animal which, to her eyes, used though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect picture. The mare is coal-black; there is not a white hair on her; she is faultlessly shaped all over.
“I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all my life!” exclaims Flora Desmond, and there is a true ring of admiration in her tone. As she speaks the Duke of Ravensdale comes up.
“So you’re going to win the Derby, Bernie, are you?” he inquires jokingly, as he raises his hat to Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand to her. “Nice youngster that,” he continues, addressing her. “Gave me no peace till I gave him leave to ride, which I never should have done, had it not been at Hector’s request; and now I do believe that he thinks he is going to win!”
“I shall have a good try, Evie,” the boy replies in a mettled voice. “I can’t do more than ride my very best, can I, Mr. D’Estrange?”
“No indeed, my boy, that you cannot,” answers this latter kindly. “Do your best; no one can ask for more.”
There is a light in Bernie’s eye, a flush on his cheek. Flora notes them both. Full well she knows what they mean.
“Mr. D’Estrange,” she says hurriedly, moving a few paces aside, “may I speak to you for one moment?”
He follows her with a grave, inquiring look.
“I know you never bet,” she continues quickly, “but do you know what they are laying against Black Queen?”
“A hundred to one,” he answers carelessly.
“Then will you do me a great favour?” she says in a sad, pleading voice. “Though you never bet, and I hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in the ring, so that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I wouldn’t ask this of you, only you seem so confident in your mare, and, and——”
“I understand,” he answers quietly; “I’ll do it for you, Lady Flora. The race lies between Corrie Glen and my mare, and I quite understand why you want to back the latter. I couldn’t help hearing what Sir Reginald said over there. It’s on his account, is it not?”
“It is,” she answers bitterly. “As you heard him, you will quite understand.”
“Leave it to me,” he continues in a kind voice. “I’ll just give Bernie his last instructions, and then I’ll hurry across and do your commission. Will you come over to the stand with Ravensdale?”
“I will,” she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes.
And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the beautiful mare, with its handsome jockey, is moving slowly across the paddock to the course. The tinselled-gold on the boy’s jacket gleams and sparkles in the sun, and many an admiring eye rests on the two as they pass out.
He has come out last, and is at the tail end of the long file of horses parading past the stand. Every one is so keen on singling out the favourite, that Black Queen at first is not much noticed. Yet the sparkling gold on the jacket is bound to attract the eye, and the fact that Lord Bernard Fontenoy, brother of the Duke of Ravensdale, is riding the coal-black mare, awakens interest in the dark steed.
“Why, it’s little Lord Bernie riding, I do declare!” giggles Mrs. de Lacy Trevor to Lord Charles Dartrey, who is leaning over her chair pointing out the horses and jockeys on the card in her lap. “What a duck he looks! Oh, I wish Dodo was here!”
“Can’t think what D’Estrange means by putting the boy up. He can’t win; and it will only break his heart,” ejaculates Lord Charles superciliously.
“How old is Lord Bernie?” queries Mrs. Trevor in an interested voice. “Oh, I do wish the darling would win !”
“That’s impossible,” says Lord Charles loftily, “nothing can beat Corrie Glen.”
They are cantering down to the post now, the favourite with great raking strides covering his ground comfortably, and playing kindly with his snaffle, as his jockey leans forward and eases him a bit. Bernie has not started the Black Queen yet; he is leaning down talking to his brother. All eyes are upon him, however, as they see him squeeze the duke’s hand, which is laid on the boy’s knee. Suddenly, however, he dresses himself upright.
“I must go now, Evie dear,” he says, and there is a tremor in his voice. “Oh, pray that I may win!”
Then he sets the mare into a canter, and follows in the wake of the others.
“My word! that mare moves well,” exclaimed Sir Horsey de Freyne nervously; “don’t half like the look of her. Think I must have something on her for luck. Belongs to that deuced lucky fellow D’Estrange, too. Shouldn’t be surprised to see the gold jacket flashing in first.”
“Bosh!” answers Sir Reginald Desmond, who is standing next to him. “My dear old fellow, it’s only throwing your money away. Corrie Glen can’t be beat.”
But Sir Horsey de Freyne is not convinced, and goes off to see what he can get laid him against the mare.
“S’pose you’ve backed the favourite, old chap?” inquires another shining light at Sir Reggie’s elbow.
“Yes,” answers this latter shortly.
“Had a plunge, eh?” persists the golden youth, who doesn’t know a horse from a cow.
“Have got £100,000 on him,” is Sir Reggie’s curt reply. He is looking through his glasses, and his face is rather white.
“Oh! I say,” blurts out the youth, as he edges off to tell all those who will listen to him; “I say, you know, Desmond’s laid out £100,000 on the favourite.”
There is a murmur in the stands; it runs through them all like an electric shock. “They’re off!” is the hoarse cry that resounds suddenly from hundreds of throats. To an excellent start. Lord Marcovitch Bolster has despatched the lot, and as they all stare through their glasses, they can perceive that Hamptonian has taken up the running, closely followed by Masterman Ready, Holyoakes, and Kesteven. Lying fifth is the favourite, and two lengths behind him gleams a flashing spot of gold. A strange horse is overhauling the lot, Hamptonian drops back, and the stranger creeping to the front makes the pace terrific.
But fast as he goes he cannot shake off the chestnut, who apparently without effort is going easily enough, and keeping his place as fifth in the crowd. Now the spot of gold seems nearer up; it passes Corrie Glen, and falls into fourth place, Kesteven retiring to the rear. They are racing down the incline. Masterman Heady begins to tire, and the spot of flashing gold closes up to Holyoakes. These two come along neck and neck, Corrie Glen just behind them, the strange horse still in the van. Tattenham Corner is reached. They round it in the order named, and enter the straight; but here the stranger is in difficulties, and Holyoakes and Black Queen, on which sits the spot of gold rigid almost as marble, begin to close upon him. A little more than a quarter of a mile from home they reach him, and he flings up the sponge, retiring to the rear. There are only three horses left in the race now, Holyoakes, Black Queen, and Corrie Glen. This latter is drawing up to the first two named, with great raking strides he is alongside them, and quickly the three are abreast. A distant roar sounds in Bernie’s ears, there is a film over his eyes, his heart feels as if it must stop beating, but he sits very still, and does not attempt to urge his horse any faster. Suddenly he sees a flash on his left.
