Again was Charlie struck, as he swaggered off to open the door for the ladies, by the graceful movements of Mary’s majestic figure. Again the half-bow with which, as she passed out, she acknowledged his courtesy, made a pleasing impression on the boy’s fancy; and as he lingered for a moment, ere he shut out the rustle of their dresses and the pleasant tones of the women’s voices, and returned to the arm-chair and the claret decanter, he could not help hoping “Uncle Baldwin” would be a little less profuse than usual in his hospitality, and a little less prolix in his narrative.
“The young ones drink no wine at all now-a-days,” remarked the General, as Charlie a second time passed the bottle untouched, and his host filled his glass to the brim. “Fault on the right side, my lad; we used to drink too hard formerly—why, bless you, when I encountered Tortoise, of the Queen’s, at the mess of the Kedjeree Irregulars, we sat for seven hours and a half to see one another out, and the two black fellows fainted who were ‘told off’ to bring in claret and pale ale as they were wanted. Tortoise recovered himself wonderfully about the eighth bottle; and if he hadn’t been obliged to be careful on account of a wound in his head, we should have been there now. Drunk! how d’ye mean? Not the least—fact, I assure you.”
Charlie got up and fidgeted about, with his back to the fire, but the General would not let him off so easily.
“Show you the farm to-morrow, my boy, you’ll be delighted with my pigs—Neapolitans every hair of ’em. What? no man alive shall presume to tell me they’re not the best breed! And I’ll tell you what, Charlie, I’ve secured the handsomest short-horned bull in this country. Two hundred, you dog!—dirt cheap—and if you’re fond of stock you’ll be charmed with him. Poultry too—real Cochin Chinese—got three prizes at the last show; average height two feet seven inches—rare beauties. Hens and chickens in knee-breeches, and a cock in trunk-hose!” With which conclusion the chuckling old warrior permitted Charlie to wheedle him off into the drawing-room, whither they entered to find the ladies, as usual, absorbed in worsted work and sunk in solemn silence.
Pleasantly the evenings always passed at Newton-Hollows even with a small party like the present. Music, cards, cockamaroo, and the eternal racing game, of course, which gives gentle woman an insight into the two fiercest pleasures of the other sex—horse-racing and gambling—and introduces into the drawing-room the slang and confusion of the betting-ring and the hazard-table, served to while away the time. And though the General was even more diffuse than was his wont in personal recollections and autobiography, Blanche scarcely listened, so absorbed was she in her delight at having got Cousin Charlie back again, whilst that young gentleman and Mary Delaval were progressing rapidly in each other’s good opinion, and exclaiming, in their respective minds, “What an agreeable person! and so different from what I expected!”
Blanche’s birthday was always kept as a period of great rejoicing at Newton-Hollows, and a very short time after Charlie’s arrival that auspicious anniversary was ushered in, as usual, by the General’s appearance at the breakfast-table bearing a cotton-stuffed white and green card-box, highly suggestive of Storr and Mortimer. This was quietly placed by the side of Blanche’s plate, and when the young lady made her appearance, and exclaimed, “Dear, kind Uncle Baldwin, what a love of a bracelet!” though we might have envied, we could not have grudged the General the grateful kiss bestowed on him by his affectionate niece. Uncle Baldwin’s mind, however, was intent upon weightier matters than jewels and “happy returns.” He was to celebrate the festival with a dinner-party; and whilst he had invited several of the élite of Bubbleton to celebrate his niece’s birthday, he was anxious so to dispose and welcome his guests as that none should have reason to consider himself especially favoured or encouraged in the advances which all were too eager to make towards the good graces of the heiress; therefore the General held a solemn conclave, as was his wont, consisting of himself and Mrs. Delaval, who on such occasions was requested, with great pomp, to accompany him to his study, an apartment adorned with every description of weapon used in civilised or savage warfare, and to take her seat in his own huge arm-chair, while he walked up and down the room, and held forth in his usual abrupt and discursive manner.
“I have such confidence in your sound sense, Mrs. Delaval,” said he, looking very insinuating, and pausing for an instant in his short, quick strides, “that I always consult you in my difficulties.” This was said piano, but the forte addition immediately succeeded. “Reserving to myself the option of acting, for dictation I cannot submit to, even from you, my dear Mrs. Delaval. You are aware, I believe, of my intentions regarding Blanche. Are you aware of my intentions?” he interrupted himself to demand in a voice of thunder.
Mary, who was used to his manner, answered calmly, “that she was not;” and the General proceeded, in a gentle and confidential tone—
“The fact is, my dear madam, I have set my heart on a family arrangement, which I mention to you as a personal friend, and a lady for whom I entertain the greatest regard.”
Mary bowed again, and could hardly suppress a smile at the manner in which the old gentleman assured her of his consideration.
“Well, though an unmarried man as yet, I am keenly alive to the advantages of the married state. I never told you, I think, Mrs. Delaval, of an adventure that befell me at Cheltenham—never mind now—but, believe me, I am no stranger to those tender feelings, Mrs. Delaval, to which we men of the sword—ah, ah—are infernally addicted. What? Well, ma’am, there’s my niece now, they all want to marry her. Every scoundrel within fifty miles wants to lead Blanche to the altar. Zounds, I’ll weather ’em, the villains—excuse me, Mrs. Delaval, but to proceed—I am extremely anxious to confide my intentions to you, as I hope I may calculate on your assistance. My nephew, Charlie, to be explicit, is the——Holloa! you woman, come back—come back, I say; you’re carrying off the wrong coop. The dolt has mistaken my orders about the Cochin Chinas. In the afternoon, if you please, Mrs. Delaval, we’ll discuss the point more at leisure.”
And the General bolted through the study window, and was presently heard in violent altercation with the lady who presided over his poultry yard.
Though not very explicit, Mary had gathered enough from the General’s confidences to conclude he was anxious to arrange a marriage eventually between the two cousins. Well! what was that to her? He certainly was a very taking boy, handsome, gentle, and high-spirited; nothing could be nicer for Blanche. And she was so fond of him; what a charming couple they would make. “I am so glad,” thought Mary, wondering when she might congratulate the bride-elect; “so very glad; dear, how glad I am.” Why should Mary have taken such pains to assure herself how glad she was? Why did she watch the charming couple with an interest she had never felt before, as she joined them on their return from their morning walk? A walk, the object of which (tell it not in Bubbleton) had been to pursue the sport of rat-hunting in a certain barn, with a favourite terrier of Charlie’s, a sport that Blanche was persuaded to patronise, notwithstanding her horror both of the game and the mode of its destruction, by her affection for Charlie, and her childish habit of joining him in all his pastimes and amusements. How alike they were, with their delicate skin, their deep blue eyes sparkling with exercise and excitement, and their waving brown hair clustering round each flushed and smiling face. How alike they were, and what a nice couple they certainly did make. And Mary sighed, as again she thought how very glad she was!
No further interview took place that day with the General, whose many avocations scarcely permitted him time for the elaborate toilette which, partly out of respect for Blanche’s birthday, partly in consideration of his dinner-party, he thought it advisable to perform. He certainly did take more pains with himself than usual; and as he fixed an order or two in an unassuming place under the breast-lap of his coat, a ray of satisfaction shot through his heart that beat beneath those clasps and medals, while the old gentleman thought aloud as usual, “Not such a bad arrangement after all! She certainly did look very queer when I talked of Blanche’s marrying. No doubt she’s smitten—just like the one at Cheltenham. Bounce! Bounce! you’ve a deal to answer for. If ever I do, it’s time I thought of it; don’t improve by keeping. ’Pon my life, I might go farther and fare worse. Zounds! there’s the door-bell.”
“Lady Mount Helicon!” “Captain Lacquers!” “Sir Ascot Uppercrust!” and a whole host of second-rate grandees were successively announced and ushered into the brilliantly-lighted drawing-room, to be received by the General with the empressement of a bachelor, who is host and hostess all in one. Blanche was too young and shy to take much part in the proceedings. Charlie, of course, was late; but Bounce was in his glory, bowing to the ladies, joking with the gentlemen, and telling anecdotes to all, till the announcement of “dinner” started him across the hall, convoying stately Lady Mount Helicon, and well-nigh lost amidst the lappets and flounces of that magnificent dame, who would not have been here at all unless she had owned an unmarried son, and a jointure entirely out of proportion to the present lord’s finances. The rest of the party paired off after their illustrious leaders. Sir Ascot Uppercrust took Blanche, who was already lost in surprise at his taciturnity. Miss Deeper skilfully contrived to entangle young Cashley. Kate Carmine felt her heart beat happily against the arm of Captain Laurel, of the Bays. Mr. Gotobed made a dash at Mary Delaval, but “Cousin Charlie,” who that instant entered the room, quietly interposed and led her off to the dining-room, leaving a heterogeneous mass of unappropriated gentlemen to scramble in as they best might. Mary was grateful for the rescue; she was glad to be near somebody she knew. With a flush of shame and anger she had recognised Captain Lacquers, though that worthy dipped his moustaches into his soup in happy unconsciousness that the well-dressed aristocratic woman opposite him was the same indignant damsel who would once have knocked him down if she could. With all her self-possession, Mary was not blind to the fact that her position was anomalous and ill-defined. She had found that out already by the condescending manner in which Lady Mount Helicon had bowed to her in the drawing-room. With the men she was “that handsome lady-like Mrs. Delaval”; but with the women (your true aristocrats after all) she was only the governess.
Dinner progressed in the weary protracted manner that the meal does when it is one of state and ceremony. The guests did not know each other well, and were dreadfully afraid (as is too often the case in good society) of being over civil or attentive to those whose position they had not exactly ascertained. It argues ill for one’s stock of politeness when one cannot afford to part with ever so small a portion, save in expectation of a return. So Lady Mount Helicon was patronising and affable, and looked at everything, including the company, through her eye-glass, but was very distant notwithstanding; and the gentlemen hemmed and hawed, and voted the weather detestable—aw! and the sport with the hounds—aw—very moderate—aw (it was d—d bad after the ladies went away); and their fair companions lisped and simpered, and ate very little, and drank as much champagne as appearances would allow; and everybody felt it an unspeakable relief when Blanche, drawing on her gloves, and blushing crimson at the responsibility, made “the move” to Lady Mount Helicon; and the muslins all sailed away, with their gloves and fans and pocket-handkerchiefs rescued from under the table by their red-faced cavaliers.
When they met again over tea and coffee, things had thawed considerably. The most solemn high-breeding is not proof against an abundance of claret, and the General’s hospitality was worthy of his cellar. The men had found each other out to be “deuced good sort of fellows,” and had moreover discovered mutual tastes and mutual acquaintances, which much cemented their friendships. To be sure, there was at first a partial reaction consequent upon the difficulty of breaking through a formal circle of ladies; but this feat accomplished, and the gentlemen grouped about cup-in-hand in becoming attitudes, and disposed to look favourably on the world in general, even Sir Ascot Uppercrust laid aside his usual reserve, and asked Blanche whether she had seen anything of a round game called “turning the tables,” which the juvenile philosopher further confided to her he opined to be “infernal humbug.” In an instant every tongue was unloosed. Drop a subject like this amongst a well-dressed crowd and it is like a cracker—here and there it bounces, and fizzes, and explodes, amongst serious exclamations and hearty laughter. Lady Mount Helicon thought it wicked—Kate Carmine thought it “fun”—Miss Deeper voted it charming—Lacquers considered it “aw—deuced scientific—aw”—and the General in high glee exclaimed, “I vote we try.” No sooner said than done; a round mahogany table was deprived of its covering—a circle formed—hands joined with more energy than was absolutely indispensable—white arms laid in juxtaposition to dark coat sleeves—long ringlets bent over the polished mirror-like surface; and amidst laughing entreaties to be grave, and voluble injunctions to be silent, the incantation progressed, we are bound in truth to state, with no definite result. Perhaps the spell was broken by the bursts of laughter that greeted the pompous butler’s face of consternation, as, entering the room to remove cups, etc., he found the smartly-dressed party so strangely employed. Well-bred servants never betray the slightest marks of emotion or astonishment, though we fancy their self-command is sometimes severely put to the test. But “turning the tables” was too much for the major-domo, and he was obliged to make his exit in a paroxysm of unseemly mirth. Then came a round game of forfeits—then music—then dancing, the ladies playing by turns—then somebody found out the night was pouring with rain, and the General declared it would be sure to clear in an hour or so, and nobody must go away till after supper. So supper appeared and more champagne; and even Lady Mount Helicon was ready to do anything to oblige, so, being a fine musician, she volunteered to play “The Coquette.” A chair was placed in the middle of the room, and everybody danced, the General and all. Blanche laughed till she cried; and there was but one feeling of regret when the announcement of her ladyship’s carriage broke up the party, just at the moment when, in accordance with the rules of the dance, Charlie sank upon one knee before the Coquette’s chair, occupied by stately Mrs. Delaval. He looked like a young knight prostrate before the Queen of Beauty.
When Blanche laid her head upon her pillow, she thought over all her uncle’s guests in succession, and decided not one was to be compared to Cousin Charlie; and none was half so agreeable as Mr. Hardingstone. Mary Delaval, on the contrary, scarcely gave a thought to Captain Lacquers, Sir Ascot Uppercrust, Captain Laurel, or even Mr. Gotobed, who had paid her great attention. No, even as she closed her eyes she was haunted by a young upturned face, with fair open brow and a slight moustache—do what she would, she saw it still. She was, besides, a little distracted about the loss of one of her gloves—a white one, with velvet round the wrist—what could have become of it?
“THE GRAND MILITARY”—SPORT, BUT NOT PLEASURE—WARLIKE ADVANCES—SOME OF ALL SORTS—AN EQUESTRIAN FEAT—THEY’RE OFF—RIDING TO WIN—FOLLOW-MY-LEADER—WELL OVER AND WELL IN—HOME IN A HURRY—A CLOSE RACE—THE HEIRESS WITH MANY FRIENDS—A DAY’S AMUSEMENT
“Card of the running ’orses—cor-rect card! Major, dear, you always take a card of me!” pleads a weather-worn, good-looking, smart-ribboned card-woman, standing up to her ankles in mud on Guyville race-course. Poor thing! hers is a strange, hard, vagabond sort of life. This very morning she has heard mass (being an Irish-woman) seventeen miles off, and she will be on her legs the whole of the livelong day, and have a good supper and a hard bed, and be up at dawn to-morrow, ready and willing for a forty-mile tramp wherever money is to be made; so, in the meantime, she hands up half-a-dozen damp cards to Gaston D’Orville, now Major in “The Loyals,” and this day principal acting-steward of “The Grand Military Steeple-Chase.”
The Major is but slightly altered since we saw him last at Bishops’-Baffler. His tall figure may, perhaps, be a trifle fuller, and the lines of dissipation round his eyes and mouth a little deeper, while here and there his large whiskers and clustering hair are just sprinkled with grey; but for all this, he is still about the finest-looking man on the course, and of this fact, as of every other advantage of his position, no one is better aware than himself. Yet is he not a vain man; cool and calculating, he looks upon such “pulls in his favour,” as he calls them, much as he would on “a point in the odds,”—mere chances in the game of life, to be made the most of when opportunity offers. He has just got upon a remarkably handsome white horse, to show the military equestrians “the line” over which they are to have an opportunity of breaking their necks, and is surrounded by a posse of great-coated, shawl-handkerchiefed, and goloshed individuals, mostly striplings, who are nervously ready to scan the obstacles they are destined to encounter.
There are nine starters for the great event, and professional speculators at “The Kingmakers’ Arms” are even now wagering that not above three ever reach “home,” so low an opinion do they entertain of “the soldiers’ riding,” or so ghastly do they deem the fences flagged out to prove the warriors’ metal. Four miles over a stiff country, with a large brook, and a finish in front of the grand-stand, will furnish work for the horses and excitement for the ladies, whilst the adventurous jocks are even now glancing at one another aghast at the unexpected strength and height of these impediments, which, to a man on foot, look positively awful.
“I object to this fence decidedly,” observes a weak, thin voice, which, under his multiplicity of wraps, we have some difficulty in identifying as the property of Sir Ascot Uppercrust. “I object in the name of all the riders—it is positively dangerous—don’t you agree with me?” he adds, pointing to a formidable “double post and rail,” with but little room between, and appealing to his fellow-sufferers, who all coincide with him but one.
“Nothing for a hunter,” says the dissentient, who, seeing that the exploit has to be performed in full view of the ladies in the stand, would have it worse if he could. “Nothing for any horse that is properly ridden;—what do you say, major?”
“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 stitching 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 “tit-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 manœuvred 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 anticipation 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 assemblage looks like a variegated parterre of flowers to those in the arena below. In that enclosed space 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 shires” 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 unblushing effrontery with which they offer “five points” less than the odds; nor, though last not least, must we omit to mention the élite 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 incumbrances—gentlemen with incumbrances 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 masse, 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 principal 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 multitude 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 mass of noise, hustling, and confusion that constitutes 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 sex; and nobody 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 blushing to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of the world, the experienced roué, the dashing 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—Nobblers and noblemen—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 glasses 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-glasses, 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 glasses 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 mass of spectators that have gone to witness the start.
How easy it looks to go cantering along over a nice grass 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 assisting in the pageant on the back of a headstrong, powerful horse, rendered irritable and violent by severe training (of which discipline this unfortunate class 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.
In the meantime, our friends in the stand make their running commentaries on the race. “How slow they are going,” says Blanche, who, like all ladies, has a most liberal idea of “pace.” “He’s over!” mutters Mary Delaval, as “blue-and-orange” skims lightly over the first fence, undistinguished, save by her, amidst the rest. “One down!” says a voice, and there is a slight scream from amongst the prettiest of the bonnets. “Red-and-white cap—who is it?” and what with the distraction of watching the others, and the confusion on the cards, Bendigo has been caught and remounted ere the hapless Lieutenant Mohair can be identified. Meanwhile the string is lengthening out. “Uppy is making frightful running,” says Major D’Orville, thinking how right he was to stand heavily against Lady Lavender; “however, the Fox is close upon him; and that’s Haphazard, Miss Kettering, just behind Sober John.” “Two—four—six—seven—nine—what a pretty sight!” says Blanche, but she turns away her head with a shudder as a party-coloured jacket goes down at the next fence, neither horse nor rider rising again. One always fancies the worst, and Mary turns pale as death, and clasps her hands tighter than ever. And now they arrive at the double post and rails, which have been erected purposely for the gratification of the ladies in the stand. The first three bound over it in their stride like so many deer. Captain Rocket pulls his horse into a trot, and Sober John goes in-and-out quite as clever as did the Major’s white charger. Mr. Jason is good enough to express his approval. Charlie follows the example of his leader, and though he hits it very hard, Haphazard’s fine shape saves him from a fall. Blanche thinks him the noblest hero in England, and nobody but D’Orville remarks how very pale Mrs. Delaval is getting. Mohair essays to follow the example thus set him, and succeeds in doing the first half of his task admirably, but no power on earth will induce Bendigo to jump out after jumping in, and eventually he is obliged to be ignominiously extricated by a couple of carpenters and a handsaw. His companions diverge, like a flight of wild-fowl, towards the brook. The Fox, who is now leading, refuses; and the charitable Nimrods, and dandies, and swells, and professionals, all vote that Capon’s heart failed him, and “he didn’t put in half enough powder.” The Major knows better. The horse was once his property, and he has not laid against it without reason. The brook creates much confusion; but Sober John singles himself out from the ruck, and flies it without an effort, closely followed by Haphazard and Lady Lavender. The rest splash and struggle, and get over as they best can, with but little chance now of coming up with the first three. They all turn towards home, and the pace is visibly increasing. Captain Rocket is leading, but Charlie’s horse is obviously full of running, and the boy is gradually drawing away from Lady Lavender, and nearer and nearer to the front. Already people begin to shout “Haphazard wins”; and the General is hoarse with excitement. “Charlie wins!” he exclaims, his lace purple, and the ends of his blue-and-orange handkerchief floating on the breeze. “Charlie wins! I tell you. Look how he’s coming up. Zounds! don’t contradict me, sir!” he roars out to the intense dismay of his next neighbour, a meek old gentleman, who has only come to the steeple-chase in order that he may write an account of it for a magazine, and who shrinks from the General as from a raving madman. “Now, Captain Rocket,” shouts the multitude, as if that unmoved man would attend to anything but the business in hand. They reach the last fence neck-and-neck, Haphazard landing slightly in advance. “Kettering wins!” “Blast him!” hisses D’Orville between his teeth, turning white as a sheet He stands to lose eighteen hundred by Haphazard alone, and we question whether, on reliable security, the Major could raise eighteen-pence. Nevertheless, he turns the next instant to Blanche, with a quiet, unmoved smile, to congratulate her on her cousin’s probable success. “If he can only ‘finish,’ Miss Kettering, he can’t lose,” says the speculator; but he still trusts that “if” may save him the price of his commission.
What a moment for Charlie! Hot, breathless, and nearly exhausted, his brain reeling with the shouts of the populace, and the wild excitement of the struggle, one idea is uppermost in his mind—if man and horse can do it, win he will. Steadily has he ridden four long miles, taking the greatest pains with his horse, and restraining his own eagerness to be in front, as well as that of the gallant animal. He has kept his eye fixed on Captain Rocket, and regulated his every movement by that celebrated performer. And now he is drawing slightly in advance of him, and one hundred yards more will complete his triumph. Yet, inexperienced as he is, he cannot but feel that Haphazard is no longer the elastic, eager goer whom he has been regulating so carefully, and the truth shoots across him that his horse is beat. Well, he ought to last another hundred yards. See, the double flags are waving before him, and the shouts of his own name fall dully upon his ear. He hears Captain Rocket’s whip at work, and is not aware how that judicious artist is merely plying it against his own boot to flurry the young one. Charlie begins to flog. “Sit still!” shouts Frank Hardingstone from the stand. Charlie works arms and legs like a windmill, upsets his horse, who would win if he were but let alone—Sober John shows his great ugly head alongside. Haphazard changes his leg—Major D’Orville draws a long breath of relief—Captain Rocket, with a grim smile, and one fierce stab with his spurs, glides slightly in advance—and Haphazard is beaten on the post by half a length, Lady Lavender a bad third, and the rest nowhere!
Blanche is dreadfully disappointed. The General thinks “the lad deserves great credit for being second in such good company;” but the tears stand in Mary Delaval’s eyes—tears, we believe, of gratitude at his not being brought home on a hurdle, instead of riding into the weighing enclosure with the drooping self-satisfied air, and the arms hanging powerless down his side, which distinguish the gentleman-jockey after his exertions. The boy is scarcely disappointed. To have been so near winning, and to have run second for such an event as the “Grand Military,” is a feather in his cap, of which he is in no slight degree proud; and he walks into the stand the hero of the day, for Captain Rocket is no lady’s man, and is engaged to risk his neck again to-morrow a hundred miles from here. So he has put on a long great-coat and disappeared. The General accounts for Charlie’s defeat on a theory peculiarly his own. “Virtually” says he, “my nephew won the race. How d’ye mean beat? It was twenty yards over the four miles. Twenty yards from home he was a length in front. If the stewards had been worth their salt, we should have won. Don’t tell me!”
There is more racing, but the great event has come off, and our friends in the stand occupy themselves only with luncheon. Frank Hardingstone comes up to speak to Blanche, but she is so surrounded and hemmed in, that beyond shaking hands with her he might as well be back at his own place on the south coast, for any enjoyment he can have in her society. Major D’Orville is rapidly gaining ground in the good graces of all the Newton-Hollows party. He has won a great stake, and is in brilliant spirits. Even Mary thinks “what an agreeable man he is,” and glances the while at a fair glowing face, eating, drinking, and laughing by turns, and discussing with Sir Ascot the different events of their exciting gallop. Lacquers, with his mouth full, is making the agreeable in his own way to the whole party. “Deuced good pie—aw—ruin me—aw—in gloves, Miss Kettering—aw—lose everything to you—aw;” and the dandy has a vague sort of notion that he might say something sweet here, but it will not shape itself into words very conveniently, so he has a large glass of sherry instead. Our friend Captain Lacquers is not so much “a man of parts,” as “a man of figure.” Charlie, somewhat excited, flourishes his knife and fork, and describes how he lost his race to the public in general. Gaston D’Orville, with his most deferential air, is winning golden opinions from Blanche, and thinking in his innermost soul what a traitor he is to his own heart the while; Mrs. Delaval looks very pale and subdued, and Bounce thinks she must be tired, but breaks off to something else before he has made the inquiry—still everybody seems outwardly to be enjoying him or herself to the utmost, and it is with a forced smile and an air of assumed gaiety that Frank Hardingstone takes his leave, and supposes “we shall all meet at the ball!”
Fancy Frank deliberately proposing to go to a ball! How bitterly he smiles as he walks away from the course faster and faster, as thought after thought goads him to personal exertion! Now he despises himself thoroughly for his weakness in allowing the smile of a silly girl thus to sink into a strong man’s heart—now he analyses his own feelings as he would probe a corporeal wound, with a stern scientific pleasure in the examination—and anon he speculates vaguely on the arrangements of Nature, which provide us with sentimental follies for a sauce piquante wherewith to flavour our daily bread. Nevertheless, our man of action is by no means satisfied with himself. He takes a fierce walk over the most unfrequented fields, and returns to his solitary lodgings, to read stiff chapters of old dogmatic writers, and to work out a tough equation or two, till he can “get this nonsense out of his head.” In vain, a fairy figure with long violet eyes and floating hair dances between him and his quarto, and the “unknown quantity” plus Blanche continually eludes his mental grasp.
We do not think Frank has enjoyed his day’s pleasure, any more than Mary Delaval. How few people do, could we but peep into their heart of hearts! Here are two at least of that gay throng in whom the shaft is rankling, and all this discomfort and anxiety exists because, forsooth, people never understand each other in time. We think it is in one of Rousseau’s novels that the catastrophe is continually being postponed because the heroine invariably becomes vivement émue, and unable to articulate, just at the critical moment when two words more would explain everything, and make her happy with her adorer. Were it not for this provoking weakness, she would be married and settled long before the end of the first volume: but then, to be sure, what would become of all the remaining pages of French sentimentality? If there were no uncertainty, there would be no romance—if we knew each other better, perhaps we should love each other less. Hopes and fears make up the game of life. Better be the germinating flower, blooming in the sunshine and cowering in the blast, than the withered branch, defiant indeed of winter’s cold and summer’s heat, but drinking in no dew of morning, putting forth no buds of spring, and in its dreary, barren isolation, unsusceptible of pleasure as of pain.
THE COUNTRY BALL—A POETICAL PEER—BLANCHE’S PARTNERS—SMILES AND SCOWLS—MAMMA’S ADVICE—THE GENERAL’S POLITICS—THE MAJOR’S STRATEGY—“HOME”—THE DREAMER—THE SLEEPER—AND THE WATCHER
Bustle and confusion reign paramount at “The Kingmakers’ Arms”—principal hotel and posting-house in the town of Guyville. Once a year is there a great lifting of carpets and shifting of furniture in all the rooms of that enterprising establishment. Chambermaids hurry to and fro in smart caps brought out for the occasion, and pale-faced waiters brandish their glass-cloths in despair at the variety of their duties. All the resources of the plate-basket are brought into use, and knives, forks, tumblers, wine-glasses, German silver and Britannia metal, are collected and borrowed, and furbished up, to grace the evening’s entertainment with a magnificence becoming the occasion. Dust pervades the passages, and there is a hot smell of cooking and closed windows, by which the frequenters of the house are made aware that to-night is the anniversary of the Guyville Ball, a solemnity to be spoken of with reverence by the very ostler’s assistant in the yard, who will tell you “We are very busy, sir, just now, sir, on account of the ball.” Tea-rooms, card-rooms, supper-rooms, dancing-rooms, and cloak-rooms, leave but few apartments to be devoted to the purposes of rest; and an unwary bagman, snoring quietly in No. 5, might chance to be smothered ere morning by the heap of cloaks, shawls, polka-jackets, and other lady-like wraps, ruthlessly heaped upon the unconscious victim in his dormitory. The combined attractions of steeple-chasing and dancing bring numerous young gentlemen and their valets to increase the confusion; and, were it not that the six o’clock train takes back the Londoners and “professionals” to the metropolis, it would be out of the power of mortal functionaries to attend to so many wants, and wait upon so many customers.
That tall, pale, interesting-looking man in chains and ringlets has already created much commotion below with his insatiable demands for foot-baths and hot water. As he waits carelessly in the passage at that closed door, receiving and returning the admiring glances of passing chambermaids, you would hardly suppose, from his unassuming demeanour, that he is no less a person than Lord Mount Helicon’s gentleman. To be sure, he is now what he calls “comparatively incog.” It is only at his club in Piccadilly, or “the room” at Wassailworth, where he and the Duke’s “own man” lay down the law upon racing, politics, wine, and women, that he is to be seen in his full glory. To give him his due, he is an admirable servant, as far as his own duties are concerned, and a clever fellow to boot, or he would not have picked up seven-and-thirty pounds to-day on the steeple-chase whilst he was looking after the luncheon and the carriage. We question, however, whether he could complete his toilet as expeditiously as his master, who is now stamping about his room reciting, in an audible voice, a thundering ode on which he has been some considerable time engaged, and elaborating the folds of his white neckcloth (old fifth-form tie) between the stanzas.
Lord Mount Helicon is a literary nobleman; not one of