annals, and faster things the Melton men themselves had never wanted:
both those who love the "quickest thing you ever knew--thirty minutes
without a check--_such_ a pace!" and care little whether the _finale_ be
"killed" or "broke away," and those of older fashion, who prefer "long
day, you know, steady as old time, the beauties stuck like wax through
fourteen parishes as I live; six hours if it were a minute; horses dead
beat; positively walked, you know, no end of a day!" but must have the
fatal "who-whoop" as conclusion--both of these, the "new style and the
old," could not but be content with the doings of the "Demoiselles" from
start to finish.
Was it likely that Cecil remembered the caustic lash of his father's
ironies while he was lifting Mother of Pearl over the posts and rails,
and sweeping on, with the halloo ringing down the wintry wind as the
grasslands flew beneath him? Was it likely that he recollected the
difficulties that hung above him while he was dashing down the Gorse
happy as a king, with the wild hail driving in his face, and a break of
stormy sunshine just welcoming the gallant few who were landed at the
death, as twilight fell? Was it likely that he could unlearn all the
lessons of his life, and realise in how near a neighbourhood he stood to
ruin when he was drinking Regency sherry out of his gold flask as he
crossed the saddle of his second horse, or, smoking, rode slowly
homeward through the leafless muddy lanes in the gloaming?
Scarcely;--it is very easy to remember our difficulties when we are
eating and drinking them, so to speak, in bad soups and worse wines in
Continental impecuniosity, sleeping on them as rough Australian
shake-downs, or wearing them perpetually in Californian rags and
tatters, it were impossible very well to escape from them then; but it
is very hard to remember them when every touch and shape of life is
pleasant to us--when everything about us is symbolical and redolent of
wealth and ease--when the art of enjoyment is the only one we are Called
on to study, and the science of pleasure all we are asked to explore.
It is well-nigh impossible to believe yourself a beggar when you never
want sovereigns for whist; and it would be beyond the powers of human
nature to conceive your ruin irrevocable, while you still eat turbot and
terrapin with a powdered giant behind your chair daily. Up in his garret
a poor wretch knows very well what he is, and realises in stern fact the
extremities of the last sou, the last shirt, and the last hope; but in
these devil-may-care pleasures--in this pleasant, reckless, velvet-soft
rush down-hill--in this club-palace, with every luxury that the heart of
man can devise and desire, yours to command at your will--it is hard
work, _then_, to grasp the truth that the crossing-sweeper yonder, in
the dust of Pall Mall, is really not more utterly in the toils of
poverty than you are!
* * *
The bell was clanging and clashing passionately, as Cecil at last went
down to the weights, all his friends of the Household about him, and all
standing "crushers" on their champion, for their stringent _esprit du
corps_ was involved, and the Guards are never backward in putting their
gold down, as all the world knows. In the inclosure, the cynosure of
devouring eyes, stood the King, with the _sang froid_ of a superb
gentleman, amid the clamour raging round him, one delicate ear laid back
now and then, but otherwise indifferent to the din, with his coat
glistening like satin, the beautiful tracery of vein and muscle, like
the veins of vine-leaves, standing out on the glossy, clear-carved neck
that had the arch of Circassia, and his dark antelope eyes gazing with a
gentle, pensive earnestness on the shouting crowd.
His rivals, too, were beyond par in fitness and in condition, and there
were magnificent animals among them. Bay Regent was a huge, raking
chestnut, upwards of sixteen hands, and enormously powerful, with very
fine shoulders, and an all-over-like-going head; he belonged to a
Colonel in the Rifles, but was to be ridden by Jimmy Delmar of the 10th
Lancers, whose colours were violet with orange hoops. Montacute's horse,
Pas de Charge, which carried all the money of the Heavy Cavalry,
Montacute himself being in the Dragoon Guards, was of much the same
order, a black hunter with racing blood in him, loins and withers that
assured any amount of force, and no fault but that of a rather coarse
head, traceable to a slur on his 'scutcheon on the distaff side from a
plebeian great-grandmother, who had been a cart mare, the only stain in
his otherwise faultless pedigree. However, she had given him her massive
shoulders, so that he was in some sense a gainer by her after all. Wild
Geranium was a beautiful creature enough, a bright bay Irish mare, with
that rich red gloss that is like the glow of a horse-chestnut, very
perfect in shape, though a trifle light perhaps, and with not quite
strength enough in neck or barrel; she would jump the fences of her own
paddock half a dozen times a day for sheer amusement, and was game to
anything. She was entered by Cartouche of the Enniskillens, to be ridden
by "Baby Grafton," of the same corps, a feather-weight, and quite a boy,
but with plenty of science in him. These were the three favourites; Day
Star ran them close, the property of Durham Vavassour, of the Scots
Greys, and to be ridden by his owner; a handsome, flea-bitten, grey
sixteen-hander, with ragged hips, and action that looked a trifle
string-halty, but noble shoulders, and great force in the loins and
withers; the rest of the field, though unusually excellent, did not find
so many "sweet voices" for them, and were not so much to be feared: each
starter was of course much backed by his party, but the betting was
tolerably even on these four:--all famous steeplechasers;--the King at
one time, and Bay Regent at another, slightly leading in the Ring.
Thirty-two starters were hoisted up on the telegraph board, and as the
field got at last under weigh, uncommonly handsome they looked, while
the silk jackets of all the colours of the rainbow glittered in the
bright noon sun. As Forest King closed in, perfectly tranquil still, but
beginning to glow and quiver all over with excitement, knowing as well
as his rider the work that was before him, and longing for it in every
muscle and every limb, while his eyes flashed fire as he pulled at the
curb and tossed his head aloft, there went up a general shout of
"Favourite!" His beauty told on the populace, and even somewhat on the
professionals, though the legs kept a strong business prejudice against
the working powers of "the Guards' crack." The ladies began to lay
dozens in gloves on him; not altogether for his points, which perhaps
they hardly appreciated, but for his owner and rider, who, in the
scarlet and gold, with the white sash across his chest, and a look of
serene indifference on his face, they considered the handsomest man of
the field. The Household is usually safe to win the suffrages of the
sex.
In the throng on the course Rake instantly bonneted an audacious dealer
who had ventured to consider that Forest King was "light and curby in
the 'ock." "You're a wise 'un, you are!" retorted the wrathful and
ever-eloquent Rake, "there's more strength in his clean flat legs, bless
him! than in all the round, thick, mill-posts of _your_ half-breds, that
have no more tendon than a bit of wood, and are just as flabby as a
sponge!" Which hit the dealer home just as his hat was hit over his
eyes; Rake's arguments being unquestionable in their force.
The thoroughbreds pulled and fretted, and swerved in their impatience;
one or two over-contumacious bolted incontinently, others put their
heads between their knees in the endeavour to draw their riders over
their withers; Wild Geranium reared straight upright, fidgeted all over
with longing to be off, passaged with the prettiest, wickedest grace in
the world, and would have given the world to neigh if she had dared, but
she knew it would be very bad style, so, like an aristocrat as she was,
restrained herself; Bay Regent almost sawed Jimmy Delmar's arms off
looking like a Titan Bucephalus; while Forest King, with his nostrils
dilated till the scarlet tinge on them glowed in the sun, his muscles
quivering with excitement as intense as the little Irish mare's, and all
his Eastern and English blood on fire for the fray, stood steady as a
statue for all that, under the curb of a hand light as a woman's, but
firm as iron to control, and used to guide him by the slightest touch.
All eyes were on that throng of the first mounts in the Service;
brilliant glances by the hundred gleamed down behind hot-house bouquets
of their chosen colour, eager ones by the thousand stared thirstily from
the crowded course, the roar of the Ring subsided for a second, a
breathless attention and suspense succeeded it; the Guardsmen sat on
their drags, or lounged near the ladies with their race-glasses ready,
and their habitual expression of gentle and resigned weariness in nowise
altered, because the Household, all in all, had from sixty to seventy
thousand on the event, and the Seraph murmured mournfully to his
cheroot, "That chestnut's no end _fit_," strong as his faith was in the
champion of the Brigades.
A moment's good start was caught--the flag dropped--off they went,
sweeping out for the first second like a line of cavalry about to
charge.
Another moment, and they were scattered over the first field, Forest
King, Wild Geranium, and Bay Regent leading for two lengths, when
Montacute, with his habitual "fast burst," sent Pas de Charge past them
like lightning. The Irish mare gave a rush and got alongside of him; the
King would have done the same, but Cecil checked him, and kept him in
that cool swinging canter which covered the grassland so lightly; Bay
Regent's vast thundering stride was Olympian, but Jimmy Delmar saw his
worst foe in the "Guards' crack," and waited on him warily, riding
superbly himself.
The first fence disposed of half the field, they crossed the second in
the same order, Wild Geranium racing neck to neck with Pas de Charge;
the King was all athirst to join the duello, but his owner kept him
gently back, saving his pace and lifting him over the jumps as easily as
a lapwing. The second fence proved a cropper to several, some awkward
falls took place over it, and tailing commenced; after the third field,
which was heavy plough, all knocked off but eight, and the real struggle
began in sharp earnest: a good dozen who had shown a splendid stride
over the grass being done up by the terrible work on the clods.
The five favourites had it all to themselves; Day Star pounding onward
at tremendous speed, Pas de Charge giving slight symptoms of distress
owing to the madness of his first burst, the Irish mare literally flying
ahead of him, Forest King and the chestnut waiting on one another.
In the Grand Stand the Seraph's eyes strained after the Scarlet and
White, and he muttered in his moustaches, "Ye gods, what's up? The
world's coming to an end!--Beauty's turned cautious!"
Cautious, indeed,--with that giant of Pytchley fame running neck to neck
by him; cautious,--with two-thirds of the course unrun, and all the
yawners yet to come; cautious,--with the blood of Forest King lashing to
boiling heat, and the wondrous greyhound stride stretching out faster
and faster beneath him, ready at a touch to break away and take the
lead: but he would be reckless enough by-and-by; reckless, as his nature
was, under the indolent serenity of habit.
Two more fences came, laced high and stiff with the Shire thorn, and
with scarce twenty feet between them, the heavy ploughed land leading to
them, clotted, and black, and hard, with the fresh earthy scent steaming
up as the hoofs struck the clods with a dull thunder. Pas de Charge rose
to the first: distressed too early, his hind feet caught in the thorn,
and he came down rolling clear of his rider; Montacute picked him up
with true science, but the day was lost to the Heavy Cavalry men. Forest
King went in and out over both like a bird, and led for the first time;
the chestnut was not to be beat at fencing, and ran even with him; Wild
Geranium flew still as fleet as a deer, true to her sex, she would not
bear rivalry; but little Grafton, though he rode like a professional,
was but a young one, and went too wildly--her spirit wanted cooler curb.
And now only, Cecil loosened the King to his full will and his full
speed. Now only, the beautiful Arab head was stretched like a racer's
in the run-in for the Derby, and the grand stride swept out till the
hoofs seemed never to touch the dark earth they skimmed over; neither
whip nor spur was needed, Bertie had only to leave the gallant temper
and the generous fire that were roused in their might to go their way,
and hold their own. His hands were low; his head was a little back; his
face very calm; the eyes only had a daring, eager, resolute will
lighting in them; Brixworth lay before him. He knew well what Forest
King could do; but he did not know how great the chestnut Regent's
powers might be.
The water gleamed before them, brown and swollen, and deepened with the
meltings of winter snows a month before; the brook that has brought so
many to grief over its famous banks, since cavaliers leapt it with their
falcon on their wrist, or the mellow note of the horn rang over the
woods in the hunting days of Stuart reigns. They knew it well, that long
dark line, skimmering there in the sunlight, the test that all must pass
who go in for the Soldiers' Blue Ribbon. Forest King scented water, and
went on with his ears pointed, and his greyhound stride lengthening,
quickening, gathering up all its force and its impetus for the leap that
was before--then like the rise and the swoop of the heron he spanned the
water, and, landing clear, launched forward with the lunge of a spear
darted through air. Brixworth was passed--the Scarlet and White, a mere
gleam of bright colour, a mere speck in the landscape, to the breathless
crowds in the stand, sped on over the brown and level grassland; two and
a quarter miles done in four minutes and twenty seconds. Bay Regent was
scarcely behind him; the chestnut abhorred the water, but a finer
trained hunter was never sent over the Shires, and Jimmy Delmar rode
like Grimshaw himself. The giant took the leap in magnificent style, and
thundered on neck and neck with the "Guards' crack." The Irish mare
followed, and, with miraculous gameness, landed safely; but her
hind-legs slipped on the bank, a moment was lost, and "Baby" Grafton
scarce knew enough to recover it, though he scoured on nothing daunted.
Pas de Charge, much behind, refused the yawner; his strength was not
more than his courage, but both had been strained too severely at first.
Montacute struck the spurs into him with a savage blow over the head;
the madness was its own punishment; the poor brute rose blindly to the
jump, and missed the bank with a reel and a crash; Sir Eyre was hurled
out into the brook, and the hope of the Heavies lay there with his
breast and fore-legs resting on the ground, his hind-quarters in the
water, and his back broken. Pas de Charge would never again see the
starting-flag waved, or hear the music of the hounds, or feel the
gallant life throb and glow through him at the rallying notes of the
horn. His race was run.
Not knowing, or looking, or heeding what happened behind, the trio tore
on over the meadow and the ploughed; the two favourites neck by neck,
the game little mare hopelessly behind through that one fatal moment
over Brixworth. The turning-flags were passed; from the crowds on the
course a great hoarse roar came louder and louder, and the shouts rang,
changing every second, "Forest King wins," "Bay Regent wins," "Scarlet
and White's ahead," "Violet's up with him," "Violet's past him,"
"Scarlet recovers," "Scarlet beats," "A cracker on the King," "Ten to
one on the Regent," "Guards are over the fence first," "Guards are
winning," "Guards are losing," "Guards are beat!!"
Were they?
As the shout rose, Cecil's left stirrup leather snapped and gave way; at
the pace they were going most men, ay, and good riders too, would have
been hurled out of their saddle by the shock; he scarcely swerved; a
moment to ease the King and to recover his equilibrium, then he took the
pace up again as though nothing had changed. And his comrades of the
Household, when they saw this through their race-glasses, broke through
their serenity and burst into a cheer that echoed over the grasslands
and the coppices like a clarion, the grand rich voice of the Seraph
leading foremost and loudest--a cheer that rolled mellow and triumphant
down the cold bright air like the blast of trumpets, and thrilled on
Bertie's ear where he came down the course a mile away. It made his
heart beat quicker with a victorious headlong delight, as his knees
pressed closer into Forest King's flanks, and, half stirrupless like the
Arabs, he thundered forward to the greatest riding feat of his life. His
face was very calm still, but his blood was in tumult, the delirium of
pace had got on him, a minute of life like this was worth a year, and he
knew that he would win or die for it, as the land seemed to fly like a
black sheet under him, and, in that killing speed, fence and hedge and
double and water all went by him like a dream, whirling underneath him
as the grey stretches, stomach to earth, over the level, and rose to
leap after leap.
For that instant's pause, when the stirrup broke, threatened to lose him
the race.
He was more than a length behind the Regent, whose hoofs as they dashed
the ground up sounded like thunder, and for whose herculean strength the
plough has no terrors; it was more than the lead to keep now, there was
ground to cover, and the King was losing like Wild Geranium. Cecil felt
drunk with that strong, keen, west wind that blew so strongly in his
teeth, a passionate excitation was in him, every breath of winter air
that rushed in its bracing currents round him seemed to lash him like a
stripe--the Household to look on and see him beaten!
Certain wild blood that lay latent in Cecil under the tranquil
gentleness of temper and of custom, woke, and had the mastery; he set
his teeth hard, and his hands clenched like steel on the bridle. "Oh! my
beauty, my beauty," he cried, all unconsciously half aloud as they clear
the thirty-sixth fence; "kill me if you like, but don't _fail_ me!"
As though Forest King heard the prayer and answered it with all his
hero's heart, the splendid form launched faster out, the stretching
stride stretched farther yet with lightning spontaneity, every fibre
strained, every nerve struggled; with a magnificent bound like an
antelope the grey recovered the ground he had lost, and passed Bay
Regent by a quarter-length. It was a neck-to-neck race once more, across
the three meadows with the last and lower fences that were between them
and the final leap of all; that ditch of artificial water with the
towering double hedge of oak rails and of blackthorn that was reared
black and grim and well-nigh hopeless just in front of the Grand Stand.
A roar like the roar of the sea broke up from the thronged course as the
crowd hung breathless on the even race; ten thousand shouts rang as
thrice ten thousand eyes watched the closing contest, as superb a sight
as the Shires ever saw, while the two ran together, the gigantic
chestnut, with every massive sinew swelled and strained to tension, side
by side with the marvellous grace, the shining flanks, and the
Arabian-like head of the Guards' horse.
Louder and wilder the shrieked tumult rose: "The Chestnut beats!" "The
Grey beats!" "Scarlet's ahead!" "Bay Regent's caught him!" "Violet's
winning, Violet's winning!" "The King's neck by neck!" "The King's
beating!" "The Guards will get it!" "The Guards' crack has it!" "Not
yet, not yet!" "Violet will thrash him at the jump!" "Now for it!" "The
Guards, the Guards, the Guards!" "Scarlet will win!" "The King has the
finish!" "No, no, no, NO!"
Sent along at a pace that Epsom flat never saw eclipsed, sweeping by the
Grand Stand like the flash of electric flame, they ran side to side one
moment more, their foam flung on each other's withers, their breath hot
in each other's nostrils, while the dark earth flew beneath their
stride. The blackthorn was in front behind five bars of solid oak, the
water yawning on its farther side, black and deep, and fenced, twelve
feet wide if it were an inch, with the same thorn wall beyond it! a leap
no horse should have been given, no steward should have set. Cecil
pressed his knees closer and closer, and worked the gallant hero for the
test; the surging roar of the throng, though so close, was dull on his
ear; he heard nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing but that lean chestnut
head beside him, the dull thud on the turf of the flying gallop, and the
black wall that reared in his face. Forest King had done so much, could
he have stay and strength for this?
Cecil's hands clenched unconsciously on the bridle, and his face was
very pale--pale with excitation--as his foot where the stirrup was
broken crushed closer and harder against the grey's flanks.
"Oh, my darling, my beauty--_now_!"
One touch of the spur--the first--and Forest King rose at the leap, all
the life and power there were in him gathered for one superhuman and
crowning effort; a flash of time, not half a second in duration, and he
was lifted in the air higher, and higher, and higher in the cold, fresh,
wild winter wind; stakes and rails, and thorn and water lay beneath him
black and gaunt and shapeless, yawning like a grave; one bound, even in
mid air, one last convulsive impulse of the gathered limbs, and Forest
King was over!
And as he galloped up the straight run-in, he was alone.
Bay Regent had refused the leap.
As the grey swept to the judge's chair, the air was rent with deafening
cheers that seemed to reel like drunken shouts from the multitude. "The
Guards win, the Guards win;" and when his rider pulled up at the
distance with the full sun shining on the scarlet and white, with the
gold glisten of the embroidered "Coeur Vaillant se fait Royaume,"
Forest King stood in all his glory, winner of the Soldier's Blue Ribbon,
by a feat without its parallel in all the annals of the Gold Vase.
* * *