“I suppose old Bounce keeps a bright look-out though, don’t he?” rejoins his friend, who has all the appearance of a man that can make up his mind in a minute.
“Yeees,” drawls Lacquers; “but it might be done by a fellow with some energy, you know; she is engaged to young Kettering, her cousin—‘family pot,’ you know—and she’s very spooney on him; still, I’ve half a mind to try.”
“Why, the cousin will probably break his neck in the course of the day; you can introduce me to-night at the ball. By the way, what are they betting about this young Kettering? Can he ride any?”
“Not a yard,” replies Lacquers, as he turns away to light a cigar, whilst Lord Mount Helicon—for the red-bearded dandy is no less a person than that literary peer—dives into the ring to turn an honest “pony,” as he calls it, on its fluctuations.
“Look here, Mr. Hardingstone,” exclaims the observant Jason, forcibly attracting Frank’s notice to a feat which, as he keeps his eyes fixed on the stand, is going on behind him. “That’s the way to put ’em at it, Major! well ridden, by the Lord Harry!” and Frank turns round in time to witness, with the shouting multitude and the half-frightened ladies, the gallant manner in which D’Orville’s white horse clears the double post and rails to which Sir Ascot had objected.
The Major, it is needless to say, is a dauntless horseman, and, on being remonstrated with by Sir A. and his party on the impracticable nature of the leap which he had selected for them, and the young Mohair of the Heavies suggesting that the stewards should always be compelled to ride over the ground themselves, made no more ado, but turned the white horse at the unwelcome barrier, and by dint of a fine hand and a perfectly-broken animal, went “in and out” without touching, to the uproarious delight of the mob, and the less loudly expressed admiration of the ladies.
“That’s what I call in-and-out-clever,” observes Mr. Jason, as the shouting subsides, thinking he could not have done it better himself; and he too elbows his way into the mass of noise, hustling, and confusion that constitutes the betting-ring.
“We ought to throw our ‘bouquets’ at the white horse!” says Mrs. Delaval’s next neighbour, a bold-looking lady of a certain age; and Mary recognises, with mingled feelings, her military adorer and his well-known grey charger, now showing the lapse of time only by his change of colour to pure white. “I’m afraid its all very dangerous,” thinks Blanche, to whom it occurs for the first time that “Cousin Charlie” may possibly break his neck; but the General at this instant touches her elbow to introduce “Major D’Orville,” who, having performed his official duties, has dismounted, and works his way into the stand to make the agreeable to the ladies, and “have a look at this Miss Kettering—the very thing, by Jove, if she is tolerably lady-like.”
How different is the Major’s manner to that of Lacquers, Uppercrust, and half the other unmeaning dandies whom Blanche is accustomed to see fluttering round her. He has the least thing of a military swagger, which most women certainly like, more particularly when in their own case that lordly demeanour is laid aside for a soft deferential air, highly captivating to the weaker sex; and nobody understands this better than D’Orville. The little he says to Blanche is quiet, amusing, and to the purpose. The heiress is agreeably surprised. The implied homage of such a man is, to say the least of it, flattering; and our cavalier has the good sense to take his leave as soon as he sees he has made a favourable impression, quite satisfied with the way in which he has “opened the trenches.” At the moment he did so, on turning round he encountered Mary Delaval. She looked unmoved as usual, and put out her hand to him, as if they had been in the habit of meeting every day. With a few incoherent words he bent over those long well-shaped fingers; and an observant bystander might have had the good luck to witness a somewhat unusual sight—a Major of Hussars blushing to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of the world, the experienced roué, the dashing militaire, had a heart, if you could only get at it, like the veriest clown then ‘squiring his red-faced Dolly to “the races”—the natural for the moment overcame the artificial—and as Gaston edged his way down through nodding comrades and smiling ladies, the feeling uppermost in his heart was, “Heavens! how I love this woman still! and what a fool I am!” But sentiment must not be indulged to the exclusion of business, and the Major too forces his way into the betting-ring.
There they are, hard at it—Nobblers and noblemen—grooms and gentlemen—betting-house keepers and cavalry officers—all talking at once, all intent on having the best of it, and apparently all layers and no takers. “Eight to one agin Lady Lavender,” says a stout capitalist, who looks like a grazier in his best clothes. “Take ten,” lisps the owner, a young gentleman, apparently about sixteen. “I’ll back Sober John.” “I’ll take nine to two about the Fox.” “I’ll lay against the field bar three.” “I’ll lay five ponies to two agin Haphazard!” vociferates the capitalist. “Done!” cries Charlie, who is investing on his horse as if he owned the Bank of England. At this moment Frank Hardingstone pierces into the ring, and drawing Charlie towards the outskirts, begins to lecture him on the coming struggle, and to give him useful hints on the art of riding a steeple-chase; for Frank with his usual decision has resolved not to go into the stand to talk to Blanche till he has done all in his power to insure the success of her cousin. “Come and see the horse saddled, you conceited young jackanapes; don’t fool away any more money; how do you know you’ll win?” says Frank, taking the excited jockey by the arm and leading him away to where Haphazard, pawing and snorting, and very uneasy, is being stripped of his clothing, the centre of an admiring throng. “I know he can beat Lady Lavender,” replies Charlie, whose conversation for the last week had been strictly “Newmarket”; “and he’s five pounds better than the Fox; and Mohair is sure to make a mess of it with Bendigo—he owns he can’t ride him; and there’s nothing else has a chance except Sober John, a great half-bred brute!”