Funny fellows! Soames was glad to pass into the Royal Enclosure where bookmakers did not seem to be admitted. Numbers of grey top hats here! This was the place–he had heard–to see pretty women. He was looking for them when Winifred pressed his arm.
“Look, Soames–the Royal Procession!”
Thus required to gape at those horse-drawn carriages at which everybody else would be gaping, Soames averted his eyes, and became conscious that Winifred and he were alone!
“What’s become of the others?” he said.
“Gone to the paddock, I expect.”
“What for?”
“To look at the horses, dear.”
Soames had forgotten the horses.
“Fancy driving up like that, at this time of day!” he muttered.
“I think it’s so amusing!” said Winifred. “Shall we go to the paddock, too?”
Soames, who had not intended to lose sight of his daughter, followed her towards whatever the paddock might be.
It was one of those days when nobody could tell whether it was going to rain, so that he was disappointed by the dresses, and the women’s looks. He saw nothing to equal his daughter, and was about to make a disparaging remark, when a voice behind him said:
“Look, Jon! There’s Fleur Mont!”
Placing his foot on Winifred’s, Soames stood still. There, and wearing a grey top hat, too, was that young chap between his wife and his sister. A memory of tea at Robin Hill, with his cousin Jolyon, that boy’s father, twenty-seven years ago, assailed Soames–and of how Holly and Val had come in and sat looking at him as if he were a new kind of bird. There they went, those three, into a ring of people who were staring at nothing so far as he could see. And there, close to them, were those other three, Jack Cardigan, Fleur, and Imogen.
“My dear,” said Winifred, “you DID tread on my toe.”
“I didn’t mean to,” muttered Soames. “Come over to the other side–there’s more room.”
It seemed horses were being led round; but it was at his daughter that Soames wanted to gaze from behind Winifred’s shoulder. She had not yet seen the young man, but was evidently looking for him–her eyes were hardly ever on the horses–no great wonder in that, perhaps, for they all seemed alike to Soames, shining and snakey, quiet as sheep, with boys holding on to their heads. Ah! A stab went through his chest, for she had suddenly come to life; and, as suddenly, seemed to hide her resurrection even from herself! How still she stood–ever so still, gazing at that young fellow talking to his wife.
“That’s the favourite, Soames. At least, Jack said he would be. What do you think of him?”
“Much like the others–got four legs.”
Winifred laughed. Soames was so amusing!
“Jack’s moving; if we’re going to have a bet, I think we’d better go back, dear. I know what I fancy.”
“I don’t fancy anything,” said Soames. “Weak-minded, I call it; as if they could tell one horse from another!”
“Oh! but you’d be surprised,” said Winifred; “you must get Jack to–”
“No, thank you.”
He had seen Fleur move and join those three. But faithful to his resolve to show no sign, he walked glumly back into the Enclosure. What a monstrous noise they were making now in the ring next door! And what a pack of people in that great Stand! Up there, on the top of it, he could see what looked like half-a-dozen lunatics frantically gesticulating–some kind of signalling, he supposed. Suddenly, beyond the railings at the bottom of the lawn, a flash of colour passed. Horses–one, two, three; a dozen or more–all labelled with numbers, and with little bright men sitting on their necks like monkeys. Down they went–and soon they’d come back, he supposed; and a lot of money would change hands. And then they’d do it again, and the money would change back. And what satisfaction they all got out of it, he didn’t know! There were men who went on like that all their lives he believed–thousands of them: must be lots of time and money to waste in the country! What was it Timothy had said: “Consols are going up!” They hadn’t; on the contrary, they were down a point, at least, and would go lower before the Coal Strike was over. Jack Cardigan’s voice said in his ear:
“What are you going to back, Uncle Soames?”
“How should I know?”
“You must back something, to give you an interest.”
“Put something on for Fleur, and leave me alone,” said Soames; “I’m too old to begin.”
And, opening the handle of his racing stick, he sat down on it. “Going to rain,” he added, gloomily. He sat there alone; Winifred and Imogen had joined Fleur down by the rails with Holly and her party–Fleur and that young man side by side. And he remembered how, when Bosinney had been hanging round Irene, he, as now, had made no sign, hoping against hope that by ignoring the depths beneath him he could walk upon the waters. Treacherously they had given way then and engulfed him; would they again–would they again? His lip twitched; and he put out his hand. A little drizzle fell on the back of it.
“They’re off!”
Thank goodness–the racket had ceased! Funny change from din to hush. The whole thing funny–a lot of grown-up children! Somebody called out shrilly at the top of his voice–there was a laugh–then noise began swelling from the stand; heads were craning round him. “The favourite wins!” “Not he!” More noise; a thudding–a flashing past of colour! And Soames thought: ‘Well, that’s over!’ Perhaps everything was like that really. A hush–a din–a flashing past–a hush! All like a race, a spectacle–only you couldn’t see it! A venture and a paying-up! And beneath his new hat he passed his hand down over one flat cheek, and then the other. A paying-up! He didn’t care who paid up, so long as it wasn’t Fleur! But there it was–some debts could not be paid by proxy! What on earth was Nature about when she made the human heart!
The afternoon wore on, and he saw nothing of his daughter. It was as if she suspected his design of watching over her. There was the “horse of the century” running in the Gold Cup, and he positively mustn’t miss that–they said. So again Soames was led to the ring where the horses were moving round.
“That the animal?” he said, pointing to a tall mare, whom, by reason of two white ankles, he was able to distinguish from the others. Nobody answered him, and he perceived that he was separated from Winifred and the Cardigans by three persons, all looking at him with a certain curiosity.
“Here he comes!” said one of them. Soames turned his head. Oh! So THIS was the horse of the century, was it? – this bay fellow–same colour as the pair they used to drive in the Park Lane barouche. His father always had bays, because old Jolyon had browns, and Nicholas blacks, and Swithin greys, and Roger–he didn’t remember what Roger used to have–something a bit eccentric–piebalds, he shouldn’t wonder. Sometimes they would talk about horses, or, rather, about what they had given for them; Swithin had been a judge, or so he said–Soames had never believed it, he had never believed in Swithin at all. But he could perfectly well remember George being run away with by his pony in the Row, and pitched into a flowerbed–no one had ever been able to explain how; just like George, with his taste for the grotesque! He himself had never taken any interest in horses! Irene, of course, had loved riding–she would! She had never had any after she married him… A voice said:
“Well, what do you think of him, Uncle Soames?”
Val, with his confounded grin; Jack Cardigan, too, and a thin, brown-faced man with a nose and chin. Soames said guardedly:
“Nice enough nag.”
If they thought they were going to get a rise out of him!
“Think he’ll stay, Val? It’s the deuce of a journey.”
“He’ll stay all right.”
“Got nothing to beat,” said the thin brown man.
“The Frenchman, Greenwater.”
“No class, Captain Cardigan. He’s not all the horse they think him, but he can’t lose today.”
“Well, I hope to God he beats the Frenchman; we want a Cup or two left in the country.”
Something responded within Soames’ breast. If it was against a Frenchman, he would do his best to help.
“Put me five pounds on him,” he said, suddenly, to Jack Cardigan.
“Good for you, Uncle Soames. He’ll start about evens. See his head and his forehand and the way he’s let down–lots of heart room. Not quite so good behind the saddle, but a great horse, I think.”
“Which is the Frenchman?” asked Soames. “That! Oh! Ah! I don’t like HIM. I want to see this race.”
Jack Cardigan gripped his arm–the fellow’s fingers were like iron.
“You come along with me!” he said. Soames went, was put up higher than he had been yet, given Imogen’s glasses–a present from himself–and left there. He was surprised to find how well and far he could see. What a lot of cars, and what a lot of people! ‘The national pastime’–didn’t they call it! Here came the horses walking past, each led by a man. Well! they were pretty creatures, no doubt! An English horse against a French horse–that gave the thing some meaning. He was glad Annette was still with her mother in France, otherwise she’d have been here with him. Now they were cantering past. Soames made a real effort to tell one from the other, but except for their numbers, they were so confoundedly alike. “No,” he said to himself, “I’ll just watch those two, and that tall horse”–its name had appealed to him, Pons Asinorum. Rather painfully he got the colours of the three by heart and fixed his glasses on the wheeling group out there at the starting point. As soon as they were off, however, all he could see was that one horse was in front of the others. Why had he gone to the trouble of learning the colours? On and on and on he watched them, worried because he could make nothing of it, and everybody else seemed making a good deal. Now they were rounding into the straight. “The favourite’s coming up!” “Look at the Frenchman!” Soames could see the colours now. Those two! His hand shook a little and he dropped his glasses. Here they came–a regular ding-dong! Dash it–he wasn’t–England wasn’t! Yes, by George! No! Yes! Entirely without approval his heart was beating painfully. ‘Absurd!’ he thought. ‘The Frenchman!’ “No! the favourite wins! He wins!” Almost opposite, the horse was shooting out. Good horse! Hooray! England for ever! Soames covered his mouth just in time to prevent the words escaping. Somebody said something to him. He paid no attention; and, carefully putting Imogen’s glasses into their case, took off his grey hat and looked into it. There was nothing there except a faint discoloration of the buff leather where he had perspired.
Chapter III.
THE TWO-YEAR-OLDS
The toilet of the two-year-olds was proceeding in the more unfrequented portions of the paddock. “Come and see Rondavel saddled, Jon,” said Fleur.
And, when he looked back, she laughed.
“No, you’ve got Anne all day and all night. Come with me for a change.”
On the far side of the paddock the son of Sleeping Dove was holding high his intelligent head, and his bit was being gently jiggled, while Greenwater with his own hands adjusted the saddle.
“A race-horse has about the best time of anything on earth,” she heard Jon say. “Look at his eyes–wise, bright, not bored. Draft horses have a cynical, long-suffering look–racehorses never. He likes his job; that keeps him spirity.”
“Don’t talk like a pamphlet, Jon. Did you expect to see me here?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t keep you away? How brave!”
“Must you say that sort of thing?”
“What then? You notice, Jon, that a racehorse never stands over at the knee;
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