There were seven starters, and the race was twice round the course. They got away all together, through the gap and over the first flight of hurdles all in line; a little scattering of them in the ploughed field, where the first symptoms of tailing-off began to be manifested; then came the ditch and bank, where there were three dead refusals, the four safely on the other side being Devilskin, Vixen, a mare called Gray Duchess--whose performances were all unknown, and who belonged to a sporting saddler--and Billy Button, an old steeple-chaser, entered to make running for Vixen. Through the grass they came, Vixen and Devilskin leaving the others about a couple of lengths behind, over the light hurdles, then straight heading up for the drop fence. A crowd had gathered at this point to see the jump taken; and as the horses came up, each thundered out the name of his favourite. With his face dead set, his teeth clinched, and with every muscle of his limbs like steel, Griffin brought his horse straight at the jump, and Devilskin scarcely needing the slightest lifting, cleared it in one great rushing bound, blundered a little on touching the ground, but was up and away ere any of the others were over. Vixen came next, fretting and fuming, her foam-flecked chestnut coat heat-stained and mud-dabbled; her jock, who evidently knew her temper, riding her with a light yet firm hand, and never touching her until she was just preparing to take her spring, when he rammed the spurs home, and brought her over cleverly and safely. Close upon her followed the saddler's gray mare, heavily built and somewhat clumsy in her gallop as she came thundering along, but rising at the jump and skimming it like a bird. It was the prettiest thing that had been seen that day; the people cheered till they were hoarse; and Sir Harvey Boyce turned a trifle pale as he whispered to Tit Trafford that "that was an Irish mare, he'd take his oath, and that he was d--d if he liked her looks." Now past the stand all, Devilskin leading, but Vixen close upon him, and away into the open, Gray Duchess following three lengths behind. Now all excitement, hoarse roar, and wild clamour, for Vixen and Devilskin were neck and neck, over the light hurdles, through the ploughed field, and nearing the high bank. Griffin seems to feel that Devilskin wants a lift here, gathers his horse well up in hand, and comes down heavily on his quarters as he rises to the leap. Cleverly done, Griffin, for Devilskin clears it better than he did the first round. Not so Vixen, also whipped, who rears, boggles, tumbles, and rolls. Devilskin wins! Devilskin! Devilskin! Up goes the clamour from a thousand hoarse throats. What is that cry? The Gray! the Gray! Gray Duchess slips over the high bank like a mist, like a dream, collars Devilskin in the grass, and side by side with him clears the last set of light hurdles, and rounds the corner facing the drop fence. Now, Griffin, for your life! bring all the knowledge, all the pluck learned and nurtured in far-away Yorkshire spinneys to this one test--you have a foeman worthy of your steel-spurs; show that you know yet a better thing than he, and win the race! Up came the horse, blown, panting, with red eyeballs, drooping crest: in the hollow it looked as if it were all over, but Griffin steadied him quietly, and then brought him at the leap with a rush. One tremendous welt he gave him, one home-dig with the spurs, and Devilskin rose at the post and rails,--rose to fall helplessly into the midst of them staked and dying; while, so close as almost to brush his writhing carcass Gray Duchess slips by, and gallops in the winner and sole survivor of the fray.
Mr. Stallbrass closed his race-glass, muttered a strong word, and turned to speak to his friend; but as he turned he felt a heavy weight on his shoulder, and heard the words "Ruined--ruined, by God!" muttered in his ear. The next moment Mr. Guyon was lying on his back at the bottom of the phaeton, livid in the face, and breathing stertorously. An alarm was raised, and a mounted gentleman, announcing himself to be a doctor, rode up to the phaeton, threw himself from his horse, and after a hasty examination, pronounced Mr. Guyon to be in an apoplectic fit, and shook his head very dubiously as to the result.
[CHAPTER XI.]
"IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT."
The first confusion and alarm which had ensued on Mr. Guyon's sudden illness had subsided, and had been succeeded by the orderly hush of a house in which mortal sickness had assumed its irresistible sway. Mr. Guyon had been carried upstairs to the large bedroom formerly occupied by Katharine, and which he had used since his daughter's marriage. The doctor who had been found and brought to his assistance upon the race-course, and his own physician, for whom the housekeeper had sent at once, before she had despatched the footman to carry the evil tidings to Mrs. Streightley, were busily but silently occupied with the insensible form. The servants, frightened and helpless as servants generally are, were standing about on the stairs and landing-place, ready to obey such orders as were transmitted to them from time to time from the grave gentleman in that awful room, through the medium of the housekeeper. They whispered together solemnly at intervals, and started when the door on which all their attention was fixed opened a little, and Mrs. Clarke beckoned one of the two women towards her. Mr. Stallbrass was in the dingy dining-room, awaiting the award of the solemn tribunal upstairs. He was a kind-hearted fellow enough; and having done so much, "having picked up the poor old boy," he thought, "I may as well see it out." Mrs. Clarke had entreated him to remain--her master's daughter, she said, would be here immediately, and she would want to hear how it happened. So this modern type of Good Samaritan, useful but not officious, and rather sheepish about his good nature, stayed. The rain, which had begun to fall just as they were getting Mr. Guyon away from the race-course, was now falling in cold, pitiless, ceaseless streams, and the early darkness of a winter's evening had added its gloom to the scene. The gas had been lighted in the dining-room of Mr. Guyon's house, but the window-shutters were unclosed, and Stallbrass walked disconsolately up and down from the door to the window, stopping each time as he reached the latter boundary to look out into the damp dreariness of the street. His spirits were beginning to flag under the monotony of this occupation, and he was seeking relief by furtive snatches of reading--odd paragraphs in the Field for last week, and little bits of the current Punch--when Mrs. Clarke came in, looking very pale and scared.
"Well," said Stallbrass abruptly, but kindly, "what news is there? Has the lady come? She can't have come, though, or I should have seen her."
"No, sir, she has not come; and I dread she won't while the breath is in her father, which it's all it is, as far as I can understand the doctors."
"Really! I'm very sorry--poor old gentleman! Has he not recovered consciousness at all, then?"
"No, sir, not a bit--he has groaned a few times, and then they thought he were coming to, but he didn't--but there, sir, there's a carriage--there's Mrs. Streightley----" And the housekeeper ran excitedly out, followed by Mr. Stallbrass, and threw open the door, through which a gust of wind and a cold dash of rain drove into the hall.
Stallbrass saw a tall young lady, whose face, pale and agitated, struck him even then as being one of the most beautiful he had ever seen,---who passed into the room he had just left, followed by the housekeeper. He stood in the hall, the noise of wind and rain outside mingling with the stamping of the horses, the jingling of their harness, and the sound of the women's voices.