beauty, but careworn and haggard with suffering. His heart is filled with a great pity; he feels that such sights as these are unendurable to him. He feels that he cannot face them.
“Poor thing, poor thing,” he says gently; “forgive me if I was rough to you. This is no place for you, my child. You look a mere child; are you not one?”
“I am eighteen,” she stammers.
“Eighteen, and so fallen!” he exclaims in a horrified tone. “Ah, child! get away out of this.”
“And starve?” she ejaculates bitterly. “Easy for you to talk; you are not starving.”
“Starving!” He utters that word with a peculiar intonation. It tells her what pity there is in his heart for her.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaims, “I would not be here if I were not driven to it. I don’t want to be here. I hate it; I hate it! It is my hard, hard fate, that I am here.”
“Have you no father, no mother to care for you?” he asks sadly.
“No, sir, not to care for me,” she answers, with a sob. “Father’s in gaol. Mother walks the streets like me, to make her bread. She told me I’d better do so too, unless I wanted to starve. That’s how it is, sir.”
He covers his face with one hand, and groans aloud. His thoughts have rushed back to the luxury he has but lately quitted; he compares it with the misery he has just witnessed. Once more his hand is in his pocket.
“If I give you this, my child,” he says, drawing out a five-pound note, “will you promise me to go home at once, and leave these streets of infamy and wrong; and if I give you my card, and promise to place you in a way of earning an honest livelihood, will you call at my house tomorrow for a letter which I will leave to be given to you? Will you try and get your mother, too, to come with you?”
She bursts into tears. “Ah, sir! may God in heaven bless you. Yes, yes, I will promise; indeed I will. Gladly, too gladly.”
He holds out to her the card and the bank-note. As she takes them she bends over his hand and kisses it passionately. He draws it gently away.
“Remember your promise,” he says quietly.
“I will,” she answers, between her sobs. “Oh God! I would die for you, sir.”
He watches her as she turns away and disappears in the gloom. Heavy tears are in his eyes.
“I must go home now,” he whispers to himself. “I cannot see more.”
VI
“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
