"Oh, there's nothing whatever the matter with me," May said in her candid way. "I am only worried, that's all. You have been here quite long enough to see that things are not going with us as they should. It will be a terrible thing if our colt fails to win the Derby. Indeed, I don't know how we shall be able to carry on till the end of May in any case. What a wretched business it all is! How foolish people are to risk their happiness on the speed of a horse! But the Haredales have always been gamblers. I suppose it is in the blood. Put on your hat and take me for a walk across the Downs. I need something to blow the cobwebs away." Fielden was eager. For some time he walked in silence by the girl's side, waiting for her to speak. He had a feeling that, sooner or later, May would confide in him. She stopped suddenly and raised her eyes to his. "I am going to ask you a question," she said. "I want you to put yourself in my place for a moment. Suppose that the honour and fortune of the family rested in my hands, and it was for me to say whether the Haredales were to leave this old place in poverty and disgrace, or whether they were to stay on occupying the old position, what would you do?" "It depends on circumstances," Fielden said. "Of course it does, my dear boy. I didn't expect you to make such a tame reply as that. Surely you must know what I mean. It is for me to decide. I have the opportunity of bringing into the family the necessary money to set everything right. But at a price." "As usual," Fielden, said sadly. "The price happens to be yourself." "You have guessed it. The price is myself. I suppose it would be no news to you if I told you who the man was." "Not after last night," Fielden said between his teeth. "So Raymond Copley has asked you to marry him. I suppose it is the old story which one has read in books and newspapers a thousand times. Copley has got your father under his thumb and has threatened to ruin him, unless you consent to be his wife. I am not a very shrewd person, but I felt sure of this when we came home last night. You refused Copley, of course, and he took his refusal in the way such a cad would. He threatened you and said he had your father on his side. And now you are hesitating what to do. You have said that no power on earth shall force you to consent, that you cannot save the family honour at such a price. You are right, May. It is a vile thing to ask of a girl. It is so mean and dishonourable. Heaven knows, I care for your welfare. I never knew how much I did care till we met in London the other night. Then I realized for the first time the price I am paying for my folly. If I hadn't been a fool, you would be my wife to-day, and it would have been my pleasure and privilege to help Sir George out of his trouble. Can you ever forgive me?"