‘So nicely that I believe there is a month of ordinary life compressed into it—certainly as far as enjoyment goes. I shall never forget it as long as I live—never forget some of the friends I have made here during the brightest, happiest time of my life, especially——’
‘Look at that ridiculous Mr. Tarlton dancing the pas seul!’ exclaimed Miss Christabel, not quite disposed to enter upon Wilfred’s explanation of his sensations. ‘Do you know, I think quadrilles are rather a mistake after all. I should like dances to be made up of nothing but valses and galops.’
‘Life would be rather too rapid, I am afraid, if we carried that principle out. Don’t you think Mrs. Snowden is looking uncommonly well to-night?’
‘She always dresses so well that no one looks better.’
CHAPTER XII
STEEPLECHASE DAY
In despite of the mirthful converse continued around him, during the small hours, and the complicated condition of his emotions, Wilfred Effingham slept so soundly that the breakfast bell was needed to arouse him. He felt scarcely eager for the fray; but after a shower-bath and that creditable morning meal ever possible to youth, his feelings concerning the problems of life and the duties of the hour underwent a change for the better.
Charles Hamilton, Bob Clarke, and the turf contingent generally had been out at daylight, personally inspecting the steeds that were to bear them to victory and a modest raking in of the odds or otherwise. How much ‘otherwise’ is there upon the race-courses of the world! How often is the favourite amiss or ‘nobbled,’ the rider ‘off his head,’ the certainty a ‘boil over’! Alas, that it should be so! That man should barter the sure rewards of industry for the feverish joys, the heart-shaking uncertainties, the death-like despair which the gambling element, whether in the sport or business of life, inevitably brings in its train!
‘Why, this is life,’ sneers the cynic; ‘you are describing what ever has been, is, and shall be, the worship of the great god “Chance.” The warrior and the statesman, the poet and the priest, the people especially, have from all time placed their lives and fortunes on a cast, differently named, it is true. And they will do so to the end.’
Such causticities scarcely apply to the modest provincial meeting which we chronicle, inasmuch as little money changed hands. What cash was wagered would have been treated with scorn by the layers of the odds and inventors of ‘doubles,’ those turf triumphs or tragedies. Nevertheless, the legitimate excitement of the steeplechase, three and a half miles over a succession of three-railed fences, with the two ‘hardest’ men in the Southern District up, would be a sight to see.
Independently of the exciting nature of the race, an intercolonial element was added. Bob Clarke and his steed were natives of Tasmania; the cool climate and insular position of which have been thought to be favourable to human and equine development. Much colour for the supposition was recognised by the eager gazers of Mr. Bob Clarke and his gallant bay, The Cid.