Let the roof fall in

Front matter

You are pleased ? ' "

BY FRANK DANBY

AUTHOR OF "THE HEART OF A CHILD, " PIGS IN CLOVER," ETC.

Chapter I

THE weather was cold, the sky overcast, there had been several short, sharp showers of rain, and the prospect of a pleasant day's racing was not even problematic. The stand at Sandown would be half empty, and the difficulty of spotting winners, always great enough in the jumping season, would be doubled by the heaviness of the going.

Lady Carrie Carthew had been talking about the weather since nine o'clock, when her maid had called her. It was still the subject of her conversation when, at eleven, she walked to the window and decided it would be quite absurd to venture out. She had had her morning appetizer of rum and milk, followed by a cigarette, she had read her letters, torn up her bills, and yawned over her papers. Four or five dresses had been taken out of the wardrobe, and replaced, discarded definitely for the occasion. She had intended all along to wear the new brown cloth with her sables, and the wallflower toque. But what was the good of dressing-up on a day like this ? From the window in Charles Street she had a side glimpse into Berkeley Square, and in Berkeley Square it was miserable enough, the moist air clung like gray fog to the leafless trees, and dripped from brown boughs on to the sodden grass. It would be worse still in the country, slopping across the Park through the grass to the ill-protected stand, spending the rest of the day with shoes and stockings damp and feet cold, shivering while the horses paraded, watching them through obscured field-glasses as they jumped, or fell short, the colors indistinguishable, and the result in doubt until the numbers went up.

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Lady Carrie loved a day's racing, and had, in fact, insisted that Lord Ranmore should fetch her in the car and drive her down. But the weather made it impossible. She gazed out of the window, doubted, shivered, and was glad of her warm feignoir.

"You can put away all those clothes, Marie; I shall stop at home," she decided at last, abruptly. "Get me my writingcase and the telephone book. Tell Mrs. Batson we shall be four or five to lunch, and she must see there are plenty of hot cakes for tea. I shall have bridge here; it is the only thing to do in such weather."

She turned away from the window. The warm bedroom, with all its comfortable disarray, appealed to her senses, and now she sank luxuriously on to the sofa, happy in her decision.

That was the moment when the big car turned into the Square, and, with its familiar toot-toot, and the soft splash of its tires in the fluid mud, drew up before the house.

"Ranmore must give it up," she said to herself comfortably. "It isn't as if he were going to ride Montserrat. The idiotic clairvoyante put a stopper on that. I shall want Betty Brinmore for a fourth, I suppose Betty is one of the party."

Any doubt on that score was quickly set at rest, for the car had hardly stopped, the engine still making its unholy noise before the door, when Betty Brinmore herself, having discarded ceremony many years ago, and never found time to recapture it, burst into the room without knocking.

"Not dressed yet! what a sluggard you are! But it's just what I expected! You '11 have to hurry up all you know. Look sharp, Marie, and put her ladyship into some waterproof togs. ..."

"Don't be foolish, Bet! Of course I'm not going; it's too wet. Ranmore isn't going to ride, the ground will be nothing but a bog, there won't be a soul there. ..."

"Oh, don't talk! you've got to come. Ranmore 's outside with the car. The horses will be there, won't they? I'm going to see Montserrat win the Grand Military if it blows a blizzard. A little rain won't hurt you, put on thick boots and leggings. There will be some ripping good racing, I can tell you, and it will be a near thing between Gabriel and Montserrat, anyway. Do hurry! I want to have a good look at them before lunch, and the first race is at one."

Betty Brinmore had a house near Ascot, where Carrie always stayed for the week. She was also the possessor, through her husband, of a hunting-box at Melton, a grouse-moor, and a large amount of more-or-less exclusive racing information. Carrie valued her friendship, and all that was to be had out of it. Betty would hardly have called their intercourse friendship, it was not a word that fitted Lady Carrie; but they were intimate enemies. Their tastes and pursuits were similar, and they hunted pastime in couples. Betty 's was the franker nature; she was also good-natured. Carrie had persuaded her that Lord Ranmore's attentions were serious. Well, she had brought Ranmore, or Ranmore had brought her, to fetch Carrie for Sandown; and Carrie would have to come. She did not want to be alone with three or four men. Jim de la Roche was in the car, and he was enough for her. Carrie must help in entertaining the others.

Lady Carrie did not want to go to Sandown in the wet; she wanted to stay at home and play bridge. But she could not afford to throw away her chances; the insistence of Betty and the call of that puffing, straining car outside were inexorable. A day with Ranmore, too, ought not to be missed, she knew it well enough. She protested, but her protests were perfunctory. She was despoiled of her comfortable peignoir and laced into a tweed frock, before she had finished asseverating that she did not intend to move; that she was just writing to Dot, and Jenny Ransom to come and play bridge; that she did not believe there would be any racing, and she was sure, if there were, all the favorites would get beaten.

Betty took little heed of her protestations.:

"Go on, Marie, hook her up as quickly as you can. It doesn't really matter what you put on her, she won't be without her coat on a day like this. You don't want that footling motor- veil" — Carrie was endeavoring to secure herself from wind and weather — "the car is shut up. Come on, we can do it in an hour if there are no police-traps. Terence drove it round himself. He has his cousin with him, Derrick Malone; such a fine fellow; twice the size of Terence. Terence says he is a 'black Ranmore,' whatever that may mean. He has just passed an examination and got some appointment. Terence is making no end of a fuss about him. He is about six feet two, green from Belfast, and with a brogue you could cut with a knife. Do come on. Jim is with us. He is riding in the first race. Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

Betty Brinmore, who had been Betty Carew, was not used to being contradicted. She was impatient under it, and had no hesitation in pressing her point. She wanted to talk to Jim. With the car there were Ranmore, and his cousin Derrick, and Noel Scales, as well as Jim. Carrie could not leave her in the lurch with them all. Carrie did not see what Bet found in Jim de la Roche, he had only his pay, and no conversation except about racing. But then Bet could never understand what Terence Ranmore found in Lady Carrie Carthew, and this mental attitude, with the concealment of it from one another, was typical of the two women 's relations.

Carrie and Bet were neighbors at Melton. They were neighbors, too, in town, where neighborhood counts for nothing. You live either in May fair, or out of it. Charles Street was in the area, and there Carrie had set up her Lares and Penates when her husband's sudden death had freed her. But Berkeley Square was only a stone 's-throw away, and fundamentally there was no distinction in the distance.

Lord Ranmore was standing on the pavement- when the two ladies emerged from the house. If he were as impatient as Betty had said, he certainly disguised it well. But then, Terence, Lord Ranmore, was remarkable for his pretty manners, in an age when, among a certain set of people, it was considered good form not only to have no manners, but to cultivate frank, rude speech. Terence was an Irishman, and Ranmore Castle is not far distant from Cork, near where the Blarney-stone is to be found.

"And wasn't it worth while waiting for her?" he answered Bet, who complained the delay. "Let me present my cousin to you, Lady Carrie. It 's the broth of a boy he is, and he only speaks Irish."

When Lord Ranmore took his hat off to greet them, and stood with it in his hand until they were both in the car, one could see that the red-gold wave of his hair would have clustered into curls had the regulations permitted it. He had a dimple in his cheek like a girl, that showed when he laughed, and Terence laughed often, then his blue eyes twinkled, and he had a trick of half closing them. He was quite extraordinarily good-looking, and all his five feet nine were perfect in carriage and proportion. Deny was a rough-hewn giant beside him, and could not be said to have any manners at all — at least, the introduction hardly held his attention:

"Can I really drive the car all the way down, Terence? You'll trust it with me, and you'll not be wanting the chauffeur at all?" He had all a boy's eagerness, although he was nearly twenty-four, and so big. Terence had driven it round himself, with Deny beside him, and the chauffeur sitting on the step. But it was raining, and now, that there were two ladies, Terence would surely be wanting to talk to them.

"It will be a fine drive," he went on excitedly, hardly noticing Lady Carrie Carthew, who was good to look upon, nevertheless; or so Ranmore told her, giving Deny a cheery word of warning or advice, and following her into the car. The car was a new one, and this was the first day it had been out. Derry thought it was wonderful of Terence to entrust it to him. But when wasn't Terence kind to him?

"I had all the trouble in the world to get Carrie to dress," Bet told Terence when they had started. Derry, very proud in his position on the box, had his hand on the whistle all the time.

Carrie put her gloved fingers to her delicate ears. "Tell him not so much whistle, please, I want to talk. I was so disappointed when I saw in this morning's paper that you were not going to ride Montserrat. That is why I was not ready when Bet came for me. I hated going to the Grand Military if I was not to see you ride," Carrie said, smiling sweetly at Terence, as if the weather had had nothing to do with her hesitation, and bridge held no allurement.

"But I told you that yesterday!" He flushed a little; his skin was as fair as a girl's. "Jim here has the mount, and he'll do it full justice. I've put you a tenner on. As for Bet, I believe it's bankruptcy and the poor-house she'll face, if it doesn't get home. It ought to be a good thing; it's as near a certainty for us as anything can be."

Jim de la Roche was the best gentleman-jockey in England, and Sir Noel Scales was another Irishman whose most salient feature was a knowledge of Ruff. Form and odds were the topics all the way down, and Betty did most of the talking. Lady Carrie was occupied, as ever when she was in Lord Ranmore's company, in trying to look her best, although her good looks were but a poor thing compared with his. Her strong point was her fair hair; she spent many hours of the day in its tendance. It was pale fawn-color, it was waved daily by the best hair-dresser in London, and washed with white of egg and champagne. Whatever the fashion of the moment in hats, she would wear none large enough to cover it. She had a trim and pretty figure, and rather a plaintive manner, which she used for all it was worth. She called Lord Ranmore, Terence, and paraded her intimacy with him. She dropped a word or two now and again into the midst of the racing talk, to demonstrate to Bet and the other men that she was familiar with Lord Ranmore's movements yesterday, and the day before. This was part of her method. Jim and Sir Noel knew all about it. Everybody knew that Harry Carthew's widow wanted to marry Terence Ranmore. Odds had been laid against her bringing it off.

Terence's sister was the Duchess of Towcester, and Terence was devoted to her. When the odds on, or against, Lady Carrie Carthew succeeding in her project were discussed, it was always the Duchess and her influence that threw them against Carrie. There was Lady Ranmore, too, to reckon with, Terence's mother. He was as a young sun-god in his mother's eyes; she would never find mortal woman fit to wed with him. Wasn't he the heir to all the Ranmores, seventeen generations of them, and an epitome of the whole of Irish history? Wasn't he the head of the family, to say nothing of being the apple of her eye and his sister's? Certainly Carrie's chances if they depended at all on Terence's family, looked very poor indeed.

The young sun-god was not quite in his best spirits to-day. His laughter rang out less often, or rang less gaily than usual. The twinkling eyes and the dimple suffered something of an eclipse. Before now Carrie had amused Terence, but her rallying to-day seemed to have little effect.

Lady Carrie had tact, she did not ask what ailed him; she thought it was easy enough to guess. He was in the habit of consulting clairvoyantes before he went for a day's racing; and yesterday he had been warned he must not ride Montserrat for the Grand Military. Carrie knew that Terence was in debt and needed money. Lady Ranmore was spending her jointure, and all her private fortune, in repairing the castle and improving the estate. But there was not much left over for new motor-cars and polo ponies, ill-luck at racing and cards, and Carrie's own insatiable needs. Terence wanted the money he would have won over Montserrat if he had ridden him. There was no use looking further for the cause of the cloud that was temporarily passing over his brightness.

Carrie was really too much wrapped up in herself to regard very seriously the absence of Terence's usual high spirits. She thought she held him safely — perhaps she accepted his glumness as a further proof of it. For, whatever his sentiments might have been two years ago, when he was new to London and to her, and ready to be pleased with everyone, she knew quite well that to-day there was little sentiment in his feelings for her. Terence had his code of honor, and Lady Carrie had a claim upon him. He would not ignore nor forget her claim, but to-day its insistency now and again irritated him. Who could guess that he was haunted to-day by the sweetest pair of gray eyes, pleading eyes, frightened eyes, eyes that shed tears ? He could not see Carrie's eyes through her veil. They were not Carrie's eyes that were haunting him.

What had Derry meant by talking to him about Rosaleen before they started? Derry was nothing but a boy — a great, overgrown boy, not ripe for love-making. Derry had his way to make in the world, while Rosaleen . . . Well, he didn't want to think about little Rosaleen, nor to hear Derry talk of her. That was why he was riding inside with Carrie and Bet, instead of with Derry on the box.

Terence, Lord Ranmore, was not the young sun-god his mother thought him. He was, indeed, very human, just a dear, spoiled boy who had always had his own way, and had taken it once too often, perhaps, in a masterful manner. The Duchess saw him with a lesser halo than his mother did, albeit the one he wore before her was bright enough. But although he was not a god, nor quite what they thought him, he had a conscience, and it was pricking, reminding him, worrying him, all during that motor drive to Sandown.

He was quite gallant to Carrie and paid her compliments, but S2cretly her note irked him a little. If she held him in a chain of roses, to-day the roses had thorns.

Betty Brinmore went on talking of weights to Jim, as if she were the official handicapper. Sir Noel had his little "Form at a Glance " with him, and helped them to remember performances. Terence easily assimilated his talk to theirs, he was ever adaptable. Lady Carrie's mind remained chiefly intent upon herself, even when she talked to Terence. When the weather brightened, as they approached Esher, she wished she had put on her brown dress; when the rain came down again pitilessly, she was glad she was in tweed. She doubted the fitness of her hat, the stoutness of her boots, and the resistant quality of her soup$on of rouge. But she continued to show her proprietorship in Terence, and, if she was thinking of herself and her appearance throughout the journey down, secretly longing, perhaps, for her bridge and home-comforts, nobody guessed it — least of all Terence, who presently assumed something of his normal gaiety and promised them a fine day.

Arrived at Sandown, his first care was for Deny. But Deny said he wasn't wet at all, the big mackintosh had protected him. And he had never enjoyed anything so much in his life as driving her down. And wasn't she a grand car, and what would it have been if he had "let her out"? Short as was the walk from the motor to the enclosure, they were all pretty wet through before they reached the shelter of the stand. Terence held his umbrella over Carrie very carefully, as directed, and a very cursory inspection of herself in the glass in the ladies' room assured her that her color had stood, her fringe was still in curl, and there was nothing in the way of her enjoyment, if, indeed, enjoyment were possible under the circumstances.

Happily, matters improved while they were at lunch, and very little rain fell after racing had begun, although the weather remained for some time dull, gloomy, and uninviting.

The Duchess had motored all the way from Dunstans. She had heard nothing about the clairvoyante, and fully expected Terence was going to ride Montserrat. She was alone, and would have liked her brother to join her. Neither Carrie Carthew, nor Betty Brinmore, were very congenial to the Duchess of Towcester, Terence's sister. But there was Deny, and the Duchess cared for Deny next to Terence himself. Terence could not leave his party, but he could, and did, persuade his sister to join it. And now he was entirely himself again.

Derry proved quite a success among the little party. Margaret and Terence ordered him about, and it was easy to see that he worshiped them both, and they loved him.

Margaret, Duchess of Towcester, had the Ranmore red in her abundant hair, a touch of their persistent brogue in her thin, humorous lips, and all, and more than the family beauty in her blue eyes and ready smile. There was little trace of Ranmore about Derry, although in his way he was no less distinctive. His six feet two made Terence look small, but then Terence's neatness made his cousin look rough, almost unkempt, in his loosely fitting tweeds. The dark hair was thick about the wide brow. There were strength and power in the rugged young face, but there was no beauty. He had engineer's hands, too, a great contrast to Terence's slender "sevens." As for Margaret, her hands and feet were proverbial. Derry was rough-hewn granite beside the delicate terra-cotta of this brother and sister. And he knew it so well. But it was like them to carry him along with them this day, and to have made his rare holiday in London so full and wonderful. He had finished all his examinations, he was off to Siam in another fortnight, to take up his appointment. But Terence and Margaret had been as good to him here as they always were at Ranmore, which they had made him look upon as his own home. He was staying with Terence in his rooms, and Terence had let him drive the new car down. Now there was a day's racing in front of him.

His good spirits affected them all, and it was a gay luncheon, if a hurried one. Berry's appetite was what Terence called "up to his weight," and the Duchess and Terence and, above all, Betty, enjoyed his Irishisms.

The rows of chairs in the Club enclosure were unoccupied, and, although a few men in mackintoshes, with race-glasses slung across their sholders, stood about the sodden lawn, and talked in pairs, or in small groups, the scene was desolate in the extreme. The raucous voices of the bookmakers were comparatively silent in Tattersall's, and the outside public, in the readymoney silver ring, were subdued in laying and backing their fancies. The green course was empty but for a few mounted policemen, it had been cleared for the first race without difficulty.

The numbers were up when they had finished lunch, and before they had settled down, the thin "field" was straggling to the starting-post.

Lady Carrie and Bet had the stand to themselves when the men left them, Sir Noel and Jim de la Roche to place their bets, Derry to "see to the car."

Terence, at the Duchess's request, took her into the paddock to see Montserrat, and talk to the trainer. They made a noticeable pair, and many who saw them together that day, for the last time, turned involuntarily to look at them. It was easy to see the love they bore each other. Terence's face was alive with animation, hers, hardened somewhat by life, for she was five years older than he, and a wife in name only, softened while she listened, and in her eyes, when they looked upon him, was mother-love. He was so inexpressibly dear to her, this gay, careless brother, almost all she had for which to care.

The first race was soon over. Jim de la Roche was riding in the second, and there was no doubt Jim could ride. Other men had joined the party in the enclosure. Betty Brinmore was one of the most popular women in London, and what she did not know about a horse was not worth knowing. They wanted to hear if Jim was going to win the Tally Ho, but chiefly what she and he thought about the Grand Military. There was some comment about Lord Ranmore standing down; for Montserrat belonged to Terence, and it was unusual to give such a mount to another man. When Bet told the story of how a clairvoyante had warned him not to ride, they laughed, and repeated it from one to another, and the thing got about before the flag went down for the Tally Ho.

The Tally Ho steeplechase brought out only four runners. Jim de la Roche, carrying the money of all the party, took a toss at the stand-fence, and brought home a lame horse some time after the rest of the field. The little group who had been watching the race through their field-glasses shut them up with a cheery word or two. For nobody had "put the pot on" for the Tally Ho, and it is always amusing when a fine rider like Jim gets thrown.

"It was absurd to come out on such a wet day!" Carrie commented. "The grass is so wet the horses simply slip about instead of running. And I am sure I am catching cold. Let us go home instead of waiting for the rest, and play bridge in warmth and comfort. Some of you will come, won't you?"

She, too, was quite popular among the crowd. That she pursued Terence Ranmore with her wiles was nothing to them, and bridge was no bad substitute for racing in this sort of weather.

"Don't be obstinate, Bet," she urged.

"I am going to see Montserrat win the Grand Military if there's a waterspout instead of a shower. I told you so this morning. So, please don 't worry me."

Bet was obstinate, and Lady Carrie had to stay where she was.

The Tally Ho had been a disappointment, the men who stood around or came up to them were explanatory, condemnatory, or argumentative.

The great question was now, who would win the Grand Military? And on this opinions were varied. There was no doubt Jim had a good mount in Montserrat. But Jim was all to pieces to-day, he had thrown away the Tally Ho. What a pity Ranmore was not riding!

The talk swayed to and fro, but always came back to the same starting-point.

Who was the clairvoyante ? What on earth was a clairvoyante, and what had she said? They did not know Ranmore was so superstitious. Hadn't he backed the horse?

The bookmakers seemed to know that Lord Ranmore was out of spirits, or out of luck, and their first fancy for Montserrat fizzled out. The horse went back in the betting, and now one could hear other horses' names.

"Two to one bar one! Two to one Ixion! Three to one Montserrat! the field a pony!"

For everyone could see the owner was here; and why wasn't he riding?

"Four to one Montserrat! Six to four Ixion!" The voices reached them where they stood.

"What the devil's the matter with the horse, Ranmore?" one asked, and then another. "They are laying against him for all they are worth."

"He was as fit as a fiddle an hour ago, that's all I know," said Terence. "I could barely get twos this morning. And Ixion is a cart-horse beside him. Where's Jim? Jim ought to know."

He had more money on Montserrat than he could afford to lose. He generally had more money on a horse than he could afford to lose.

"I'm going back to the paddock to find Jim. You'll be all right here till I come back," he said to Carrie.

"But Terence, if Montserrat is lame, if anything is wrong with him, put my tenner on Ixion." Carrie always had an eye to the main chance.

"I tell you there is nothing wrong with him; there could not be."

"Don't get scared, Carrie, and don't scare Terence. What does it matter about the odds? Jim will win if the horse has four legs left. It's all a question of jockeyship in this race," Bet said.

"And here is Jim, coming along to speak for himself."

"But, good heavens! he has changed his things. He isn't even dressed!" exclaimed one of the group.

Jim looked pale and shaken, and he was evidently in a tearing hurry.

"That you, Ranmore? I want to speak to you." He took him on one side. "Look here, old fellow, I hate doing it, but I must throw up the mount, and they've got to hear about it. No one can ride him but you or me; you know that as well as they do. I've sprained my infernal wrist; I couldn't hold a donkey. I've put a pot of money on him. . . . You don't really funk it, do you?"

For Ranmore had not acquiesced, as might have been expected, but hesitated.

"How about Jerry?"

"Don't be an ass! You are not going to chuck away the race, and my money as well as your own, because a rotten Bond Street charlatan warned you you'd come to grief?"

"I'll come to grief, anyhow, if it doesn't win."

"Well, what's to hold it back?"

What the clairvoyante had said was that she saw trouble in the crystal, and that the trouble was connected with horses. She had not been able to get a clear view, or to give a clear description of what she had seen. There was the race-course, with the horses galloping over the turf; then, before she could distinguish horses or riders, the crystal became clouded. Last 2 13 year in this very race, Lord Ranmore told her, he had come a cropper at the stand-fence and broken a rib; the year before he had been thrown at the water and damaged a knee-cap. She had warned him not to ride, been insistent in her warning. But it was not entirely because of what the clairvoyante had said that he hesitated. He could not afford any sort of accident just now, that was the truth. He had a sin on his conscience; only last night that wild letter had come from Rosaleen. He was ashamed and sorry for what he had done. Of course, he must put it right. He must not, dare not risk an accident. He had a sense of apprehension on him; not through what the clairvoyante had said, but because of that miserable, despairing pathetic little letter.

"I don't think I'll ride," he said again hesitatingly.