“Do you see that quiet-looking man talking to Jason there?” says Frank; “that’s the man who is to ride Sober John—about the best gentleman in England, and he’s getting a hint from the best professional. Do you think you can ride like Captain Rocket? Now, take my advice, Charlie, Haphazard is a nice-tempered horse, you wait on Sober John—keep close behind him—ride over him if he falls—but whatever you see Captain Rocket do, you do the same—don’t come till you’re safe over the last fence—and if you’re not first, you’ll be second!” Charlie promised faithfully to obey his friend’s directions, though in his own mind he did not think it possible an Infantry horse could win the great event—Sober John, if he belonged to any one in particular, being the property of Lieutenant Sharpes of the Old Hundredth, who stood to win a very comfortable sum upon the veteran steeple-chaser.
“They look nervous, Tim, most on ’em,” observes Captain Rocket, while with his own hands he adjusts “the tackle,” as he calls it, on his horse; and his friend “Tim” giving him a “leg up,” he canters Sober John past the stand, none of the ladies thinking that docile animal has the remotest chance of winning. “He seems much too quiet,” says Blanche, “and he’s dreadfully ugly.” “Beauty is not absolutely essential in horses, Miss Kettering,” replies a deep, quiet voice at her elbow. Major D’Orville has resumed his place by her side. Though he thinks he is paying attention to Blanche, he cannot, in reality, forbear hovering about Mrs. Delaval. That lady, meanwhile, with clasped hands, is hoping with all her heart that Captain Rocket may not win. If “wishes were horses,” we think this young gentleman now tearing down the course upon Haphazard, throwing the dirt round him like a patent turnip-cutter, would have a good many of hers to bear him on his victorious career. By the way, Mary has never found her glove; we wonder whether that foolish boy knows anything about it. And talking of gloves, look at that dazzling pair of white kids on a level with his chin, in which “Mohair, of the Heavies,” is endeavouring to control Bendigo. He has had two large glasses of sherry, yet does he still look very pale—another, and yet another, comes striding past like a whirlwind—Sir Ascot rides Lady Lavender, and Cornet Capon is to pilot the Fox. It is very difficult to know which is which amongst the variegated throng, and the ladies puzzle sadly over their cards, in which, as is usually the case at steeple-chases, the colours are all set down wrong. Each damsel, however, has one favourite at least whom she could recognise in any disguise, and we may be sure that “blue-and-orange” is not without his well-wishers in the grand-stand.
Major D’Orville is an admirable cicerone, inasmuch as besides being steward, he has a heavy book on the race, and knows the capabilities of each horse to a pound, whatever may be his uncertainty as regards the riders. “Your cousin has a very fair chance, Miss Kettering—he seems to ride uncommonly well for such a boy; Sir Ascot wants nerve, and Mohair can’t manage his horse.” “See, they’ve got ’em in line,” exclaims the General, who is in a state of frantic excitement altogether. “Silence, pray! he’s going to—ah, the blundering blockhead, it’s a false start!” Major D’Orville takes out his double-glasses, and proceeds quietly without noticing the interruption, “Then the Fox has been lame, and Capon is a sad performer; nevertheless, you shall have your choice, Miss Kettering, and I’ll bet you a pair of gloves on the——By Jove, they’re off,” and the Major puts his glasses up in scarcely veiled anxiety, whilst Mary Delaval’s heart beats thick and fast, as she strains her eyes towards the fleeting tulip-coloured throng, drawing gradually out from the dark mass of spectators that have gone to witness the start.
How easy it looks to go cantering along over a nice grass country, properly flagged out so as to insure the performers from making any mistakes; and how trifling the obstacles appear over which they are following each other like a string of wild geese, more particularly when you, the spectator, are quietly ensconced in a comfortable seat, sheltered from the wind, and viewing the sports at a respectful distance. Perhaps you might not think it quite such child’s play were you assisting in the pageant on the back of a headstrong, powerful horse, rendered irritable and violent by severe training (of which discipline this unfortunate class of animal gets more than enough), rasping your knuckles against his withers, and pulling your arms out of their sockets, because he, the machine, is all anxiety to get to the end, whilst you the controlling, or who ought to be the controlling power, have received strict injunctions “to wait.” If your whole energies were not directed to the one object of “doing your duty” and winning your race, you might possibly have leisure to reflect on your somewhat hazardous position. “Neck-or-nothing” has just disappeared, doubling up himself and Mr. Fearless in a complicated kind of fall, at the very place over which you must necessarily follow; and should your horse, who is shaking his head furiously, as you vainly endeavour to steady him, make the slightest mistake, you shudder to think of “Frantic” running away with her rider close behind you. Nevertheless, it is impossible to decline “eternal misery on this side and certain death on the other,” but go you must, and when safe into the next field there is nothing of any importance till you come to the brook. To be sure, the animal you are riding never would face water, still, your spurs are sharp, and you have a vague sort of trust that you may get over somehow. You really deserve to win, yet will we, albeit unused to computation of the odds, willingly bet you five to four that you are neither first nor second.
In the meantime, our friends in the stand make their running commentaries on the race. “How slow they are going,” says Blanche, who, like all ladies, has a most liberal idea of “pace.” “He’s over!” mutters Mary Delaval, as “blue-and-orange” skims lightly over the first fence, undistinguished, save by her, amidst the rest. “One down!” says a voice, and there is a slight scream from amongst the prettiest of the bonnets. “Red-and-white cap—who is it?” and what with the distraction of watching the others, and the confusion on the cards, Bendigo has been caught and remounted ere the hapless Lieutenant Mohair can be identified. Meanwhile the string is lengthening out. “Uppy is making frightful running,” says Major D’Orville, thinking how right he was to stand heavily against Lady Lavender; “however, the Fox is close upon him; and that’s Haphazard, Miss Kettering, just behind Sober John.” “Two—four—six—seven—nine—what a pretty sight!” says Blanche, but she turns away her head with a shudder as a party-coloured jacket goes down at the next fence, neither horse nor rider rising again. One always fancies the worst, and Mary turns pale as death, and clasps her hands tighter than ever. And now they arrive at the double post and rails, which have been erected purposely for the gratification of the ladies in the stand. The first three bound over it in their stride like so many deer. Captain Rocket pulls his horse into a trot, and Sober John goes in-and-out quite as clever as did the Major’s white charger. Mr. Jason is good enough to express his approval. Charlie follows the example of his leader, and though he hits it very hard, Haphazard’s fine shape saves him from a fall. Blanche thinks him the noblest hero in England, and nobody but D’Orville remarks how very pale Mrs. Delaval is getting. Mohair essays to follow the example thus set him, and succeeds in doing the first half of his task admirably, but no power on earth will induce Bendigo to jump out after jumping in, and eventually he is obliged to be ignominiously extricated by a couple of carpenters and a handsaw. His companions diverge, like a flight of wild-fowl, towards the brook. The Fox, who is now leading, refuses; and the charitable Nimrods, and dandies, and swells, and professionals, all vote that Capon’s heart failed him, and “he didn’t put in half enough powder.” The Major knows better. The horse was once his property, and he has not laid against it without reason. The brook creates much confusion; but Sober John singles himself out from the ruck, and flies it without an effort, closely followed by Haphazard and Lady Lavender. The rest splash and struggle, and get over as they best can, with but little chance now of coming up with the first three. They all turn towards home, and the pace is visibly increasing. Captain Rocket is leading, but Charlie’s horse is obviously full of running, and the boy is gradually drawing away from Lady Lavender, and nearer and nearer to the front. Already people begin to shout “Haphazard wins”; and the General is hoarse with excitement. “Charlie wins!” he exclaims, his lace purple, and the ends of his blue-and-orange handkerchief floating on the breeze. “Charlie wins! I tell you. Look how he’s coming up. Zounds! don’t contradict me, sir!” he roars out to the intense dismay of his next neighbour, a meek old gentleman, who has only come to the steeple-chase in order that he may write an account of it for a magazine, and who shrinks from the General as from a raving madman. “Now, Captain Rocket,” shouts the multitude, as if that unmoved man would attend to anything but the business in hand. They reach the last fence neck-and-neck, Haphazard landing slightly in advance. “Kettering wins!” “Blast him!” hisses D’Orville between his teeth, turning white as a sheet He stands to lose eighteen hundred by Haphazard alone, and we question whether, on reliable security, the Major could raise eighteen-pence. Nevertheless, he turns the next instant to Blanche, with a quiet, unmoved smile, to congratulate her on her cousin’s probable success. “If he can only ‘finish,’ Miss Kettering, he can’t lose,” says the speculator; but he still trusts that “if” may save him the price of his commission.
What a moment for Charlie! Hot, breathless, and nearly exhausted, his brain reeling with the shouts of the populace, and the wild excitement of the struggle, one idea is uppermost in his mind—if man and horse can do it, win he will. Steadily has he ridden four long miles, taking the greatest pains with his horse, and restraining his own eagerness to be in front, as well as that of the gallant animal. He has kept his eye fixed on Captain Rocket, and regulated his every movement by that celebrated performer. And now he is drawing slightly in advance of him, and one hundred yards more will complete his triumph. Yet, inexperienced as he is, he cannot but feel that Haphazard is no longer the elastic, eager goer whom he has been regulating so carefully, and the truth shoots across him that his horse is beat. Well, he ought to last another hundred yards. See, the double flags are waving before him, and the shouts of his own name fall dully upon his ear. He hears Captain Rocket’s whip at work, and is not aware how that judicious artist is merely plying it against his own boot to flurry the young one. Charlie begins to flog. “Sit still!” shouts Frank Hardingstone from the stand. Charlie works arms and legs like a windmill, upsets his horse, who would win if he were but let alone—Sober John shows his great ugly head alongside. Haphazard changes his leg—Major D’Orville draws a long breath of relief—Captain Rocket, with a grim smile, and one fierce stab with his spurs, glides slightly in advance—and Haphazard is beaten on the post by half a length, Lady Lavender a bad third, and the rest nowhere!
Blanche is dreadfully disappointed. The General thinks “the lad deserves great credit for being second in such good company;” but the tears stand in Mary Delaval’s eyes—tears, we believe, of gratitude at his not being brought home on a hurdle, instead of riding into the weighing enclosure with the drooping self-satisfied air, and the arms hanging powerless down his side, which distinguish the gentleman-jockey after his exertions. The boy is scarcely disappointed. To have been so near winning, and to have run second for such an event as the “Grand Military,” is a feather in his cap, of which he is in no slight degree proud; and he walks into the stand the hero of the day, for Captain Rocket is no lady’s man, and is engaged to risk his neck again to-morrow a hundred miles from here. So he has put on a long great-coat and disappeared. The General accounts for Charlie’s defeat on a theory peculiarly his own. “Virtually” says he, “my nephew won the race. How d’ye mean beat? It was twenty yards over the four miles. Twenty yards from home he was a length in front. If the stewards had been worth their salt, we should have won. Don’t tell me!”
There is more racing, but the great event has come off, and our friends in the stand occupy themselves only with luncheon. Frank Hardingstone comes up to speak to Blanche, but she is so surrounded and hemmed in, that beyond shaking hands with her he might as well be back at his own place on the south coast, for any enjoyment he can have in her society. Major D’Orville is rapidly gaining ground in the good graces of all the Newton-Hollows party. He has won a great stake, and is in brilliant spirits. Even Mary thinks “what an agreeable man he is,” and glances the while at a fair glowing face, eating, drinking, and laughing by turns, and discussing with Sir Ascot the different events of their exciting gallop. Lacquers, with his mouth full, is making the agreeable in his own way to the whole party. “Deuced good pie—aw—ruin me—aw—in gloves, Miss Kettering—aw—lose everything to you—aw;” and the dandy has a vague sort of notion that he might say something sweet here, but it will not shape itself into words very conveniently, so he has a large glass of sherry instead. Our friend Captain Lacquers is not so much “a man of parts,” as “a man of figure.” Charlie, somewhat excited, flourishes his knife and fork, and describes how he lost his race to the public in general. Gaston D’Orville, with his most deferential air, is winning golden opinions from Blanche, and thinking in his innermost soul what a traitor he is to his own heart the while; Mrs. Delaval looks very pale and subdued, and Bounce thinks she must be tired, but breaks off to something else before he has made the inquiry—still everybody seems outwardly to be enjoying him or herself to the utmost, and it is with a forced smile and an air of assumed gaiety that Frank Hardingstone takes his leave, and supposes “we shall all meet at the ball!”
Fancy Frank deliberately proposing to go to a ball! How bitterly he smiles as he walks away from the course faster and faster, as thought after thought goads him to personal exertion! Now he despises himself thoroughly for his weakness in allowing the smile of a silly girl thus to sink into a strong man’s heart—now he analyses his own feelings as he would probe a corporeal wound, with a stern scientific pleasure in the examination—and anon he speculates vaguely on the arrangements of Nature, which provide us with sentimental follies for a sauce piquante wherewith to flavour our daily bread. Nevertheless, our man of action is by no means satisfied with himself. He takes a fierce walk over the most unfrequented fields, and returns to his solitary lodgings, to read stiff chapters of old dogmatic writers, and to work out a tough equation or two, till he can “get this nonsense out of his head.” In vain, a fairy figure with long violet eyes and floating hair dances between him and his quarto, and the “unknown quantity” plus Blanche continually eludes his mental grasp.