Suddenly, and without a sign of premeditation, Bob Clarke took his horse by the head, and with one of his many desperate efforts, sent him up so suddenly to the flank of Mendicant, that Wilfred thought the race was lost in good earnest.
But as he heard the approaching hoofs, he too commenced to ‘do the impossible,’ and found that, though nearly level, Bolivar was unable to improve his position, while Mendicant, answering whip and spur, gradually drew in advance, as the winning post and the judge’s stand (and, as it seemed to Wilfred, half Yass at gaze) came to meet him. A few strides, a deafening shout, a rally of whips, and the race is over. But the long, lean head had never been overlapped; and as he pulls up, head down and distinctly ‘proppy,’ half-a-dozen men struggle for the honour of leading Mendicant into the weighing-yard, and his rider knows that he has won. Bolivar, with distended nostril and heaving flank, follows next, with Bob Clarke sitting languidly on his back, and looking nearly as exhausted as his horse; while No Mamma, eased at the distance, drags in, as if she had had enough of it for some time to come. Wilfred takes his saddle and mechanically goes to scale. ‘Weight!’ says Mr. Rockley decisively, and all is over.
In all turf contests, bitter disappointments, deep and lasting mortifications, sharpened by loss and inconvenience, occur. But when there comes a real triumph, the sweets of success are rich of flavour.
Wilfred was the hero of the occasion, Fortune’s latest favourite, impossible to be deposed until next year. No newer victor could therefore take away the savour and memorial of his triumph, as, to a certain extent, he had now done from Bob Clarke.
Such is the inconsistency of human nature that, although the steeplechase required about ten times the amount of horsemanship, besides nerve, experience, and a host of qualities unneeded in a flat race, Wilfred found himself the observed of all observers, and could not but discern that his rivals were temporarily in the shade.
He lost no time in bestowing himself into his ordinary raiment and joining the homeward-bound crowd, secure of the smiles which ladye fair never refuses to bestow upon the knight who has worthily done his devoir.
Christabel Rockley congratulated him warmly upon his good fortune, and then turned to console Bob Clarke, a process which apparently involved more time and explanation, so much so that Wilfred changed his locale, under pretence of looking after his mother and sisters, and soon found himself in more sympathetic company.
He saw that Miss Fane had become a great friend and associate of his sister Rosamond, so quickly are lifelong alliances cemented among young ladies. Mrs. Snowden was also in the neighbourhood, and among them he was flattered to his heart’s content.
‘I was sure you were going to win it from the first,’ said Mrs. Snowden, as if stating an incontestable fact. ‘I said to Mrs. Rockley, “How cool Mr. Effingham looks! Depend upon it, he has ridden in good company before.”’
‘I never bet anything more substantial than gloves,’ said Miss Fane, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes; ‘but I can quite understand the gambling spirit now. I longed to put a five-pound note papa gave me at parting on Mendicant. Dreadfully wicked, wasn’t it? But I should have won fifty or sixty pounds, perhaps a hundred. I have made a small fortune, however, in gloves.’