Part 6 (1/2)
”I agree with Kettering,” replies the Major; for our friend ”Charlie”
it is, who is now surveying the country on foot, in a huge white great-coat, with a silver-mounted whip under his arm, and _no gloves_.
He is quite the ”gentleman-rider,” and has fully made up his mind to win the steeple-chase. For this has poor Haphazard been deprived of his usual sport in the field, and trained with such severity as Mr.
Snaffles has thought advisable; for this has his young master been shortening his stirrups and riding daily gallops, and running miles up-hill to keep him in wind, till there is little left of his original self save his moustaches, which have grown visibly during the winter; and for this have the ladies of the family been st.i.tching for days at the smartest silk jacket that ever was made (orange and blue, with gold tags), only pausing in their labours to visit Haphazard in the stable, and bring him such numerous offerings in the shape of bread, apples, and lump-sugar, that had Mr. Snaffles not laid an embargo on all ”t.i.t-bits,” the horse would ere this have been scarcely fit to run for a saddle!
Mrs. Delaval having been as severely bitten with the sporting mania as Blanche, they are even now sitting in the grand-stand perusing the list of the starters as if their lives depended on it--and each lady wears a blue and orange ribbon in her bonnet, the General, who escorts them, appearing in an alarming neckcloth of the same hues.
The stand is already nearly full, and Blanche, herself not the least attraction to many of the throng, has manuvred into a capital place with Mary by her side, and is in a state of nervous delight, partly at the gaiety of the scene, partly at the coming contest in which ”Cousin Charlie” is to engage, and partly at the antic.i.p.ation of the Guyville ball, her first appearance in public, to take place this very night. Row upon row the benches have been gradually filling, till the a.s.semblage looks like a variegated parterre of flowers to those in the arena below. In that enclosed s.p.a.ce are gathered, besides the pride of the British army, swells and dandies of every different description and calibre. Do-nothing gentlemen from London, glad to get a little fresh air and excitement so cheap. Nimrods from ”the s.h.i.+res”
come to criticise the performances, and suggest, by implication, how much better they could ride themselves. Horse-dealers, and professional ”legs,” of course, whose business it is to make the most of everything, and whose courteous demeanour is only equalled by the unblus.h.i.+ng effrontery with which they offer ”five points” less than the odds; nor, though last not least, must we omit to mention the _elite_ of Bubbleton, who have one and all cast up from ”the Spout,”
as that salubrious town is sometimes denominated, as they always do cast up within reach of their favourite resort. Some of all sorts there are amongst _them_. Gentlemen of family, without inc.u.mbrances--gentlemen with inc.u.mbrances and no family; some with money and no brains--some with brains and no money; some that live on the fat of the land--others that live upon their wits, and pick up a subsistence therewith, bare as might be expected from the dearth of capital on which they trade. In the midst of them we recognise Frank Hardingstone, sufficiently conspicuous in his simple manly attire, amongst the chained and velveted and bedizened tigers by whom he is surrounded. He is talking to a remarkably good-looking and particularly well-dressed man, known to nearly every one on the course as Mr. Jason, the famous steeple-chase rider, who has come partly to sell Mr. Hardingstone a horse, partly to patronise the ”soldiers'
performances,” and partly to enjoy the gay scene which he is even now criticising. He is good enough to express his approval of the ladies in the stand, taking them _en ma.s.se_, though his fastidious taste cannot but admit that there are ”some weedy-looking ones among 'em.”
All this, however, is lost upon Frank Hardingstone, who has ears only for a conversation going on at his elbow, in which he hears Blanche's name mentioned, our friend Lacquers being the princ.i.p.al speaker.
”Three hundred thousand--I give you my honour, every penny of it!”
says that calculating worthy to a speculative dandy with enormous red whiskers, ”and a _nice_ girl too--devilish well read, you know, and all that.”
”I suppose old Bounce keeps a bright look-out though, don't he?”
rejoins his friend, who has all the appearance of a man that can make up his mind in a minute.
”Yeees,” drawls Lacquers; ”but it might be done by a fellow with some energy, you know; she _is_ engaged to young Kettering, her cousin--'family pot,' you know--and she's very spooney on him; still, I've half a mind to try.”
”Why, the cousin will probably break his neck in the course of the day; you can introduce me to-night at the ball. By the way, what are they betting about this young Kettering? Can he ride any?”
”Not a yard,” replies Lacquers, as he turns away to light a cigar, whilst Lord Mount Helicon--for the red-bearded dandy is no less a person than that literary peer--dives into the ring to turn an honest ”_pony_,” as he calls it, on its fluctuations.
”Look here, Mr. Hardingstone,” exclaims the observant Jason, forcibly attracting Frank's notice to a feat which, as he keeps his eyes fixed on the stand, is going on behind him. ”That's the way to put 'em at it, Major! well ridden, by the Lord Harry!” and Frank turns round in time to witness, with the shouting mult.i.tude and the half-frightened ladies, the gallant manner in which D'Orville's white horse clears the double post and rails to which Sir Ascot had objected.
The Major, it is needless to say, is a dauntless horseman, and, on being remonstrated with by Sir A. and his party on the impracticable nature of the leap which he had selected for them, and the young Mohair of the Heavies suggesting that the stewards should always be compelled to ride over the ground themselves, made no more ado, but turned the white horse at the unwelcome barrier, and by dint of a fine hand and a perfectly-broken animal, went ”in and out” without touching, to the uproarious delight of the mob, and the less loudly expressed admiration of the ladies.
”That's what I call _in-and-out-clever_,” observes Mr. Jason, as the shouting subsides, thinking he could not have done it better himself; and he too elbows his way into the ma.s.s of noise, hustling, and confusion that const.i.tutes the betting-ring.
”We ought to throw our 'bouquets' at the white horse!” says Mrs.
Delaval's next neighbour, a bold-looking lady of a certain age; and Mary recognises, with mingled feelings, her military adorer and his well-known grey charger, now showing the lapse of time only by his change of colour to pure white. ”I'm afraid its all very dangerous,”
thinks Blanche, to whom it occurs for the first time that ”Cousin Charlie” may possibly break his neck; but the General at this instant touches her elbow to introduce ”Major D'Orville,” who, having performed his official duties, has dismounted, and works his way into the stand to make the agreeable to the ladies, and ”have a look at this Miss Kettering--the very thing, by Jove, if she is tolerably lady-like.”
How different is the Major's manner to that of Lacquers, Uppercrust, and half the other unmeaning dandies whom Blanche is accustomed to see fluttering round her. He _has_ the least thing of a military swagger, which most women certainly like, more particularly when in their own case that lordly demeanour is laid aside for a soft deferential air, highly captivating to the weaker s.e.x; and n.o.body understands this better than D'Orville. The little he says to Blanche is quiet, amusing, and to the purpose. The heiress is agreeably surprised. The implied homage of such a man is, to say the least of it, flattering; and our cavalier has the good sense to take his leave as soon as he sees he has made a favourable impression, quite satisfied with the way in which he has ”opened the trenches.” At the moment he did so, on turning round he encountered Mary Delaval. She looked unmoved as usual, and put out her hand to him, as if they had been in the habit of meeting every day. With a few incoherent words he bent over those long well-shaped fingers; and an observant bystander might have had the good luck to witness a somewhat unusual sight--a Major of Hussars blus.h.i.+ng to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of the world, the experienced _roue_, the das.h.i.+ng _militaire_, had a heart, if you could only get at it, like the veriest clown then 'squiring his red-faced Dolly to ”the races”--the natural for the moment overcame the artificial--and as Gaston edged his way down through nodding comrades and smiling ladies, the feeling uppermost in his heart was, ”Heavens! how I love this woman still! and what a fool I am!” But sentiment must not be indulged to the exclusion of business, and the Major too forces his way into the betting-ring.
There they are, hard at it--_n.o.bblers_ and n.o.blemen--grooms and gentlemen--betting-house keepers and cavalry officers--all talking at once, all intent on having the best of it, and apparently all layers and no takers. ”Eight to one agin Lady Lavender,” says a stout capitalist, who looks like a grazier in his best clothes. ”Take ten,”
lisps the owner, a young gentleman, apparently about sixteen. ”I'll back Sober John.” ”I'll take nine to two about the Fox.” ”I'll lay against the field _bar three_.” ”I'll lay five ponies to two _agin_ Haphazard!” vociferates the capitalist. ”Done!” cries Charlie, who is investing on his horse as if he owned the Bank of England. At this moment Frank Hardingstone pierces into the ring, and drawing Charlie towards the outskirts, begins to lecture him on the coming struggle, and to give him useful hints on the art of riding a steeple-chase; for Frank with his usual decision has resolved not to go into the stand to talk to Blanche till he has done all in his power to insure the success of her cousin. ”Come and see the horse saddled, you conceited young jackanapes; don't fool away any more money; how do you know you'll win?” says Frank, taking the excited jockey by the arm and leading him away to where Haphazard, pawing and snorting, and very uneasy, is being stripped of his clothing, the centre of an admiring throng. ”I know he can beat Lady Lavender,” replies Charlie, whose conversation for the last week had been strictly ”Newmarket”; ”and he's five pounds better than the Fox; and Mohair is sure to make a mess of it with Bendigo--he owns he can't ride him; and there's nothing else has a chance except Sober John, a great half-bred brute!”
”Do you see that quiet-looking man talking to Jason there?” says Frank; ”that's the man who is to ride Sober John--about the best _gentleman_ in England, and he's getting a hint from the best _professional_. Do you think _you_ can ride like Captain Rocket? Now, take my advice, Charlie, Haphazard is a nice-tempered horse, you _wait_ on Sober John--keep close behind him--ride over him if he falls--but whatever you see Captain Rocket do, _you do the same_--don't _come_ till you're safe over the last fence--and if you're not first, you'll be second!” Charlie promised faithfully to obey his friend's directions, though in his own mind he did not think it possible an _Infantry_ horse could win the great event--Sober John, if he belonged to any one in particular, being the property of Lieutenant Sharpes of the Old Hundredth, who stood to win a very comfortable sum upon the veteran steeple-chaser.
”They look nervous, Tim, most on 'em,” observes Captain Rocket, while with his own hands he adjusts ”the tackle,” as he calls it, on his horse; and his friend ”Tim” giving him a ”leg up,” he canters Sober John past the stand, none of the ladies thinking that docile animal has the remotest chance of winning. ”He seems much too quiet,” says Blanche, ”and he's dreadfully ugly.” ”Beauty is not absolutely essential in _horses_, Miss Kettering,” replies a deep, quiet voice at her elbow. Major D'Orville has resumed his place by her side. Though he thinks he is paying attention to Blanche, he cannot, in reality, forbear hovering about Mrs. Delaval. That lady, meanwhile, with clasped hands, is hoping with all her heart that Captain Rocket may _not win_. If ”wishes were horses,” we think this young gentleman now tearing down the course upon Haphazard, throwing the dirt round him like a patent turnip-cutter, would have a good many of hers to bear him on his victorious career. By the way, Mary has never found her glove; we wonder whether that foolish boy knows anything about it. And talking of gloves, look at that dazzling pair of white kids on a level with his chin, in which ”Mohair, of the Heavies,” is endeavouring to control Bendigo. He has had two large gla.s.ses of sherry, yet does he still look very pale--another, and yet another, comes striding past like a whirlwind--Sir Ascot rides Lady Lavender, and Cornet Capon is to pilot the Fox. It is very difficult to know which is which amongst the variegated throng, and the ladies puzzle sadly over their cards, in which, as is usually the case at steeple-chases, the colours are all set down wrong. Each damsel, however, has one favourite at least whom she could recognise in any disguise, and we may be sure that ”blue-and-orange” is not without his well-wishers in the grand-stand.
Major D'Orville is an admirable cicerone, inasmuch as besides being steward, he has a heavy book on the race, and knows the capabilities of each horse to a pound, whatever may be his uncertainty as regards the riders. ”Your cousin has a very fair chance, Miss Kettering--he seems to ride uncommonly well for _such a boy_; Sir Ascot wants nerve, and Mohair can't manage his horse.” ”See, they've got 'em in line,” exclaims the General, who is in a state of frantic excitement altogether. ”Silence, pray! he's going to--ah, the blundering blockhead, it's a false start!” Major D'Orville takes out his double-gla.s.ses, and proceeds quietly without noticing the interruption, ”Then the Fox has been lame, and Capon is a sad performer; nevertheless, you shall have your choice, Miss Kettering, and I'll bet you a pair of gloves on the----By Jove, they're off,” and the Major puts his gla.s.ses up in scarcely veiled anxiety, whilst Mary Delaval's heart beats thick and fast, as she strains her eyes towards the fleeting tulip-coloured throng, drawing gradually out from the dark ma.s.s of spectators that have gone to witness the start.
How easy it looks to go cantering along over a nice gra.s.s country, properly flagged out so as to insure the performers from making any mistakes; and how trifling the obstacles appear over which they are following each other like a string of wild geese, more particularly when you, the spectator, are quietly ensconced in a comfortable seat, sheltered from the wind, and viewing the sports at a respectful distance. Perhaps you might not think it quite such child's play were you a.s.sisting in the pageant on the back of a headstrong, powerful horse, rendered irritable and violent by severe training (of which discipline this unfortunate cla.s.s of animal gets more than enough), rasping your knuckles against his withers, and pulling your arms out of their sockets, because he, the machine, is all anxiety to get to the end, whilst you the controlling, or who ought to be the controlling power, have received strict injunctions ”to wait.” If your whole energies were not directed to the one object of ”doing your duty” and winning your race, you might possibly have leisure to reflect on your somewhat hazardous position. ”Neck-or-nothing” has just disappeared, doubling up himself and Mr. Fearless in a complicated kind of fall, at the very place over which you must necessarily follow; and should your horse, who is shaking his head furiously, as you vainly endeavour to steady him, make the slightest mistake, you shudder to think of ”Frantic” running away with her rider close behind you. Nevertheless, it is impossible to decline ”eternal misery on this side and certain death on the other,” but _go you must_, and when safe into the next field there is nothing of any importance till you come to the brook. To be sure, the animal you are riding never would _face water_, still, your spurs are sharp, and you have a vague sort of trust that you may get over _somehow_. You really deserve to win, yet will we, albeit unused to computation of the odds, willingly bet you five to four that you are neither first nor second.