King of the Castle

The words seemed to stand out before him, and he gave quite a start as the door opened and the pleasant smiling face of his landlady appeared, the bustling woman bearing in a large clean blue dish.

“How many this time, Mr Lisle?” she said. “Of course you’ll like some for dinner?”

“What? No; none at all, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris hastily.

“No fish, sir? Why, James Gadby came along and said that the river was just full.”

“Yes; I daresay, but I came back. Headache. Not well.”

“Let me send for Dr Asher, sir. There’s nothing like taking things in time. A bit of cold, perhaps, with getting yourself so wet wading.”

“No, no, Mrs Sarson; there’s nothing the matter. Please don’t bother me now. I want to think.”

The woman went out softly, shaking her head.

“Poor boy!” she said to herself; “I know. Things are not going with him as they should, and it’s a curious thing that love, as well enough I once used to know.”

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

The words stood out so vividly before Chris Lisle that he sprang from his seat, caught up a book, and threw himself back once more in a chair by the window to read.

But, as he turned over the leaves, he heard a familiar voice speaking in its eager, quick tones, and, directly after, there was another voice which seemed to thrill him through and through, the sounds coming in at the open window as the light steps passed.

“No, Mary dear. Let’s go home.”

There was a ring of sadness in the tone in which those words were uttered, which seemed to give Chris hope. Claude could not be happy to speak like that.

He crept to the window, and, from behind the curtain, watched till he could see the white flannel dress with its blue braiding no more.

“If I were only rich,” thought Chris; and then he gave an angry stamp on the floor as he heard a quick pace, and saw Glyddyr pass, evidently hurrying on to overtake the two girls, who must have parted from Gartram lower down.

Half mad with jealousy, he made for the door, but only to stop with his fingers upon the handle, as he felt how foolish any such step would be, and, going back to his chair, he took up his book again, and opened it, and there before him the words seemed to start out from the page.

“Back the Prince’s Filly.”

He closed the book with an angry snap.

“Look here,” he said to himself, “am I going to be ill, and is all this the beginning of a fit of delirium?”

He laughed the next instant, and then, as if obeying the strange impulse within him, he crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Have you taken away the newspaper that was here, Mrs Sarson?” he said sharply.

The pleasant face before him coloured up.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you’d be back yet, and so I’d made so bold.”

“Bring it back,” said Chris sternly.

“Bless the poor man, what is coming to him?” muttered the landlady, as she hurried out to her own room. “He was once as amiable as a dove, and now nothing’s right for him.”

“Thank you; that will do,” said Chris, shortly; and as soon as he was alone he stood with the paper in his hand.

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen.

Tempted

It was some minutes before Chris opened that paper, and then he had to turn it over and over before he found the racing intelligence, and even then he did not begin to read, for plainly before him were the words, —

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

Then in a quick, excited way he looked down the column he had found, and before long saw that the important race on the tapis was at Liverpool, and the last bettings on the various horses were before him, beginning with the favourite at four to one, and going on to horses against which as many as five hundred to one was the odds.

But the Prince’s horse! What Prince? What horse? He stood thinking, and recalled a rumour which he had heard to the effect that the Prince’s horses were run under the name of Mr Blanck, and there, sure enough, was in the list far down: —

“Mr Blanck’s ch. f. Simoom, 100 to 1.” Chris dashed down the paper in a rage.

“What have I to do with such things as this?” he said aloud. “Even if I were a racing man I could not do it. It is too dishonourable.”

Then he set to work to argue the matter out. He had come upon the information by accident, and it might be perfectly worthless. Even if the advice was good, the matter was all speculation – a piece of gambling – and if a man staked his money upon a horse it was the merest chance whether this horse would win; so if he used the “tip,” he would be wronging no one, except, perhaps, himself, by risking money he could not spare.

Anxiety, love, jealousy and disappointment had combined to work Chris Lisle’s brain into a very peculiar state of excitement, and he found himself battling hard now with a strange sense of temptation.

Here was a message giving Glyddyr information how to make money, and it had fallen into other hands. Why should not he, Christopher Lisle, seize the opportunity, take advantage of such a chance as might never come to him again, and back the Prince’s horse to the extent of four or five hundred pounds? Poor as he called himself, he had more than that lying at his bankers; and if he won, it might be the first step towards turning the tables on Gartram, and winning Claude.

True, the information was meant for his rival, but what of that? All was fair in love and war. Glyddyr would stand at nothing to master him: so why should he shrink? It would be an act of folly, and like throwing away a chance.

Then his training stepped in, and did battle for him, pointing out that no gentleman would stoop to such an act, and for the next six hours a terrible struggle went on, which ended in honour winning.

“I would not do such a dirty action; and she would scorn me if I did,” he said to himself. “Eh? Want me, Mrs Sarson?”

“Which it’s taking quite a liberty, Mr Lisle, sir,” said his landlady, who had come for the fifth time into his room; “but if you would let me send for Doctor Asher, it would ease my mind – indeed it would.”

“Asher? Send for him? Are you ill?”

“I? No, my dear boy, but you are. You are quite feverish. It’s terrible to see you. Not a bit of dinner have you tasted, and you’ve been walking up and down the room as if you had the toothache, for hours. Now, do trust to me, my dear, an old motherly body like me; I’d better send for him.”

“My dear Mrs Sarson, he could not do me the least good,” said Chris, smiling at the troubled face before him. “It was a fit of worry, that’s all; but it’s better now – all gone. There, you see, I’m quite calmed down now, and you shall prescribe for me. Give me some tea and meat together.”

“But are you really better, my dear?”

“Yes; quite right now.”

“And quite forgive me for calling you my dear, Mr Lisle, sir? You are so like my son out in New Zealand, and you have been with me so long.”

“Forgive you? Yes.”

“That’s right,” said the woman, beginning to beam; and hurrying in and out she soon had a comfortable-looking and tempting meal spread waiting before her lodgers eager eyes, and he made a determined attack upon that before him.