AT THE RACES

THERE was no finer race-course in the country in those days than the long heath at Newmarket, and there for years the court of England kept festival. Charles the Second came there, with a train of gay and dissolute courtiers and fair, frail women; there too came the more solemn James with much the same following, if a more decorous manner prevailed, and there came that silent, collected, small man, whose body so little expressed his soul,—one of the greatest men of his time,—William the Third.

The king came to his summer palace, and the great lords kept up their state about him. Euston was famed for the balls of my Lord Arlington in the days of Charles the Second, and times were little changed in that respect. In contrast to the courtly splendor, the heath was fringed with an encampment as gay and varied as any gypsy gathering. Here were people of all conditions: gypsies, in fact, in their gay raiment, telling fortunes on the edge of the throng, strolling players, dancing bears and merry Andrews, and the farmers’ families come as to a festival to see the stream of fashion. For here were all the great; even the cockpit at noon was surrounded by stars and ribbons, and there were hunting and hawking and riding. There too were the long gowns and black caps of the University dons, so well received by William, mingling with the motley throng. The world, melted down into this little space, throbbed and bubbled like a cauldron filled and boiling over, and never paused except for the sermon on a Sunday.

At midday when the king went to the race-course all Newmarket streamed out at his heels, from the highest peers and greatest courtiers to the pickpockets of London; from my Lord of Devonshire to Captain Dick the horse jockey; from an orange girl of Drury Lane to the Princess of Denmark; the high and the low, the rich man and the cutpurse, all were there, and in that mass of many-colored costumes, like a bed of King William’s tulips at Loo, there were a thousand emotions,—hopes, fears, hatreds, and ambitions. Money flowed like water, and wagers ran high; fortunes were made and unmade, and the faces of men and women had often the tense expression of the gambler. But whatever evil was there—and much there was—was hidden under an air of jollity, and the setting of the scene was as variegated as a rainbow.

The long course was cleared for the horses, and on either side, and especially about the pavilion of the king, the crowd was packed close, palpitating and murmuring in the sunshine, white and pink, blue and crimson, green and gold, ribbon upon ribbon of color, men and women vying with each other in the brilliant beauty and richness of apparel; and behind, the great emblazoned coaches—drawn usually by Flanders horses—stood tier upon tier, sometimes empty, when their owners were promenading, sometimes brimful of lovely smiling faces and fluttering fans; and beyond these, the farmers and teamsters, gypsies and tipsters, honest men and thieves. Meanwhile the jockeys rode their horses out upon the turf for exercise and inspection; no people loved a fine horse better than the English, and it put the throng in an excellent humor.

In the midst of the satins and velvets, gold lace and jewels, one small man was plainly dressed in dark colors with a star upon his breast,—a man with a pale, dark face and sparkling dark eyes. Every head was bared before him, and every great dame there courtesied almost to the ground, and the trumpets sounded as King William took his place. The warm September air was filled with the hum of many voices, the trampling of horses, the blare of military music, and the great races began when the king quietly waved his hand.

Lady Sunderland kept her seat in her own carriage, and all the old beaux of the court came there to pay their compliments and exchange rare morsels of gossip with her ladyship, whose wit was keen as her tongue was merciless. But Lady Clancarty was not of this party. She had left her seat in the gorgeously emblazoned coach, and escorted by my Lord of Devonshire himself, she made her way nearer to the scene of action. Though she had lived much at Althorpe, Lady Clancarty was not unknown, and she was greeted on every hand as she passed. Her beauty, her winning address, the place her father occupied in the king’s favor, made her at once the cynosure of all eyes. Old beaux and young ones crowded forward for an introduction. Devonshire stood near her, Ormond and Bedford joined her coterie; in fact, in two hours Lady Betty was the belle of Newmarket. She looked about her smiling, roguish, keenly amused, and everywhere she read approbation and admiration, not only in the faces that she knew, but in the strange ones. Everywhere men paid her homage; over there the courtiers of the Princess Anne were thinning out; the circle of my Lady Marlborough grew narrower, but Lady Betty’s extended like a whirlpool. In the midst of her little triumph, she saw a tall man coming toward her, singling her out amidst all the others; his dress was plain and his periwig was of a different fashion, but she could not mistake that eye or that bearing; she had seen both in the woods of Althorpe. In a moment more he was bowing before her, and Ormond introduced him.

“My dear Lady Betty, let me present another admirer, Mr. Richard Trevor; an Irishman as I would have your ladyship know,” the duke added in her ear, with a laugh.

Lady Clancarty courtesied, casting a roguish look at the stranger.

“Faith, we have met before, my lord,” she said, and laughed softly.

“Twice before, my lady,” corrected Mr. Trevor, smiling into her eyes.

Betty stared. “Once, sir,” she said.“As you will, Lady Clancarty,” he replied, and smiled again, the dare-devil leaping up in his gray eyes—and Betty blushed.

At the moment Lord Savile came up with Mr. Benham.

“Are you betting, Savile?” asked the Duke of Devonshire, with a smiling glance at the young man.

Savile made a wry face.

“Confound it, my lord, I’ve lost fifty pounds on my mare, Lady Clara,” he said, “and Benham here has made a hundred on that little black mare of Godolphin’s,—the devil’s in it.”

“Ah, look at them!” cried Betty, pointing at the track, “they come flying like birds. Is that your black mare in the lead, Mr. Benham?”

“I’ll hang for it, if he hasn’t won again,” ejaculated Lord Savile, as they leaned forward to watch the squad of horses coming in on the home stretch.

There could scarcely be a finer sight: the smooth turf, the shimmer of sunshine, the beautiful animals running fleetly, for the joy of it, heads out, eyes flashing fire, foam on the lips, and manes flying, while the jockeys, like knots of color, hung low over their necks. The sharp clip of steel-shod feet, a stream of color, sparks flying, and they were past, going on to the stakes, while silence fell on the great throng of people; men scarcely breathed, every eye strained after them. Then suddenly a shout of exultation and despair, strangely mingled, and the whole crowd blossoming out into a mass of waving handkerchiefs and tossing hats.

“Ah, was there ever anything so pretty!” cried Lady Betty; “there is nothing finer than a beautiful horse.”

“Except a beautiful woman,” said my Lord of Ormond gallantly.

“Pray, my lord, do not put us in the same category,” said Lady Betty laughing; “’tis said that some men rate their horses dearer than their wives.”

“That is because there are so few Lady Clancartys,” replied Ormond smiling, and Betty swept him a courtesy.

“Benham’s won again,” remarked Savile, too chagrined to notice anything else.

“And so have I,” said Mr. Trevor, with a little smile; “’tis an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

Savile eyed him from head to foot; his quick ear had detected a peculiarity of voice and accent.“Are you from Ireland, sir?” he asked insolently.

“Where gentlemen are bred,—yes, my lord,” replied Trevor, his gray eyes gleaming like steel.

Lady Betty stirred uneasily. “Whose horse was that which came in last?” she asked.

“Savile’s,” laughed Benham, “don’t you see his brow of thunder?”

“Hard luck, my boy,” remarked Lord Devonshire, smiling, “but there are many here who will have worse to-day.”

“Ay, and the king’s cough is worse,” remarked Ormond significantly.

“Dr. Radcliffe told him that he would not have his two legs for his three kingdoms,” said Lord Savile, with a sullen laugh.

Devonshire smiled a little and so did Ormond, but Lady Betty looked straight before her over the sunny turf.

“My Lord Savile,” she said, “the king has the wisest head in Europe.”

“A king is richest in the hearts that love him,” said Richard Trevor smoothly, “and the King of England is rich in these.”

Lady Betty darted a quick glance at him, and so did my Lord of Ormond, but they read nothing. It was a handsome, daring face, with gray eyes and thin lips,—a face to fear in anger.

“There are riddles and innuendoes everywhere,” remarked Lord Savile with a shrug; “one knows not how to read them.”

“What I say, I am quite ready to explain, my lord,” Trevor replied smiling, his eyes hard as flint.

As he spoke my Lady Sunderland came up from her carriage, and with her two other dames of fashion. In the stir and flutter of their entrance, Lady Betty and the two young men, Trevor and Lord Savile, were, to all intents and purposes, alone, and she was perforce a listener to their talk, which was by no means friendly.

Lord Savile thrust his hands into his pockets.

“What flowers bloom at Saint Germain, sir?” he asked, with a drawl.

“The poppies of Neerwinden, I am told,” replied the Irishman.

Lord Savile’s face turned scarlet. “A very vile joke, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “and one you may repent of—here!”

“When I am in the society of informers—it may be so,” replied Trevor haughtily and very low, intending it only for my lord’s ear, but Lady Betty heard it.“I would fain walk a little way,” she said suddenly, turning on them, “they will not race again for half an hour, and I feel the heat here. My Lord Savile, will you make way for me through the crowd?”

“I will, my lady,” Trevor said, offering his arm.

“Nay, sir,” retorted Savile, “I am the lady’s friend, not you.”

Trevor noticed him as little as a poodle; he still smiled and offered his hand to Lady Betty.

“Lady Clancarty will choose, sir, not you,” he said contemptuously.

“Lady Clancarty will go with me,” cried Savile, hotly and authoritatively.

“Faith, she will not, sir,” said Betty laughing; “Lady Clancarty will be commanded by none, my lord, and Mr. Trevor will do her this small service. But there are my thanks for your kindness.”

And she courtesied prettily before she laid her hand lightly on the stranger’s arm and moved at his side through the throng toward the open heath beyond. Their progress was necessarily slow, and followed by many admiring glances, for the roses had deepened in Lady Betty’s cheeks. The tall Irishman beside her was no less a striking figure; his height and proportions, the clean-cut face, steel-gray eyes, and close-shut thin lips had a history of their own; no one could doubt it.

As for Lord Savile, he stood fuming and vowing vengeance on the cursed Irish Jacobite, as he was pleased to name his rival; if a stanch Whig hated any man, by instinct, he must needs be a Papist and a Jacobite.