‘The race is run, Mr. Newman, and that’s enough,’ said Rockley decisively; ‘quite enough danger for one year. The next thing is to get back to Yass in time to dine comfortably, and see that everything is ready for the race ball to-night.’
This sensible advice, which, like the suggestions of royal personages, savoured somewhat of a command, was duly acted upon, and in a short time the greater part of the company, who intended to recompense themselves for the fatiguing emotions of the day by the fascinations of the night, took the homeward road, leaving ‘The Hack Stakes’ and the ‘Scurry’ (post entry) to be run without them. There was ample time. The afternoon was mild and fair of aspect; a friendly breeze, sighing over the plain, had come wandering up from the south. The equestrian portion of the company formed themselves unconsciously into knots and pairs.
Bob Clarke, having shifted into mufti, was lounging homeward on a well-bred hackney on the offside of Christabel Rockley’s Red King, whose arching neck he felt impelled to pat, while he replied to the eager questioning of the fair rider. Her cheeks were brilliant again with youth’s bright tints, and her eyes glittered like imprisoned diamonds beneath her tiny lace veil.
‘I hope you sympathise with me, Miss Effingham,’ said Hamilton, as they rode in advance of the rest of the party, a position to which Fergus’s extraordinary walking powers generally promoted him. ‘Bob is receiving the victor’s meed from Miss Christabel—how happy they both look!’
‘I really do, sincerely,’ said Rosamond, ignoring the episodical matter. ‘It must be most provoking to have one’s prize wrested away in the moment of victory. But every one saw what a gallant struggle you and St. Andrew made. Were you hurt at all when you fell?’
‘I shall be pretty stiff to-morrow,’ he answered carelessly; ‘but I have had no time to think about it. I thought my arm was broken, as it was under St. Andrew’s shoulder. It is all right, though numbed for a while. I am inwardly very sore and disgusted, I don’t mind telling you. That tall fellow, Champion, and Malahyde, with all the Tasmanians, will crow so.’
‘It can’t be helped, I suppose,’ said Rosamond soothingly. ‘Mr. Hampden, at least, did not show any disposition to do so, for he praised your riding and St. Andrew’s good finish warmly. He said all steeplechases were won either by luck, pluck, a good horse, or good riding, and that you had all but the first requisite.’
‘Hampden is a good fellow and a gentleman,’ said the worsted knight, rather consoled, ‘and so is Bob Clarke. If one has done one’s best, there is no more to be said. But I had set my heart on winning this particular race. Heigh-ho! our pleasure week is coming to an end.’
‘Yes; to-night, the ball; to-morrow, the Ladies’ Bag and a picnic. We are all off home on Monday. I shall not be sorry, though I have enjoyed myself thoroughly; every one has been so pleasant and friendly, and Mrs. Rockley kind beyond description. I never had so much gaiety in so short a time. But I shall be pleased to return to our quiet life once more.’