There was no card-party that evening. Kit went out soon after dinner, and the three ladies prepared to spend a quiet hour or two with the blinds drawn, and a snug fire burning in the Yellow Saloon. Lady Bellingham, however, soon retired to bed, complaining that the stress of the past week had quite worn her down; arid while Miss Laxton pretended to be bus with some sewing, but in reality set very few stitches, Miss Grantham flicked over the pages of a romance, and tried to hit upon an infallible plan for gaining possession of her aunt’s bills which would not entail surrendering to the enemy, but which would, on the contrary, place him in a position of the greatest discomfiture.
At ten o’clock the knock which Miss Laxton had been waiting to hear at last fell upon the front-door, and she let her needlework drop to the floor. “That must be he!”
Miss Grantham looked up. “I won’t receive him!” she said.
Phoebe stared at her in alarm. “Deb! Why, what has he done?” she faltered, turning quite pale.
“What has he done? Oh, you are talking of Mablethorpe.”
“But, dearest Deb, whom else should I be talking about asked Miss Laxton, puzzled.
Miss Grantham blushed. “I was thinking of something different,” she excused herself.
Light footsteps were heard running up the stairs; the next instant Lord Mablethorpe stood on the threshold, flushed, an a little dishevelled, and still dressed in a drab driving-coat, and topboots, both generously splashed with mud. “We won!” I announced, his eyes sparkling.
Phoebe clapped her hands. “Oh, I knew you would. I am so glad! And you are safe!”
He laughed. “Safe? Of course I am! There never was such race! It was beyond anything great! I do not know when enjoyed anything so much! Oh, Deb, do you mind me in my dirt? I thought you would not: I knew you would want hear all about it! May I come in?”
“Of course you may come in,” she said, picking up Phoebe work, and folding it neatly. “Have you dined, or would you like some supper?”
“Oh, no, thank you! We dined early in Hatfield, and I had supper with Max, at his house, just now. It was touch and go once or twice—only fancy our falling in behind an Accommodation coach on the narrow part of the road this side of Potter’s Bar! I thought all was over with us, for you must know that Filey led for the first part of the way, and was ahead of the coach. But there was never anyone like Max! You know when the road divides, at the Hadley Highstone, the Holyhead going off to the left? Oh, I dare say you might not! But I can tell you it is as tricky a place as you may wish for, and a number of coaches and wagons on the road! Well, before I knew what he would be about, Max had dropped his hands, and let the greys shoot! It was our only chance, but there was a gig coming in from the Holyhead road, and I give you my word we cleared the Accommodation coach, with no more than a couple of inches to spare between it and the gig! I own, I shut my eyes, and said my prayers!”
“You might have been killed!” breathed Phoebe.
“So I might, with any other man holding the reins, but Max knows what his greys will do to a nicety.”
“I collect that Sir James’s pair was inferior?” said Deborah, despising herself for betraying any interest in the race.
He turned his glowing face towards her. “Oh, as to that, I would not say so by any means! It was all in the handling. When we came to Islington we found him with as bang-up a set-out of blood and bone as you could wish for: small heads, good necks, broad chests and thighs, pure Welsh bred! Beautifully matched too! But the instant Max laid eyes on them, he said to me that they were poled up too tight, and so they were. I could see Filey’s groom thought so too, but that’s Filey all over! He must always know best, and he is so cursed obstinate there’s no telling him anything! Well, there was quite a crowd gathered at the start, as you may suppose, and a good deal of betting going on. Some of the green “uns were plunging pretty heavily on Filey, because there’s no denying the bays are the showiest pair you’ll see in a twelvemonth; but the knowing ones put their money on Max, and, by Jupiter, they were right! Well, we were off to a good start, and Filey went ahead, just as Max thought he would. Max held the greys in all the way to Barnet, no more than keeping Filey in sight. I wish you might have seen Filey driving his cattle up Highgate Hill, as though it had been the last lap of the race, instead of the first! We went up behind him, just larking, you know: keeping her alive, at a gentle trot. Of course Filey did not take the hill in time, driving up it at that pace, and his near horse precious nearly stumbled as they went over the crest. When Max saw it, he said the race was our own. But that was before we got held up by that Accommodation coach! But I told you of that! We had a splendid run across Finchley Common, going good, very little traffic on the road. I would have passed Filey then, but Max said no; he would pass him in Barnet.” His lordship laughed at the memory. “In Barnet, of all places! But that is just like Max! I thought we should never be able to do it, for Barnet is always crowded. Filey can’t manage well in a street full of carts and chaises, and you could see he was fretting his cattle. They were sweating freely, and only half the course run! There was a chaise on one side of the road, and the Mail pulling out from the Red Lion, and a phaeton draw up outside some shop or other. Not enough room to allowed a cat to squeeze through, you’d have said! At all events, that what Filey must have thought, for he made no attempt to clear the chaise. Max saw his chance, and we went through, neatly as you please, at a spanking trot, threading our way. I wondered if we were going to take the phaeton’s off—wheel but we never so much as grazed it. Max has the lightest hand He says the only thing is, Filey may have ruined the bay mouths—oh, I did not tell you!—Max told Filey to name his price for his pair at the end, and has bought them. Filey was mad as fire, because of course Max’s offering to buy them showed that he thought it was Filey and not they who had lost the race. But he was so angry with them for losing that I would have sold them to the first man who offered for them. They were hanging on his hands when he brought them in Hatfield, but that was his fault. Berkeley says he always drived his worst against Max, because he is so devilish anxious to win and knows, though he won’t admit it, that Max is the better whip. We never lost the lead after Potter’s Bar.”
“You seem to have lost it after Barnet,” observed Miss Grantham dryly. “How was that?”
His lordship chuckled. “Oh, short of Hadley Green! I to Max that Filey was going to try to pass, and he said he might do so with his goodwill, for he would not spring the greys that stage. He only passed him at Barnet to fret him a trifle. There never was such a fool! Max says—”
“My dear Adrian, Max seems to have said a great deal, but wish you will try not to introduce those two words so often into your story!” said Miss Grantham blightingly.