The great carnival completely restored Glory's spirits. She laughed
and cried out constantly and lived from minute to minute like a child.
Everybody recognised her and nearly everybody saluted her. Drake beamed
with pride and delight. He took her about the course, answered her
questions, punctuated her jests, and explained everything, leaving Lord
Robert to entertain his guests. Who were “those dwellers in tents”? They
were the Guards' Club, and the service was also represented by artillery
men, king's hussars, and a line regiment from Aldershot. This was called
“The Hill,” where jovial rascaldom, usually swarmed, looking out for
stray overcoats and the lids of luncheon dishes left unprotected on
carriages. Yes, the pickpocket, the card-sharper, the “lumberer,”
the confidence man, the blarneying beggar, and the fakir of every
description laid his snares on this holy spot. In fact, this is his
Sanctuary and he peddles under the eye of the police. “Holy Land?”
Ha, ha! “All the patriarchs out of the Bible here?” Oh, the vociferous
gentlemen with patriarchal names in velveteen coats under the banners
and canvas sign-boards--Moses, Aaron, and so forth? They were the
“bookies,” otherwise bookmakers, generally Jews and sometimes Welshers.
“Here, come along, some of you sportsmen! I ain't made the price of my
railway fare, s'elp me!” “It's a dead cert, gents.” “Can't afford to buy
thick 'uns at four quid apiece!” “Five to one on the field!” “I lay on
the field!”
A “thick un?” Oh, that was a sovereign, half a thick un half a
sovereign, twenty-five pounds a “pony,” five hundred a “monkey,” flash
notes were “stumers,” and a bookmaker who couldn't pay was “a Welsher.”
That? That was “the great Brockton,” gentleman and tipster. “Amusement
enough!” Yes, niggers, harpists, Christy Minstrels, strong men,
acrobats, agile clowns and girls on stilts, and all the ragamuffins from
“the Burrer,” bent on “making a bit.” African Jungle? A shooting gallery
with model lions and bears. Fine Art Exhibition? A picture of the
hanging of recent murderers. Boxing Ring? Yes, for women--they strip
to the waist and fight like fiends. Then look at the lady auctioneer
selling brass sovereigns a penny apiece.
“Buy one, gentlemen, and see what they're like, so as the 'bookies'
can't pawse 'em on ye unawares!”
“Food enough!” Yes, at Margett's, Patton's, Hatton's, and “The Three
Brooms,” as well as the barrows for stewed eels, hard-boiled eggs,
trotters, coker-nuts, winkles, oysters, cockles, and all the luxuries of
the New Cut. Why were they calling that dog “Cookshop”? Because he was
pretty sure to go there in the end.
By this time they had ploughed over some quarter of a mile of the
hillside, fighting their way among the carriages that stood six deep
along the rails and through a seething mass of ruffianism, in a stifling
atmosphere polluted by the smell of ale and the reeking breath of tipsy
people.
“Whoo! I feel like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego rolled into one,”
said Glory.
“Let us go into the Paddock,” said Drake, and they began to cross the
race track.
“But wasn't that somebody preaching as we galloped down the hill?”
“Was it? I didn't notice,” and they struggled through.
It was fresh and cool under the trees, and Glory thought it cheap even
at ten shillings a head to walk for ten minutes on green grass. Horses
waiting for their race were being walked about in clothes with their
names worked on the quarter sheets, and breeders, trainers, jockeys, and
clerks of the course mingled with gentlemen in silk hats and ladies in
smart costumes.
Drake's horse was a big bay colt, very thin, almost gaunt, and with
long, high-stepping legs. The trainer was waiting for a last word with
his owner. He was cool and confident. “Never better or fitter, Sir
Francis, and one of the grandest three-year-olds that ever looked
through a bridle. Improved wonderful since he got over his dental
troubles, and does justice to the contents of his manger. Capital field,
sir, but it's got to run up against summat smart to-day. Favourite, sir?
Pooh! A coach horse! Not stripping well--light in the flank and tucked
up. But this colt fills the eye as a first-class one should. Whatever
beats him will win, sir, take my word for that.”
And the jockey, standing by in his black-and-white-jacket, wagged
his head and said in a cheery whisper: “Have what ye like on 'im, Sir
Francis. Great horse, sir! Got a Derby in 'im or I'm a Slowcome.”
Drake laughed at their predictions, and Glory patted the creature while
it beat its white feet on the ground and the leather of its saddle
squeaked. The club stand from there? looked like a sea of foaming laces,
feathers, flowers, and sunshades. They turned to go to it, passing first
by the judge's box, whereof Drake explained the use, then through the
Jockey Club inclosure, which was full of peers, peeresses, judges,
members of Parliament, and other turfites, and finally through the
betting ring where some hundreds of betting men of the superior class
proclaimed their calling in loud voices and loud clothes and the gold
letters on their betting books. To one of these pencillers Drake said:
“What's the figure for Ellan Vannin?”
“Ten to one, market price, sir.”
“I'll take you in hundreds,” said Drake, and they struggled through the
throng.
Going up the stairs Glory said: “But wasn't the Archdeacon at your
office this morning? We saw him coming out of the square with Mr.
Golightly.”
“Oh, did you? How hot it is to-day!”
“Isn't it? I feel as if I should like to play Ariel in gossamer--But
wasn't it?”
“You needn't trouble about that, Glory. It's an old, story that
religious intolerance likes to throw the responsibility of its acts on
the civil government.”
“Then John Storm----”
“He is in no danger yet--none whatever.”
“Oh, how glorious!” They had reached the balcony, and Glory was
pretending that the change in her voice and manner came of delight at
the sudden view. She stood for a moment spellbound, and then leaned over
the rail and looked through the dazzling haze that was rising from the
vast crowd below. Not a foot of turf was to be seen for a mile around,
save where at the jockeys' gate a space was kept clear by the police. It
was a moving mass of humanity, and a low, indistinguishable murmur was
coming up from it such as the sea makes on the headlands above.
The cloud had died off Glory's face and her eyes were sparkling. “What a
wonderfully happy world it must be, after all!” she said.
Just then the standard was hoisted over the royal stand to indicate
that the Prince had arrived. Immediately afterward there was a silent
movement of hats on the lawns below the boxes, and then somebody down
there began to sing God save the Queen. The people on the Grand Stand
took up the chorus, then the people on the course joined in, then
the people on “The Hill,” until finally the whole multitude sang the
national hymn in a voice that was like the voice of an ocean.
Glory's eyes were now full of tears, she was struggling with a desire to
cry aloud, and Drake, who was watching her smallest action, stood before
her to screen her from the glances of gorgeously attired ladies who
were giggling and looking through lorgnettes. The fine flower of the
aristocracy was present in force, and the club stand was full of the
great ladies who took an interest in sport and even kept studs of their
own. Oriental potentates were among them in suits of blue and gold, and
the French language was being spoken on all sides.
Glory attracted attention and Drake's face beamed with delight. An
illustrious personage asked to be introduced to her, and said he had
seen her first performance and predicted her extraordinary success.
She did not flinch. There was a slight tremor, a scarcely perceptible
twitching of the lip, and then she bore her honours as if she had been
born to them. The Prince entertained a party to luncheon, and Drake and
Glory were invited to join it. All the smart people were there, and they
looked like a horticultural exhibition of cream colour and rose pink
and gray. Glory kept watching the great ones of the earth, and she found
them very amusing.
“Well, what do you think?” said Drake.
“I think most people at the Derby must have the wrong make-up on. That
gentleman, now--he ought to be done up as a stable-boy. And that lady in
mauve--she's a ballet girl really, only----”
“Hush, for Heaven's sake!” But Glory whispered, “Let's go round the
corner and laugh.”
She sat between Drake and a ponderous gentleman with a great beard like
a waterfall.
“What are the odds against the colt, Drake?”
Drake answered, and Glory recalled herself from her studies and said,
“Oh, yes, what did you say it was?”
“A prohibitive price--for you.” said Drake.
“Nonsense! I'm going to do a flutter on my own, you know, and plunge
against you.”
It was explained to her that only bookmakers bet against horses, but
the gentleman with the beard volunteered to reverse positions, and take
Glory's ten to one against Ellan Vannin.
“In what?”
“Oh--h'm--in thick 'uns, of course.”
“But what is the meaning of this running after strange gods?” said
Drake.
“Never mind, sir! Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, you
know----” and then the bell rang for the race of the day, and they
scurried back to the Stand. The numbers were going up and a line of
fifty policemen abreast were clearing the course. Some of the party had
come over from the coach, and Lord Robert was jotting down in a notebook
the particulars of betting commissions for his fair companions.
“And am I to be honoured with a commission from the Hurricane?” he
asked.
“Yes; what's the price for Ellan Vannin?”
“Come down to five to one, pretty lady.”
“Get me one to five that he's going to lose.”
“But what in the world are you doing, Glory?” said Drake. His eyes were
dancing with delight.
“Running a race with that old man in the box which can find a loser
first.”
At that moment the horses were sent out for the preliminary canter and
parade before the royal stand, and a tingling electrical atmosphere
seemed to come from somewhere and set every tongue wagging. It seemed as
if something unexpected was about to occur, and countless eyes went up
to the place where Drake stood with Glory by his side. He was outwardly
calm, but with a proud flush under his pallor; she was visibly excited,
and could not stand on the same spot for many seconds together. By this
time the noise made by the bookmakers in the inclosure below was like
that of ten thousand sea fowl on a reef of rock, and Glory was trying to
speak above the deafening clangour.
“Silver and gold have I none, but if I had--what's that?”
A white flag had fallen as signal for the start, there was a hollow roar
from the starting post, and people were shouting, “They're off!”
Then there was a sudden silence, a dead hush--below, above, around,
everywhere, and all eyes, all glasses, all lorgnettes were turned in the
direction of the runners.
The horses got well away and raced up the hill like cavalry charging
in line; then at the mile post the favourite drew to the front, and
the others went after him in an indistinguishable mass. But the descent
seemed not to his liking; he twisted a good deal, and the jockey was
seen sawing the reins and almost hanging over the horse's head. When
the racers swung round Tattenham Corner and came up like mice in the
distance, it was seen that another horse had taken advantage of an
opening and was overhauling the favourite with a tremendous rush. His
colours were white and black. It was Ellan Vannin. From that moment
Drake's horse never relinquished his advantage, but came down the
straight like a great bird with his wings ceasing to flap, passed the
Stand amid great excitement, and won handsomely by a length.
Then in the roar of delight that went up from the crowd Glory, with her
hand on Drake's shoulder, was seen to be crying, laughing, and cheering
at the same moment.
“But _you've_ lost,” said Drake.
“Oh, bother that!” she said, and when the jockey had slipped from his
saddle, and Drake had taken his horse into the weighing-room and the
“All right!” was shouted, she started the cheering again and said she
meant to make a dead heat of it with Tennyson's brook.
“But why did you bet against me?” said Drake.
“You silly boy,” she answered with a crow of happiness and gaiety,
“didn't the gipsy tell me I should lose money to-day? And how could I
bet on your horse unless you lost the race?”
Drake laughed merrily at her delicious duplicity and could hardly resist
an impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her. Meantime his friends
were slapping him on the back and people were crushing up to offer him
congratulations. He turned to take his horse into the Paddock, and Lord
Robert took Glory down after him. The trainer and jockey were there,
looking proud and happy, and Drake, with a pale and triumphant face, was
walking the great creature about as if reluctant to part with it. It
was breathing heavily, and sweat stood in drops on its throat, head, and
ears.
“Oh, you beauty! How I should love to ride you!” said Glory.
“But dare you?” said Drake.
“Dare I! Only give me the chance.”
“I will, by----I will, or it won't be my fault.”
Somebody brought champagne and Glory had to drink a bumper to “the best
horse of the century, bar none.” Then her glass was filled afresh and
she had to drink to the owner, “the best fellow on earth, bar none,” and
again she was compelled to drink “to the best bit of history ever made
at Epsom, bar none.” With that she was excused while the men drank at
Drake's proposal “to the loveliest, liveliest, leeriest little woman in
the world, God bless her!” and she hid her face in her hands and said
with a merry laugh:
“Tell me when it's over, boys, and I'll come again.”
After Drake had despatched telegrams and been bombarded by interviewers,
he led the way back to the coach on the Hill, and the company prepared
for their return. The sun had now gone, a thick veil of stagnant clouds
had gathered over it, the sky looked sulky, and Glory's head tad begun
to ache between the eyes. Rosa was to go home by train in order to
reach her office early, and Glory half wished to accompany her. But an
understudy was to play her part that night and she had no excuse. The
coach wormed its way through the close pack of vehicles at the top of
the Hill and began to follow the ebbing tide of humanity back to London.
“But what about my pair of gloves?”
“Oh, you're a hard man, reaping where you have not sowed and
gathering----”
“There, then, we're quits,” said Drake, leaning over from the box seat
and snatching a kiss of her. It was now clear that he had been drinking
a good deal.