This great and crowning mercy having been vouchsafed to them, by which the Bannerets, young and old, would for evermore hold themselves to be indissolubly linked with the Cambridge victory, the family had leisure to consider what should be their next inroad into sport amid fashionable surroundings. Hermione and Vanda had enjoyed the ecstatic pleasure of being rowed on the broad expanse of Father Thames; had also been congratulated by the men of their brothers’ college on Eric’s noble performance, which (they said) had materially aided in the glorious victory. These Austral maidens had thereupon come to the conclusion that nothing in the world came
up to the accessories and environments amid which the nobler sports were transacted in England. They wondered what would be the next open-air entertainment at which they would be likely to assist, and as the weather, for a wonder, was becoming [274] ]finer every day, almost rivalling the glorious sunshine of their native land, some one threw out a suggestion about the Liverpool Grand National Steeplechase, to come off on the 25th—next week, indeed—at Aintree.
[275]
]CHAPTER XII
‘I see that the Liverpool Grand National Steeplechase is to come off at Aintree on the 25th of March,’ Mrs. Banneret had said, at breakfast, one morning. ‘Your father has decided to take us to that great race, which I feel certain we shall all enjoy. Even I must renew my youth, and recall the days when I used to ride—actually ride to the country race-meeting held at Appin, near Barham Court, our old home in New South Wales. My eldest brother always rode in the principal steeplechase. And what tremendous excitement there was when he won!’
‘How delightful!’ said Vanda. ‘What was the name of the dear horse?’
‘I remember it well,’ said the matron, her eye kindling and her clear cheek flushing with the memories of a bygone day. ‘It was Slasher; he was bred in the family, and trained by my brother himself. The Governor’s wife walked up to the Judge’s box, and patted his neck. She congratulated Val—who had just received a commission in the 50th Regiment, known to be under orders for India.
‘“You have my best wishes, Mr. Bournefield, [276] ]and I feel confident that you will always be in the forefront of the battle, as you have been to-day—I wish you every success in life!” Val bowed low, and said he hoped to do honour to her ladyship’s good opinion. So he did, poor fellow! That is his portrait which hangs in my bedroom.’
‘What! the one with all the medals and clasps—such a handsome, soldierly-looking man. Why, his hair is grey!’
‘Yes, he was Colonel Bournefield when he was killed, shot through the heart, waving his sword, and leading his men on in the Sikh War. He was only twenty when he won that race.’
‘Was he handsome, mother?’