed; so, he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t have done it himself, but he wasn’t prepared to turn out the Government for having done it. They had recognised, too, no doubt, as he did, that gambling was the greatest make-weight there was against revolution; so long as a man could bet he had always a chance of getting something for nothing, and that desire was the real driving force behind any attempt to turn things upside down. Besides you had to move with the times uphill or downhill, and it was difficult to tell one from the other.
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