May your sins be forgiven you! cried Chesterfield, the apostle of training, as he and the Seraph came up to the table where Cecil and Cos Wentworth were breakfasting in the garden of the Stephanien on the race-day itself. Liqueurs, truffles, and every devilment under the sun?cold beef, and nothing to drink, Beauty, if youve any conscience left!
Never had a grain, dear boy, since I can remember, murmured Bertie apologetically. You took all the rawness off me at Eton.
And youve been taking coffee in bed, Ill swear! pursued the cross-examiner.
What if he have? Beautys condition cant be upset by a little mocha, nor mine either, said his universal defender; and the Seraph shook his splendid limbs with a very pardonable vanity.
Ruteroth trains; Ruteroth trains awfully, put in Cos Wentworth, looking up out of a great silver flagon of Badminton, with which he was ending his breakfast; and referring to that Austrian who was to ride the Paris favorite. Remember him at La Marche last year, and the racing at Vincennesdidnt take a thing that could make fleshmuscles like iron, you knownever touched a soda even
Ive trained, too, said Bertie submissively; look how Ive been waltzing! There isnt harder work than that for any fellow. A deuxtemps with the Duchess takes it out of you like any spin over the flat.
His censurers laughed, but did not give in their point.
Youve run shocking risks, Beauty, said Chesterfield; the Kings in fine running-form; dont say he isnt; but youve said scores of times what a deal of riding he takes. Now, can you tell us yourself that youre in as hard condition as you were when you won the Military, eh?
Cecil shook his head with a sigh.
I dont think I am; Ive had things to try me, you see. There was that Verschoyles proposal. I did absolutely think at one time shed marry me before I could protest against it! Then there was that shock to ones whole nervous system, when that indigo man, who took Lady Lauras house, asked us to dinner, and actually thought we should go!and there was a scene, you know, of all earthly horrors, when Mrs. Gervase was so near eloping with me, and Gervase cut up rough, instead of pitying me; and then the field-days were so many, and so late into the season; and I exhausted myself so at the Belvoir theatricals at Easter; and I toiled so atrociously playing Almaviva at your place, Serapha private operas galley slaves work!and, altogether, Ive had a good many things to pull me down since the winter, concluded Bertie, with a plaintive self-condolence over his truffles.
The rest of his condemning judges laughed, and passed the plea of sympathy; the Coldstreamer alone remained censorious and untouched.
Pull you down! Youll never pull off the race if you sit drinking liqueurs all the morning! growled that censor. Look at that!
Bertie glanced at the London telegram tossed across to him, sent from a private and confidential agent.
Betting heretwo to one on LEtoile; Irish Roan offered and taken freely. Slight decline in closing prices for the King; getting on French bay rather heavily at midnight. Fancy theres a commission out against the King. Looks suspicious. Cecil shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows a little.
All the better for us. Take all theyll lay against me. Its as good as our having a Commission out; and if any cads get one against us it cant mean mischief, as it would with professional jocks.
Are you so sure of yourself, Beauty?
Beauty shook his head repudiatingly.
Never am sure of anything, much less of myself. Im a chameleon, a perfect chameleon!
Are you so sure of the King, then?
My dear fellow, no! I ask you in reason, how can I be sure of what isnt proved? Im like that country fellow the old story tells of; he believed in fifteen shillings because hed once had it in his hand; others, hed heard, believed in a pound; but, for his part, he didnt, because hed never seen it. Now that was a man whod never commit himself; he might had had the Exchequer! Im the same; I believe the King can win at a good many things because Ive seen him do em; but I cant possibly tell whether he can get this, because Ive never ridden him for it. I shall be able to tell you at three oclockbut that you dont care for
And Bertie, exhausted with making such a lengthened expositionthe speeches he preferred were monosyllabiccompleted his sins against training with a long draught of claret-cup.
Then what the devil do you mean by telling us to pile our pots on you? asked the outraged Coldstreamer, with natural wrath.
Faith is a beautiful sight! said Bertie, with solemnity.
Offered on the altar of the Jews! laughed the Seraph, as he turned him away from the breakfast table by the shoulders. Thanks, Beauty; Ive four figures on you, and youll be good enough to win them for me. Lets have a look at the King. They are just going to walk him over.
Cecil complied; while he lounged away with the others to the stables, with a face of the most calm, gentle, weary indifference in the world, the thought crossed him for a second of how very near he was to the wind. The figures in his betting-book were to the tune of several thousands, one way or another. If he won this morning it would be all right, of course; if he losteven Beauty, odd mixture of devil-may-care and languor though he was, felt his lips grow, for the moment, hot and cold by turns as he thought of that possible contingency.
The King looked in splendid condition; he knew well enough what was up again, knew what was meant by that extra sedulous dressing-down, that setting muzzle that had been buckled on him some nights previous, the limitation put to his drink, the careful trial spins in the gray of the mornings, the conclusive examination of his plates by a skillful hand; he knew what was required of him, and a horse in nobler condition never stepped out in body clothing, as he was ridden slowly down on to the plains of Iffesheim. The Austrian Dragoon, a Count and a Chamberlain likewise, who was to ride his only possible rival, the French horse LEtoile, pulled his tawny silken mustaches as he saw the great English hero come up the course, and muttered to himself, Laffaire est finie. LEtoile was a brilliant enough bay in his fashion, but Count Ruteroth knew the measure of his pace and powers too thoroughly to expect him to live against the strides of the Guards gray.
My beauty, wont you cut those German fellows down! muttered Rake, the enthusiast, in the saddling inclosure. As for those fools what go agin you, youll put them in a hole, and no mistake. French horse, indeed! Why, youll spread-eagle all them Mossoos and Meinherrs cattle in a brace of seconds
Rakes foe, the head groom, caught him up savagely.
Wont you never learn decent breeding? When we wins we wins on the quiet, and when we loses we loses as if we liked it; all that braying, and flaunting, and boasting is only fit for cads. The oss is in tip-top condition; let him show what he can do over furren ground.
Lucky for him, then, that he hasnt got you across the pigskin; youd rope him, I believe, as soon as look at him, if it was made worth your while, retorted Rake, in caustic wrath; his science of repartee chiefly lay in a successful plant, and he was here uncomfortably conscious that his opponent was in the right of the argument, as he started through the throng to put his master into the shell of the Shire-famous scarlet and white.
Tip-top condition, my boytip-top, and no mistake, murmured Mr. Willon for the edification of those around them as the saddle-girths were buckled on, and the Guards Crack stood the cynosure of every eye at Iffesheim.
Then, in his capacity as head attendant on the hero, he directed the exercise bridle to be taken off, and with his own hands adjusted a new and handsome one, slung across his arm.
Tis amost a pity. Tis amost a pity, thought the worthy, as he put the curb on the King; but I shouldnt have been haggravated with that hinsolent soldiering chap. There, my boy! if youll win with a painted quid, Im a Dutchman.
Forest King champed his bit between his teeth a little; it tasted bitter; he tossed his head and licked it with his tongue impatiently; the taste had got down his throat and he did not like its flavor; he turned his deep, lustrous eyes with a gentle patience on the crowd about him, as though asking them what was the matter with him. No one moved his bit; the only person who could have had such authority was busily giving the last polish to his coat with a fine handkerchiefthat glossy neck which had been so dusted many a time with the cobweb coronet-broidered handkerchiefs of great ladiesand his instincts, glorious as they were, were not wise enough to tell him to kick his head groom down, then and there, with one mortal blow, as his poisoner and betrayer.
The King chafed under the taste of that painted quid; he felt a nausea as he swallowed, and he turned his handsome head with a strange, pathetic astonishment in his glance. At that moment a familiar hand stroked his mane, a familiar foot was put into his stirrup, Bertie threw himself into saddle; the lightest weight that ever gentleman-rider rode, despite his six-foot length of limb. The King, at the well-known touch, the well-loved voice, pricked his delicate ears, quivered in all his frame with eager excitation, snuffed the air restlessly through his distended nostrils, and felt every vein under his satin skin thrill and swell with pleasure; he was all impatience, all power, all longing, vivid intensity of life. If only that nausea would go! He felt a restless sickliness stealing on him that his young and gallant strength had never known since he was foaled. But it was not in the King to yield to a little; he flung his head up, champing angrily at the bit, then walked down to the starting-post with his old calm, collected grace; and Cecil, looking at the glossy bow of the neck, and feeling the width of the magnificent ribs beneath him, stooped from his saddle a second as he rode out of the inclosure and bent to the Seraph.
Look at him, Rock! The things as good as won.
The day was very warm and brilliant; all Baden had come down to the race-course; continuous strings of carriages, with their four or six horses and postilions, held the line far down over the plains; mob there was none, save of women in matchless toilets, and men with the highest names in the Almanac de Gotha; the sun shone cloudlessly on the broad, green plateau of Iffesheim, on the white amphitheater of chalk hills, and on the glittering, silken folds of the flags of England, France, Prussia, and of the Grand Duchy itself, that floated from the summits of the Grand Stand, Pavilion, and Jockey Club.
The ladies, descending from the carriages, swept up and down on the green course that was so free from cads and legs; their magnificent skirts trailing along without the risk of a grain of dust; their costly laces side by side with the Austrian uniforms of the military men from Rastadt. The betting was but slight, in odd contrast with the hubbub and striking clamor of English betting rings; the only approach to anything like real business being transacted between the members of the Household and those of the Jockey Clubs. Iffesheim was pure pleasure, like every other item of Baden existence, and all aristocratic, sparkling, rich, amusement-seeking Europe seemed gathered there under the sunny skies, and on everyones lips in the titled throng was but one nameForest Kings. Even the coquettish bouquet-sellers, who remembered the dresses of his own colors which Cecil had given them last year when he had won the Rastadt, would sell nothing except little twin scarlet and white moss rosebuds; of which thousands were gathered and died that morning in honor of the English Guards champion.
A slender event usually, the presence of the renowned crack of the Household Cavalry made the Prix de Dames the most eagerly watched-for entry on the card; and the rest of the field were scarcely noticed as the well-known gold-embroidered jacket came up at the starting-post.
The King saw that blaze of light and color over course and stands that he knew so well by this time; he felt the pressure round him of his foreign rivals as they reared and pulled and fretted and passaged; the old longing quivered in all his eager limbs, the old fire wakened in all his dauntless blood; like the charger at sound of the trumpet-call, he lived in his past victories, and was athirst for more. But yetbetween him and the sunny morning there seemed a dim, hazy screen; on his delicate ear the familiar clangor smote with something dulled and strange; there seemed a numbness stealing down his frame; he shook his head in an unusual and irritated impatience; he did not know what ailed him. The hand he loved so loyally told him the work that was wanted of him; but he felt its guidance dully too, and the dry, hard, hot earth, as he struck it with his hoof, seemed to sway and heave beneath him; the opiate had stolen into his veins and was creeping stealthily and surely to the sagacious brain, and over the clear, bright senses.
The signal for the start was given; the first mad headlong rush broke away with the force of a pent-up torrent suddenly loosened; every instinct of race and custom, and of that obedience which rendered him flexible as silk to his riders will, sent him forward with that stride which made the Guards Crack a household word in all the Shires. For a moment he shook himself clear of all the horses, and led off in the old grand sweeping canter before the French bay, three lengths in the one single effort.
Then into his eyes a terrible look of anguish came; the numb and sickly nausea was upon him, his legs trembled, before his sight was a blurred, whirling mist; all the strength and force and mighty life within him felt ebbing out, yet he struggled bravely. He strained, he panted, he heard the thundering thud of the first flight gaining nearer and nearer upon him; he felt his rivals closing hotter and harder in on him; he felt the steam of his opponents smoking, foam-dashed withers burn on his own flanks and shoulders; he felt the maddening pressure of a neck-to-neck struggle; he felt what in all his victorious life he had never knownthe paralysis of defeat.
The glittering throngs spreading over the plains gazed at him in the sheer stupor of amazement; they saw that the famous English hero was dead-beat as any used-up knacker.
One second more he strove to wrench himself through the throng of the horses, through the headlong crushing press, throughworst foe of all!the misty darkness curtaining his sight! One second more he tried to wrestle back the old life into his limbs, the unworn power and freshness into nerve and sinew. Then the darkness fell utterly; the mighty heart failed; he could do no moreand his riders hand slackened and turned him gently backward; his riders voice sounded very low and quiet to those who, seeing that every effort was hopeless, surged and clustered round his saddle.
Something ails the King, said Cecil calmly; he is fairly knocked off his legs. Some Vet must look to him; ridden a yard farther he will fall.