by Ann Bridge
“Friday and Saturday, the 7th and 8th of May, being the occasion of the Spring Meeting of the Peking Race Club, the bank will be closed on those days.”
As she stood at the counter to cash her cheque, still staring, enthralled, at this remarkable pronouncement, Mulholland came over to her. “Hullo! how is he?” he asked.
“He” could only mean one creature.
“He looked very spry and jolly this morning,” the girl answered. “Li is rather braced about him. I say, Billy, what is this?” She indicated the nearest notice.
“That? What about it?” said Mulholland, surprised.
“You don’t mean to say the whole Bank shuts for a day and a half, just for a race-meeting?”
“Of course—always. Obviously! I’m riding, and so are Reggie and Nobby, and the T’ai-pans always go out. And no one would come here anyhow. How much, Madam?” said Billy gaily.
“I suppose I’d better have three hundred,” said Amber rather gloomily—and took her money and went.
In Peking, where up-to-date clothes are unobtainable, the best-dressed women are always the newest arrivals. This time, therefore, Amber was perforce denied that small extra reassurance which she had derived at last year’s races from being ideally dressed. She had had the parchment frock tinted a pale green, and it looked very nice—but she experienced a faint dissatisfaction with it when in the enclosure she encountered Daphne Boggit, her yellow fairness emphasised by a white tailor-made, manifestly Paris, and du dernier bateau. She had too many other preoccupations to think long about it—it just took that final edge off her general sense of satisfaction about the day before her: of really having a pony running in the Maidens, and of being about to see quite a lot of Rupert, and get everything happy again. Rupert had been booked for luncheon in the Ministerial p’eng, but lunch was no good for talking anyhow; there would be heaps of opportunities beside that. He would want—even Rupert, today, must want to come to the paddock, and see Ginger, who was after all to run in the big race. (“Gin can’t win, and Ginger might, if he’s in form—so we lose nothing by letting him try,” Joe had said.) And this year, more than ever, Rupert would be watching the race with her, she thought, as she stood soon after her arrival by the rails, looking out over the course. As last year, kestrels cried overhead, and shafts of light made blue dusty caves in the silvery green of the willows—how well she remembered standing there with Rupert then; and her sense of security returning with the memory of what lay between, she thought—Today will be lovelier still!
Joe joined her as she stood, her eyes ranging over the enclosure, seeking Rupert. Siege or no siege, the Legations seemed to have closed down almost as completely as the banks. Sir James was there, splendid in a new white top-hat; the German Minister was getting a tip from Rothstein, the French and Italian Big Envoys had their heads together over a race-card, though, as Joe observed, they were more probably discussing the prestige of la race latine than bets. At intervals the noise of guns bumped across the conversation—no longer a faint vibration, but a heavy definite booming. But no one appeared to pay the least attention to them. People came up and greeted her, with enquiries about her pony. “Going to beat your Uncle, Miss Harrison?” Shaw enquired, with a knowing look. Amber hoped so. “Well, Mademoiselle, are we to bet on your Finance Minister? He has a rich sound,” Sir James enquired. “Yes, do, Sir James, and bring me luck.” But still there was no sign of Rupert.
Ah, there he was, coming in now. “I must put something on for the Urga Plate,” she said, to excuse her movement, and walked across towards the pari-mutuel to intercept Rupert. She was herself, however, intercepted by Mrs. Boggit, within a yard of where Daphne stood, and so witnessed their meeting. “Hullo, Daphne! You look rather marvellous in white.” He said “Hullo” to Amber too, when he noticed her, but said nothing about her dress, and went on talking to Daphne. Amber went and put ten dollars on a pony of Rothstein’s, still accompanied by Mrs. Boggit; she remembered how last year she and Rupert had made every bet together, and a little chill of disappointment crept over her.
Joe now summoned her to come to the paddock. Mrs. Boggit expressed a great desire to come too, and they moved off together. As they passed Rupert and Daphne—“Daphne, Miss Harrison is very kindly taking me to see her griffins,” the lady said. “I hear they are marvellous. I think a beautiful horse—Good morning, Mr. Benenden!—is one of the most moving things in creation, Miss Harrison; I have always been a passionate lover of horses.”
“Are you coming, Rupert?” Amber said—the question was almost forced out of her by the chill at her heart, born of something in Rupert’s look and tone—a look almost of obedience—as he spoke to his companion.
“Yes, rather—in a moment—don’t wait for me,” he said. “Do you care to come and look at them, Daph?” he asked, as Amber moved away. The girl heard her distinct—“Not in the least—horses bore me to tears,” as she followed Joe and Mrs. Boggit through the crowd.
Down under the willows in the paddock the ponies for the Maiden Plate were being led round in a ring, Ginger among them. Amber watched them with a mixture of emotions. Her natural pride and excitement and pleasure at the sight of her own pony, at the favourable comments which he aroused, were all mixed in with an impatient distressful wonder about Rupert. Surely he wouldn’t not come and look at her pony with her, just because that girl didn’t want to? But if he didn’t come soon he would be too late, she said to herself, glancing at her watch. Oh, today was not going at all as she had expected!—and something burned and thickened in her throat as she remembered her happy hopes. Passionately the surface of her mind argued that it was nothing, his lingering with Daphne, the way he spoke to her, looked at her—but deep within her a voice that would not be silenced cried that all was somehow lost, and disaster upon her.
“Well, now for it!” said a voice beside her. It was Mulholland, a little pale, taut and nervous, come back from weighing-in, and prepared to mount. Instantly Amber forgot her own troubles. “Billy, don’t worry!” she said warmly. She gave him her hand. “The best of luck.”
“You know I’ll do it if I can,” said Mulholland, eyeing her ardently.
She watched the race from the lower part of the stand—but with Joe, not Rupert. In a burst of desperate recklessness she had put two hundred dollars on her own horse—let it be all or nothing! Rupert had not come down to the paddock—she could see his head now, a few seats away, turned constantly towards a white figure beside him. But she had no eyes for anything else when she saw the Ginger Griffin pass up to the starting-point, her own orange racing-colours matching his flaming coat. He was cantering quietly, apparently in a good mood—when they took up their positions she saw that Mulholland had drawn a fair place, third from the rails. Now they were off; clear, thank goodness! Down past the stand in a racing thunder of hoofs they came; Mulholland was giving the horse his head, but whether to get the rails or in order not to upset him she could not tell; actually Ginger was leading by half a length from St. Jean, who lay next. Now, as they swept round the curve by the paddock, Mulholland got the rails fairly, and St. Jean dropped back a length. If Ginger could stay the pace——! Her race-glasses to her eyes, she looked apprehensively in the following bunch of ponies for Rothstein’s pale blue—yes, there was Roberts, nursing Fine Champagne, no doubt, for a spurt like that which brought Crème de Cacao in first last year. Oh, Billy was mad to have started so fast, she thought, as they streamed up the opposite side of the course, the chestnut still in front. There, she knew it! Breathless, she saw the pale blue stealing up the string of flying colours—now Roberts drew level with St. Jean, now he had passed him, and was closing up on Ginger. She lowered her glasses and shut her eyes—she could not bear to see it happen! The rising roar of voices about her was like the sea in her ears, meaningless—no, what was that behind her? “The chestnut has it!” “The chestnut wins!” “C’est Ministre qui gagne!” She opened her eyes to see her pony pass the post three clear lengths ahead of Fine Champag
ne.
Chapter Twenty-six
“BY God, we’ve scooped it!” Joe gave her a staggering thump on the back. “We’ve done it, Amber!” Dizzy, incredulous, she smiled vaguely at him. “Come on,” he said, in his excitement actually putting an arm round her to draw her from her place.
“Come on where?” she asked.
“Darling, you’ve got to lead him in!” said Joe. “You’re all addled! Jump to it!”
Passing out on to the course by the gate under the Stewards’ box, congratulations shouted at her on all sides, again her unhappiness was driven underground by the excitement of the moment. Rather soberly, she led the pony in; but when a tumult of acclamation broke out as they passed through the crowd, she could not restrain a rather startled smile. Amber never was any good at assessing her own position—she realised nothing of her popularity; now, receiving what was really an ovation, she was as surprised as she had been over her Christmas presents. The win was wholly unexpected, but it was a popular one; her prettiness, her youth and enterprise made her success delightful to people who would have been left cold by another win of one of the old guard. A little tingling glow came over her again, as, during the unsaddling, people thronged round to congratulate her—the Leicesters, the Stefanys, Bruno, even Mimi. “Ce poney est merveilleux. Mademoiselle—mes félicitations!” said François, with a rather timid glance at his wife. “Well, Miss Harrison, I thought your jockey was crazy for the first half mile—but, by George, he knew what he’d got under him!” said Shaw. “That’s a damn good pony.” As soon as she could, she went off to pat and thank Ginger, who stood, dripping and quivering, in his box. “You lamb!” she said, stroking his neck, darkened now with sweat. Ginger made a low cheerful reply through his nose. Here she was found by the other riders. “Well, I think you deserved that, Amber,” said Uncle Bill, “and he’s a corker, your Minister.”
“Mulholland was a bit rash, Miss Harrison, in my opinion—but it came off all right. I’m as pleased as if I’d won it myself,” said Leroy. This was an unusually long speech for Henry, and Amber was pleased. When she got Mulholland to herself she thanked him. “But you frightened me out of my wits at first, Billy.”
“Well you see, I knew at once that he was keen,” said Mulholland, “and I was afraid of upsetting him if I started monkeying about with him, so I thought I’d better let him out and chance his keeping his lead. It wasn’t conventional riding, I admit.”
La Touche, who was one of the Stewards, came up at this point. “I thought you’d like to know his time, Amber.”
“Oh yes; what was it, Touchy?”
“Simply marvellous—two-seven. It’s within two seconds of the record!”
“I say, we must go up and see what he pays, Amber,” said Joe. The Portfolio stable went back en masse to the space in front of the pari-mutuel, and waited in some suspense among the crowd. When the board was run up it was evident that the rumour of the pony’s staleness, disseminated by Leicester, had produced precisely the effect which Mr. Hawtrey had anticipated. Minister of Marine was paying $15.25. Amber’s reckless bet had brought her in something over $3000, more than three hundred pounds. Nugent came over to them. “Amber, my dear, I am most frightfully glad—and glad I followed my sentiments and not the experts, and backed your horse!” Sir James came up, his hands full of notes—“Well, I obeyed you, Mademoiselle, and I am grateful for the tip.” As she and Joe left the guichet, Joe stuffing wads of her notes into his breast pocket—“I shall look like a pouter pigeon for the rest of the day, Sir,” he said to Sir James—they encountered Rupert, still with Miss Boggit in tow. “Well, Rupert, did you back my pony?” Amber asked, gaily.
“No—you never gave us the tip,” said Rupert. Amber’s gaiety froze a little at the “us.” (Who had said, last year, “We’re a combine, Amber and I”?)
“Rupert is a most miserable guide to the turf,” drawled Miss Boggit. “We’ve lost on every race so far.”
“Well, Amber, I congratulate you,” Rupert said warmly. “I am most frightfully glad. Now you’ve got your heart’s desire, haven’t you?”
For a moment she simply stared at him, unable to speak. Was this stupidity or cruelty? “She’s got three thousand dollars and the best griffin in Peking, anyhow,” said Joe heartily. And whether this was accident or cleverness Amber didn’t know, but she had never felt more grateful in her life to anyone than she did then to Joe.
She made some excuse to turn away with him, but as she walked she could hardly see for the tears which burned behind her eyes. Her heart’s desire! When all was lost, irretrievably, unmistakeably now. He hadn’t come to the paddock, he hadn’t cared to be with her to see the race, his very congratulations mocked her. Not even the surface of her mind could contend any longer against the evidence of her senses. How, why, when this change had come over him she could not guess; and though for weeks to come her heart would not cease to ask those questions, and find no answer, for the moment she could only concentrate on getting through the rest of the day without showing her desolation—the day that should have been one of the happiest in her life. The bitterness of that thought she dared not look at. But where could she look without meeting some reminder of her lost joy? She was at the mercy of her surroundings—the smell of crushed turf, a spray of oleander against the sky, the high notes of the kestrels, the willows beyond the course, all rang with a faint echo of the music they had first begun to make for her there, last year.
It was lucky for Amber, really, that the day should have ended on a note of unwonted excitement. At lunch at the temple there was an empty place. “Who’s missing?” Amber asked Joe. “I can’t remember.”
“The M.A.,” said Joe gaily. “He’s gone off to the War!” Amber paid no attention to this—she knew vaguely that to go in Pullman cars to look at battle-fields was part of the duties of a Military Attaché, and assumed readily that to go and listen to artillery might also be his job. On their return to the course the guns were silent for the time being. After a couple more races Rothstein took her aside, rather mysteriously.
“Miss Harrison, that is a beautiful pony of yours. Do you want to sell him?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” said Amber, surprised.
“Well, if you do want to, I will give you a cheque for fifteen hundred dollars now.”
“Fifteen hundred? But that’s fantastic!” said Amber.
“Perhaps so—perhaps not. From one race one cannot be sure. If he is what I think, it is not so fantastic. But you will have many offers for him; and probably they will not be so good as this.”
“May I think it over and let you know?” Amber said. “If we do sell him I should like you to have him, because I feel I owe him to you.”
“How so?”
“You gave me that tip last year, and I got him with the money I made on Crème de Cacao.”
“Oh! That was nothing. Well, think it over—but at any time, I would like the first refusal of him.”
As he spoke a loud booming shook the air; it was renewed again, and yet again, and then shivered away into silence.
“That was much nearer,” said Rothstein tranquilly, as people in England speak of a thunderstorm. “They are moving up, apparently.”
To Amber there was something fantastic about the rest of the day. The later races were run on ground shaking with the roar of artillery, and Gin, her grey griffin, won the Stewards’ Cup soon after they began to hear the machine-guns. She was the owner of two winners, she had made—with the prizes—over £350, and had the chance of selling her pony for another £150. And she was as miserable as she had ever been in her life. Just before the last race, when the rattle of machine-guns had become like a ceaseless rhythmic crackling of firewood, Uncle Bill left a conclave with the Minister, Joe and Mr. Hugo, and came up to her.
“We’re going back to Hei Lung Hu-t’ung tonight, Amber. The Minister prefers it, as they seem pretty close. But I expect you’d like to stay for the last race, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t really mind. I think I’d better go and pack,” said Amber.
“That’s all done,” said Bill. “Bessie has gone on with the car to take the things, and Joe says he’ll take you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Amber indifferently. She really only wanted to get away quietly by herself, to stop having to talk and smile, and to be able to look her position in the face, to ask herself those questions which here she dared not even think of. But it might be conspicuous to go away now—and it was only a little longer. So she stayed, in the gradually thinning crowd, and watched the last race, feeling the muscles round her mouth stiff with smiles that had to be made with conscious effort. When she and Joe got into the car she sank back in her corner and closed her eyes. Heavens, how her head ached! Well, it was over now—now she could rest; Joe wouldn’t mind.
“Tired?” Joe asked.
“No—yes; headache. It’s the guns, I think.”
“I expect you are tired—you’ve been pretty hard at it these last weeks. But it was worth it, wasn’t it, darling? Two winners! Marvellous.”
“Yes, rather—it’s been wonderful,” said Amber, trying to put enough enthusiasm into her voice not to damp Joe’s satisfaction. Dear Joe—it wasn’t his fault that this day of days had been so wretched.
“Darling,” Joe began again presently, a little hesitatingly, as they swayed along the sandy road between the fields and the rows of willows, “darling, last autumn I asked you something, and you said ‘Leave it till after the races.’ Well, we’ve won the Maidens now, and——”