AT Mirst Park there was not very much for Fielden to do. The horses he had brought with him were a moderate lot, and, in the words of the stud-groom, there was not a racer amongst them. With his intimate knowledge of horse-flesh Fielden wondered why Copley kept such an indifferent stable, and where he got his animals. They were even worse than the ordinary run of equine rubbish usually foisted on the millionaire whose ambition it is to figure as a patron of the turf. Perhaps the whole thing was a blind. Perhaps the stud at Seton Manor was merely intended to cover Copley's rascality in another direction. At any rate, Fielden watched the first two races with mingled feelings of contempt and amusement. He had seen his employer's horses figure in both in the sorriest fashion, and till the four o'clock race was free to do as he pleased.

It was strange to move about the paddock, by the weighing-room and on the stand, rubbing shoulders with a score of men whom he knew well. The course was familiar to him, too. Were the past two years but a dream, and had he never left the scene of his former recreations? But no one recognized him. He strolled about listening to the roar of the betting-ring and the cries of the multitude, or threaded his way in and out among the horses. He even spoke to one or two jockeys whom he had once known, but none seemed to identify him.

Despite the crowd and the horses, the ladies on the stand and the members in the enclosure, however, it was a lonely business, and his face lightened as he caught sight of May Haredale seated by herself on one of the stands. He made his way eagerly to her side. She turned and smiled upon him. There was a healthy flush on her face. Her eyes were sparkling, and yet there was a suspicion of anxiety about her which Fielden had noticed more than once lately.

"Why are you alone?" he asked.

"Oh, it has only been the last few minutes," May explained. "We have a colt running in this race, and my father has gone to give instructions to his jockey. By the way, how badly your horses have cut up to-day. No, I am not particularly interested in this race, and I haven't so much as a pair of gloves on it."

"Then what do you say to a stroll?" Fielden suggested. "It is cold, and we look like having another fall of snow. I couldn't see the three o'clock race for the snow. Positively I hadn't the faintest notion what had won till I saw the numbers go up. Let us walk across the course to the starting-point and back. We shall have plenty of time."

May consented, and soon they were beyond the enclosure and past the white posts and rails towards the patch of gorse across the Downs, where the starter was already fidgeting about on his cob. Away from the noise and excitement of the ring the flush faded from May's face, and her eyes seemed inexpressibly sad.

"What's the matter?" Fielden asked anxiously. "We all change as we grow older. I suppose I am different from what I used to be. But I don't like to see you so quiet. It is so foreign to your nature, May. There was a time when you were all laughter and sunshine. Oh, dear, what a fool I have been, to be sure. How different things might have been if I had only had a little common sense. You don't know how I blame myself."

"Were you altogether to blame?" May asked. "I don't think so. You had no one to look after you from the time you were at school till you came into your property. You were merely a boy then, and you behaved like one."

"Oh, I know, I know," Fielden sighed. "But that's all past and done with. But don't talk about me. I am far more interested in you. I hope nothing has happened to increase your anxiety. You know what I mean."

May looked irresolutely at her companion.

"I ought not, perhaps, to tell you," she said. "I ought not to tell anybody. But, then, well, you are Harry Fielden, and I have known you all my life. If you didn't care for me quite as much as you do, if I had not cared for you—but, there, we need not go into that. It is my father who has worried me. It is extraordinary what a change has come over him lately. He used to be so kind to me, to let me do as I liked, and even when we were so poor that we didn't know where to turn for money he was always happy and cheerful. Why, a few months ago he would have laughed at the idea of my marrying a man like Mr. Copley. Now he is almost eager for it."

Fielden made no reply for a moment. A wave of indignation came over him. He caught his lip between his teeth and bit it fiercely. A year or two ago he would have smiled at the suggestion that Sir George would sanction a match between his daughter and a man like Copley. But during the hard and bitter months of his wanderings he had learnt some amount of cynical wisdom. He was no longer inclined, as he had been in the old days, to take every man at his face valuation. And, no doubt, when the pinch came, Sir George was just like the rest. He would speak loudly enough of his willingness to give up the old house and live in humble lodgings rather than have any slur cast upon his honour. But it would be different when this pretty theory came to be put to the test. Fielden forgot all about the racecourse. He heard nothing of the shouting crowd. The horses streaming to the post conveyed nothing to his eye.

"I want you to be candid with me," he said. "Is Sir George putting pressure upon you to marry that blackguard?"

There was something so vehement in Fielden's speech that May looked at him in astonishment.

"Surely you are going too far," she said. "Mr. Copley is not a gentleman, of course——"

"I tell you, he is a scoundrel," Fielden interrupted. "Believe me, May, I would not have spoken unless I had been bound to. That man is not fit to go into any respectable house. I cannot say more than that at present, because the secret is not altogether mine. But this much I tell you: Had there been no such person as Raymond Copley I should be a rich man at the present moment. I know that, but for the merest accident, there would be blood on that man's hands. You must not marry him, May. You must not give him the slightest encouragement. When I think of your associating with that rascal my blood boils. If the worst comes to the worst, I must tell Sir George what I know myself. It is with the greatest reluctance I entered Copley's employment; indeed, I only did so because there are certain things I want to find out and this seemed to provide a favourable opportunity. Otherwise, I would rather get my living by selling race-cards and sleep under a furze bush. But do you mean to say your father really insists on this?"

A rush of tears filled May's eyes.

"That is what it comes to," she rejoined. "It is only the last two days that I have noticed such a change in my father. Harry, do you think it is as bad as he says it is? He tells me that unless I consent to marry Mr. Copley we shall be ruined and be turned out of the house without so much as a penny. It seems incredible. I can't understand a man with an atom of self-respect who would compel a girl to marry him against her will. It isn't as if I were rich, or intellectual, or beautiful."

Harry thought he could understand. Indeed, any man could understand who looked down into the pretty, pleading, anxious face that was turned up towards Fielden.

"There is no accounting for people like Copley," he said. "He is the kind of man that has not an atom of consideration for anybody but himself. He has no heart or conscience, and the more unattainable a thing is the more he longs for it. He cannot win you; therefore, you are the one thing in the world that he passionately desires. God help the woman, however fascinating and beautiful, who becomes Copley's wife! It would mean years of brutality and neglect and self-contempt. You mustn't, May. I understand the duty you owe to your father, but no man has a right to exact such a sacrifice as that. Don't you think I had better see Sir George and give him a hint of the sort of man Copley is?"

May shook her head resolutely.

"I am afraid that would do more harm than good," she said. "I must fight my battle alone, Harry, and if you interfered my father might forbid you Haredale Park. He has already hinted that, if you had not come home again, I should have been willing to become Mrs. Raymond Copley, and if I were not allowed to see you I don't know what I should do. There is nobody else I could confide in. But I will let you know how things go on. We had better go back. I feel better for this confession."

But it seemed a hopeless business, and Fielden's face was sad and gloomy as he strode alongside May towards the stand.

Ah! but hope was not dead yet.