King of the Castle Part 32

"Hah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Glyddyr, "if I only had now all that I have fooled away by taking their confounded tips, and backing the favourites they have sent me. No, Master Gellow, I'm deep in enough now, and I'm not the gudgeon to take that bait. Money, money. There'll be a fresh demand directly, and the old bills to renew. How easy it is to borrow, and how hard to pay it back. If I only had a few hundreds now, how pleasant times would be, and how easy it would be to get what I want."

Oddly enough, just at the same time, Chris Lisle was busily whipping away at the stream in foaming patch and in dark gliding pool, thinking deeply.

"Such a despicable coward!" he muttered. "Why, if a man had served me so, I should have half killed him. What a fate for her if it were possible, and here is he accepted by that sordid old wretch of a fellow, just because he has money. Now, if I had a few thousands! Ha!"

He whipped away, fishing with most patient energy till he reached the pool where Claude had caught her first fish, and where, as he stood by the water side, he seemed to feel her little hands clasping the rod with him as mentor, instructing her in the art.

But, try hard as he would, no salmon rose. Every pool, every eddy which had proved the home of some silvery fish in the past, was essayed in vain; and at last, after a couple of hours' honest work, he gave it up as a bad job, and determined to try at the mouth of the river, just where the salt tide met the fresh water, for one of the peel which frequented that part.

Winding up his line, and hesitating as to how he should fish, he walked swiftly back, wondering whether Glyddyr would still be on the bridge, waiting to insult him with word and look, and feeling heartily relieved to see that the place was clear.

Reaching the bridge, he went on down by the river on the same side as that on which he had been fishing.

There was no path there, and the way among the rugged stones and bushes was laborious, but he crept and leaped and climbed away till he was within a hundred yards of the sea, where the river began to change its rough, turbulent course to one that was calm and gliding.

It was extremely tortuous here, and in places there were eddies, in which patches of foam floated, just as they had come down from the little falls above, lingering, as it were, before taking the irrevocable plunge into the tide which would carry them far out to sea.

Close by one of these eddies, where the water looked black and dark, the fisher had to make his way down to the very edge of the river, to climb round a rugged point, and so reach the wilderness of boulders below, among which the river rushed hurriedly towards the bar.

It was the most slippery piece of climbing of all, and about half-way along Chris was standing with one foot upon an isolated stone, the other on a ledge of slatey rock, about to make his final spring, when something floating on the surface of the still water took his attention.

It was only a sc.r.a.p of pinkish paper, printed at the top, carefully ruled and crossed, and bearing some writing in coa.r.s.e blue pencil.

Chris stared hard at the object, for it was a telegram. Glyddyr had received a telegram, crumpled it up and thrown it into the water, where, in all probability, consequent upon the action of the water, it had slowly opened out till it lay flat, as if asking to be read.

"Bah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Chris, turning away from temptation--as it seemed to him.

The intention was good, but the mischief was done. Even as he glanced at the telegram lying there upon the water he took in its meaning. The writing was so large and clear, and the message so brief, that he grasped it all in what the Germans call an _augenblick_.

"_Back the Prince's filly.--Gellow_."

A curious feeling of annoyance came over Chris as he climbed on--a feeling which made him pick up a couple of heavy stones, and dash them down one after the other into the river.

The second was unnecessary, for the first was so well aimed that it splashed right into the middle of the paper, and bore it down into the depths of the river beneath the rocky bank; and Chris walked on towards the smiling sea, with those words fixed in his mind and standing out before him.

"Back the Prince's Filly."

The thing seemed quite absurd, and he felt more and more angry as he went a few yards farther and prepared his tackle, and began to fish just in the eddy where the stream and sea met. And there goodly fish, which had come up with the tide to feed on the tasty things brought down by the little river from the high grounds, gave him plenty of opportunities for making his creel heavy, but he saw nothing save the words upon the telegram, and could think of nothing else.

It was evidently a very important message to Glyddyr about some race, but for the time being he had no idea what race was coming off. He was fond of sport in one way, but Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket, Doncaster and Goodwood had no charm for him.

But he knew accidentally that Glyddyr was a man who betted heavily, and report said that he won large sums on the turf, while by the irony of fate here was he, possibly Glyddyr's greatest enemy, suddenly put in possession of one of his great turf secrets--undoubtedly a hint from his agent by which he would win a heavy sum.

"Well, let him win a heavy sum," cried Chris petulantly, as if some one were present tempting him to try his luck. "Let him win and gamble and lose, and go hang himself; what is it to me?"

He hurriedly wound in his line, to find that a fish had hooked itself; but, in his petulant state, he gave the rod a sharp jerk, s.n.a.t.c.hed the hook free, and began to retrace his way to the bridge; but before he reached the spot where he had had to step amid the big stones, he caught sight of a sc.r.a.p of pink paper sailing down to meet the tide, and he could not help seeing the words,--

"_Prince's fil_--"

And directly after another ragged fragment floated by showing, at the torn edge where the stone had dashed through, the one mutilated word,--

"_Bac_--"

"Any one would think there were invisible imps waiting to tempt me,"

thought Chris. "How absurd!"

He strode on, leaping and climbing along the rugged bank till he once more reached the bridge, crossed it, and was half-way back to his apartments when he saw Gartram coming along the road with Claude and Mary.

His first instinct was to avoid them. The second, to go straight on and meet them, and this he did, to find that, as he raised his hat, Gartram turned away to speak to Claude, and completely check any attempt at recognition on her part.

"How contemptible!" thought Chris. "Now, if I had been as well off as Glyddyr, I should have been seized by the hand, asked why I did not go up more to the Fort, and generally treated as if I were a son."

"_Back the Prince's filly_!"

The idea came with such a flash across his brain that he started and looked sharply over his shoulder to see if any one had spoken.

"How curious," he thought. "It just shows how impressionable the human mind is. If I gave way to it, I should begin calculating odds, and fooling away my pittance in gambling on the turf. I suppose every man has the gaming instinct latent within him, ready to fly into activity directly the right string is pulled. Ah, well, it isn't so with me."

He walked on, trying to think of how beautiful the day was, and how lovely the silver-damascened sea, with the blue hills beyond; but away softly, describing arcs of circles with the tips of her masts, lay Glyddyr's yacht, and there, just before him, was Glyddyr himself going into the little post office, where the one wire from the telegraph pole seemed to descend through the roof.

"Gone to send a message," thought Chris, with a feeling of anger that he could not for the moment a.n.a.lyse, but whose explanation seemed to come the next moment. To back the Prince's horse, perhaps make more thousands, and then--"Oh! this is maddening!" he said, half aloud; and he increased his pace till he reached the pretty cottage where he had long been the tenant of a pleasant, elderly, ship-captain's widow; and after hanging his rod upon the hooks in the little pa.s.sage, entered his room, threw the creel into the corner, and himself into a chair.

"Cut dead!" he exclaimed bitterly. "After all these years of happy life, to be served like that."

"_Back the Prince's filly_."

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 pa.s.sed.