The Runaways: A New and Original Story

"We must keep this interview to ourselves," said Irene. "No one must know of my visit, and you must tell Mrs. Hoffman I am a friend, any name will suffice to satisfy her. I am very sorry for you, Janet, and advise you to return to your father."

"I cannot. Mr. Maynard made me promise not to do so until he gave me permission, and I could not face the people in Helton after what has happened."

"You will live that down," said Irene. "I will take care no one talks about you, as far as I am able, and I can do a good deal to help you."

"It is very kind of you," replied Janet, "and I hope some day to see my father and live with him again. I am not so bad, and I have kept myself respectable since I ran away."

"I quite believe that," replied Irene. "Do you think my husband will call here again?"

"I hardly know; he has posted me money lately. I have no desire to see him," replied Janet.

"You will oblige me by not seeing him," said Irene. "Forbid him the house. If you require money write to me, and I will send it."

"He might see the letter and recognise my handwriting."

"That is of no consequence. If he does he will soon learn I have seen you and know everything," said Irene.

"I will write and tell him I wish him to keep away from the house, and I feel sure he will do as I desire," said Janet.

Irene remained some time longer, for they had much to talk about. When she was leaving Janet said she would write to her at once if there was anything of importance she thought she ought to know.

When Irene returned to the Walton, her maid told her Warren Courtly had called, and was very angry when he discovered his wife had come up to London without informing him.

"The manager told him you were here," said Mary. "I expect he thought he had come to see you."

"Did you see Mr. Courtly?"

"Yes, and he asked me where you had gone. I told him I did not know, but that I expected you back in the afternoon, and he said he would be here for dinner."

Irene went to her room, and after dismissing her maid thought over the best course to pursue. Should she tell him of her meeting with Janet, and that she had learned everything, or would it be better to leave him in the dark? What excuse could she give for her journey to London? State she had come to give him a pleasant surprise, and that the Squire would be there in a day or two for the Epsom week. Perhaps that would be the better plan. If he was unreasonably cross and irritable, she might possibly throw out a hint that would startle him and make him more careful.

It was four o'clock, and she did not expect him for dinner before seven, so there was ample time to review the eventful morning she had spent with Janet Todd. This she was doing when her maid knocked at the door and said Mr. Ulick Maynard had called to see her.

Irene did not expect him, his father must have written at once to inform him she had gone to town.

"Where is he?" asked Irene.

"In the reading-room."

"I will see him in my sitting-room," she said; and her maid went away to give the necessary instruction.

"I am glad to see you," said Ulick, as she entered the room. "It is an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you were in town until my father wrote me a hurried note."

She shook hands with him, and as she did so the thought that he knew what her husband had done, and how he had acted, caused her some confusion, at which Ulick wondered.

"I came to town to give Warren a surprise," she said, hurriedly. "I have not seen him yet, but he has called, and my maid says he did not seem overwhelmed with joy at my presence."

"Then he ought to have been," said Ulick.

"He is joining me at dinner. Will you make one of the party?" she asked.

"If you wish it, and you think he will have no objection?"

"I am sure he will be pleased to see you."

"In that case I have no hesitation in accepting. I will run home and dress."

How lovely Irene looked; he felt he must go away, leave her presence, or he would be tempted to betray his feelings. He little knew how strongly she controlled herself, and how deeply she loved him. It was well for them that it should be so.

Warren Courtly's temper had not improved when he arrived again at the Walton. He went to Irene's room and waited impatiently for her, and she did not keep him long.

"What brings you to town in such a hurry?" he asked.

"I felt lonely and thought I would give you a surprise," she said, with a faint smile.

"You had no business to come without first writing me about it."

"I saw no harm in it."

"Harm, no; but it is a strange proceeding on your part," he replied.

"Are you not pleased to see me?" she asked.

"Of course I am," he answered, testily. "It's the manner of your coming I do not approve of."

"You will soon recover from the shock," she said, carelessly. "Shall we dine at seven. I have invited Ulick Maynard to join us. He called this afternoon, and I thought it only polite. He accepted on condition you had no objection, and I said you would be very pleased to see him."

Warren Courtly with difficulty suppressed an oath. Of late he had avoided Ulick, and he was the last man he cared to meet.

"I would rather have had you to myself," he said.

"Ulick is such an old friend, he will make no difference," she replied.

"You are precious fond of his society still," he said, showing his ill-temper; "I should have thought you would have preferred being alone with me, if you came down to give me a surprise. Perhaps you wrote and informed him you were coming here."

Irene was angry at this remark, and said —

"You know I did no such thing, and I am surprised at you insulting me by such a remark. His father wrote and gave him the information."

"At your suggestion," sneered Warren.

"You are in a bad temper, and forget yourself," she replied. "I will leave you to recover your manners. Remember one thing, if you make any more suggestions of a similar kind at dinner I shall retaliate. I am quite capable of giving you a very unpleasant surprise if you fail to treat me with respect."

She went out of the room, and he stood looking at the closed door. Then he said to himself —

"What has come over her? I never found her in this mood before. I must get to the bottom of it. Retaliate, will she? Well, we shall see."

CHAPTER XVI

A RACE TO BE REMEMBERED

It was not a social meal, anything but that, and they were glad when it was over. Warren Courtly, irritable and ill at ease, spoke once or twice to his wife in such a manner that Ulick glared at him savagely; he noticed it, and enjoyed it.

Unfortunately, Warren was going from bad to worse. He realised the truth of the saying that evil communications corrupt good manners. At his club he played bridge and lost large sums. On the racecourse he tried to repair these losses, with the inevitable result. His fortune, at one time ample, gradually dwindled away, and he knew that if he did not pull up Anselm Manor would be in the market in a couple of years or so.

Irene had no idea things were as bad as this; her mind was occupied with other matters. The knowledge she possessed of her husband's conduct towards Janet Todd and Ulick she found burdensome. She was positively certain Ulick would not tell the Squire, and she felt he ought to know, but she had promised Janet to tell no one but her husband. When she left them to retire for the night, Warren commenced to talk about racing. He had a substantial bet about Sandstone for the Derby at very fair odds, and was sanguine of winning. He discussed the race with Ulick, who was of the same opinion that Sandstone would win.

"If he does," Ulick remarked, "I should put part of the winnings on my horse for the Coronation Cup."

"Your horse!" exclaimed Warren. "I had no idea you owned one."

"More than one – several," replied Ulick; "but the Saint is the best."

"You own the Saint!" said Warren, more and more surprised. "I have heard it said he is the best three-year-old we have."

"He is not far short of it," he replied. "At least, that is the opinion of Fred May, and he is a very good judge."

"You are lucky to own such a colt. Where did you pick him up?"

Ulick explained how he came to possess him, and Warren said, grumbling, that some people had all the luck.

"I have been deuced unfortunate of late," he went on, "and a big win is the only way out of the difficulty that I can see. If Sandstone lands the Derby I will have a plunge on your horse. I am much obliged to you for telling me."

"I shall be glad to hear of your winning a good round sum," replied Ulick. "I was sorry to hear you were compelled to part with Holme Farm."

Warren's face clouded. He had heard quite enough about that, and said —

"I don't see what there is to make such a fuss about. Something had to go; why not that part of the estate as well as another?"

"My father says he would have given you half as much again for it."

"I could not have accepted it; he would merely have done it out of kindness."

Ulick thought this probable, and knew his father would do that, and more, for Irene's sake.

The Squire arrived at the Walton, and was feverishly anxious for the Saint's race to be decided. Fred May had sent glowing accounts of the colt's progress, and considered he had a chance second to none.

"We will show them what he is capable of this time; it will be the race of his life. He has never been quite so fit as he is now, and I fear nothing, not even Vulture," he wrote.

"By Jove! that is good news," said the Squire. "The olive green will win, my boy."

On Derby Day they all went to Epsom, where Redmond Maynard had a box, and the great scene was repeated as it has been for many years.

It was one of the sights of the world, most uncomfortable, but unique.

Sandstone won somewhat easily, and Warren was jubilant. He meant to invest the bulk of his winnings on the Saint.

He confided to Irene that if Ulick's colt won his difficulties would be well-nigh at an end.

"I had no idea you were in difficulties," she said.

"Not very serious," he replied, in an off-hand manner, which did not deceive her, "but still bad enough to be unpleasant."

Thursday, the day after the Derby, was fixed for the Coronation Cup, and the half-dozen horses that were likely to go to the post were all great performers.

It was a meeting of champions, a race to be remembered, and a thorough sporting affair. The crowd was much larger than usual on this day, and the race was looked forward to with as much eagerness as the Derby had been the previous day.

Warren Courtly was in a fever of excitement. He had backed the Saint to win him several thousands, and when he saw him in the paddock felt inclined to put more on.

The colt's peculiar colour rendered him easily distinguishable, and he was mobbed in the paddock, taking it as unconcernedly as usual.

Ben Sprig was to ride him again, and he felt a trifle anxious as to the result. He had never been beaten on the Saint, having scored five victories in succession; but he knew the five horses he was to meet in about a quarter of an hour were probably the best in the country.

Vulture had won the Derby the previous year, as easily as Sandstone, and followed it up by a St. Leger victory. Coralie, a handsome mare, had an Ascot Gold Cup to her credit. Avenger made hacks of the last Cesarewitch field. Decoy Duck was an Eclipse winner; and Mermaid landed the Oaks in Vulture's year. Well might men gasp and exclaim, "What a field. It beats the Derby into a cocked hat."

No wonder the betting was fast and furious, and backers were split up into half-a-dozen parties. It was the more venturesome speculators who stood by the Saint. The old hands preferred one of the other tried stayers.

"It is too much to expect of him," they said of the Saint. "It's more than Sandstone could do, and look how he won the Derby yesterday."

Vulture was favourite, then Coralie and Avenger, and the Saint figured at eight to one.

"It is a real good price," said the Squire. "I must have a hundred on," and when he had booked that he longed for more, hesitated a moment or two, and then doubled it.

Irene caught the fever and made Warren put a "pony" on for her.

Ulick had a small amount going, and Warren had plunged.

Cautious Fred May departed from his usual custom of having "a tenner on" and invested fifty, and had done the same for Ben Sprig, who was not supposed to indulge in such iniquitous practices, for fear of the far-reaching arm of the stewards of the Jockey Club. Ben was a cautious man, and could conscientiously say he had never made a wager in his life – it was always done for him.

Great was the excitement as the horses went on to the course. Vulture, wearing the stars and stripes of his American owner, was first out, his jockey sitting crouched on his withers – an ugly sight, but often effective. Then came the handsome Coralie, in purple and scarlet, followed by Avenger's yellow and red cap, with Decoy Duck and Mermaid close behind.

"There's only five of 'em," said one spectator. "Where's the other? What is it?"

"The Saint, of course; Ben Sprig's up, he's always last out."

The Saint cantered slowly down as the others galloped past, and Ben, whipping him round, followed in the rear before half the onlookers were aware the colt had come out of the paddock.

Away they went to the famous Derby starting-post. Here Vulture showed his scant respect for decorum by lashing out all round, and in a final flourish tried to dash through the tapes, but did not succeed.

After a quarter of an hour wasted by these vagaries on the part of the favourite, the half-dozen started on their journey.

Coralie dashed off with the lead, followed by Vulture and Avenger, with the other three close up. It was evident it was to be a race from start to finish between the lot. They disappeared from view, and as they came in sight again, the mare still led, and the horses ran wide. The half-dozen were all on terms with each other. Tattenham Corner was reached and the crowd on the new stand cheered wildly as they swept past. It was here that Ben Sprig always looked out for a chance of gaining a few lengths. He wanted them more than ever on this occasion, and meant getting them if possible. He hugged the rails, and kept the Saint well in hand. He lost no ground but he gained none, as they were all adopting similar tactics, and none of the horses ran wide. The half-dozen seemed dangerously heaped together as they rounded the bend, and the crowd on that part of the course anticipated a spill, but happily it did not occur. Coralie led down the hill, the purple and gold glittering and shining royally in the sunlight.

The party in the Squire's box were unusually excited, which was not to be wondered at. Fred May was invited to join them, and he was more anxious than he had ever been before over the result of a race.

He had said he "feared nothing," with the Saint, and meant it. If he had a dread of one, it was Vulture, for he knew him to be a great horse, despite his temper.

"They keep their places," said the Squire, "but I fancy the Saint is drawing up a trifle."

Warren Courtly was very pale, and his hand shook as he held his glasses. Irene glanced at him, and thought —

"Much depends on this race, or he would not be like that." She turned to Ulick, who stood at her side, and said, "You take it coolly, are you confident of winning?"

"Yes, I think he will win; I know Ben is riding a splendid race, and saving him for the finish up the rise. That is where it tells."

"I do hope he will win, Ulick," she said.

He looked into her eyes and read more than he dared hope for.

Coralie had run well, but now they were racing in deadly earnest.

Vulture wrested the lead from her, and his giant stride told its tale. He shot out like a greyhound, and a great shout greeted the favourite's move. Avenger was close on his heels, and Ben was gradually creeping up with the Saint.

They were in the hollow now, in full view of the crowded stands, and the battle was watched with the greatest interest.

Not more than five lengths between the six horses – a sight seldom seen in such a race. Decoy Duck and Mermaid were in the rear.

"I am afraid he will hardly do it," said the Squire, "but what a race it is; there will be no disgrace in being beaten."

Warren Courtly bit his lip and looked desperate. Would the Saint get up and win? It seemed impossible; and yet the trainer and Ulick looked confident, so there must be a chance. The victory of Ulick's horse meant much to him, of his defeat he dare not think.

Seething with excitement, the vast crowd surged wildly, and roar after roar proclaimed the desperate nature of the struggle.

Ben Sprig knew the time had come when he must ask the Saint to go one better than he had ever done before. He knew what a good colt he was, he never doubted his courage, but in front of him was Vulture, a more than ordinary Derby winner, Avenger, the Newmarket crack, and the handsome Coralie. He knew he had the Ascot Cup winner at his mercy, he fancied Avenger would have to play second fiddle to the Saint, but what about Vulture? Would he be able to catch him, and, if he did, beat him? For the first time since he had ridden the Saint he doubted. Vulture was three lengths ahead, and striding along without a falter. It seemed almost impossible to catch him, but Ben knew the impossible often became the possible with a good horse. Win he must; the Saint should not lower his colours; the olive green should never strike to the stars and stripes, and he, Ben Sprig, the exponent of the old school of riding, would not succumb to the efforts of that crouching little Yankee in front of him. Ben felt the blood tingle in his veins, and his heart beat fast.

The Saint felt his grip, and knew it meant mischief. The colt was full of fire, he never had flinched, and he never would.

Who that saw it will ever forget that memorable moment on a memorable day? Who that heard them will forget the ringing cheers, the shouts of victory? Who forget the sight of that flash of olive green, which seemed to shoot forward with lightning speed? Ben Sprig fancied he was being hurled through space; even he had never expected this of the Saint.

Ulick's colt passed Coralie like a flash, drew level with Avenger, beat him, and ran up to the Vulture's quarters before people had time to grasp the wonderful feat.

Fred May shouted for joy; he forgot he was a trainer, and therefore expected to regard everything as a matter of course. Ulick shouted, the Squire waved his hat, Warren Courtly sat down, the strain was too great, and Irene felt a peculiar swimming sensation in her head.

Vulture's jockey was not caught napping – Americans seldom are – and he rode his best, but he had met his match. The grim determination of the elder man was not to be denied. Ben Sprig felt his honour was at stake, he must "beat this kid." The two magnificent thoroughbreds struggled desperately, they fought for victory as only "blue bloods" can, and they knew what it all meant as well as the riders. There is no sight in the world so thrilling as the final struggle of two gallant racehorses; it is the highest form of sport, the most soul-stirring scene a man can behold; he becomes part and parcel of the battle going on before his eyes.

Vulture and the Saint were level, the stars and stripes and the olive green were locked together. Only for a second or two it lasted, and then Ulick's colt gained the vantage, and "Mr. Lanark's" champion won the Coronation Cup by a short head, after one of the grandest struggles ever witnessed on any course.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SQUIRE OVERHEARS

The Saint's wonderful victory was the chief topic of conversation for the remainder of the afternoon, and it was discussed all over the course. It was acknowledged to have surpassed the Derby victory of Sandstone, and the merits of the pair were a fruitful source of conversation. Perhaps Warren Courtly had as much reason to rejoice as anyone over the Saint's win, for he had landed a large stake. He left the box and went into the ring, where he met several acquaintances, who congratulated him.

Felix Hoffman stood alone in the paddock, his face gloomy and desperate. He had been hard hit again, his bad luck stuck to him, and he had lost the hundred pounds he received from Irene. He had plunged on Vulture and lost, and cursed "the curiosity" for beating him.

The Squire and his companions went down to the paddock to see the winner, and congratulate Ben Sprig.

Warren was not with them, but he followed later on.

Ulick and Irene returned to the box, as she was anxious to sit down and rest after the excitement of the race.

The Squire stood talking with the trainer and Ben Sprig, and Warren Courtly was coming towards them when he encountered Felix Hoffman.

He tried to avoid him, but Felix was in a desperate plight, and meant to obtain assistance somehow.

"Had any luck?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Warren.

"I'm dead broke; lend me a tenner to try and get a bit back."

"Not a farthing," replied Warren, who moved on, but stopped when he found Felix Hoffman following him, and said, angrily —

"Go away, I will have nothing to do with you."

"You must help me; I have done a lot of dirty work for you."

Warren was losing his temper, and his eyes had an angry gleam in them.

"If you pester me I shall give you in charge; go away."

Still Felix held his ground, and said —

"I only ask for a trifle; it will pay you to give it me."

"Get out of my way or I will knock you down," was the reply.

The Squire, walking across the paddock talking to Ben Sprig, was so engrossed he failed to notice them.

"Knock me down, will you?" said Felix. "I'd like to see you do it. If you don't do as I ask, I'll go straight to your wife and tell her all about your dealings with Mrs. Warren. She's here; I saw her in the box with you."

Warren raised his hand and in another moment would have struck him, but the Squire heard the words, and held his arm back in time to prevent the blow.

"Who is this fellow?" asked the Squire.

"Felix Hoffman is my name, at your service."

"Do you know him?" he said to Warren.

"Oh, yes; he knows me very well," answered Felix.

"I did not address you," replied the Squire; and repeated his question.

Warren nodded as he said, "Unfortunately I do; he is a regular scoundrel."

"I am not as bad as you," was Felix's retort. "I haven't got one wife; you have two."

"What does the man mean?" asked the Squire.

"He's a fool, or worse; come away from him," said Warren, "or I shall do him an injury."

"I don't know who you are," said Felix, addressing the Squire; "but if you are his father-in-law I can tell you he is a bad lot. His wife, Mrs. Warren, lives with my mother, and that is the address; you can call and see for yourself," he said, as he handed him a card.

Warren snatched it out of his hand and tore it up.

"Give me another card," said the Squire, and Felix handed one to him, Warren not daring to interfere on this occasion.

They moved away from Felix Hoffman, and the Squire said —

"What is the meaning of this? Is there any truth in it?"

"He's a confounded liar," said Warren, angrily.

Felix Hoffman heard him, and said —

"I am not. If you want to learn the truth, ask his wife; she knows all about it."

Warren stepped up to him in fury, struck him a heavy blow on the mouth, and knocked him down.

Fortunately a race was being run at the time, and there were only a few people in the paddock. The Squire forced Warren away with him, and they left Felix sprawling on the grass.

"You ought not to have struck him," said the Squire.

"He deserved it."

"Was there any truth in what he said?"

"No, none whatever. It is true I have been to his house, and that a Mrs. Warren lives there, but I have nothing to do with her, you may rest assured of that."

"He said Irene knew all about it."

"Which is absurd, because there is nothing to know. That is the man who wrote the begging-letter Irene showed you, and you said the matter ought to be placed in the hands of the police."

"The scoundrel; he deserves all he got and more," said the Squire.