And so the great race ball was relegated to the limbo of dead joys and pleasures, to that shadow-land where the goblets we have quaffed, the chaplets which wreathed our brows, the laughter that kindled our hearts, the hands that pressed, the hearts—ah me!—that throbbed, have mostly departed. There do they lie, fair, imperishable, awaiting but the blast of the enchanted horn to arise, to sparkle and glow, to thrill once more. Or has the cold earth closed remorselessly, eternally, over our joys and those who shared them, never again to know awakening till Time shall be no more?
Much must be conceded to the influence of the Australian climate or to the embalming influences of active pleasure-seeking, which seems to possess an Egyptian potency for keeping its votaries in statu quo while engaged in the worship of the goddess. Whatever may have been the secret of unfailing youth, most of the race meeting constituents seemed to possess it, as they turned out after breakfast on Friday morning, apparently ready to commence another week’s racing by day, and dancing by night, if the gods permitted.
About a dozen horses were qualified to start for the Ladies’ Bag. Hamilton had one, Forbes had one, Bob Clarke (of course) another, so that the two stables would again be well represented. O’Desmond, who did not ride himself, had a likely young horse in, and there were several others with some sort of provincial reputation. There was the great Grey Surrey, and lastly that ‘dark,’ unassuming, dangerous Mendicant of Greyford’s with Mr. Wilfred Effingham up.
That gentleman had never ridden a race before, but was a fair cross-country rider before he saw Australia, and since then the riding of different sorts of horses had, of course, tended to improve both seat and hands. He was aware of the principles of race-riding, and though Bob Clarke, Hamilton, Forbes, and Churbett had semi-professional skill, he yet trusted, with the befitting courage of youth, to hold his own in that tilt-yard.
He had borrowed a set of colours, and looking at himself in the glass arrayed as in the traditional races of England, was not dissatisfied with his appearance. He found himself wondering whether he should be regarded with indulgence by the critical eyes of Miss Christabel, or indeed the penetrating orbs of Miss Fane. Was there a chance of his winning? Would it not be a triumph if, in spite of the consummate horsemanship of Hamilton and Bob Clarke, the reputation of Grey Surrey, he should win the prize? The thought was intoxicating. He dared not indulge it. He partially enveloped himself in an overcoat, which concealed the glories of his black and scarlet racing-jacket, the only silken garment which the modern cavalier is permitted to wear (how differently they ruffled it in the days of the second Charles!), and hied him to the course.
Here he was met by congratulations on all sides.
‘Glad to see you’ve taken to the amateur jock line, Effingham,’ said Churbett. ‘There’s a world of fun in it, though it involves early rising. It’s awfully against the grain with me, but I assure you I look forward to it every year now. It compels me to take exercise.’
‘That view of racing never struck me before,’ said Wilfred. ‘But when we’re at Yass, you know, one must follow the fashion.’
‘Especially when certain people look interested. Aha! Effingham, you’re an awfully prudent card; but we’re all alike, I expect.’
‘Pooh, pooh! why shouldn’t I take a turn at the pigskin as well as you and the others?’ said Wilfred, evading the impeachment; ‘and this sort of thing is awfully catching, you know.’