Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
‘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.’
CHAPTER XIII
MISS VERA FANE OF BLACK MOUNTAIN
After a due amount of dining and dressing, the former performed by the male and the latter by the feminine portion of the gathered social elements, ‘The great Terpsichorean event, which marked this most harmonious Turf reunion, was inaugurated with éclat,’ as the editor of the Yass Standard (in happy ignorance of the illegal arrangement which divers magnates, chiefly being Justices of the Peace, were at that very hour transacting) described it in the following Monday’s issue.
All the bachelors, and not a few of the married men, had quarters at the Budgeree Hotel, so that they had no unnecessary fatigue to undergo, but were enabled to present themselves in the grand ballroom of that imposing building nearly as soon as it was ascertained that the Rockley contingent, which apparently combined everybody’s favourite partner, had arrived.
The brass band included a wandering minstrel from the metropolis, whose aid, both instrumentally and in the selection of dance music, proved truly valuable. The invitations, owing to the liberal views of Mr. Rockley, had been comprehensive, taking in all the townspeople who could by any chance have felt aggrieved at being left out.
The ball was opened by a quadrille, in which Mrs. Rockley and Hampden took part, while Rockley, with deferential demeanour, led out Mrs. Effingham, who consented on that occasion only to revive the recollections of her youth. Mrs. Snowden and Argyll, Hamilton and Rosamond Effingham, with other not less distinguished personages, ‘assisted’ at this opening celebration.
After this ceremonious commencement the first waltz took place, in which Wilfred found himself anticipated as to a dance with Christabel Rockley, who, with an utterly bewildering look, regretted that she was engaged to Bob Clarke. That heroic personage swiftly whirled away with the goddess in his arms, leaving Wilfred more annoyed than he liked to confess, and divided in his resolutions whether to stay at home and work austerely, avoiding the lighter amusements, or to buy the best horse in the Benmohr stud, train him at The Chase, and ride against Bob Clarke for his life at the next meeting. He had called up sufficient presence of mind to place his name again on Miss Christabel’s very popular card, rather low down, it is true, but still available for a favourite waltz, in which Fred Churbett had promised to assist with his cornet, and Hamilton with his Sax-horn, a new instrument, believed to be the combination of all sweet and sonorous sounds possible to the trumpet tribe.
But all inappropriate thoughts were driven out by the next partner, a striking-looking girl, to whom he was introduced by Mr. Rockley, very properly doing duty as chief steward.
This young lady’s name was stated to be Vera Fane, with great clearness of intonation. He further volunteered the information that she was the daughter of his old friend, Dr. Fane, and (in what was meant to be a whisper) ‘as nice a girl as ever you met in your life.’
The young lady smiled and blushed, but without discomposure, at this evidence of the high value at which she was rated.
‘Rather too good to be true, don’t you think?’ she said, with a frank yet modest air. ‘I ought to declare myself much honoured, and all the rest of it. But you know Mr. Rockley’s warm-hearted way of talking, and I really think he believes every word of it. He has known me from a child. But I apologise, and we’ll say no more about it, please. Very good racing there seems to have been. I was so sorry, in despair I may say, to miss the steeplechase.’
‘Then you only came in to-day?’ asked Wilfred. ‘How was that? I didn’t think any lady in the district could have forgone the excitement. It seems to rank with the miracle plays of the Middle Ages.’
‘Or rather the masques and tournaments of those of chivalry. But I was away from home, and had to ride a long way for the ball and the Ladies’ Bag to-morrow.’
‘I am afraid you must be tired. How far have you come to-day?’
‘Really,’ said the young lady, with some hesitation, ‘I must plead guilty to having ridden fifty miles to-day. I am afraid it shows over-eagerness for pleasure, and dear old Mr. Sternworth might scold me, if he was not so indulgent to what he calls “the necessities of youth.” But our home is a lonely spot, and I have so very little change.’
‘Fifty miles!’ said Wilfred, in astonishment. ‘And do you really mean to say that you have ridden that immense distance, and are going to dance afterwards? It will kill you.’
‘You must be thinking of young ladies in England, Mr. Effingham,’ said the girl, with an amused look; ‘not but what some of them rode fair distances for the same reasons a hundred years ago, papa says. I daresay I shall feel tired on Sunday; but, as I’ve ridden ever since I could walk, it is nothing so very wonderful. You mustn’t think me quite an Amazon.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Wilfred, looking at the girl’s graceful figure, and recognising that air of refinement which tells of gentle blood, ‘I am lost in astonishment only. You look as if you had made a start from “The Big House” with the rest of Mrs. Rockley’s flock. But we must join this waltz, if you don’t mind, or your journey will have been in vain.’
Miss Fane smiled assent, and as they threaded the lively maze, practically demonstrated that she had by no means so overtired herself as to interfere with her dancing. Wilfred immediately established her among the half-dozen perfections he had discovered in that line. There was, moreover, a frank, unconcealed enjoyment of the whole affair, which pleased her partner. Her fresh, unpremeditated remarks, showing original thought, interested him; so much so, that when he led her to a seat beside her chaperon, having previously secured a second dance at a later period of the evening – and the very last– even Sir Roger de Coverley – the bitterness of soul with which he had seen Christabel Rockley borne off by the all-conquering Bob Clarke, was considerably abated. He would have been incensed if any one had quoted ‘surgit amari aliquid,’ nevertheless; if one may so render the cheerful bard, ‘some charming person generally turns up, with power to interest.’ It would not have been so far inapplicable to his, or indeed to the (comparatively) broken hearts of most of us.
By the time the dance of dances had arrived, when he was privileged to clasp the slight waist and gaze into the haunting eyes of the divine Christabel, he was conscious of a more philosophical state of mind than in the beginning of the evening. Nevertheless, the mystic glamour of beauty came over him, fresh and resistless, as the condescending charmer let her witching orbs fall kindly on his countenance, smiled merrily till her pearly teeth just parted the rosy lips, and blushed enchantingly when he accused her of permitting Bob Clarke to monopolise her. She defended herself, however, in such a pleading, melodious voice; said it was cruel in people to make remarks, altogether looking so like a lovely child, half penitent, half pouting, that he felt much minded to take her in his arms and assure her of his forgiveness, promising unbounded confidence in her prudence, and obedience to her commands for the time to come.
‘There will be some more excitement, do you know, for the Ladies’ Bag to-morrow,’ said the enchantress. ‘Mr. Churbett’s Grey Surrey may not win it, after all. Bob told me that a horse of Mr. Greyford’s, that nobody knows about, has a chance. He’s suspected of having been in good company before. Won’t it be fun if he wins, though I shall be sorry for Mr. Churbett. Only Mr. Greyford can’t get a gentleman rider the proper weight. What is yours?’
‘Really,’ said Wilfred, ‘I’m not sure to a few pounds. But why do you ask?’
‘Don’t you see? If you’re not under eleven stone, you can ride him. We can’t let any one in without an invitation received before the race. You had one, I know.’
‘Oh yes, I believe so; but I never thought of riding.’
‘Well, but you can ride, of course. Now, if you’re the proper weight, you might ride Mendicant for Mr. Greyford; it would do him a service, and make the race better fun. Besides, all the girls would like to see you ride, I know.’
‘Would you take any interest in my winning, Miss Rockley? Say the word, and I will do that or anything else in the wide world.’
‘Oh, I daresay; just as if you cared what I thought. Now there’s Vera Fane, that papa introduced you to, she would be charmed to see you win it. Oh, I know – ’
‘But yourself? Only say the word.’
‘Then do ride – there, don’t look at me like that, or you’ll have mamma thinking I’m ill and knocked up with excitement; and if she begins to say I look pale, papa’s capable of carrying me off before the ball’s over.’
Wilfred, thus adjured, veiled the ardent fire of his glances, and then and there pledged himself to ride Mr. Greyford’s Mendicant for the Ladies’ Bag, and to win, if Miss Rockley would only back him, which she promised to do.
It was surprising how much more interest Wilfred took in the coming contest, now that he was about to guide one of the chariot racers, to disperse pulverem Olympicum in his own person. He danced perseveringly with all the partners suggested to him, covering himself with glory in the eyes of Mr. Rockley. He had another and yet another dance with Miss Fane, being much gratified at the interest she expressed concerning the coming race. He made the acquaintance, too, of Mr. Greyford.
‘Re Mendicant, he’s a lazy beggar,’ said that gentleman frankly, ‘but well-bred, and can come at the finish if he likes. I had given up the idea of starting him for want of a jock, but I shall be happy if you will ride him for me. We’ll go halves in this wonderful bag if Mendicant pulls it off.’
And so the great race ball was relegated to the limbo of dead joys and pleasures, to that shadow-land where the goblets we have quaffed, the chaplets which wreathed our brows, the laughter that kindled our hearts, the hands that pressed, the hearts – ah me! – that throbbed, have mostly departed. There do they lie, fair, imperishable, awaiting but the blast of the enchanted horn to arise, to sparkle and glow, to thrill once more. Or has the cold earth closed remorselessly, eternally, over our joys and those who shared them, never again to know awakening till Time shall be no more?
Much must be conceded to the influence of the Australian climate or to the embalming influences of active pleasure-seeking, which seems to possess an Egyptian potency for keeping its votaries in statu quo while engaged in the worship of the goddess. Whatever may have been the secret of unfailing youth, most of the race meeting constituents seemed to possess it, as they turned out after breakfast on Friday morning, apparently ready to commence another week’s racing by day, and dancing by night, if the gods permitted.
About a dozen horses were qualified to start for the Ladies’ Bag. Hamilton had one, Forbes had one, Bob Clarke (of course) another, so that the two stables would again be well represented. O’Desmond, who did not ride himself, had a likely young horse in, and there were several others with some sort of provincial reputation. There was the great Grey Surrey, and lastly that ‘dark,’ unassuming, dangerous Mendicant of Greyford’s with Mr. Wilfred Effingham up.
That gentleman had never ridden a race before, but was a fair cross-country rider before he saw Australia, and since then the riding of different sorts of horses had, of course, tended to improve both seat and hands. He was aware of the principles of race-riding, and though Bob Clarke, Hamilton, Forbes, and Churbett had semi-professional skill, he yet trusted, with the befitting courage of youth, to hold his own in that tilt-yard.
He had borrowed a set of colours, and looking at himself in the glass arrayed as in the traditional races of England, was not dissatisfied with his appearance. He found himself wondering whether he should be regarded with indulgence by the critical eyes of Miss Christabel, or indeed the penetrating orbs of Miss Fane. Was there a chance of his winning? Would it not be a triumph if, in spite of the consummate horsemanship of Hamilton and Bob Clarke, the reputation of Grey Surrey, he should win the prize? The thought was intoxicating. He dared not indulge it. He partially enveloped himself in an overcoat, which concealed the glories of his black and scarlet racing-jacket, the only silken garment which the modern cavalier is permitted to wear (how differently they ruffled it in the days of the second Charles!), and hied him to the course.
Here he was met by congratulations on all sides.
‘Glad to see you’ve taken to the amateur jock line, Effingham,’ said Churbett. ‘There’s a world of fun in it, though it involves early rising. It’s awfully against the grain with me, but I assure you I look forward to it every year now. It compels me to take exercise.’
‘That view of racing never struck me before,’ said Wilfred. ‘But when we’re at Yass, you know, one must follow the fashion.’
‘Especially when certain people look interested. Aha! Effingham, you’re an awfully prudent card; but we’re all alike, I expect.’
‘Pooh, pooh! why shouldn’t I take a turn at the pigskin as well as you and the others?’ said Wilfred, evading the impeachment; ‘and this sort of thing is awfully catching, you know.’
‘Very catching, indeed,’ assented Mr. Churbett. ‘Is that Miss Fane on the brown horse next to Mrs. Snowden? Ladylike-looking girl, isn’t she? Suppose we go and get a bet out of her?’
Following up this novel idea they rode over to the little group, where Mr. Churbett was assailed with all sorts of compliments and inquiries about the state and prospects of Grey Surrey.
‘I think the articles should have been selected with reference to your complexion, Mr. Churbett,’ said Mrs. Snowden; ‘you seem so certain of carrying it off. I know blue is your favourite colour, and I made my smoking-cap and slippers of the last fashionable shade on purpose.’
‘Always considerate, Mrs. Snowden,’ said the object of this compliment, as a smile became general at this allusion to Fred’s auburn-tinted hair. ‘You must have been thinking of Snowden, who resembles me in that way, and the very early days when you used to work slippers for him.’
‘Really I forget whether I ever did much in that line for Snowden. It must have been centuries ago.’
‘Oh, but I don’t agree with that at all,’ said the fair Christabel. ‘Suppose some one with dark hair wins it, then he would have to go about with all sorts of unbecoming trash. Let every one be guided by their own taste.’
‘I daresay a few trifles that will look well on Bob Clarke will be found in the bag,’ said Hamilton. ‘I heard something about a gorgeous crimson and gold smoking-cap. I wonder if anybody has been studying my complexion? If Effingham wins, you will all be thrown out.’
‘Then you are going to ride, Mr. Effingham?’ said the fair Christabel, with a smile so irresistible that it fully repaid him for his troubles and misgivings. ‘I am sure I hope you will win, though I’m afraid, between Grey Surrey, No Mamma, and Bolivar, you haven’t a good chance.’
‘I wouldn’t be too certain about that,’ said Miss Fane, who had recognised Wilfred with a pleasant, cordial greeting, and whom he thought looking uncommonly well in her habit, and indisputably well mounted. ‘Don’t be alarmed by these great reputations. A little bird told me about Mendicant, and I’ll take the odds (in gloves), which are eight to one, I believe, that he’s first or second.’
This daring proposal brought rejoinders and wagers upon the head of the fair turfite, who quietly accepting a few of the latter, declared that her book was full, but was not to be dislodged from her position.
Wilfred felt much encouraged, and proportionately grateful to the fair friend who had stood by him and his unknown steed. So he registered a vow to remember her in the future – to like and respect and approve of her – in short, to pay her all those guarded tributes which men in early life keep for the benefit of women they admire, trust, and look up to, but alas! do not love.
Among his few well-wishers must be classed Wilfred’s sisters and mother, who, honestly pleased to see him ‘respeckit like the lave,’ as Andrew would have said, secretly thought that he looked handsomer and better turned out when mounted than almost anybody else in the race – in fact, nearly as well as Bob Clarke. But even these partial critics could not assert to themselves, when they saw Master Bob come sailing past the stand upon Bolivar, a dark bay thoroughbred, looking like a brown satin angel (Bolivar, not Bob), as one enthusiastic damsel observed, that he equalled in appearance and get-up that inimitable workman. Still, he looked very nice, they lovingly thought, and of Wilfred’s clear complexion, brown hair, well-knit frame, and animated countenance other fair spectators held a like opinion.
Grey Surrey came next, ‘terrible’ for a mile, and owing to his Arab ancestry, a better stayer than might have been thought from his violent manners. His rider’s admirably fitting nether garments, the wrinkles of his boots, the shading of his tops, were accurate to a degree. His bright blue colours had many a time been in the van. Kindly and affable in the widest sense, with a vein of irresistible comic humour, he was the most popular squatter in his district – a man of whom none thought evil – to whom none would dream of doing harm more than to the unweaned child. To a rare though not too sedulously cultivated intellect Fred Churbett joined the joyous disposition of a moderate viveur, the soul of a poet, and the heart of a woman. But the gold held not the due proportion of alloy – too often, alas! the case with the finer natures.
The comprehensive cheer which the whole assemblage instinctively gave showed their appreciation. From the crowd (not so many as on the previous day, but still were the people not wholly unrepresented) rose cries of ‘Well done, Mr. Churbett! Hope you’ll win again. Grey Surrey and The She-oaks for ever!’
And as the silky flowing mane glistened in the sun, while the proud favourite arched his neck and with wide nostril and flashing eye trod the turf with impatient footstep, as might his Arab ancestors have spurned the sands of Balk or Tadmor, every friend he had on the course, which comprehended all the ladies, all the gentlemen, all the respectable and most of the disrespectable persons, thought that if Fred Churbett and Grey Surrey did not win yet another victory, there must be something reprehensible about turf matters generally.
Probably, in order that the ladies might have a liberal allowance of sport in recompense for their contributions, and partly in compliance with the undeveloped turf science of the day, the fashion of ‘heats’ had always been the rule of this race. Thus, when Grey Surrey came in leading by a length, with Bolivar and No Mamma racing desperately for second place, every one of experience stated that the third, or even the fourth, would be the deciding heat if Bolivar or No Mamma was good enough to ‘pull it off’ from the brilliant Surrey. Wilfred had adopted the advice he had received from Mr. Greyford, and while keeping a fair place, had taken care to save his sluggish steed. He nevertheless managed to come through the ruck without apparent effort during the last part of the running, and finished an unpretending fifth.
On delivering over his horse to Mr. Greyford’s trainer, he was gratified to find that he had won that official’s unqualified approval by his style of riding. ‘There isn’t a mark on him, sir,’ he said; ‘and that’s the way to take him for the first couple of heats. Mendicant’s a lazy ’oss, and an uncommon queer customer to wind up. But if Surrey don’t win the next heat – and I think Mr. Forbes’s No Mamma will give him all he can do to get his nose in front – it’s this old duffer’s race, as safe as if the rest was boiled.’
‘But how about Bolivar?’
‘Well, sir, Bolivar and No Mamma are a-cuttin’ their own throats the way they’re a-bustin’ theirselves for second place, and if you go at whatever wins the third heat from the jump, and take it easy the next ’un, you’ll have this ’ere bag to a moral.’
Returning from this diplomatic colloquy to the vortex of society, Wilfred found himself to be already an object of interest in sporting circles. Much advice was tendered to him, and counsels offered as to his future plan of action, but as these were mostly contradictory, he thought himself justified in holding his tongue and abiding by the professional opinion of the stable.
Before the final heat he found Fireball Bill walking the veteran up and down, with a serious and thoughtful countenance. ‘Look ’ere, sir, don’t you make too sure of this ’ere ’eat afore you’ve won it. The old ’oss seems right enough; he’s bound to win if he stands up, but I don’t like the way he puts down that near foreleg. It’s allers been a big anxiety to me. He might go away as sound as a roach and crack up half-way round. But you make the pace from the jump, and keep ’em goin’, or else one on ’em ’ll do yer at the bloomin’ post.’
‘What chance is there of that?’
‘Every chance, sir. You mind me. I’m a man as has follered racing since I was the height of a corn-bin, and I knows the ways on ’em. Mr. Clarke ain’t easy beat, nor Mr. Hamilton neither. They’ll go off steady, yer see, as if there was no use tryin’ to pass yer, along o’ their havin’ busted their ’orses in them ’eats as went afore.’
‘And a very natural idea. It seems a pity to knock them about, after all they’ve done.’
‘We’ve got to win this race, sir, and a race ain’t won till the numbers is up. Now, Mr. Bob Clarke’s dart is jest this. If he sees you don’t keep the old ’orse on his top, he and Mr. Hamilton will wait on yer, savin’ their own ’orses till they come to the straight. Then they’ll go at you with a rush, and there’s no hamatoor in Australia can take as much out of a horse in the last ten strides as Bob Clarke. You’re caught afore the old ’orse can get on to his legs, and the race is snatched out of the fire by nothin’ but ridin’ and head-work, and we’re – smothered!’
‘Beaten and laughed at! I understand clearly, Bill. I shall always think you have had more to do with the winning of the race than I have.’
‘That’s all right, sir, but keep it dark. All this is confidential-like between the trainer and the gen’leman as rides. There goes the bell again. I can hear Mr. Rockley cussin’ all the way from where he stands. Here’s your ’orse, sir; you’ve got to win, or kill him!’
Delivering over the unsuspecting Mendicant with this sound professional but scarcely humane injunction, Fireball Bill gazed after his charge, and scrutinised the leg he suspected him of ‘favouring.’ ‘He’s right!’ he finally exclaimed, after anxious deliberation; ‘but if I hadn’t primed the cove, ’e’d a’ lost that race, sure’s my name’s William Scraper.’
Wilfred rode on his way in dignified fashion, as befitting the position of probable winner, but in his heart a feeling of thankfulness to the old trainer by whose advice he had escaped a catastrophe. What a mortification it would have been; how the vane of public opinion would have veered round! He trembled to think of it; and as he drew up after the others, he hardened his heart, resolved that no artifice of the turf should mar his triumph that day.
His rivals went off with an assumption of indifference, as if merely going round for form’s sake; but he took the old horse by the head and sent him away as if he was riding against Time from end to end. His two chief antagonists – for O’Desmond had very properly withdrawn his colt – waited at a reasonable rate of speed until it became apparent that Mendicant’s rider had no intention of altering his pace. Then they set to, and by the way they came up, showed how accurate was Fireball Bill’s calculation.
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.
