Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 34

“TEN to one bar one, ten to one bar one, ten to one bar one.” The ring is roaring itself hoarse over these words; the hubbub is deafening; it reverberates all around; it echoes and reechoes through the hot June air.

It is Derby Day. The waving downs of Epsom are alive with people; they swarm over every cranny and nook of the wide-stretching space on either side of the straight run-in; they surge to and fro like a sea of dark, moving matter; they contribute to the busy air of life, that has established its reign on all around. It is a great day. Always crowded, Epsom is more than usually so. Old habitues of the place declare, that never in their memories—and some of them have pretty old ones—can they recollect such a swarming throng.

But the reason for all this crowd is an excellent one. Have not the people come to see the great horse win?

He is in the paddock now, and is being stripped, for the saddling bell has rung. He is the centre of a pushing, hustling throng, all eager to catch a glimpse of the unbeaten hero of the day; for have not his triumphs been such as a horse and its owner might well be proud of, carrying, as he does, the laurels of the Dewhurst Plate, the Middle Park Plate, and the Two Thousand Guineas upon him?

What a grand-looking horse he is I How his rich, ruddy chestnut coat glistens in the sun like armour of burnished gold! Such a quiet beast, too, neither snatching, nor stamping, nor doing aught that a restive or vicious racehorse would.

“He can’t be beat!” exclaims a young man who has been standing silently watching the stripping process. “I’ll be a man or a mouse, Florrie; I’ll stand every penny I’ve got on him or lose all, hanged if I won’t!”

“Don’t be a fool, Reggie,” answers the lady addressed. She is close beside him, and has laid her hand on his arm. It is Flora Desmond.

“Fool or no fool,” he answers quickly, “I mean to have this dash. I tell you he can’t be beat. It’s only a question of pluck laying the odds. Hanged if I won’t stand every penny of the £100,000 which I have got on him. They are taking twenty to one now.”

“Suppose he is beaten,” she says quietly?

“Then I shall be a beggar,” he answers, with a laugh; “but I’m not afraid. By God! I’ll stand my chance.”

He turns as he speaks, and tries to get through the crowd. What can she do? She has little or no influence with him, and if she had, this is no place in which to reason and argue with him. She feels down cast and sad; for although she, like every one else, has little doubt in her mind that Corrie Glen will win, there is just the chance, ever so slight, that he might not. And if he does not, “well, what then?”

“Ruin!” she soliloquises half aloud, as she puts the question to herself, and answers it in that one word. There is a bitter smile on Flora Desmond’s face, for she knows what ruin would mean.

“Are you looking Corrie Glen over, Lady Flora?” Inquires a voice at her elbow. She has no need to turn round to discover the speaker, for she knows the voice full well. It is that of Hector D’Estrange.

He has heard the conversation between Sir Reginald Desmond and his wife, and as the former elbows his way through the crowd, he has pushed forward and sidled into his place by her side.

“Yes, Mr. D’Estrange, I am,” she answers just a shade wearily. “Like every one else, I am looking at the crack. I suppose he can’t be beat? By-the-bye,” she adds hastily, “you’ve a horse in this race, haven’t you?”

“I have a mare,” he replies significantly; “and whom do you think is going to ride her, qualified for a jockey’s license, and everything on purpose?”

“Who?” she inquires absently.

“Why, Bernie Fontenoy. The boy’s a splendid rider, and mark my words, Lady Flora, if he doesn’t win, it will be a near thing between my Black Queen and Corrie Glen.”

She starts. She has never known Hector D’Estrange to err yet, and her husband’s rash act recurs more forcibly to her mind. “May I see Black Queen?” she inquires hastily.

“Certainly,” he answers; “come with me.”

They push through the crowd, still surging round the chestnut horse, and make their way across the paddock to a quiet spot, where very few people are observable. A coal-black mare has just been stripped, and her jockey is standing close beside her. His colours are tinselled-gold.

“That is Black Queen,” observes Hector D’Estrange quietly. “You are a good judge of a horse. Lady Flora; what do you think of her?”

She does not reply, but walks up to within a few paces of the mare, and looks her over keenly. She sees before her an animal which, to her eyes, used though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect picture. The mare is coal-black; there is not a white hair on her; she is faultlessly shaped all over.

“I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all my life!” exclaims Flora Desmond, and there is a true ring of admiration in her tone. As she speaks the Duke of Ravensdale comes up.

“So you’re going to win the Derby, Bernie, are you?” he inquires jokingly, as he raises his hat to Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand to her. “Nice youngster that,” he continues, addressing her. “Gave me no peace till I gave him leave to ride, which I never should have done, had it not been at Hector’s request; and now I do believe that he thinks he is going to win!”

“I shall have a good try, Evie,” the boy replies in a mettled voice. “I can’t do more than ride my very best, can I, Mr. D’Estrange?”

“No indeed, my boy, that you cannot,” answers this latter kindly. “Do your best; no one can ask for more.”

There is a light in Bernie’s eye, a flush on his cheek. Flora notes them both. Full well she knows what they mean.

“Mr. D’Estrange,” she says hurriedly, moving a few paces aside, “may I speak to you for one moment?”

He follows her with a grave, inquiring look.

“I know you never bet,” she continues quickly, “but do you know what they are laying against Black Queen?”

“A hundred to one,” he answers carelessly.

“Then will you do me a great favour?” she says in a sad, pleading voice. “Though you never bet, and I hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in the ring, so that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I wouldn’t ask this of you, only you seem so confident in your mare, and, and——”

“I understand,” he answers quietly; “I’ll do it for you, Lady Flora. The race lies between Corrie Glen and my mare, and I quite understand why you want to back the latter. I couldn’t help hearing what Sir Reginald said over there. It’s on his account, is it not?”

“It is,” she answers bitterly. “As you heard him, you will quite understand.”

“Leave it to me,” he continues in a kind voice. “I’ll just give Bernie his last instructions, and then I’ll hurry across and do your commission. Will you come over to the stand with Ravensdale?”

“I will,” she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes.

And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the beautiful mare, with its handsome jockey, is moving slowly across the paddock to the course. The tinselled-gold on the boy’s jacket gleams and sparkles in the sun, and many an admiring eye rests on the two as they pass out.

He has come out last, and is at the tail end of the long file of horses parading past the stand. Every one is so keen on singling out the favourite, that Black Queen at first is not much noticed. Yet the sparkling gold on the jacket is bound to attract the eye, and the fact that Lord Bernard Fontenoy, brother of the Duke of Ravensdale, is riding the coal-black mare, awakens interest in the dark steed.

“Why, it’s little Lord Bernie riding, I do declare!” giggles Mrs. de Lacy Trevor to Lord Charles Dartrey, who is leaning over her chair pointing out the horses and jockeys on the card in her lap. “What a duck he looks! Oh, I wish Dodo was here!”

“Can’t think what D’Estrange means by putting the boy up. He can’t win; and it will only break his heart,” ejaculates Lord Charles superciliously.

“How old is Lord Bernie?” queries Mrs. Trevor in an interested voice. “Oh, I do wish the darling would win !”

“That’s impossible,” says Lord Charles loftily, “nothing can beat Corrie Glen.”

They are cantering down to the post now, the favourite with great raking strides covering his ground comfortably, and playing kindly with his snaffle, as his jockey leans forward and eases him a bit. Bernie has not started the Black Queen yet; he is leaning down talking to his brother. All eyes are upon him, however, as they see him squeeze the duke’s hand, which is laid on the boy’s knee. Suddenly, however, he dresses himself upright.

“I must go now, Evie dear,” he says, and there is a tremor in his voice. “Oh, pray that I may win!”

Then he sets the mare into a canter, and follows in the wake of the others.

“My word! that mare moves well,” exclaimed Sir Horsey de Freyne nervously; “don’t half like the look of her. Think I must have something on her for luck. Belongs to that deuced lucky fellow D’Estrange, too. Shouldn’t be surprised to see the gold jacket flashing in first.”

“Bosh!” answers Sir Reginald Desmond, who is standing next to him. “My dear old fellow, it’s only throwing your money away. Corrie Glen can’t be beat.”

But Sir Horsey de Freyne is not convinced, and goes off to see what he can get laid him against the mare.

“S’pose you’ve backed the favourite, old chap?” inquires another shining light at Sir Reggie’s elbow.

“Yes,” answers this latter shortly.

“Had a plunge, eh?” persists the golden youth, who doesn’t know a horse from a cow.

“Have got £100,000 on him,” is Sir Reggie’s curt reply. He is looking through his glasses, and his face is rather white.

“Oh! I say,” blurts out the youth, as he edges off to tell all those who will listen to him; “I say, you know, Desmond’s laid out £100,000 on the favourite.”

There is a murmur in the stands; it runs through them all like an electric shock. “They’re off!” is the hoarse cry that resounds suddenly from hundreds of throats. To an excellent start. Lord Marcovitch Bolster has despatched the lot, and as they all stare through their glasses, they can perceive that Hamptonian has taken up the running, closely followed by Masterman Ready, Holyoakes, and Kesteven. Lying fifth is the favourite, and two lengths behind him gleams a flashing spot of gold. A strange horse is overhauling the lot, Hamptonian drops back, and the stranger creeping to the front makes the pace terrific.

But fast as he goes he cannot shake off the chestnut, who apparently without effort is going easily enough, and keeping his place as fifth in the crowd. Now the spot of gold seems nearer up; it passes Corrie Glen, and falls into fourth place, Kesteven retiring to the rear. They are racing down the incline. Masterman Heady begins to tire, and the spot of flashing gold closes up to Holyoakes. These two come along neck and neck, Corrie Glen just behind them, the strange horse still in the van. Tattenham Corner is reached. They round it in the order named, and enter the straight; but here the stranger is in difficulties, and Holyoakes and Black Queen, on which sits the spot of gold rigid almost as marble, begin to close upon him. A little more than a quarter of a mile from home they reach him, and he flings up the sponge, retiring to the rear. There are only three horses left in the race now, Holyoakes, Black Queen, and Corrie Glen. This latter is drawing up to the first two named, with great raking strides he is alongside them, and quickly the three are abreast. A distant roar sounds in Bernie’s ears, there is a film over his eyes, his heart feels as if it must stop beating, but he sits very still, and does not attempt to urge his horse any faster. Suddenly he sees a flash on his left. The jockey who is riding Holyoakes has his whip out, and Bernie knows he has nothing any longer to fear from him. He glances to the right; the great chestnut is flashing along; there is no whip needed there.

“Oh God! let me win,” bursts from the boy’s pale lips, as he tightens his rein ever so little, and touches the mare gently with the spur. He is surprised at the effect. He thought she had been going fast before, but she is going faster now. She is quite a length ahead of Corrie Glen, and the jockey of this latter is visibly surprised. He has begun to ride the horse at last, and his whip is actually out.

“Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” comes the wild shout from the stands, as the noble chestnut, with a supreme effort, closes with the Black Queen. They are hardly fifty yards from the winning post; the roar is terrific. Bernie hears it, but he can see nothing now. He makes, however, a final effort, and calls on the mare once more; he has never used his whip.

“Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” The words pierce to his brain. He has done his best, he cannot do more; he knows this well; yet would to God he could win!

“Corrie Glen wins!” Ah! they don’t know the Black Queen. She has answered the boy’s last call; she has made one more magnificent effort; and, shooting ahead of the favourite, passes the post a winner by a neck!

What a yell goes up from the ring! Blank deadly consternation is in the faces of the backers. In the stands there is very little cheering. Hardly a soul in all that vast crowd has backed the “dark” black mare.

And Sir Reginald Desmond is still standing where we left him. He is deadly pale; his arms are folded on his chest; there is despair in his eyes.

“Had a bad race, old chap? I fear we all have,” says a voice at his elbow. He laughs, and turns towards the speaker. This latter starts as he notices the ghastly, haggard look on the young baronet’s face.

“Yes—well, yes, haven’t had a good one,” answers Sir Reggie coolly, taking out his cigarette-case and leisurely selecting a cigarette therefrom. “Have a cigarette, Fernley?”

“No thanks, Desmond, am just going to have lunch. Wonderful race young Bernie Fontenoy rode there. Won’t the brat be proud?”

“Oh! ah! yes, won’t he?” answers Sir Reggie absently. His thoughts have wandered again. He is looking ahead into the black future. Now that it is too late, he is cursing himself for a fool and an idiot. Oh! why did he not take Flora’s advice?

The stand in which he is, is nearly empty. Every one is making off to get lunch; in a few minutes it is entirely deserted. He sits on alone in it. The cigarette he had lit so ostentatiously not long since has gone out, but it is still clenched between his teeth.

The future will rise to his mind. How can such as he face it? He has never been brought up to do any-thing; he is ill-read, ill-taught, and ignorant. He has never given his mind to anything but amusing himself; and now if he pays the ring what is justly owing to it he will be a beggar, with nothing to live on and nothing to look forward to but misery, and, in his eyes, disgrace.

Poor Sir Reginald I He feels his position acutely, it is burning itself into his brain. He feels that it is past endurance, that he cannot face it.

“I’ll go home,” he says wearily to himself. “I can’t face Flora after this; it’s all too dreadful.”

He rises wearily and goes out. The back of the stand is more or less crowded by the hangers-on and scum of every racecourse. How he hates and loathes the sight of them now; how their rough, coarse, pleasure-seeking faces bring up to his mind, with haunting horror, the great loss which he has sustained! He is staying near the race-course, and has not far to go, so he hurries through the crowd and makes straight for The Laurels, which is the name of the place. He reaches it, and tries the front door. It is locked; of course no one is expected back yet. He knows of a side-entrance though through the smoking-room. Ten to one the careful servants have forgotten it. He walks round and tries it. Yes, true enough, they have. Very quietly Sir Reginald slips in. In another moment he is upstairs and in his bedroom.

He turns the key in the door, and goes over to the writing table. His face is still deadly pale, and he walks like one who has had too much to drink. He sits at the table and scrawls a few hurried lines. They are as follows:—

“Flora dear, forgive me. I’ve been a brute and an idiot. Would to God I had taken your advice! But it’s too late now. You’ll pay the ring for me, dear. Let them know it was my last wish. If I lived we should be beggars, and I can’t condemn you and the ‘ little one ‘ to that. But at my death you’ll get all that money that is to come to you and the child. Good-bye, dear old girl. You’ve been good and kind to me. This is about all Reggie can do to show you he is grateful. Good-bye. Forgive.”

She has been looking for him a long time, and so has Hector D’Estrange, but there is no sign of Sir Reginald Desmond anywhere. At last she can stand it no longer.

“I must go back to The Laurels,” she says; “perhaps he is there.”

Estcourt, who is standing by her, offers to accompany her, and thither they proceed in silence. Of course when they reach the house no one has seen him. The servants assure her ladyship that Sir Reginald has not returned; they must have seen him if he had. They forget to add that the greater number of them have been perched on the high wall surrounding The Laurels, during the greater part of the day, watching the races.

“I’ll just run up to the bedroom and have a look,” says Flora to Estcourt. “I won’t be a minute.”

He waits below, but almost directly hears his name called,—

“Estcourt, come here.”

He races up the stairs. He finds her standing out-side the door of a bedroom.

“I can’t get in,” she says hurriedly. “I’ve called, but there is no reply. Oh, Estcourt! do you think he is in there?”

He makes no reply, but runs downstairs. In a few minutes he is back with a hatchet. Curious servants are following him.

“Stand back,” he says to Flora. She obeys, and the young man brings the hatchet with tremendous force against the lock. Three, four, five strokes, and he has broken it to shivers. Then he opens the door.

Sir Reginald Desmond is seated at his writing table. His left hand is beneath his chest, his head is resting on the table above it, his right is outstretched and hanging over the side. Just below it on the floor lies a revolver, and drip, drip, drip, dripping on to the chair on which he sits, is a stream of running blood. Who shall judge him as he lays there silent, and fast stiffening? for—

“He is dead, and blame and praise fall on his ear alike, now hushed in death.”

Those may do so who can. I cannot.