CHAPTER LIX.--DESCRIBES THAT INDESCRIBABLE SCENE, “THE DERBY DAY.

“Fair laughed the morn, and soft the zephyr played,” as Lord Bellefield, having held an interview with his trainer, which had served in great measure to set his mind at ease, cantered back to the inn at Epsom, shaved the small portion of his chin which he saw fit to denude of hair, made an elaborate toilet in the best style of sporting dandyism, and then lounged down to breakfast, of which meal he had invited some dozen of his intimates to partake. Amongst the last comers was a tall, dark-whiskered man, who might be two or three years Lord Bellefield’s senior. Pointing to a seat on his right hand, his entertainer began--

“Well, Philips, how is it with you this morning? You’ve been wandering about as usual, picking up the latest news, I suppose? what say the prophets?”

“There is nothing original hazarded, my lord,” was the reply.

“Oracle is as much in favour as ever; Phosphorus is looking up slightly, and the Tartuffe party are backing their horse to a high figure; they seem to be in earnest, and mean to win if they can.”

“Ay, if they can,” returned Lord Bellefield, smiling ironically; “I confess, for my own part, I do not see that animal’s good points.”

“He has wonderful power in the loins, and his deep girth gives plenty of room for the lungs to play; no fear of ‘bellows to mend’ in that quarter,” was the reply.

“Very excellent points in a hunter or steeplechase horse, but misplaced in a racer, and by no means calculated to make up for a want of fleetness. Tartuffe, in my opinion, has not the true racehorse stride, as Austerlitz will find to his cost, if he really is laying money on him.”

“He may not cover so much ground in his stride as Oracle, but he is unusually quick in his gallop, and takes two strokes while another horse is taking one. Still black and yellow (Lord Bellefield’s colours) will give him the go-by, and that is all _we_ have to look to,” was the reply.

In converse such as this, diversified by the interchange of bets of more or less magnitude, the breakfast (if a meal consisting of every delicacy that could please the palate or pamper the appetite, including meats, fish, etc., etc., can be legitimately so called) passed off. When liqueurs had been handed round, Lord Bellefield’s drag was announced, and the company dispersed, first to admire and criticise the turn-out, and then to dispose of themselves on and about it. The equipage was in perfect taste, and although not so showy as many others on which less care had been bestowed, or money expended, yet the drag, with its panels of the darkest possible cinnamon brown, picked out with a lighter shade of the same colour; the four blood bays, faultless in symmetry; the two outriders on horses so exactly matching those in harness, that any one unaccustomed to such matters might have been puzzled to conjecture how the grooms could distinguish one from another; the harness perfectly free from ornament of any kind, save black and yellow rosettes in the horses’ heads; the two grooms in dark, well-fitting, pepper-and-salt liveries, and irreproachable top-boots and leathers; the coronet on the doors, the cockades in the hats; every trifle down to the gold-mounted whip-handle, excellent of its kind, and in harmonious keeping with the whole, presented to the eye of a connoisseur a _tout ensemble_ calculated to excite his highest admiration.

Seating himself firmly on his box, and controlling his fiery horses with an easy confidence which proved him a skilful whip, Lord Belle-field drove to the Downs, apparently impassable obstacles seeming to melt before him as if by magic (one of the surest tests of a good coachman), and arrived on the course exactly at the “correct” moment. As he drew up to take his place by the ropes, a showy britska, drawn by four splendid greys, the postilions’ bright green jackets and velvet caps blazing with gold, dashed in before him. The carriage contained two persons--a singularly handsome young man with a foreign cast of features, and a girl with black, flashing eyes and a brilliant complexion, dressed not only in, but considerably beyond the height of the fashion. These were the Duc d’Austerlitz and Mademoiselle Angélique, the fascinating_ danseuse_.

As Lord Bellefield, with curling lip, passed them to take up his station farther on, the Frenchman, catching his eye, nodded carelessly, and turning to his companion said a few words in a low tone, and they both laughed. Had Lord Bellefield been living at a period when the state of society allowed the hand to act out the feelings of the heart, he would at that moment have sprung upon the Due d’Austerlitz, and seizing him by the throat, have held on remorselessly till life became extinct. As it was, he merely returned the nod by a bow, smiled, kissed the tips of his gloves to Angélique, and drove on; so that, after all, civilisation has its advantages.

Having chosen his station, the bays were unharnessed and led away, and a mounted groom approached, leading his master’s hack.

“I am going down to the ring, and then to the Warren, to see them saddle,” began Lord Bellefield, “so I must leave you to take care of yourselves; but any one disposed for luncheon will find something to that effect going on here after the race. If I am not back, Robson will take good care of you.” So saying, he gave an order to one of the servants, who remained with the drag, then, mounting his horse, cantered away.

“He carries it off boldly enough, but they say if he loses the race he is a ruined man,” observed one of the _friends_ he had left behind him.

“Oh, Lord Ashford will clear him,” remarked another; “his grandfather was one of the leading counsel of the day, and the old boy feathered his nest well before he gave up his wig and gown. He was one of the old school of lawyers, and worked in the days when a barrister’s professional income was a great fact, whereas now it is a great fiction.”

“Come, Briefless, no grumbling; back Oracle for a cool £500, and then you may cut chambers till the season’s over. But you are wrong about Bellefield. Lord Ashford has paid his debts three times, and has taken an oath on the family Bible never to do so again; but I don’t believe Bellefield’s anything like hard-up. You know he won £30,000 of poor Mellerton before he blew his brains out. Here’s Philips can tell us all about it; eh, what do you say, man?”

“Nothing,” was the cautious reply; “and I would not recommend you to let Bellefield find out exactly all you’ve been mentioning, my dear Chatterby; I’ve known him shoot a man for less.” So saying, Mr. Philips joined in the laugh he had raised against the voluble Chatterby, and then swinging himself down from the box, left them in order to take his place in the betting ring.

We must now change the venue to the Warren, a small but picturesque spot of ground encircled by a wall, within which enclosure the horses for the Derby and Oaks are saddled and mounted. Here jockeys and gentlemen, lords, blacklegs, trainers, and pickpockets, mix and jostle with one another indiscriminately. Assuredly Epsom, on the Derby day, in exclusive, aristocratic England, is the only true Utopia wherein those chimeras of French folly, Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, exist and prosper. Let the reader imagine from twenty to five-and-twenty blood-horses, each led by its attendant groom and followed by an anxious trainer, while the jockey who is to ride it, and on whose skill and courage thousands of pounds are depending, carefully inspects the buckling of girths, regulates the length of stirrup-leathers, and as far as human foresight will permit, provides against any accident which may embarrass him in the coming struggle. Then the horse-clothing is removed, and the shining coat and carefully-plaited mane of the racehorse are revealed to the eyes of the admiring spectators; an attendant satellite at the same moment assists the jockey to divest himself of his greatcoat, and he emerges from his chrysalis state in all the butterfly splendour of racing dandyism. Then the trainer, or the satellite before alluded to, “gives him a leg up,” and with this slight assistance he vaults lightly into the saddle and becomes as it were incorporate with the animal he bestrides. Quietly gathering up the reins, he presses his cap firmly on his head, slants the point of his whip towards the right flank, exchanges a few last words with the trainer, and then walks his horse up and down till his competitors are all equally prepared. On this occasion the cynosure of every eye was the first favourite, Oracle, and when his clothing was removed, and one of the cleverest jockeys of the day seated gracefully on his back, he certainly did look, to quote the enthusiastic language of his trainer, “a reg’lur pictur,” the perfection of a racehorse. Turnbull’s last words to the jockey were--

“Save him as much as you safely can till the distance, and if the pace has been anything like reasonable, it will be your own fault if the race is not your own.”

A slight contraction of the eyelid proved that the advice was understood and appreciated, and man and horse passed on.

“How is it Tartuffe does not show?” inquired Lord Bellefield of Turnbull in a whisper. “The dose can’t have been given too strong, eh?”

“No fear of that, my lud,” was the reply; “but they’ve probably discovered ere this that there is a screw loose somewhere, and they will keep him out of sight as long as they can, lest other people should become as wise as they are themselves.”

As he spoke the object of his remarks appeared; his rider was already mounted, and the horse-clothing removed. Tartuffe was a complete contrast to his rival in appearance. The Dodona Colt was a bright bay, with black mane, tail, and legs; his head was small, almost to a fault, and shaped like that of a deer, his neck longer and more arched than is usually the case in thorough-bred horses; while his graceful, slender limbs seemed to embody the very ideal of swiftness. Tartuffe was altogether a smaller and more compact animal, his colour a rich, dark chestnut, his head larger in proportion, and so placed on as to give him the appearance of being slightly ewe-necked, his forelegs were shorter, and the arm more muscular than those of his graceful rival; but the sloping shoulder, the depth of the girth, the breadth and unusual muscular development of the loins and haunches, together with a quick, springy step and a general compactness of form, afforded to the practised eye evidence of his possessing very uncommon powers both of speed and endurance.

“He looks fresh and lively enough,” remarked Lord Bellefield, after observing the horse narrowly. “What do you think about it?”

“It’s all right, my lud,” was Turnbull’s confident answer; “things speaks for themselves, the ’orse ain’t allowed to show till the last minute, and then he comes out with his jockey ready mounted. Now the logic of that dodge lies in a nutshell: finding the hanimal sleepy and out of sorts, they keeps him snug till they’re forced to purduce him, and then shows him with the jockey on him, when a touch with the spur and a pull or two at his mouth with a sharp bit makes him look alive again.” Approaching his lips almost to his employer’s ear, he continued, “Do you see that patch of black grease on his nose? that’s where the twitch has cut him. Beverley was obliged to twitch him to give him the ball--so now your ludship may bet away without any fear of Tartuffe,” and exchanging a significant glance, this well-matched pair parted.

“Ah! Bellefield, _mon cher!_ how lovely your colt looks this morning--I suppose he is to win; for myself I am preparing to be martyrised with a resignation the most touching,” and as he spoke Armand Duc d’Austerlitz stroked his silky moustaches and admired his glossy boot with an air of the most innocently graceful self-satisfaction possible.

“You don’t really believe that which you say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied Lord Bellefield; “I never saw a horse in better racing condition than Tartuffe.”

“Ah! _c’est un bon petit cheval_, and I have betted, ah!--bah!--I cannot tell you what sums of money upon him, more than half my estates in Languedoc; positively I shall have to go through what you call the Bench of your Queen, if I lose.”

“In that case it is useless for me to inquire whether you are disposed to back Tartuffe against my bay colt,” insinuated Lord Bellefield.

“No, not if you have a fancy that way, _mon cher ami_,” replied Armand, smiling to show his white teeth; “what shall we say?--an even bet of £3000 shall it be, or £5000?”

“Five is the more comfortable sum of the two,” returned Lord Bellefield quickly. “I always like to bet fives or tens; it simplifies one’s book amazingly, and I never had a taste for intricate arithmetic.”

“_Comme il vous plaira_--say ten, if you like it better.” And as he spoke Armand drew out a miniature betting-book and a gold pencil-case blazing with jewels. Lord Bellefield paused for a moment; certain as he believed himself to be of the race, it was a great temptation. But, on the other hand, if he appeared too eager, might not suspicion attach to him in the event of any clue being gained to the poisoning affair? The idea was so alarming to him that prudence overcame avarice.

“I have unfortunately no estates in Languedoc,” he said laughingly; “and thousands are not so entirely a matter of indifference to me as to your Grace; so we will book the bet at five.”

The wager was accordingly so entered; and with friendly smiles and courteous words upon their lips these two men parted, one hating the successful rival, the other despising the detected swindler! Alas! for the shams and deceptions of society! pasteboard and tinsel are more real than its hollow-hearted seemings.

“Now you see your game,” were Slangsby’s last words to the jockey who was to ride Tartuffe. “Make running early in the race, so as to render the pace as severe as possible throughout: your horse will live to the end, and theirs won’t; but if he is not well blown before he gets to the distance, it will be a very close thing, and the length of his stride may beat you.”

“I’m awake,” was the concise reply; but Slangsby was quite satisfied therewith.

Racing may be very cruel, and it may lead to gambling and various other immoralities, major and minor; and being thus proved contrary to the precepts of Christianity, good people may be quite right in using their best efforts to discourage it. Nevertheless, it is a manly and exciting sport; and although the evils to which we have alluded may (and, we fear, do) attend it, we cannot see that the amusement in itself necessitates them. On the contrary, we conceive that they are added to it by the proneness to evil inherent in human nature, rather than as the natural consequence of the sport itself. However this may be, a finer sight than the start for the Derby we cannot easily imagine. Let the reader picture to himself some twenty three-year-old colts, their proud, expanded nostrils snuffing the wind, and their glossy coats glistening in the sunshine, ridden by the crack jockeys of England, and therefore of the world, drawn up in a line, preparatory to starting; let him reflect, in order fully to realise the earnest nature of the scene, that on the fact of which may prove the better horse depend many thousands--perhaps, in the aggregate, more than a million of pounds sterling; that the ruin of hundreds may be involved in the event of the race; that on the chances of that whirlwind course have been expended the anxious thought, the careful calculation of days and weeks and months; that the weighing and reducing these calculations to a theoretic system, by which some certainty may be attained, is the business of many men’s lives,--and he will then have some faint idea of the deep, overpowering interest that is excited by witnessing the start for the Derby.

On the occasion which we are describing two false starts occurred. Twice as the word “Go!” was pronounced by the stentorian lungs of the starter did one queer-tempered animal choose pertinaciously to turn its tail where its head should have been; and twice did the same “voice of power” vociferate the command “Come back!” and deep, if not loud, were the anathemas breathed by those jockeys who, having manoeuvred themselves into a good position, had contrived to “get away” well. However, “ ’tis an ill wind which blows good to nobody;” and these delays, annoying as they were to most of the parties concerned, were as much in favour of the supporters of Oracle as they were prejudicial to the interests of those who had backed Tartuffe.

Oracle, amongst other gifts of fortune, chanced to be blessed with a most amiable and placid temper, while Tartuffe, not possessing so philosophical a turn of mind, was apt to get excited in a crowd, and the first false start completely unsettling him, he availed himself of the second to bolt half-way to Tattenham Corner before his rider could pull him in; and even when that feat was accomplished he showed a decided preference for using his hind-legs only in progression on his return to the starting-post; by his riotous and unmanageable conduct taking a great deal more out of himself than was by any means prudent.

Once more, however, they are all in their places--the word is again given, and they are off--Tartuffe springing away with a bound like that of a lion, and half dislocating his rider’s arms by a furious effort to “get his head.” As it happened that there were two or three other “queer” tempered horses besides that of the Duc d’Austerlitz which required careful handling, the pace at first was by no means so “good” as Slangsby had wished it to be; nor could the jockey riding Tartuffe venture to improve it, for two reasons: in the first place, his horse was so excited that it required all his skill to prevent his running away with him; in the second, his former attempt to bolt had sufficed to puff him, and he required “saving” to enable him to regain wind. In the meantime Oracle was going sweetly and easily, keeping up with his horses in what appeared scarcely beyond a canter. When past the “Corner,” however, Tartuffe had decidedly improved, and his rider, remembering his instructions, began to make play. As the pace increased, the “first flight” became considerably more select, the “tender-hearted” ones gradually dropping in the rear.

Up to this point Phosphorus had been leading, followed by Advance, Whisker, The Lynx, Gossip, and Challenger; but down the next slope Tartuffe came up, passed the other horses, and after running neck to neck with Phosphorus for about a quarter of a mile, took the lead, and kept it by about half a length, Oracle lying well up on the near side. This order they preserved till near the distance, when Lynx and Challenger put on the steam to dispute the leadership with Tartuffe, who appeared by no means disposed to relinquish the post of honour, and the pace grew decidedly severe, in spite of which Oracle continued insensibly to creep up to the others.

At the distance Lynx found it “no go,” and fell back beaten; Gossip taking his place, closely waited on by Phosphorus and Oracle; a few strides more, in which Oracle improved his position, and then the final struggle begins, whips and spurs go to work in earnest--the pace is actually terrific--Gossip shuts up, Phosphorus is extinguished, Oracle and Tartuffe run neck and neck, dust flies, handkerchiefs wave, the spectators shout, when, just at the critical moment, the Frenchman’s horse shoots forward, as if propelled by some invisible power, the favourite is beaten by rather more than a head, and Tartuffe remains winner of the Derby.