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.
The former was evidently born for a career of social success. Chivalrous
and energetic, with a bright smile, a pleasant manner, his popularity
was easy of explanation.
In a ball room, where his modesty was in the inverse ratio to his
iron-nerved performances across country, he was a rival not to be
despised. Among men he was voted ‘an out-and-out good fellow,’ or a
gentlemanlike, manly lad, from whatever side emanated the criticism.
The Cid was a grand horse, if not quite worthy of the exaggerated
commendation which his admirers bestowed. A handsome, upstanding animal,
bright bay, with black points, he had a commanding-looking forehand,
‘that you could hardly see over,’ as a Tasmanian turfite observed,
besides a powerful quarter, with hips, the same critic was pleased to
observe, ‘as wide as a fire-place.’ In his trials he was known to have
taken leaps equal in height to anything ever crossed by a horse. But a
stain in his blood occasionally showed out, in a habit of baulking. Of
this peculiarity he gave no notice whatever, sometimes indulging it at
the commencement, sometimes at the end of a race, to the anguish of
well-wishers and the dismay of backers. A determined rider was therefore
indispensable. As on this occasion the only man in the country-side ‘who
could ride him as he ought to be ridden,’ according to popular belief,
was up, who had also trained him for this particular race, little
apprehension was felt as to the result.
Not less confident were the friends of St. Andrew, a different animal in
appearance, but of great merit in the eyes of judges. Not so large as
his celebrated antagonist, he had the condensed symmetry of the
racehorse. Boasting the blue blood of Peter Fin (imported) on his
mother’s side, his Camerton pedigree on the other, entitled him to be
ticketed ‘thorough-bred as Eclipse.’ A compact and level horse, with the
iron legs of the tribe, every muscle stood out, beautifully developed by
a careful preparation. His dark chestnut satin coat, his quiet,
determined air, the unvarying cleverness with which he performed in
private, together with the acknowledged excellence of his rider,
rendered the Benmohr division confident of victory.
The others which made up the race were fine animals, but were not
entrusted to any great extent with the cash or the confidence of the
public. Of these the most formidable was a scarred veteran named Bargo,
who had gone through or over many a fence in many a steeplechase. His
rider being, like himself, chiefly professional, they were both
undoubted performers. But though the old chaser would refuse nothing,
his pace had declined through age. It was understood that he was entered
on the chance of the two cracks destroying each other, in which case
Bargo would be a ‘moral.’
The remaining ones, with the exception of King of the Valley, were
chiefly indebted for their entry to the commendable gallantry of
aspiring youth. It was something to turn out in ‘the colours’ and other
requisites of costume before an admiring crowd; something, doubtless, to
see a cherry cheek deepen or pale at the thought of the chances of the
day; something to try a local favourite in good company. All honour to
the manly and honest-hearted feeling!
Of these, briefly, it may be stated that Currency Lass was a handsome
chestnut mare with three white legs, and much of the same colour
distributed over her countenance. She was fast, and jumped brilliantly,
if she could be prevailed upon not to take off too near to her fences,
or ridiculously far off, or to pump all the breath out of her body by
unnecessary pulling. The regulation of these tendencies provided a task
of difficulty for the rider.
Wallaby and Cornstalk were two useful, hunter-looking bays, which would
have brought a considerably higher price in the old land than they were
ever likely to do here.
The course had been arranged so that the horses should start near the
stand, and going across country take a circuitous course, but eventually
finishing at the stand after negotiating a sensational last fence. This
was not thought to be good management, but the enclosures admitted of no
other arrangement.
The morning’s racing having been got through, everybody adjourned to
lunch, it being decided that _the_ important event should take place at
three o’clock, after which the excitement of the day might be considered
to be over. In spite of the approaching contest, which doubtless
contained an element of danger, as it was known that the riders of the
two cracks would ‘go at each other for their lives,’ not less than the
usual amount of mirth and merriment was observable. The two chief actors
were altogether impervious to considerations involving life and limb,
although they had seen and suffered what might have made some men
cautious.
Bob Clarke had been more than once ‘carried away for dead’ from under a
fallen horse, while Charles Hamilton had won a steeplechase after having
employed the morning in tracking a friend who had gone out to ‘school’ a
young horse, and whom the search-party discovered lying dead under a log
fence.
The ladies exhibited a partisanship which they were at no pains to
conceal. Bets (in gloves) ran high; while the danger of the imminent
race rendered a fair cheek, here and there, less brilliant of hue, and
dimmed the sparkle of bright eyes.
‘Oh, I _hope_ no one will get hurt,’ said Christabel Rockley; ‘these
horrid fences are so high and stiff. Why can’t they have all flat races?
They’re not so exciting, certainly, but then no one can get killed.’
‘Accidents occur in these, you know,’ said Mrs. Snowden,
philosophically; ‘and, after all, if the men like to run a little risk
while _we_ are looking on, I don’t see why we should grudge them the
pleasure.’
‘It seems very unfeeling,’ says the tender-hearted damsel. ‘I shall feel
quite guilty if any one is hurt to-day. Poor Mrs. Malahyde, Bob Clarke’s
sister, is dreadfully anxious; the tears keep coming into her eyes. She
knows how reckless he can be when he’s determined to win.’
‘I fancy Mr. Hamilton’s St. Andrew will win,’ said Mrs. Snowden; ‘he is
better bred, they say, and he looks to me so well-trained. What do you
think, Mr. Effingham?’
‘I am a thick and thin supporter of the Benmohr stable,’ said Wilfred.
‘The Cid is a grand horse, but my sympathies are with St. Andrew.’
‘I’ll bet a dozen pairs of gloves The Cid wins,’ said Miss Christabel
impetuously, looking straight at Mrs. Snowden. ‘He can beat anything in
the district when he likes; Mr. Hamilton rides beautifully, but Bob can
make _any_ horse win.’
‘My dear child, you are quite a “plunger,”’ said Mrs. Snowden.
‘Doubtless, they will cover themselves with glory. I’m afraid they can’t
both win.’
At this moment one of the heroes joined the speakers, sauntering up with
a respectful expression of countenance, proper to him who makes a
request of a fair lady.
‘Miss Christabel, I have come to ask you to give me one of your ribbons
for luck. I see Miss Effingham has decorated Hamilton. It’s only fair
that I should have a charm too.’
‘Here it is, if you care for it, Bob!’ said the girl, hastily detaching
a ‘cerise’ knot from her dress, while her varying colour told how the
slight incident touched an unseen chord beneath the surface; ‘only I
wish you were not going to ride at all. Somebody will be killed at these
horrid steeplechases yet, I know.’
‘Why, you’re nearly as bad as my sister,’ said the youthful knight
reassuringly, and giving his fair monitress an unnecessary look of
gratitude, as Wilfred thought. ‘I shan’t let her come on the course next
time I ride. There’s the saddling bell. We’ll see whether the pink
ribbon or the blue goes farthest.’
The arrangements had been made with foresight, so that beyond the
customary galloping across the course for a surcingle at the last moment
by a friend in the interests of Currency Lass, a proceeding which
aroused Mr. Rockley’s wrath, who publicly threatened her rider that he
would bring the matter before the Turf Club, little delay was caused. At
length all preliminaries were complete, and high-born St. Andrew passed
the stand, shining like a star, with Charles Hamilton, in blue and gold,
utterly _point devise_, on his back. Horse and rider seemed so
harmonious, indeed, that a ringing cheer burst from the crowd, and all
the throats whose owners inhabited the hills and vales south of the
Great Lake shouted themselves hoarse for St. Andrew and Mr. Hamilton.
‘He’s as fit as hands can make him,’ said one of this division—a groom
of O’Desmond’s. ‘There’s few of us can put on the real French polish
like Mr. Hamilton; he’s a tiger to work, surely; and the little ’oss is
fast. I know his time. If that Syd, or whatever they call him, licks ’im
to-day, he’ll have his work to do. My guinea’s on St. Andrew.’
‘He’s a good ’un, and a stayer,’ said the man who stood next to him in
the closely-packed temporary stand; ‘but there’s a bit of chance work in
a steeplechase. The Cid’s a trimmer on the flat, or cross the sticks,
but you can’t depend on him. I wouldn’t back him for a shillin’ if young
Clarke wasn’t on him. But he’s that game and strong in the saddle, and
lucky, as my note would be on a mule if he was up. Here he comes!’
As he spoke, The Cid came by the post at speed, ‘a pipe-opener’ having
been thought necessary by his master, and as the grand horse extended
himself, showing the elastic freedom of his magnificent proportions,
with the perfection of his rider’s seat and figure, standing jockey-like
in his saddle, moveless, and with hands down, it was a marvel of
equestrian harmony.
The roar of applause with which the crowd greeted the exhibition showed
a balance of popularity in favour of horse and rider as the
long-repeated cheers swelled and recommenced, not ending indeed until
the pair came walking back, The Cid raising his lofty crest, and
swinging his head from side to side, as he paced forward with the air of
a conqueror.
‘Oh, what lovely, lovely creatures!’ said Annabel Effingham, who had
never been to a race meeting before. ‘I had no idea a horse could be so
beautiful as St. Andrew or The Cid. Why can’t they both win? I hope Mr.
Hamilton will, I’m sure, because he’s our neighbour; but I shall be
grieved if The Cid loses. How becoming jockey costume is! And what a
lovely jacket that is of Mr. Clarke’s! If I were a man I should be
passionately fond of racing.’
‘Bob’s a great deal too fond of it,’ said Mrs. Malahyde, a bright-eyed
matron of seven- or eight-and-twenty. ‘I wish you girls would combine
and make him promise to give it up. I can’t keep away when he’s going to
ride, but it’s all agony with me till I see him come in safe.’
‘When you look at it in that way,’ assented Annabel, ‘it certainly
doesn’t seem right, and it’s unfair of us to encourage it. What a pity
so many nice things are wrong!’
‘They’re off!’ said Miss Christabel, who had been eagerly watching the
proceedings, during which the other performers had severally displayed
themselves, receiving more or less qualified ovations, and then finally
been taken in charge severely by Mr. Rockley as far as the distance
post. ‘They’re off! Oh, don’t say a word till they’re over the first
fence!’
All the horses of the little troop had sufficient self-control to go
‘well within themselves’ from the start except King of the Valley and
Currency Lass. The mare’s nervous system was so shaken by the thunder of
the horse-hoofs and the shouting of the crowd at her introduction to
society, that she pulled and tore, and ‘took it out of herself,’ as her
rider, Billy Day, afterwards expressed himself, to that extent, that he
felt compelled to let her have her head, with a lead over the first
fence.
This barrier she at first charged at the rate of a liberal forty miles
an hour, with her head up, her mouth open, and such an apparently
reckless disregard of the known properties of iron-bark timber, that
Billy’s friends began to cast about for a handy vehicle, as likely to be
in immediate demand for ambulance work. But whether from the
contrarieties said to govern the female sex, or from some occult reason,
Currency Lass no sooner had her own way than she displayed unexpected
prudence. She slackened pace, and cocking her delicately-pointed ears,
rewarded her rider’s nerve and patience by making a magnificent though
theatrical jump, and being awfully quick on her legs, was half-way to
the next fence before another had crossed the first.
‘Oh, what a lovely jump Currency Lass took!’ said one of the young
ladies, ‘and what a distance she is in front of all the rest. Do you
think she will win, Mr. Smith? How slowly all the others are going.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ said the critic of the sterner sex. ‘She’s a
clever thing, but she can’t stay the distance. Ha! very neatly done
indeed. That’s what I call workmanlike. Cornstalk baulks—well done—good
jump! All over the first fence, and no one down.’
These latter remarks were called forth by seeing St. Andrew, The Cid,
and Bargo charge the fence nearly in line, the latter rather in the
rear, and go over with as little haste or effort as if it had been a row
of hurdles. Wallaby hit the top rail hard, but recovered himself, and
Cornstalk, after baulking once, was wheeled short, and popped over
cleverly, without losing ground.
The same style of performance was repeated with so little variation for
the next half-dozen leaps, that the eager public began to look with
favour upon the enthusiastic Currency Lass, still sailing ahead with
undiminished ardour, and flying her leaps like a deer. The sarcastic
inquiry, ‘Will they ever catch her?’ commenced to be employed, and the
provincial prejudice in favour of a true bushman and a country-trained
horse, ‘without any nonsense about her,’ began to gather strength.
But at this stage of the proceedings it became apparent that the
struggle between the two cracks could not longer be postponed. With one
bound, as it appeared to the spectators, St. Andrew and The Cid were
away at speed, their riders bearing themselves as if they had only that
moment started for the race.
‘They’re at one another now,’ said Argyll to O’Desmond. ‘We shall see
how the Camerton blood tells in a finish.’
‘Don’t you think Charlie’s making the pace too good?’ said Mr. Churbett.
‘I wanted him to wait till he got near the hill, but he said he thought
the pace would try The Cid’s temper, and half a mistake would make him
lose the race.’
‘They’re both going too fast now, in my opinion,’ said Forbes. ‘One of
them will have a fall soon, and then the race is old Bargo’s, as sure as
my name’s James.’
‘Oh, what a pretty sight!’ said Mrs. Snowden, as a large fence in full
view of the whole assemblage was reached.
The native damsel was still leading, but the distance had visibly
decreased which separated her from the popular heroes. All three horses
were going best pace, and as the mare cleared the fence cleverly, but
with little to spare, pressed by The Cid and St. Andrew, as they took
the jump apparently in the same stride, a great cheer burst from the
crowd.
‘Well done, Bargo!’ shouted the complimentary crowd, in high
good-humour, as the old horse came up, quietly working out his
programme, and topping the fence with but little visible effort,
followed his more brilliant leaders. The others were by this time
considerably in the rear, but took their jumps creditably still. The
next fence was known to be the most dangerous in the whole course. The
ground was broken and stony, the incline unpleasantly steep, and a small
but annoying grip caused by the winter rains interfered with the
approach. In the hunting field it would have been simply a matter for
careful riding. But here, at the speed to which the pace had been
forced, it was dangerous.
‘Why don’t they pull off there?’ muttered Mr. Rockley, virtuously
indignant. ‘No one but a madman would go over ground like that as if
they were finishing a flat race. That fellow Hamilton is as obstinate as
a mule. I know him; he wouldn’t pull off an inch for all the judges of
the Supreme Court.’
‘I’m afraid Bob Clarke won’t,’ said John Hampden; ‘that’s the worst of
steeplechasing, the fellows _will_ ride so jealous. Well done, The Cid!
By Jove! the mare’s down! and—yes—no!—St. Andrew too. Don’t be
frightened, anybody,’ as more than one plaintive cry arose from among
the carriages on which the ladies stood thickly clustering. ‘Both men
up, and no harm done. Hamilton’s away again, but it’s The Cid’s race.’
These hurried observations, made for the benefit of the visibly
distressed _clientèle_ of Hamilton, were called forth by the most
sensational proceedings which had obtained yet.
As the two rivals came down the slope at the highly improper pace
alluded to, they overtook Currency Lass at her fence, which confused
that excitable animal. Getting her head from her rider, who had been
prudently steadying her across this unpleasant section, with the idea
that he would be unaccompanied till he was clear of it, she went at the
fence with her usual impetuosity. A gutter threw her out a little; it
may be that her wind had failed. It is certain that, taking off too
closely to the stiff fence, she struck the top rail with tremendous
force, the impetus casting her rolling over on her back into the
adjoining paddock, while her rider, fortunately for him, was ‘sent rods
and rods ahead of her’ (as a comrade described it), and so saved from
being crushed under the fallen horse. The mare rose to her legs
trembling and half stunned, glared for one moment at surrounding
objects, and then went off at full speed, with flapping stirrups and
trailing reins. The Cid had sailed over the fence a yard to the left of
her, and was going at his ease, with nothing near him.
Where, then, was St. Andrew? He had also come to grief.
Putting his foot on a rolling stone, he had been unable to clear his
leap, though he made a gallant effort. Striking heavily, he went down on
the farther side.
His rider, sitting well back, and never for one instant losing his
proverbial coolness, was able to save him as much as, under the
circumstances, a horse can be saved. Down on nose and knee only went the
good horse, his rider falling close to his shoulder, and never
relinquishing the reins. Both were on their feet in an instant, and
before the crowd had well realised the fact, or the ‘I told you so’
division had breath to explain why St. Andrew _must_ fall if the pace
was kept really good, Charlie Hamilton was in the saddle and away, with
his teeth set and a determination not to lose the race yet, if there was
a chance left. Bargo came up with calculated pace and line, and
performed his exercise with the same ease and precision as if he had
been practising at a leaping bar. Cornstalk baulked again, and this time
with sufficient determination to lose him half a mile. Wallaby gave his
rider a nasty fall, breaking his collar-bone and preventing further
efforts. While King of the Valley, going reasonably up to this stage,
overpowered his rider at last, and hardly rising at his fence, rolled
over, and did not rise. He had broken his neck, and his rider was
unconscious for twelve hours afterwards. The race therefore lay between
The Cid, St. Andrew, and the safe and collected Bargo, coming up _pedo
claudo_, and with a not unreasonable chance, like Nemesis, of appearing
with effect at the close of the proceedings.
The next marked division of the course was known as ‘the hill,’ an
eminence of no great altitude between two farms, but possessing just
sufficient abruptness to make the fence a more than average effort. This
‘rise,’ as the country people called it, lay about three-quarters of a
mile from home, and the horse that first came down the long slope which
led towards the winning-post, divided from it but by several easy
fences, had a strong chance of winning the race.
Before The Cid reached the base of this landmark, still keeping the pace
good, but going comparatively at his ease, it was apparent that
Hamilton, who had been riding St. Andrew for his life, and had indeed
resolved to tax the courage and condition of the good horse to the last
gasp, was closing in upon his leader. ‘Sitting down’ upon his horse,
Charles Hamilton extorted praise from the assemblage by the
determination with which he fought a losing race. He was well seconded
by the son of Camerton, as, extending himself to the utmost, he flew
fence after fence as if they were so many hurdles.
‘What a pity poor St. Andrew came down at that abominable place!’ said
Annabel. ‘I really believe he might have won the race. He was not so far
behind Mr. Clarke when he disappeared behind the hill.’
‘He’s only playing with him, I’m afraid,’ said Mr. Hampden kindly.
‘Hamilton and his horse deserve to win, but that fall made too great a
difference between horses so evenly matched.’
‘The Cid’s heart’s not in the right place,’ here broke in an admirer of
Miss Christabel’s, who had been cut down by the fascinating Bob. ‘You
know that, Hampden. I saw him refuse and lose his race, which he had
easy in hand, at Casterton. He might baulk at that sidling jump behind
the hill yet. It’s a nasty place.’
‘I believe he will too,’ said Fred Churbett, staunch to the Benmohr
colours. ‘We ought to see them soon now; they’re a long time coming.
Take all the odds you can get, Miss Annabel.’
‘Will _you_ take seven to four, Churbett?’ said Mr. Hampden. ‘I know The
Cid’s peculiarities, but I’ll back him out, and my countryman, Bob
Clarke, as long as there is a Hereford at Wangarua.’
‘Done!’ said the friendly Fred; ‘and “done” again, Mr. Hampden,’ said
Bob’s rival.
Just as the words were finished a great shout of ‘St. Andrew wins,
Benmohr for ever!’ arose from the country people as _one horse_ was seen
coming down the long, green slope. On the rider could plainly be
discovered the blue and golden colours of Charles Hamilton.
‘Baulked, by Jove! the sidling fence was too much for him; thought Bob
was sending him along too fast. Deuced uncertain brute; not the real
thing; never could stay; nothing like the old Whisker and Camerton
strain. Here comes Bargo! By Jove! Hurrah!’
Such comments and condemnations were freely expressed as St. Andrew came
sailing along. The concluding cheer, however, was evoked by the
apparition of a second horse which followed St. Andrew with a flogging
rider, who was evidently making his effort. It immediately became
apparent that this was Bargo, whom his rider was ‘setting to with,’
believing that the tremendous pace which St. Andrew had sustained for
the last part of the race must now tell upon him. Where, then, was The
Cid? Where, indeed? His admirers were dumb; his opponents jubilant. It
is the way of the world.
‘Where’s your seven to four now, Mr. Hampden?’ said the youthful
partisan.
‘Possibly quite safe; never be quite certain till the numbers are up.
Here comes The Cid at last; Bob’s not beaten yet.’
Another sustained shout from the excited crowd showed what a new element
of interest this apparition of the lost horseman had added to the race.
Bargo, carefully saved, and comparatively fresh, sorely pressed the
gallant St. Andrew, whose bolt was nearly shot. Still, struggling gamely
to keep his lead, and well held together, he had crossed the third fence
from home before he was challenged by Bargo.
But down the hill, at an awful pace, ridden with the desperation of a
madman, came The Cid. Bob Clarke, with cap off and reckless use of whip
and spur, could not have increased the pace by one single stride had he
been going for a man’s life. Had a doomed criminal been standing on the
scaffold, ready for the headsman’s axe, did the reprieve of the old
romances not be displayed in time, not another second could The Cid have
achieved.
‘He’ll do it yet if they’re not too close at the last fence,’ said
Hampden, with his usual calmness. ‘I never knew The Cid baulk _twice_ in
one race, and he has a terrible turn of speed for a short finish. Bob’s
in earnest, I should say.’
That fact was doubted by none who saw him that day. His face was pale;
his eyes blazed with a flame which few had ever seen who looked upon the
handsome features and pleasant smile of Robert Clarke. The excitement
became tremendous. The ladies made emotional remarks—some of pity for
his disappointment, some of sympathy with his probable hurts, if he had
had a fall. All joined in reprobating the unlucky Cid.
Christabel Rockley alone said no word, but her fixed eyes and pale cheek
showed the absorbing interest which the dangerous contest, now deepening
to a possible tragedy, had for her.
The furious pace appeared not to interfere with The Cid’s wondrous
jumping powers. At the speed he was driven at his fences he must have
gone over or through them. He seemed to prefer the former, and cheer
after cheer broke the unusual silence as high in air was seen the form
of horse and rider, as every fence was crossed but the last, and perhaps
the stiffest, a hundred yards from home.
St. Andrew and Bargo were now neck and neck, stride and stride. The
indomitable chestnut had begun to roll; the stout but not brilliant
Bargo was at his best. As they near the last fence it is evident that
The Cid, still coming up with a ‘wet sail,’ is overhauling the pair. The
question is, whether St. Andrew is not too near home.
The anxiety of the crowd is intense, the breathless suspense of the
friends of the rival stables painful, the fielders are at the acme of
excited hope and fear, when St. Andrew and Bargo, closely followed by
The Cid, rise at this deciding leap. The chestnut just clears it, with
nothing to spare; Bargo, overpaced, strikes heavily, and rolls in the
field beyond; Bob Clarke charges the panel on the right like a demon,
and, after a deadly neck-and-neck struggle with St. Andrew, who still
has fight left, outrides him on the post.
The conclusion of this ‘truly exciting race, covering with glory all
concerned therein,’ as the local journal phrased it, was felt to be
almost too solemn a matter for the usual hackneyed congratulations. The
overwrought emotions of the young ladies rendered a prompt adjournment
necessary to side-saddles and vehicles, which, after refreshment
supplied to the protagonists, were made ready for the homeward route.
Bob Clarke received a congratulatory glance from Christabel Rockley,
which no doubt helped to console him, as did such guerdon many a good
knight of old, for the dust and dangers of the tourney.
His sister, Mrs. Malahyde, who could hardly have been said either to
have seen or enjoyed the thrilling performance, for ‘mamma was lying
down crying in the bottom of the dogcart all the time,’ as her little
daughter testified, now arranged her bonnet and countenance, and
expressed her heartfelt thanks for Bob’s safety.
Charles Hamilton received assurances from the ladies generally, and
particularly from his neighbours of The Chase, that his courage and
perseverance had been to them astonishing, and beyond all praise; while
St. Andrew, beaten only by a head, after all his gallant endeavours to
repair ill-luck, was lauded to the skies.
‘Poor dear fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘I wonder if horses ever feel
disappointed. He does droop a little, and it was wicked of you to spur
him so, Mr. Hamilton. Now that naughty Cid goes swinging his head about
as if he was quite proud of himself. How _he_ has been spurred! Dear
me!’
‘Yes, and well flogged,’ said one of the Hobart division. ‘Bob said when
he baulked behind the hill he could have killed him. However, it will do
him good. He took his last fences as if he would never refuse again as
long as he lived.’
‘I will just say this, as my calm and deliberate opinion, and I should
like to hear any man contradict me,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘that there never
was a race better ridden in the colony than Hamilton’s on St. Andrew. If
he hadn’t made that mistake at the stony creek he _must_ have had the
race easily. His recovering his place was one of the best bits of riding
I ever saw.’
‘Oh, of course; but if The Cid hadn’t baulked, _he_ would have come in
as he liked. Suppose we get them to run it over again to-morrow as a
match for a hundred. I’ll put a tenner on The Cid.’
‘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.’