her up in the air like a baby, and gave her a rough loud-sounding
kiss on each cheek. "With kind compliments from yours truly!" he
said--and burst out laughing, and put her down again.
"How dare you do that?" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "I shall claim Mrs.
Delamayn's protection if I am to be insulted in this way! I will
never forgive you, Sir!" As she said those indignant words she
shot a look at him which flatly contradicted them. The next
moment she was leaning on his arm, and was looking at him
wonderingly, for the thousandth time, as an entire novelty in her
experience of male human kind. "How rough you are, Geoffrey!" she
said, softly. He smiled in recognition of that artless homage to
the manly virtue of his character. She saw the smile, and
instantly made another effort to dispute the hateful supremacy of
Perry. "Put him off!" whispere d the daughter of Eve, determined
to lure Adam into taking a bite of the apple. "Come, Geoffrey,
dear, never mind Perry, this once. Take me to the lake!"
Geoffrey looked at his watch. "Perry expects me in a quarter of
an hour," he said.
Mrs. Glenarm's indignation assumed a new form. She burst out
crying. Geoffrey surveyed her for a moment with a broad stare of
surprise--and then took her by both arms, and shook her!
"Look here!" he said, impatiently. "Can you coach me through my
training?"
"I would if I could!"
"That's nothing to do with it! Can you turn me out, fit, on the
day of the race? Yes? or No?"
"No."
"Then dry your eyes and let Perry do it."
Mrs. Glenarm dried her eyes, and made another effort.
"I'm not fit to be seen," she said. "I'm so agitated, I don't
know what to do. Come indoors, Geoffrey--and have a cup of tea."
Geoffrey shook his head. "Perry forbids tea," he said, "in the
middle of the day."
"You brute!" cried Mrs. Glenarm.
"Do you want me to lose the race?" retorted Geoffrey.
"Yes!"
With that answer she left him at last, and ran back into the
house.
Geoffrey took a turn on the terrace--considered a
little--stopped--and looked at the porch under which the irate
widow had disappeared from his view. "Ten thousand a year," he
said, thinking of the matrimonial prospect which he was placing
in peril. "And devilish well earned," he added, going into the
house, under protest, to appease Mrs. Glenarm.
The offended lady was on a sofa, in the solitary drawing-room.
Geoffrey sat down by her. She declined to look at him. "Don't be
a fool!" said Geoffrey, in his most persuasive manner. Mrs.
Glenarm put her handkerchief to her eyes. Geoffrey took it away
again without ceremony. Mrs. Glenarm rose to leave the room.
Geoffrey stopped her by main force. Mrs. Glenarm threatened to
summon the servants. Geoffrey said, "All right! I don't care if
the whole house knows I'm fond of you!" Mrs. Glenarm looked at
the door, and whispered "Hush! for Heaven's sake!" Geoffrey put
her arm in his, and said, "Come along with me: I've got something
to say to you." Mrs. Glenarm drew back, and shook her head.
Geoffrey put his arm round her waist, and walked her out of the
room, and out of the house--taking the direction, not of the
terrace, but of a fir plantation on the opposite side of the
grounds. Arrived among the trees, he stopped and held up a
warning forefinger before the offended lady's face. "You're just
the sort of woman I like," he said; "and there ain't a man living
who's half as sweet on you as I am. You leave off bullying me
about Perry, and I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll let you see me
take a Sprint."
He drew back a step, and fixed his big blue eyes on her, with a
look which said, "You are a highly-favored woman, if ever there
was one yet!" Curiosity instantly took the leading place among
the emotions of Mrs. Glenarm. "What's a Sprint, Geoffrey?" she
asked.
"A short run, to try me at the top of my speed. There ain't
another living soul in all England that I'd let see it but you.
_Now_ am I a brute?"
Mrs. Glenarm was conquered again, for the hundredth time at
least. She said, softly, "Oh, Geoffrey, if you could only be
always like this!" Her eyes lifted themselves admiringly to his.
She took his arm again of her own accord, and pressed it with a
loving clasp. Geoffrey prophetically felt the ten thousand a year
in his pocket. "Do you really love me?" whispered Mrs. Glenarm.
"Don't I!" answered the hero. The peace was made, and the two
walked on again.
They passed through the plantation, and came out on some open
ground, rising and falling prettily, in little hillocks and
hollows. The last of the hillocks sloped down into a smooth level
plain, with a fringe of sheltering trees on its farther
side--with a snug little stone cottage among the trees--and with
a smart little man, walking up and down before the cottage,
holding his hands behind him. The level plain was the hero's
exercising ground; the cottage was the hero's retreat; and the
smart little man was the hero's trainer.
If Mrs. Glenarm hated Perry, Perry (judging by appearances) was
in no danger of loving Mrs. Glenarm. As Geoffrey approached with
his companion, the trainer came to a stand-still, and stared
silently at the lady. The lady, on her side, declined to observe
that any such person as the trainer was then in existence, and
present in bodily form on the scene.
"How about time?" said Geoffrey.
Perry consulted an elaborate watch, constructed to mark time to
the fifth of a second, and answered Geoffrey, with his eye all
the while on Mrs. Glenarm.
"You've got five minutes to spare."
"Show me where you run, I'm dying to see it!" said the eager
widow, taking possession of Geoffrey's arm with both hands.
Geoffrey led her back to a place (marked by a sapling with a
little flag attached to it) at some short distance from the
cottage. She glided along by his side, with subtle undulations of
movement which appeared to complete the exasperation of Perry. He
waited until she was out of hearing--and then he invoked (let us
say) the blasts of heaven on the fashionably-dressed head of Mrs.
Glenarm.
"You take your place there," said Geoffrey, posting her by the
sapling. "When I pass you--" He stopped, and surveyed her with a
good-humored masculine pity. "How the devil am I to make you
understand it?" he went on. "Look here! when I pass you, it will
be at what you would call (if I was a horse) full gallop. Hold
your tongue--I haven't done yet. You're to look on after me as I
leave you, to where the edge of the cottage wall cuts the trees.
When you have lost sight of me behind the wall, you'll have seen
me run my three hundred yards from this flag. You're in luck's
way! Perry tries me at the long Sprint to-day. You understand
you're to stop here? Very well then--let me go and get my toggery
on."
"Sha'n't
I see you again, Geoffrey?"
"Haven't I just told you that you'll see me run?"
"Yes--but after that?"
"After that, I'm sponged and rubbed down--and rest in the
cottage."
"You'll come to us this evening?"
He nodded, and left her. The face of Perry looked unutterable
things when he and Geoffrey met at the door of the cottage.
"I've got a question to ask you, Mr. Delamayn," said the trainer.
"Do you want me? or don't you?"
"Of course I want you."
"What did I say when I first come here?" proceeded Perry,
sternly. "I said, 'I won't have nobody a looking on at a man I'm
training. These here ladies and gentlemen may all have made up
their minds to see you. I've made up my mind not to have no
lookers-on. I won't have you timed at your work by nobody but me.
I won't have every blessed yard of ground you cover put in the
noospapers. I won't have a living soul in the secret of what you
can do, and what you can't, except our two selves.'--Did I say
that, Mr. Delamayn? or didn't I?"
"All right!"
"Did I say it? or didn't I?"
"Of course you did!"
"Then don't you bring no more women here. It's clean against
rules. And I won't have it."
Any other living creature adopting this tone of remonstrance
would probably have had reason to repent it. But Geoffrey himself
was afraid to show his temper in the presence of Perry. In view
of the coming race, the first and foremost of British trainers
was not to be trifled with, even by the first and foremost of
British athletes.
"She won't come again," said Geoffrey. "She's going away from
Swanhaven in two days' time."
"I've put every shilling I'm worth in the world on you," pursued
Perry, relapsing into tenderness. "And I tell you I felt it! It
cut me to the heart when I see you coming along with a woman at
your heels. It's a fraud on his backers, I says to myself--that's
"Shut up!" said Geoffrey. "And come and help me to win your
money." He kicked open the door of the cottage--and athlete and
trainer disappeared from view.
After waiting a few minutes by the little flag, Mrs. Glenarm saw
the two men approaching her from the cottage. Dressed in a
close-fitting costume, light and elastic, adapting itself to
every movement, and made to answer every purpose required by the
exercise in which he was abo ut to engage, Geoffrey's physical
advantages showed themselves in their best and bravest aspect.
His head sat proud and easy on his firm, white throat, bared to
the air. The rising of his mighty chest, as he drew in deep
draughts of the fragrant summer breeze; the play of his lithe and
supple loins; the easy, elastic stride of his straight and
shapely legs, presented a triumph of physical manhood in its
highest type. Mrs. Glenarm's eyes devoured him in silent
admiration. He looked like a young god of mythology--like a
statue animated with color and life. "Oh, Geoffrey!" she
exclaimed, softly, as he went by. He neither answered, nor
looked: he had other business on hand than listening to soft
nonsense. He was gathering himself up for the effort; his lips
were set; his fists were lightly clenched. Perry posted himself
at his place, grim and silent, with the watch in his hand.
Geoffrey walked on beyond the flag, so as to give himself start
enough to reach his full speed as he passed it. "Now then!" said
Perry. In an instant more, he flew by (to Mrs. Glenarm's excited
imagination) like an arrow from a bow. His action was perfect.
His speed, at its utmost rate of exertion, preserved its rare
underlying elements of strength and steadiness. Less and less and
less he grew to the eyes that followed his course; still lightly
flying over the ground, still firmly keeping the straight line. A
moment more, and the runner vanished behind the wall of the
cottage, and the stop-watch of the trainer returned to its place
in his pocket.
In her eagerness to know the result, Mrs. Glenarm forget her
jealousy of Perry.
"How long has he been?" she asked.
"There's a good many besides you would be glad to know that,"
said Perry.
"Mr. Delamayn will tell me, you rude man!"
"That depends, ma'am, on whether _I_ tell _him._"
With this reply, Perry hurried back to the cottage.
Not a word passed while the trainer was attending to his man, and
while the man was recovering his breath. When Geoffrey had been
carefully rubbed down, and clothed again in his ordinary
garments, Perry pulled a comfortable easy-chair out of a corner.
Geoffrey fell into the chair, rather than sat down in it. Perry
started, and looked at him attentively.
"Well?" said Geoffrey. "How about the time? Long? short? or
middling?"
"Very good time," said Perry.
"How long?"
"When did you say the lady was going, Mr. Delamayn?"
"In two days."
"Very well, Sir. I'll tell you 'how long' when the lady's gone."
Geoffrey made no attempt to insist on an immediate reply. He
smiled faintly. After an interval of less than ten minutes he
stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.
"Going to sleep?" said Perry.
Geoffrey opened his eyes with an effort. "No," he said. The word
had hardly passed his lips before his eyes closed again.
"Hullo!" said Perry, watching him. "I don't like that."
He went closer to the chair. There was no doubt about it. The man
was asleep.
Perry emitted a long whistle under his breath. He stooped and
laid two of his fingers softly on Geoffrey's pulse. The beat was
slow, heavy, and labored. It was unmistakably the pulse of an
exhausted man.
The trainer changed color, and took a turn in the room. He opened
a cupboard, and produced from it his diary of the preceding year.
The entries relating to the last occasion on which he had
prepared Geoffrey for a foot-race included the fullest details.
He turned to the report of the first trial, at three hundred
yards, full speed. The time was, by one or two seconds, not so
good as the time on this occasion. But the result, afterward, was
utterly different. There it was, in Perry's own words: "Pulse
good. Man in high spirits. Ready, if I would have let him, to run
it over again."
Perry looked round at the same man, a year afterward--utterly
He fetched pen, ink, and paper out of the cupboard, and wrote two
letters--both marked "Private." The first was to a medical man, a
great authority among trainers. The second was to Perry's own
agent in London, whom he knew he could trust. The letter pledged
the agent to the strictest secrecy, and directed him to back
Geoffrey's opponent in the Foot-Race for a sum equal to the sum
which Perry had betted on Geoffrey himself. "If you have got any
money of your own on him," the letter concluded, "do as I do.
'Hedge'--and hold your tongue."
"Another of 'em gone stale!" said the trainer, looking round
again at the sleeping man. "He'll lose the race."
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.
SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (SECOND SOWING).
AND what did the visitors say of the Swans?
They said, "Oh, what a number of them!"--which was all that was
to be said by persons ignorant of the natural history of aquatic
birds.
And what did the visitors say of the lake?
Some of them said, "How solemn!" Some of them said, "How
romantic!" Some of them said nothing--but privately thought it a
dismal scene.
Here again the popular sentiment struck the right note at
starting. The lake was hidden in the centre of a fir wood. Except
in the middle, where the sunlight reached them, the waters lay
black under the sombre shadow of the trees. The one break in the
plantation was at the farther end of the lake. The one sign of
movement and life to be seen was the ghostly gliding of the swans
on the dead-still surface of the water. It was solemn--as they
said; it was romantic--as they said. It was dismal--as they
thought. Pages of description could express no more. Let pages of
description be absent, therefore, in this place.
Having satiated itself with the swans, having exhausted the lake,
the general curiosity reverted to the break in the trees at the
farther end--remarked a startlingly artificial object, intruding
itself on the scene, in the shape of a large red curtain, which
hung between two of the tallest firs, and closed the prospect
beyond from view--requested an explanation of the curtain from
Julius Delamayn--and received for answer that the mystery should
be revealed on the arrival of his wife with the tardy remainder
of the guests who had loitered about the house.
On the appearance of Mrs. Delamayn and the stragglers, the united
party coasted the shore of the lake, and stood assembled in front
of the curtain. Pointing to the silken cords hanging at either
side of it, Julius Delamayn picked out two little girls (children
of his wife's sister), and sent them to the cords, with
instructions to pull, and see what happened. The nieces of Julius
pulled with the eager hands of children in the presence of a
mystery--the curtains parted in the middle, and a cry of
universal astonishment and delight saluted the scene revealed to
view.
At the end of a broad avenue of firs a cool green glade spread
its grassy carpet in the midst of the surrounding plantation. The
ground at the farther end of the glade rose; and here, on the
lower slopes, a bright little spring of water bubbled out between
gray old granite rocks.
Along the right-hand edge of the turf ran a row of tables,
arrayed in spotless white, and covered with refreshments waiting
for the guests. On the opposite side was a band of music, which
burst into harmony at the moment when the curtains were drawn.
Looking back through the avenue, the eye caught a distant glimpse
of the lake, where the sunlight played on the water, and the
plumage of the gliding swans flashed softly in brilliant white.
Such was the charming surprise which Julius Delamayn had arranged
for his friends. It was only at moments like these--or when he
and his wife were playing Sonatas in the modest little music-room
at Swanhaven--that Lord Holchester's eldest son was really happy.
He secretly groaned over the duties which his position as a
landed gentleman imposed upon him; and he suffered under some of
the highest privileges of his rank and station as under social
martyrdom in its cruelest form.
"We'll dine first," said Julius, "and dance afterward. There is
the programme!"
He led the way to the tables, with the two ladies nearest to
him--utterly careless whether they were or were not among the
ladies of the highest rank then present. To Lady Lundie's
astonishment he took the first seat