CHAPTER IV
When that night, during the interval between the first and second actsof the opera, the door of the box opened and Sidney made his appearance,Mrs. Vanderstein greeted him with a beaming smile and the most sincerepleasure.
"How nice to see you, dear Joe," she said. "I didn't know you were inLondon."
"I only came up from York last night," said her nephew, "or I shouldhave been to see you before. The Garringdons asked me to their box,which is more or less under this, so I couldn't see if you were here,but I thought you would be."
He sat down and began to talk about his doings and to ask questionsabout theirs, Mrs. Vanderstein looking at him meanwhile with a feelingof gratification at the decorative effect on her box of this goodlooking youth. She hoped the audience, or at least some members ofit, had noticed his entrance, and she thought to herself that eveninconvenient nephews had their uses.
Joe Sidney was twenty-five years of age and his father's son. The lateMr. Sidney had been a very tall, fair individual, and Joe resembledhim, showing the merest trace of the Jew in the droop of his nose,which, however, was not very marked. His eyes too, perhaps--but why pickto pieces a young man who really was, taken altogether, a very finespecimen of his kind? Though he had not, or scarcely had, inherited theappearance of his mother's race, he showed much of its sympathy withart and music; and his intelligence was equalled by his prepossessingmanner, which had made him a favourite since his boyhood with nearlyall with whom he came in contact, and, combined with his wealth,rendered him extremely popular in the cavalry regiment in which hewas a subaltern. He knew a great many smart people whose acquaintanceMrs. Vanderstein would have given her ears to make, and from time totime he invited her to meet one or two of them at a restaurant dinneror theatre, quite unconscious of the pleasure he was giving; for thevery intensity of her longing made Mrs. Vanderstein shy of letting thissuperior young relative guess at it, and Barbara had never hinted to himat the weakness of his uncle's widow.
Poor Mrs. Vanderstein! One pities her when one reflects that if the goodMoses had survived a few years, till the advent of a Radical governmentwhich was extremely short of sympathisers in the Upper House, she mighthave lived to hear him called "My Lord," and have answered with beatingheart to the delicious salutation of "My Lady."
She seized the opportunity afforded by Sidney's presence now to gatherinformation about the occupants of the boxes facing them. Did Joe seeanyone he knew? Of course she knew by sight every one in the Royal box,except that man behind the Queen. Who was that? Sidney thought it wasthe Italian ambassador. What a distinguished looking man! And in thenext box? Sidney didn't know. And the one beyond that? He didn't knoweither. Mrs. Vanderstein was disappointed in him. Well, who did he know?Couldn't he tell her anyone?
"Really," said Sidney, "I don't see many, but there are one or two.That woman with the red face and the purple dress is Lady Generflex,and the man two boxes off hers on the right is Sir William Delaplage.Then that girl in pink who has just taken up her opera glasses is LadyVivienne Shaw, and the man in the same box is Tom Cartwright, who was atEton with me. Down in the stalls there are one or two men I know, and Ithink that's all. Of course there's old Fyves, next door. You know him,don't you?"
Mrs. Vanderstein gazed with intent interest at the people he pointedout; and then let her attention wander back to the Royal box whileSidney talked to Barbara.
"Have you been racing?" she asked him soon.
"Off and on. I went to see my horse, Benfar, run the other day. He camein easily last."
"I don't think that man can ride him well. He's a good horse. I saw himas a two-year-old."
"There's something wrong somewhere, that's certain. If I don'thave better luck this year than I had last I shall give up keepingrace-horses," said Sidney with decision.
"Oh, you mustn't do that," cried Barbara in a tone of so much distressthat Sidney laughed.
"Why do you care?" he asked.
"I care a lot. I never see anything of racing people nowadays, or meetanyone except you who knows a horse from a centipede. If you give upracing I shall feel that my last link of connection with the turf issevered."
"Why don't you get my aunt to bring you down to Epsom to-morrow?"
"Oh, she wouldn't like it a bit," said Barbara regretfully.
"I daresay she'd enjoy it enormously. Aunt Ruth, why don't you comeracing with me sometimes? Miss Turner and I will show you the ropes andyou'll probably be plunging wildly by this time next week."
"I hate spending a hot day walking from the stand to the paddock andback again," said Mrs. Vanderstein. "I hate horses and I hate seeingtheir heels waving round my head on every side, which seemed to me to bethe case the only time I went to a race meeting. Nasty vicious animals.The way they are led about among the crowd by people who can't controlthem is most dangerous, I consider."
"I expect you saw one let off a kick or two out of sheer lightness ofheart," said Barbara. "Horses are darlings, really; I wish you knew themas well as I do."
Mrs. Vanderstein not only disliked horses herself, but she stronglydisapproved of Barbara's fondness for them. The career of the late Mr.Turner had been unedifying to such a point that even Mr. Vandersteinhad been unable to disguise entirely from his wife some of its morenotorious features, and Mrs. Vanderstein would have been better pleasedif she could have persuaded herself that the girl had forgotten allabout the days of her companionship with so undesirable a father.
She had, moreover, no sympathy for speculation in any form, andespecially mistrusted that which took the shape of gambling on theturf. Her greatest friend had married a man who had entirely ruinedhimself by the practice of backing losers; and the sight of the miseryand privation that had, in this manner, been brought on a woman forwhom she felt a sincere affection left on Mrs. Vanderstein one of thosedeep impressions that determine many of our strongest opinions andprejudices throughout life. To Mrs. Vanderstein betting was one of themost unpardonable sins. It was true that Mr. Vanderstein had kept aracing-stable and she had never really forgiven him for not giving itup at her request. But he had always assured her that he never betted.
She turned away without answering, and Barbara's conscience--for sheknew how much her friend disliked the subject of the turf--made herthink she detected an impatient expression in the back of the whiteshoulders and told her it would be better to change the conversation.The temptation was too strong, however, and she continued, dropping hervoice to a murmur:
"You are going to Epsom to-morrow yourself?"
"Yes," said Sidney, wondering why she leant so confidentially towardshim.
"Well, I wonder if you would be very kind and put a little money on ahorse for me. Would it be too much trouble?"
"Not a bit. What horse is it?"
"It's a tip Ned Foster sent me. He was one of my father's grooms,you know, and I hear of him sometimes. He used to be very good to mewhen I was a child. I had a letter from him to-day begging me to backAverstone. He says he's absolutely certain to romp in on Wednesday."
"How much do you want me to put on him?" asked Sidney.
"I haven't got much, I'm afraid," said Barbara ruefully, "but I've saveda little out of the pocket money your aunt gives me. It's only L20. Iwish it was more."
"Are you going to risk your entire fortune?" said Sidney. "You're apretty rash young lady, aren't you?"
"Oh, I must have a flutter. Besides, it's a dead certainty. I'd put athousand on if I had it."
"What a fearful gambler! When you've lost as much as I have you'll go abit slower."
"Have you lost much?" asked Barbara sympathetically. "I'm so sorry. Justlately?"
"Well, yes, since you ask me I don't mind telling you that I have hadsome rather nasty blows during the last few months. That brute, Benfar,has a lot to answer for, my word!"
"He'll turn out a winner yet," said Barbara hopefully.
"He might come in first if all the other starters tumbled down," saidSidney, with an effort to treat the
subject lightly, "but I'm afraidbefore that happens I shall have to shut up shop. Things can't go onlike this. I lost L10,000 over the Lincolnshire meeting, and that's onlya drop in the ocean. But I don't know why I'm bothering you with mytroubles," he concluded, pulling himself up abruptly.
"I am glad you tell me," she replied simply. "I am so very sorry thatyou have had such rotten luck. You'd better change it by backing my tip.Ned Foster would never have advised me to put my all on Averstone unlesshe knew it was a sure thing. He really has a regard for me, I believe,and he often used to say that the day would come when he'd make myfortune and his own. He doesn't approve of betting as a general thing.He's a most steady, cautious kind of individual."
"I wonder," said Sidney. "I think perhaps I'll have a last fling. Whatare the odds?"
"They're long. Averstone's not supposed to have a ghost of a chance. Ithink it's about 40 to 1 against him."
"My word, just think if one had a few thousands on him and it came off!"said Sidney. "The bookies would all die on the spot."
"It would be rather annoying for some one," laughed Barbara. "I hope itwill come off."
"I'm afraid it would be too good to be true," said Sidney gloomily,"but it would certainly save the situation if it did. If I lost a verylittle more I'd have to leave the army."
"Is it as bad as that?" asked Barbara, for the first time realising thegraveness of the position for Sidney. "How dreadful. I _am_ sorry!"
The young man laughed awkwardly.
"It's awfully good of you," he said. "I've been a perfect ass, ofcourse. If I could win back half what I've lost, I swear I'd never backa horse again!"
"I expect your luck will turn," repeated Barbara hopefully. She had alla gambler's instinct of optimism.
But Sidney only laughed again rather recklessly as he got up to go. Theinterval was over and the people were hurrying back to their seats.
"As the orchestra seems to be going to make another effort," he said,"I must get back to the Garringdons' box. Good night, Miss Turner; goodnight, Aunt Ruth; I'll come and look you up in a day or two, if I getover to-morrow without being obliged to put a sudden end to my career."
"What did Joe mean by his last remark?" Mrs. Vanderstein asked as thedoor shut behind the young man's vanishing form. "I don't understandwhat he meant about putting an end to his career."
"He was telling me he has lost a lot of money lately, racing," Barbaramurmured rather reluctantly, for she was not sure if Sidney would likeher to repeat what he had said. Still, she thought, it was surely absurdfor her to imagine that he would confide in her anything he wouldhesitate to tell a relation. "I suppose he was trying to joke aboutthat."
"It's nothing to joke about," said Mrs. Vanderstein severely. "Not thatI saw anything like a joke. I think it's disgraceful, and I shall altermy opinion of him very seriously if he really has been betting. Buthush, the music is going to begin."
And she was soon entirely engrossed in listening to it.
But Barbara, to whose ear any but the most elementary tunes presentednothing but a confused medley of noises, wriggled rather impatiently onher chair from time to time, as she waited for the act to come to anend. Recollections that had lain dormant for a long time, put away onsome high shelf of the wardrobe of memory, had been awakened again byher conversation with Sidney and the letter she had that day receivedfrom the old stableman. How happy her childhood seemed when viewed nowthrough the flattering medium of the intervening years, which obscuredall that had been disagreeable, and magnified the delights of herunrestrained wanderings and of the free and easy company of her fatherand her father's delightfully jocular friends.
How they used to laugh at each other's witty remarks, and how she,too, had laughed, joining in the mirth without understanding in theleast what aroused it but with enjoyment none the less complete onthat account. With closed eyes she leant back against the wall of thebox, her lips curved in a smile and her head a little to one side inan attitude of listening. But it was not the voices of the singers sheheard. Instead, the thud, thud of galloping hoofs sounded in her ears,coming nearer and nearer, and, mixed with the creaking of leather, theexcited snorts of her pony and the jingling of bits. She seemed to seearound her the bare, open spaces of the heath and the figures of thewatchers, among them herself, crouching low in the saddle with her backto the bitter east winds that sweep across the bleak Newmarket countryin the spring. Splendid bracing air, her father used to say, and for herpart she had never given a thought to the weather. Happy, happy times!Oh, that they could return. Why could not Mrs. Vanderstein give her thatL500 a year, thought Barbara, and let her take a cottage, however tiny,within reach of a race-course and within hail of a training stable? Ifonly she had a little money of her own. Money was everything, after all.It meant liberty. If Averstone won his race it would be something to thegood.
Mrs. Vanderstein, turning to catch her eye at a point in the musicwhich, even more than the rest, gave her a pleasure that asked to beshared, saw only the closed lids and the smiling lips, and with asensation of gratified surprise said to herself that Barbara was at lastdeveloping an appreciation of music.