CHAPTER III.
THE SOLDIERS' BLUE RIBBON.
"Take the Field bar one." "Two to one on Forest King." "Two to one onBay Regent." "Fourteen to seven on Wild Geranium." "Seven to two againstBrother to Fairy." "Three to five on Pas de Charge." "Nineteen to sixon Day Star." "Take the Field bar one," rose above the hoarse tumultuousroar of the ring on the clear, crisp, sunny morning that was shining onthe Shires on the day of the famous steeple-chase.
The talent had come in great muster from London; the great bookmakerswere there with their stentor lungs and their quiet, quick entry ofthousands; and the din and the turmoil, at the tiptop of their height,were more like a gathering on the Heath or before the Red House, thanthe local throngs that usually mark steeple-chase meetings, even whenthey be the Grand Military or the Grand National. There were keenexcitement and heavy stakes on the present event; the betting had neverstood still a second in Town or the Shires; and even the "knowing ones,"the worshipers of the "flat" alone, the professionals who ran downgentlemen races and the hypercritics who affirmed that there is not sucha thing as a steeple-chaser to be found on earth (since, to be afencer, a water-jumper, and a racer were to attain an equine perfectionimpossible on earth, whatever it may be in "happy hunting ground" ofimmortality)--even these, one and all of them, came eager to see therunning for the Gilt Vase.
For it was known very well that the Guards had backed their horsetremendously, and the county laid most of its money on him, andthe bookmakers were shy of laying off much against one of the firstcross-country riders of the Service, who had landed his mount at theGrand National Handicap, the Billesdon Coplow, the Ealing, the Curragh,the Prix du Donjon, the Rastatt, and almost every other for which he hadentered. Yet, despite this, the "Fancy" took most to Bay Regent; theythought he would cut the work out; his sire had won the Champion Stakesat Doncaster, and the Drawing-room at "glorious Goodwood," and thatracing strain through the White Lily blood, coupled with a magnificentreputation which he brought from Leicestershire as a fencer, found himchief favor among the fraternity.
His jockey, Jimmy Delmar, too, with his bronzed, muscular, sinewy frame,his low stature, his light weight, his sunburnt, acute face, and a wayof carrying his hands as he rode that was precisely like Aldcroft's,looked a hundred times more professional than the brilliance of"Beauty," and the reckless dash of his well-known way of "sending thehorse along with all he had in him," which was undeniably much more likea fast kill over the Melton country, than like a weight-for-age raceanywhere. "You see the Service in his stirrups," said an old nobbler whohad watched many a trial spin, lying hidden in a ditch or a drain; andindisputably you did: Bertie's riding was superb, but it was still theriding of a cavalryman, not of a jockey. The mere turn of the foot inthe stirrups told it, as the old man had the shrewdness to know.
So the King went down at one time two points in the morning betting.
"Know them flash cracks of the Household," said Tim Varnet, as sharp alittle Leg as ever "got on" a dark thing, and "went halves" with a jockwho consented to rope a favorite at the Ducal. "Them swells, ye see,they give any money for blood. They just go by Godolphin heads, andlittle feet, and winners' strains, and all the rest of it; and so longas they get pedigree never look at substance; and their bone comes nobigger than a deer's. Now, it's force as well as pace that tells over abit of plow; a critter that would win the Derby on the flat would knockup over the first spin over the clods; and that King's legs are toolight for my fancy, 'andsome as 'tis ondeniable he looks--for a little'un, as one may say."
And Tim Varnet exactly expressed the dominant mistrust of the talent;despite all his race and all his exploits, the King was not popular inthe Ring, because he was like his backers--"a swell." They thought him"showy--very showy," "a picture to frame," "a luster to look at"; butthey disbelieved in him, almost to a man, as a stayer, and they trustedhim scarcely at all with their money.
"It's plain that he's 'meant,' though," thought little Tim, who wasso used to the "shady" in stable matters that he could hardly persuadehimself that even the Grand Military could be run fair, and would havethought a Guardsman or a Hussar only exercised his just privilege asa jockey in "roping" after selling the race, if so it suited his book."He's 'meant,' that's clear, 'cause the swells have put all theirpots on him--but if the pots don't bile over, strike me a loser!" acontingency he knew he might very well invoke; his investments beinginvariably so matchlessly arranged that, let what would be "bowledover," Tim Varnet never could be.
Whatever the King might prove, however, the Guards, the Flower of theService, must stand or fall by him; they had not Seraph, they put in"Beauty" and his gray. But there was no doubt as to the tremendousnessof the struggle lying before him. The running ground covered four milesand a half, and had forty-two jumps in it, exclusive of the famousBrixworth: half was grassland, and half ridge and furrow; a lanewith very awkward double fences laced in and in with the memorableblackthorn, a laid hedge with thick growers in it and many another"teaser," coupled with the yawning water, made the course a severe one;while thirty-two starters of unusual excellence gave a good field andpromised a close race. Every fine bit of steeple-chase blood that was tobe found in their studs, the Service had brought together for the greatevent; and if the question could ever be solved, whether it is possibleto find a strain that shall combine pace over the flat with the heartto stay over an inclosed country, the speed to race with the bottom tofence and the force to clear water, it seemed likely to be settlednow. The Service and the Stable had done their uttermost to reach itssolution.
The clock of the course pointed to half-past one; the saddling bellwould ring at a quarter to two, for the days were short and darkenedearly; the Stewards were all arrived, except the Marquis of Rockingham,and the Ring was in the full rush of excitement; some "getting on"hurriedly to make up for lost time; some "peppering" one or other of thefavorites hotly; some laying off their moneys in a cold fit of caution;some putting capfuls on the King, or Bay Regent, or Pas de Charge,from the great commission stables, the local betting man, the shrewdwiseacres from the Ridings, all the rest of the brotherhood of the Turfwere crowding together with the deafening shouting common to them whichsounds so tumultuous, so insane, and so unintelligible to outsiders.Amid them half the titled heads of England, all the great names knownon the flat, and men in the Guards, men in the Rifles, men in the LightCavalry, men in the Heavies, men in the Scots Greys, men in the HorseArtillery, men in all the Arms and all the Regiments that had sent theirfirst riders to try for the Blue Ribbon, were backing their horses withcrackers, and jotting down figure after figure, with jeweled pencils, indainty books, taking long odds with the fields. Carriages were standingin long lines along the course, the stands were filled with almost asbright a bevy of fashionable loveliness as the Ducal brings togetherunder the park trees of Goodwood; the horses were being led into theinclosure for saddling, a brilliant sun shone for the nonce on thefreshest of February noons; beautiful women were fluttering out of theirbarouches in furs and velvets, wearing the colors of the jockey theyfavored, and more predominant than any were Cecil's scarlet and white,only rivaled in prominence by the azure of the Heavy Cavalry champion,Sir Eyre Montacute. A drag with four bays--with fine hunting pointsabout them--had dashed up, late of course; the Seraph had swung himselffrom the roller-bolt into the saddle of his hack (one of these few rarehacks that are perfect, and combine every excellence of pace, bone, andaction, under their modest appellative), and had cantered off to jointhe Stewards; while Cecil had gone up to a group of ladies in the GrandStand, as if he had no more to do with the morning's business than they.Right in front of that Stand was an artificial bullfinch that promisedto treat most of the field to a "purler," a deep ditch dug and filledwith water, with two towering blackthorn fences on either side of it,as awkward a leap as the most cramped country ever showed; some werecomplaining of it; it was too severe, it was unfair, it would break theback of every horse sent at it. The other Stewards were not unwilling tohave it tamed
down a little, but he Seraph, generally the easiest of allsweet-tempered creatures, refused resolutely to let it be touched.
"Look here," said he confidentially, as he wheeled his hack round to theStand and beckoned Cecil down, "look here, Beauty; they're wantingto alter that teaser, make it less awkward, you know; but I wouldn'tbecause I thought it would look as if I lessened it for you, you know.Still it is a cracker and no mistake; Brixworth itself is nothing to it,and if you'd like it toned down I'll let them do it--"
"My dear Seraph, not for worlds! You were quite right not to have athorn taken down. Why, that's where I shall thrash Bay Regent," saidBertie serenely, as if the winning of the stakes had been forecast inhis horoscope.
The Seraph whistled, stroking his mustaches. "Between ourselves, Cecil,that fellow is going up no end. The Talent fancy him so--"
"Let them," said Cecil placidly, with a great cheroot in his mouth,lounging into the center of the Ring to hear how the betting went on hisown mount; perfectly regardless that he would keep them waiting at theweights while he dressed. Everybody there knew him by name and sight;and eager glances followed the tall form of the Guards' champion as hemoved through the press, in a loose brown sealskin coat, with a littlestrip of scarlet ribbon round his throat, nodding to this peer, takingevens with that, exchanging a whisper with a Duke, and squaring hisbook with a Jew. Murmurs followed about him as if he were the horsehimself--"looks in racing form"--"looks used up to me"--"too littlehands surely to hold in long in a spin"--"too much length in the limbsfor a light weight; bone's always awfully heavy"--"dark under the eye,been going too fast for training"--"a swell all over, but rides no end,"with other innumerable contradictory phrases, according as the speakerwas "on" him or against him, buzzed about him from the riff-raff of theRing, in no way disturbing his serene equanimity.
One man, a big fellow, "'ossy" all over, with the genuine sportingcut-away coat, and a superabundance of showy necktie and bad jewelry,eyed him curiously, and slightly turned so that his back was towardBertie, as the latter was entering a bet with another Guardsman wellknown on the turf, and he himself was taking long odds with little BerkCecil, the boy having betted on his brother's riding, as though hehad the Bank of England at his back. Indeed, save that the lad hadthe hereditary Royallieu instinct of extravagance, and, with a halfthoughtless, half willful improvidence, piled debts and difficultieson this rather brainless and boyish head, he had much more to depend onthan his elder; old Lord Royallieu doted on him, spoilt him, and deniedhim nothing, though himself a stern, austere, passionate man, madeirascible by ill health, and, in his fits of anger, a very terriblepersonage indeed--no more to be conciliated by persuasion than ironis to be bent by the hand; so terrible that even his pet dreaded himmortally, and came to Bertie to get his imprudences and peccadilloescovered from the Viscount's sight.
Glancing round at this moment as he stood in the ring, Cecil saw thebetting man with whom Berkeley was taking long odds on the race; heraised his eyebrows, and his face darkened for a second, though resumingits habitual listless serenity almost immediately.
"You remember that case of welshing after the Ebor St. Leger, Con?" hesaid in a low tone to the Earl of Constantia, with whom he was talking.The Earl nodded assent; everyone had heard of it, and a very flagrantcase it was.
"There's the fellow," said Cecil laconically, and strode toward him withhis long, lounging cavalry swing. The man turned pallid under his floridskin, and tried to edge imperceptibly away; but the density of thethrong prevented his moving quickly enough to evade Cecil, who stoopedhis head, and said a word in his ear. It was briefly:
"Leave the ring."
The rascal, half bully, half coward, rallied from the startled fear intowhich his first recognition by the Guardsman (who had been the chiefwitness against him in a very scandalous matter at York, and who hadwarned him that if he ever saw him again in the Ring he would have himturned out of it) had thrown him, and, relying on insolence and thenumbers of his fraternity to back him out of it, stood his ground.
"I've as much right here as you swells," he said, with a hoarse laugh."Are you the whole Jockey Club, that you come it to a honest gentlemanlike that?"
Cecil looked down on him slightly amused, immeasurably disgusted--of allearth's terrors, there was not one so great for him as a scene, and theeager bloodshot eyes of the Ring were turning on them by the thousand,and the loud shouting of the bookmakers was thundering out, "What's up?"
"My 'honest gentleman,'" he said wearily, "leave this. I tell you; doyou hear?"
"Make me!" retorted the "welsher," defiant in his stout-built squarestrength, and ready to brazen the matter out. "Make me, my cock o' finefeathers! Put me out of the ring if you can, Mr. Dainty Limbs! I've asmuch business here as you."
The words were hardly out of his mouth before, light as a deer andclose as steel, Cecil's hand was on his collar, and without any seemingeffort, without the slightest passion, he calmly lifted him off theground, as though he were a terrier, and thrust him through the throng;Ben Davis, as the welsher was named, meantime being so amazed at suchunlooked-for might in the grasp of the gentlest, idlest, most gracefullymade, and indolently tempered of his born foes and prey, "the swells,"that he let himself be forced along backward in sheer passive paralysisof astonishment, while Bertie, profoundly insensible to the tumult thatbegan to rise and roar about him, from those who were not too absorbedin the business of the morning to note what took place, thrust himalong in the single clasp of his right hand outward to where the runningground swept past the Stand, and threw him lightly, easily, just as onemay throw a lap-dog to take his bath, into the artificial ditch filledwith water that the Seraph had pointed out as "a teaser." The man fellunhurt, unbruised, so gently was he dropped on his back among the muddy,chilly water, and the overhanging brambles; and, as he rose from theducking, a shudder of ferocious and filthy oaths poured from his lips,increased tenfold by the uproarious laughter of the crowd, who knew himas "a welsher," and thought him only too well served.
Policemen rushed in at all points, rural and metropolitan, breathless,austere, and, of course, too late. Bertie turned to them, with a slightwave of his hand, to sign them away.
"Don't trouble yourselves! It's nothing you could interfere in; takecare that person doesn't come into the betting ring again, that's all."
The Seraph, Lord Constantia, Wentworth, and may others of his set,catching sight of the turmoil and of "Beauty," with the great square-setfigure of Ben Davis pressed before him through the mob, forced their wayup as quickly as they could; but before they reached the spot Cecil wassauntering back to meet them, cool and listless, and a little bored withso much exertion; his cheroot in his mouth, and his ear serenely deaf tothe clamor about the ditch.
He looked apologetically at the Seraph and the others; he felt someapology was required for having so far wandered from all the canons ofhis Order as to have approached "a row," and run the risk of a scene.
"Turf must be cleared of these scamps, you see," he said, with a halfsigh. "Law can't do anything. Fellow was trying to 'get on' withthe young one, too. Don't bet with those riff-raff, Berk. The greatbookmakers will make you dead money, and the little Legs will do worseto you."
The boy hung his head, but looked sulky rather than thankful for hisbrother's interference with himself and the welsher.
"You have done the Turf a service, Beauty--a very great service; there'sno doubt about that," said the Seraph. "Law can't do anything, as yousay; opinion must clear the ring of such rascals; a welsher ought not todare to show his face here; but, at the same time, you oughtn't to havegone unsteadying your muscle, and risking the firmness of your hand atsuch a minute as this, with pitching that fellow over. Why couldn't youwait till afterward? or have let me do it?"
"My dear Seraph," murmured Bertie languidly, "I've gone in to-dayfor exertion; a little more or less is nothing. Besides, welshers areslippery dogs, you know."
He did not add that it was having seen Ben Davis taking odds wit
h hisyoung brother which had spurred him to such instantaneous action withthat disreputable personage; who, beyond doubt, only received a tithepart of his deserts, and merited to be double-thonged off every coursein the kingdom.
Rake at that instant darted, panting like a hot retriever, out ofthe throng. "Mr. Cecil, sir, will you please come to the weights--thesaddling bell's a-going to ring, and--"
"Tell them to wait for me; I shall only be twenty minutes dressing,"said Cecil quietly, regardless that the time at which the horses shouldhave been at the starting-post was then clanging from the clock withinthe Grand Stand. Did you ever go to a gentleman-rider race where thejocks were not at least an hour behind time, and considered themselves,on the whole, very tolerably punctual? At last, however, he saunteredinto the dressing-shed, and was aided by Rake into tops that had atlength achieved a spotless triumph, and the scarlet gold-embroideredjacket of his fair friend's art, with white hoops and the "CoeurVaillant se fait Royaume" on the collar, and the white, gleaming sash tobe worn across it, fringed by the same fair hands with silver.
Meanwhile the "welsher," driven off the course by a hooting andindignant crowd, shaking the water from his clothes, with bitter oaths,and livid with a deadly passion at his exile from the harvest-fieldof his lawless gleanings, went his way, with a savage vow of vengeanceagainst the "d----d dandy," the "Guards' swell," who had shown him upbefore the world as the scoundrel he was.
The bell was clanging and clashing passionately, as Cecil at last wentdown to the weights, all his friends of the Household about him, andall standing "crushers" on their champion, for their stringent esprit decorps was involved, and the Guards are never backward in putting theirgold down, as all the world knows. In the inclosure, the cynosureof devouring eyes, stood the King, with the sangfroid of a superbgentleman, amid the clamor raging round him, one delicate ear laidback now and them, but otherwise indifferent to the din; with his coatglistening like satin, the beautiful tracery of vein and muscle, likethe veins of vine-leaves, standing out on the glossy, clear-carved neckthat had the arch of Circassia, and his dark, antelope eyes gazing witha gentle, pensive earnestness on the shouting crowd.
His rivals, too, were beyond par in fitness and in condition, andthere were magnificent animals among them. Bay Regent was a huge rakingchestnut, upward of sixteen hands, and enormously powerful, with veryfine shoulders, and an all-over-like-going head; he belonged to aColonel in the Rifles, but was to be ridden by Jimmy Delmar of the 10thLancers, whose colors were violet with orange hoops. Montacute'shorse, Pas de Charge, which carried all the money of the HeavyCavalry,--Montacute himself being in the Dragoon Guards,--was of muchthe same order; a black hunter with racing-blood in his loins andwithers that assured any amount of force, and no fault but that of arather coarse head, traceable to a slur on his 'scutcheon on the distaffside from a plebeian great-grandmother, who had been a cart mare, theonly stain on his otherwise faultless pedigree. However, she had givenhim her massive shoulders, so that he was in some sense a gainer by her,after all. Wild Geranium was a beautiful creature enough: a bright bayIrish mare, with that rich red gloss that is like the glow of a horsechestnut; very perfect in shape, though a trifle light perhaps, and withnot quite strength enough in neck or barrel; she would jump the fencesof her own paddock half a dozen times a day for sheer amusement, and wasgame for anything[*]. She was entered by Cartouche of the Enniskillens,to be ridden by "Baby Grafton," of the same corps, a feather-weight,and quite a boy, but with plenty of science in him. These were the threefavorites. Day Star ran them close, the property of Durham Vavassour, ofthe Scots Greys, and to be ridden by his owner; a handsome, flea-bitten,gray sixteen-hander, with ragged hips, and action that looked a triflestring-halty, but noble shoulders, and great force in the loins andwithers; the rest of the field, though unusually excellent, did not findso many "sweet voices" for them, and were not so much to be feared; eachstarter was, of course, much backed by his party, but the betting wastolerably even on these four--all famous steeple-chasers--the King atone time, and Bay Regent at another, slightly leading in the Ring.
[*] The portrait of this lady is that of a very esteemed young Irish beauty of my acquaintance; she this season did seventy-six miles on a warm June day, and ate her corn and tares afterward as if nothing had happened. She is six years old.
Thirty-two starters were hoisted up on the telegraph board, and as thefield got at last underway, uncommonly handsome they looked, while thesilk jackets of all the colors of the rainbow glittered in the brightnoon-sun. As Forest King closed in, perfectly tranquil still, butbeginning to glow and quiver all over with excitement, knowing as wellas his rider the work that was before him, and longing for it in everymuscle and every limb, while his eyes flashed fire as he pulled atthe curb and tossed his head aloft, there went up a general shout of"Favorite!" His beauty told on the populace, and even somewhat on theprofessionals, though his legs kept a strong business prejudice againstthe working powers of "the Guards' Crack." The ladies began to laydozens in gloves on him; not altogether for his points, which, perhaps,they hardly appreciated, but for his owner and rider, who, in thescarlet and gold, with the white sash across his chest, and a look ofserene indifference on his face, they considered the handsomest man inthe field. The Household is usually safe to win the suffrages of thesex.
In the throng on the course Rake instantly bonneted an audacious dealerwho had ventured to consider that Forest King was "light and curbyin the 'ock." "You're a wise 'un, you are!" retorted the wrathful andever-eloquent Rake; "there's more strength in his clean flat legs, blesshim! than in all the round, thick, mill-posts of your halfbreds, thathave no more tendon than a bit of wood, and are just as flabby as asponge!" Which hit the dealer home just as his hat was hit over hiseyes; Rake's arguments being unquestionable in their force.
The thoroughbreds pulled and fretted and swerved in their impatience;one or two overcontumacious bolted incontinently, others put their headsbetween their knees in the endeavor to draw their riders over theirwithers; Wild Geranium reared straight upright, fidgeted all over withlonging to be off, passaged with the prettiest, wickedest grace in theworld, and would have given the world to neigh if she had dared, butshe knew it would be very bad style, so, like an aristocrat as she was,restrained herself; Bay Regent almost sawed Jimmy Delmar's arms off,looking like a Titan Bucephalus; while Forest King, with his nostrilsdilated till the scarlet tinge on them glowed in the sun, his musclesquivering with excitement as intense as the little Irish mare's, and allhis Eastern and English blood on fire for the fray, stood steady as astatue for all that, under the curb of a hand light as a woman's, butfirm as iron to control, and used to guide him by the slightest touch.
All eyes were on that throng of the first mounts in the Service;brilliant glances by the hundred gleamed down behind hothouse bouquetsof their chosen color, eager ones by the thousand stared thirstilyfrom the crowded course, the roar of the Ring subsided for a second,a breathless attention and suspense succeeded it; the Guardsmen sat ontheir drags, or lounged near the ladies with their race-glasses ready,and their habitual expression of gentle and resigned weariness in nowisealtered because the Household, all in all, had from sixty to seventythousand on the event; and the Seraph murmured mournfully to hischeroot, "that chestnut's no end fit," strong as his faith was in thechampion of the Brigades.
A moment's good start was caught--the flag dropped--off they wentsweeping out for the first second like a line of Cavalry about tocharge.
Another moment and they were scattered over the first field. ForestKing, Wild Geranium, and Bay Regent leading for two lengths, whenMontacute, with his habitual "fast burst," sent Pas de Charge past themlike lightning. The Irish mare gave a rush and got alongside of him;the King would have done the same, but Cecil checked him and kept him inthat cool, swinging canter which covered the grassland so lightly; BayRegent's vast thundering stride was Olympian, but Jimmy Delmar sawhis worst foe in the "Guards' Crack," and waited on him warily, ridingsuperbl
y himself.
The first fence disposed of half the field; they crossed the second inthe same order, Wild Geranium racing neck to neck with Pas de Charge;the King was all athirst to join the duello, but his owner kept himgently back, saving his pace and lifting him over the jumps as easilyas a lapwing. The second fence proved a cropper to several, some awkwardfalls took place over it, and tailing commenced; after the third field,which was heavy plow, all knocked off but eight, and the real strugglebegan in sharp earnest: a good dozen, who had shown a splendid strideover the grass, being down up by the terrible work on the clods.
The five favorites had it all to themselves; Day Star pounding onward attremendous speed, Pas de Charge giving slight symptoms of distress owingto the madness of his first burst, the Irish mare literally flying aheadof him, Forest King and the chestnut waiting on one another.
In the Grand Stand the Seraph's eyes strained after the Scarlet andWhite, and he muttered in his mustaches, "Ye gods, what's up! Theworld's coming to an end!--Beauty's turned cautious!"
Cautious, indeed--with that giant of Pytchley fame running neck toneck by him; cautious--with two-thirds of the course unrun, and all theyawners yet to come; cautious--with the blood of Forest King lashing toboiling heat, and the wondrous greyhound stride stretching out fasterand faster beneath him, ready at a touch to break away and take thelead; but he would be reckless enough by and by; reckless, as his naturewas, under the indolent serenity of habit.
Two more fences came, laced high and stiff with the Shire thorn, andwith scarce twenty feet between them, the heavy plowed land leading tothem, clotted, and black, and hard, with the fresh earthy scent steamingup as the hoofs struck the clods with a dull thunder--Pas de Charge roseto the first: distressed too early, his hind feet caught in the thorn,and he came down, rolling clear of his rider; Montacute picked him upwith true science, but the day was lost to the Heavy Cavalry man. ForestKing went in and out over both like a bird and led for the first time;the chestnut was not to be beat at fencing and ran even with him; WildGeranium flew still as fleet as a deer--true to her sex, she would notbear rivalry; but little Grafton, though he rode like a professional,was but a young one, and went too wildly; her spirit wanted cooler curb.
And now only Cecil loosened the King to his full will and his fullspeed. Now only the beautiful Arab head was stretched like a racer's inthe run-in for the Derby, and the grand stride swept out till the hoofsseemed never to touch the dark earth they skimmed over; neither whipnor spur was needed, Bertie had only to leave the gallant temper and thegenerous fire that were roused in their might to go their way and holdtheir own. His hands were low, his head a little back, his face verycalm; the eyes only had a daring, eager, resolute will lighting them;Brixworth lay before him. He knew well what Forest King could do; but hedid not know how great the chestnut Regent's powers might be.
The water gleamed before them, brown and swollen, and deepened with themeltings of winter snows a month before; the brook that has brought somany to grief over its famous banks since cavaliers leaped it with theirfalcon on their wrist, or the mellow note of the horn rang over thewoods in the hunting days of Stuart reigns. They knew it well, that longline, shimmering there in the sunlight, the test that all must pass whogo in for the Soldiers' Blue Ribbon. Forest King scented water, andwent on with his ears pointed, and his greyhound stride lengthening,quickening, gathering up all its force and its impetus for the leap thatwas before--then, like the rise and the swoop of a heron, he spanned thewater, and, landing clear, launched forward with the lunge of a speardarted through air. Brixworth was passed--the Scarlet and White, a meregleam of bright color, a mere speck in the landscape, to the breathlesscrowds in the stand, sped on over the brown and level grassland; two anda quarter miles done in four minutes and twenty seconds. Bay Regentwas scarcely behind him; the chestnut abhorred the water, but a finertrained hunter was never sent over the Shires, and Jimmy Delmar rodelike Grimshaw himself. The giant took the leap in magnificent style,and thundered on neck and neck with the "Guards' Crack." The Irish marefollowed, and with miraculous gameness, landed safely; but her hind legsslipped on the bank, a moment was lost, and "Baby" Grafton scarce knewenough to recover it, though he scoured on, nothing daunted.
Pas de Charge, much behind, refused the yawner; his strength was notmore than his courage, but both had been strained too severely at first.Montacute struck the spurs into him with a savage blow over the head;the madness was its own punishment; the poor brute rose blindly to thejump, and missed the bank with a reel and a crash; Sir Eyre was hurledout into the brook, and the hope of the Heavies lay there with hisbreast and forelegs resting on the ground, his hindquarters in thewater, and his neck broken. Pas de Charge would never again see thestarting flag waved, or hear the music of the hounds, or feel thegallant life throb and glow through him at the rallying notes of thehorn. His race was run.
Not knowing, or looking, or heeding what happened behind, the trio toreon over the meadow and the plowed; the two favorites neck by neck, thegame little mare hopelessly behind through that one fatal moment overBrixworth. The turning-flags were passed; from the crowds on thecourse a great hoarse roar came louder and louder, and the shouts rang,changing every second: "Forest King wins!" "Bay Regent wins!" "Scarletand White's ahead!" "Violet's up with him!" "A cracker on the King!""Ten to one on the Regent!" "Guards are over the fence first!" "Guardsare winning!" "Guards are losing!" "Guards are beat!"
Were they?
As the shout rose, Cecil's left stirrup-leather snapped and gave way; atthe pace they were going most men, aye, and good riders too, would havebeen hurled out of their saddle by the shock; he scarcely swerved; amoment to ease the King and to recover his equilibrium, then he tookthe pace up again as though nothing had chanced. And his comrades of theHousehold, when they saw this through their race-glasses, broke throughtheir serenity and burst into a cheer that echoed over the grasslandsand the coppices like a clarion, the grand rich voice of the Seraphleading foremost and loudest--a cheer that rolled mellow and triumphantdown the cold, bright air like the blast of trumpets, and thrilled onBertie's ear where he came down the course, a mile away. It made hisheart beat quicker with a victorious, headlong delight, as his kneespressed close into Forest King's flanks, and, half stirrupless like theArabs, he thundered forward to the greatest riding feat of his life. Hisface was very calm still, but his blood was in tumult, the delirium ofpace had got on him, a minute of life like this was worth a year, and heknew that he would win or die for it, as the land seemed to fly like ablack sheet under him, and, in that killing speed, fence and hedge anddouble and water all went by him like a dream; whirling underneath himas the gray stretched, stomach to earth, over the level, and rose toleap after leap.
For that instant's pause, when the stirrup broke, threatened to lose himthe race.
He was more than a length behind the Regent, whose hoofs as they dashedthe ground up sounded like thunder, and for whose herculean strength theplow had no terrors; it was more than the lead to keep now, there wasground to cover--and the King was losing like Wild Geranium. Cecil feltdrunk with that strong, keen west wind that blew so strongly in histeeth, a passionate excitation was in him, every breath of winter airthat rushed in its bracing currents round him seemed to lash him like astripe--the Household to look on and see him beaten!
Certain wild blood, that lay latent in Cecil under the tranquilgentleness of temper and of custom, woke and had the mastery; he sethis teeth hard, and his hands clinched like steel on the bridle. "Oh,my beauty, my beauty!" he cried, all unconsciously half aloud, as theycleared the thirty-sixth fence. "Kill me if you like, but don't failme!"
As though Forest King heard the prayer and answered it with all hishero's heart, the splendid form launched faster out, the stretchingstride stretched farther yet with lightning spontaneity, every fiberstrained, every nerve struggled; with a magnificent bound like anantelope the gray recovered the ground he had lost, and passed BayRegent by a quarter-length. It was a neck-and-neck race o
nce more,across the three meadows with the last and lower fences that werebetween them and the final leap of all; that ditch of artificial waterwith the towering double hedge of oak rails and of blackthorn, that wasreared black and grim and well-nigh hopeless just in front of the GrandStand. A roar like the roar of the sea broke up from the thronged courseas the crowd hung breathless on the even race; ten thousand shouts rangas thrice ten thousand eyes watched the closing contest, as superb asight as the Shires ever saw; while the two ran together--the giganticchestnut, with every massive sinew swelled and strained to tension,side by side with the marvelous grace, the shining flanks, and theArabian-like head of the Guards' horse.
Louder and wilder the shrieked tumult rose: "The chestnut beats!" "Thegray beats!" "Scarlet's ahead!" "Bay Regent's caught him!" "Violet'swinning, Violet's wining!" "The King's neck by neck!" "The King'sbeating!" "The Guards will get it!" "The Guard's crack has it!" "Notyet, not yet!" "Violet will thrash him at the jump!" "Now for it!" "TheGuards, the Guards, the Guards!" "Scarlet will win!" "The King has thefinish!" "No, no, no, no!"
Sent along at a pace that Epsom flat never eclipsed, sweeping by theGrand Stand like the flash of electric flame, they ran side to side onemoment more; their foam flung on each other's withers, their breathhot in each other's nostrils, while the dark earth flew beneath theirstride. The blackthorn was in front behind five bars of solid oak; thewater yawning on its farther side, black and deep and fenced, twelvefeet wide if it were an inch, with the same thorn wall beyond it; aleap no horse should have been given, no Steward should have set. Cecilpressed his knees closer and closer, and worked the gallant hero for thetest; the surging roar of the throng, though so close, was dull on hisear; he heard nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing but that lean chestnuthead beside him, the dull thud on the turf of the flying gallop, and theblack wall that reared in his face. Forest King had done so much, couldhe have stay and strength for this?
Cecil's hands clinched unconsciously on the bridle, and his face wasvery pale--pale with excitation--as his foot, where the stirrup wasbroken, crushed closer and harder against the gray's flanks.
"Oh, my darling, my beauty--now!"
One touch of the spur--the first--and Forest King rose at the leap, allthe life and power there were in him gathered for one superhuman andcrowning effort; a flash of time, not half a second in duration, and hewas lifted in the air higher, and higher, and higher in the cold, fresh,wild winter wind, stakes and rails, and thorn and water lay beneath himblack and gaunt and shapeless, yawning like a grave; one bound, even inmid-air, one last convulsive impulse of the gathered limbs, and ForestKing was over!
And as he galloped up the straight run-in, he was alone.
Bay Regent had refused the leap.
As the gray swept to the Judge's chair, the air was rent with deafeningcheers that seemed to reel like drunken shouts from the multitude."The Guards win, the Guards win!" and when his rider pulled up at thedistance with the full sun shining on the scarlet and white, with thegold glisten of the embroidered "Coeur Vaillant se fait Royaume," ForestKing stood in all his glory, winner of the Soldiers' Blue Ribbon, by afeat without its parallel in all the annals of the Gold Vase.