Bosco maintains his prestige with the multitude; his action is magnificent. Very few fancy Mab. Yet she has her backers, notwithstanding.
After riding with Bellegarde for about a mile, Charles and the Duke of York return amid the acclamations of the spectators.
A tedious interval now occurs, though enlivened by many droll incidents; but at last the exhilarating shout is heard, “They are off!” And this is echoed by a thousand voices.
For some time they seem to move but slowly, and appear close together; but when they get within a mile or so of the goal, they begin to try the powers of their horses.
Bosco is now clearly ahead, and the shouting spectators declare that he has already won the race. His majesty is of the same opinion, and smiles at the Duchess of Portsmouth. Dorinda’s beautiful lip quivers with excitement, her cheeks flush, and her heart throbs violently.
The horses came on at a tremendous pace — Bosco still ahead, but not increasing his distance. The mare keeps well up, and does not seem in the least distressed.
The king begins to feel a little nervous, for he notices a peculiar smile on Buckingham’s countenance.
The spectators have now become half frantic with excitement. The air rings with their shouts. “Bosco! Bosco!” resounds on all sides.
Bellegarde feels perfectly secure, and casts a backward glance of triumph at Talbot.
But, at the moment, he perceives his danger, and for the first time begins to use whip and spur.
The mare is gaining upon him — is close at hand! They are neck and neck together!
The frenzy of the crowd increases! Already they have become hoarse with shouting!
“Mab wins!” is now heard; and the cry stimulates Talbot, while it slightly disheartens Bellegarde.
“a capital race, and almost promises to be a dead heat.
They are now within a hundred yards of the goal, and the maddened crowd closes behind them, as they dash on with lightning swiftness.
Nearer and nearer they come, and still they are neck and neck.
Excitement is now at the highest pitch, and pervades all the beholders, — court dames, court gallants, all.
“The king wins!” cry a thousand voices. “No — the duke!” respond a thousand others.
To the last moment, the issue of the race is uncertain. Even the Duke of York and Lord Buckhurst, who are stationed at the winning-post as judges, are puzzled.
But there is no doubt at the last. With a bound, the mare springs forward, and wins by a head.
A tremendous shout rends the air, and for a few minutes the most tumultuous excitement prevails.
“Oddsfish!” exclaimed the king, looking rather blank. “I did not think Bosco would have been beaten. I have lost a thousand pounds on the race.”
“And I have won two thousand,” cried Buckingham, exultingly. “I knew what Mab could do. Talbot Harland has ridden her splendidly. He richly deserves the cup.”
Shortly afterwards, the two riders, who had just been contending together so gallantly, forced their way through the dense crowd to the royal party.
Talbot looked flushed with triumph; but Bellegarde, though pale, bore his defeat with perfect composure. Everybody congratulated Talbot on his achievement. But the congratulations he cared for most were those of Dorinda Neville.
The magnificent gold cup, which had been displayed on a stand to the admiring assemblage, was then formally delivered to the winner by the Duke of Buckingham, in his majesty’s name and his own; and this little ceremony concluded the business of the race.
CHAPTER IX
AFTER THE RACE
Among the spectators were four well-mounted individuals, who had watched the race with the keenest interest, and had strenuously backed Bosco.
There was nothing particular in their attire to distinguish them from the crowd with whom they were mingled, but to judge from the appearance of their horses, they had come from a distance — possibly, from Peterborough, for they said something about that ancient city, whether with the design of misleading those who overheard them, we will not pretend to say. Their riding coats were of a russet hue, and had evidently seen some service. The senior of the party was strongly built, and rather better dressed than his comrades, and appeared to have some authority over them.
A look had passed between this person and Bellegarde, as the latter rode towards the starting-place, and that look told the stalwart horseman that all was right, and that Bosco was sure to win. On this, he and his friends confidently backed the king’s horse, and lost, amongst them, a considerable sum, that well-nigh emptied their pockets.
The voice of the stalwart horseman could be heard above the din of the crowd cheering on Bosco, as the struggling racers rushed by; but how his countenance fell, and what a deep imprecation he uttered, when Bellegarde was beaten!
However, he soon recovered, and paid his losses with an air of unconcern. All four pushed forward amid the crowd to have a look at the cup, when it was delivered by Buckingham to Talbot, and its splendor increased their mortification.
“That cup ought to have been ours,” whispered Montalt to his leader.
“It shall be ours yet,” replied Colonel Blood, in the same tone.
And his greedy eyes followed the glittering prize as it was borne off to a place of safety by one of the royal servants.
Shortly afterwards, he contrived to get sufficiently near Bellegarde to exchange a word with him, and was told by the count, in an undertone, that he would see him at night.
“I shall have something to say to you then,” added Bellegarde, with a significant look.
“Relative to the cup?” asked Blood.
“Ay, ay,” replied the count, moving away.
Both riders of the race dined with his majesty that day, and perhaps the gayest of the two was Bellegarde. Though rallied a good deal on his ill-luck by the Duchess of Portsmouth, next to whom he sat at table, he bore her raillery with the utmost good humor.
Naturally, Talbot was elated by his victory, and his satisfaction was heightened by the praises bestowed on his jockey-ship by Dorinda. Had he dared do so, he would have offered her the rich prize he had won, and his hand along with it; but though the words were on his lips, they were never uttered.
After dinner, the Merry Monarch, as if to show that his defeat gave him little concern, toasted the winner of the cup, which was set upon the buffet with the other plate; and in his reply, Talbot told his majesty that if he had not worn a certain white scarf, he should not have gained the prize. That ensured him the victory. Dorinda blushed very much at this speech, but did not seem displeased by it.
The races being now over, this was the last evening at Newmarket, for the royal party were about to return to Whitehall on the morrow. Indeed, the Duke of York, Buckingham, and several others had already taken their departure. Bellegarde had ascertained that Talbot Harland did not mean to sleep at Newmarket that night, but to proceed to Cambridge. On hearing of Talbot’s intention, the king asked him what he meant to do with the cup.
“Take it with me, sire, of course,” replied the young man. “I shall put it in a bag, and the postboy will carry it for me.”
“But are you not afraid of being robbed?” observed the king. “There are some strange characters at Newmarket. I have not heard that Claude Duval has been seen in these parts — indeed, the rascal seems to have disappeared altogether — but there are others just as dangerous, and not so polite. I will have it packed up with the rest of the plate.”
“I thank your majesty; but I wish to show it to my uncle, Dr. Harland, the Master of Trinity.”
“A la bonne heure!” cried Charles. “But I fancy Dr. Harland will not approve of your turning jockey.”
“The cup will propitiate him, sire. If he is pleased with it, I shall present it to him. I am his favorite nephew.”
“I understand,” replied the king.
This conversation was overheard by Bellegarde, who was talking to the Duchess of Portsmouth a
t the time, but he did not appear to notice it.
“I have a long ride before me to-night,” he said. “I have promised to meet the Duke of Buckingham to-morrow morning, at Whitehall.”
“Grand dieu!” she exclaimed. “You are not going to ride to London to-night?”
““only sixty miles,” he rejoined, with a laugh. “True, the roads are not very good; but that does not matter. I shall do it in less than six hours, even if I fall asleep in the saddle.”
“What are you saying about falling asleep in the saddle?” inquired the king, turning towards them.
“The count is about to ride to London to-night, sire,” replied the duchess.
“Oddsfish!” exclaimed Charles. “Then I should advise him to start without delay.”
“I was about to ask the duchess to make my excuses to your majesty.”
“But why in such haste?” asked Charles.
“Sire, I have promised to meet the Duke of Buckingham betimes to-morrow.”
“There will be dancing presently — ombre and basset,” said the duchess.
“Great temptations; but I am not in luck to-day.”
“Nay, follow your own inclinations,” said the king. “Bon soir, et bon voyage!”
And with a profound reverence, Bellegarde departed.
CHAPTER X
A RACE BY MOONLIGHT
The Count de Bellegarde must have been several miles on his way to London before Talbot Harland set out from Newmarket to Cambridge. A postboy accompanied him, carrying the gold cup, which had been carefully placed in a bag, slung from his shoulders.
It was a fine moonlight night, almost as bright as day, and Talbot promised himself a pleasant ride. He had no apprehension of danger, though he had pistols in his holsters.
The road to Cambridge lay along the wide heath, and followed the four-mile course over which he had ridden in the morning. How different were his present emotions from those which he had then experienced! He had then a desperate struggle before him, in which he might be defeated, and though full of ardor, and resolved, if possible, to win, fortune might not befriend him. Now his triumph was assured. Moreover, he had distinguished himself in the eyes of one whom it was his chief desire to please.
Full of these pleasant thoughts, he cantered along the elastic turf, closely followed by the postboy, who cracked his whip merrily, as if proud of the burden he bore. He, too, was in good spirits, for he had betted upon the mare, and had been promised a cup of strong Trinity ale when he arrived at Cambridge. We fancy he had emptied a horn of the like potent beverage before starting from Newmarket.
The wide heath, which had been covered in the morning with persons scampering over it in all directions, was now completely deserted. Only a solitary horseman could be descried, and he appeared to be travelling in the same direction as themselves, though he was more than half a mile ahead.
Very beautiful looked the broad expanse, bathed as it was in the moonbeams — more beautiful than when seen by the garish light of day. A moonlit heath is always a charming sight, but there was an inexpressible charm about Newmarket Heath on that lovely night. At least, Talbot Harland thought so.
Perfect stillness reigned around. A distant hum from the little town they had quitted alone reached the ear. But this sound soon ceased. Black shadows were thrown upon the turf, as the horsemen speeded over it. The air was cold, but its freshness calmed Talbot’s excitement.
They were now about five miles from Newmarket, and within a mile of Bottisham, but had not yet reached the limits of the heath, when the cry of a screech-owl caught Talbot’s ear, and startled him as well as the postboy.
They both looked round, expecting to see the ill-omened bird fly past, but could distinguish nothing. The cry, however, seemed to have alarmed the traveller, whom they had now nearly overtaken, for he halted, as if wishing to join them.
Next minute, the screech-owl’s harsh voice was heard again; but this time the cry came from a different quarter. The invisible bird must have flown on.
All at once, the idea flashed upon Talbot that these cries were signals, and the correctness of the supposition was confirmed by the sudden appearance of three well-mounted horsemen, who emerged from a hollow near the road, where they had lain concealed.
Talbot instantly comprehended the peril in which he stood, and his alarm was shared by the postboy, who called out, “Robbers, sir, robbers! Turn back, and ride for your life!”
“Ride back to Newmarket, and leave me to deal with them,” rejoined Talbot. “Ride as if the fiend were at your heels.”
The postboy, who was thoroughly scared, needed no second bidding, but started off at once. He had not proceeded many yards, however, when he was stopped by two other horsemen, who burst upon him from behind some tall furze-bushes.
“Halt a minute, my lad,” cried one of these men, in a jeering tone. “We have a few words to say to you. You appear to have something valuable in that bag slung from your shoulder. What is it?”
Nothing but an old leather bottle, an’ please your honor, not worth taking,” rejoined the trembling postboy.
“We shall see that anon,” said the other horseman, who was much more strongly-built than his companion, and wore a mask. “Deliver it up, sirrah, without delay!”
But, though greatly terrified, the postboy did not like to surrender the treasure. Retreating towards Talbot, who was now parleying with the others, he called out lustily for help.
The traveller, who had preceded the young man across the heath, turned out to be the captain of the band.
He was masked, but, before he uttered a word, Talbot had recognized him. That slight, graceful figure, those gay habiliments, the black flowing peruke, the hat surrounded by white feathers, could belong to no other than the gallant Claude Duval.
Duval had lost none of his courtesy, and it was with marked politeness that he addressed the luckless young gentleman who had fallen into his hands. His accent, when he spoke, was as marked and peculiar as ever.
“Permit me to offer you my congratulations on your success to-day, Mr. Talbot Harland,” he said. “I saw the race run and can affirm that you rode admirably — far better than your opponent. Though the count is my compatriot, and I would fain uphold him, truth compels me to declare that he is a very bad jockey. I think I could have beaten you, if I had been in his place.”
“You think so?” cried Talbot, amused by his address.
“I flatter myself I could,” rejoined Duval. “You may remember that I have beaten you on a former occasion.”
“That was not exactly a race,” observed Talbot. “You were riding for life.”
“Granted,” said Duval. “Now give me a moment’s attention. I have a proposition to make. Perhaps it may be agreeable to you to accept it. It is this. I know you have with you the gold cup which you won so cleverly this morning. I need not say that I could take it from you, if I chose. But I would rather win it fairly. We will have a race for it, if you please.”
“A race!” exclaimed Talbot. “Faith! that is a novel idea.”
“Novelty has always a charm,” observed Duval. “If I am the winner, the cup will be mine, of course. If you are lucky for the second time, “be yours absolutely. No one shall deprive you of it. I will answer for my comrades.”
“We will answer for ourselves,” interposed Blood. “Had I been consulted, I would not have recommended such a proposal; but, since it has been made by Captain Duval, we will all abide by it.”
“We will,” cried the others.
“How say you, sir?” cried Duval. “Is it to be a race? I hope you will not place me under the disagreeable necessity of—”
“I agree,” said Talbot, hastily. “Where is the trial to take place?”
“On the race-course,” rejoined Duval. “We will ride thither at once. The distance to be one mile.”
“A mile be it,” said Talbot. “I am content.”
A few words, in an undertone, then passed between Duval and Blood; and
when their brief colloquy was over, the latter said to Talbot, “You are armed, sir; to prevent mischief, I must require you to deliver up your pistols to me.”
The young man hesitated.
“Will you give me your word that you will not use them?” said Duval.
“I promise not to use them unless I am assailed,” replied Talbot.
“Enough!” cried Duval. “A lions done, messieurs!”
He then rode off in the direction of the race-course, and the whole troop followed, Talbot being so completely surrounded that escape would have been impossible even if he had meditated the attempt. Close behind him came the postboy, with a guard on either side.
Affairs having taken a very different turn from what he expected, this youth had long since ceased his clamor, and, indeed, was secretly delighted at the prospect of witnessing a very singular race. He would fain have conversed with his captors, but they returned no answer to his questions, and at last bade him hold his tongue.
Duval kept upon the turf, at some distance from the road. No travellers, however, were to be seen; nothing, in short, except a wagon from Bury St. Edmunds, toiling on its way to Cambridge. The wagoner stared at the troop as it went by, but did not stop.
Ere long, they reached the race-course, and entered it at the point from which Bellegarde and Talbot had started in the morning. But this was now destined to be the winning-post, and Blood stationed himself near it, with the postboy and his two guardians, while Duval and Talbot rode on, accompanied by Montalt and Flodoard.
As they proceeded, each rider for the cup carefully examined his adversary’s horse, and the result of the scrutiny, on either side, was that they were fairly matched.
Montalt and Flodoard were of the same opinion, and thought it would be a good race. Both chargers were powerful, and well bred. Of their relative swiftness it was not easy to judge; that would be tested anon. In color, the horses were scarcely distinguishable by that light; though Duval’s was bright bay, and Talbot’s sorrel.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 601