Part 38

“I am a brute,” he said, “to bring the tears into those pretty brown eyes.”

And I brushed away the tears and tried to tell him again how dear he was to me. But what is the good of going over the old story once again, child. It is just the same old story for every man and woman, with variations so slight as hardly to be worth counting. And yet it is natural that every woman thinks her own love story the most interesting on the face of the earth. No one was ever like her lover, no one was ever loved like she was. I think it is well it should be so. If it is only a fancy, it is a pretty fancy, and the world, or rather the women in it, are much happier for it. I don’t know whether it’s the same with men. All the years I have lived I don’t understand what a man thinks; I don’t suppose any woman ever does.

“I shall see a bright face watching for me when I pass the post. Not half an hour now, sweetheart,” he said, as he gave me a last kiss, and again he paused on the verandah to wave his hand and to tell me once more not to be afraid.

They were shouting for him as he ran across to the corner that did duty as saddling paddock, and I watched his bright red shirt anxiously. I could keep my eye on him though I found it impossible to see anybody else. My mother called me to attend to something--to lay the cloth for lunch, I think it was--but one glance at my face showed her I was useless.

“Go, child, go,” she said, not unkindly, “I ‘ve been afraid of your making a fool of yourself over that man. He’s not worth it, as you ‘ll have found out for yourself before the year is out. Now go and see the race; I’ll lay the table.”

I went quietly back on to the verandah, and watched the riders being weighed, and the weights being adjusted to the saddles; very primitive were the weights in those days. I saw them wrap up an iron bar in a blanket and strap it on to Boatman’s saddle, for though Paul was a fairly heavy man the horse was still more heavily weighted, and then I watched the fifteen horses as they came out and paraded before the assembled crowd. How plainly it seemed to me Paul Griffith stood out from the rest, with the big iron-grey horse. He waved his hand to me as he passed, as one who would say, “There now, you see, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” and almost for the moment I felt I had exaggerated my fears. I waved my hand in return and watched them as they passed on to the starting post. And then before they got there, there was trouble. The big grey horse, even though he was on the outside, apparently objected to the presence of his kind, and I saw him fallen behind and making desperate efforts to get his head between his forelegs. He kept them all waiting at the post, and the starter called several times; but it was all to no purpose, Boatman was determined to have his own way, and it was fully a quarter of an hour before, very sulkily--for a horse can be sulky--he condescended to walk slowly up to the others. It seemed to give me confidence, that brief respite. Paul was so much master of the situation, in spite of the contrariness of the beast he rode, that I was at once convinced of the foolishness of my fears, and for a moment I felt quite content and free from care as the horses got in line.

It was the race of the day, and there was a hush for an instant, then down went the starter s flag, there was a roar, and a shout from the crowd, “They ‘re off,” and I saw the line of horses stretch themselves out across the plain. The big grey was on the inside striding along about three quarters of a length clear of the others, and just behind came a front rank--so to speak--of half-a-dozen horses, and among them gleamed the dazzling black and yellow stripes of our chief opponent, Vixen. They raced for that first fence at a tremendous pace, and I would have shut my eyes had I not had so much at stake, for the fences were stiff as they are now, and the horses were only grass-fed. But I looked on with a sickening fear at my heart and I saw that Boatman had not forgotten his old trick--right across the line of horses he swerved, and for a moment they were all in confusion, for he collided with two just as they were taking off, and there was a cry of, “He’s down, he ‘s down.” “No, no,” cried a man alongside me, who was half wild with excitement already, “well picked up, sir; that’s the bully boy. Stick to it, old pard, stick to it,” and I saw with a beating heart that almost suffocated me, Boatman clear of the ruck, safe on the other side of the fence, and as in a dream I heard the people shouting, “Billy Craig’s pony’s down, and the Coyote,” and I saw two horses wildly careering across the plain,--Billy Craig--I knew him by his green and yellow shirt, made out of his wife’s old curtains--pursuing one, while the Coyote’s rider had only managed to struggle to his knees, and was slowly rocking himself backwards and forwards with his head in his hands. How could I care for these things; love is so selfish! Only a little while now and the race would be over, and I had no power to think of another’s possible pain. All I thought was that the first fence was safely over, and it gave me courage for those that were to come later. One more fence, and then came the jump right in front of the verandah which did duty as a stand, and I held my breath as the horses came up to it in a lump, except the big grey, which was leading by about a length. Quite plainly I saw him, and he was pulling double, but Paul sat like a rock, slightly leaning forward, true bushman as he was, and the old horse jumped beautifully, and got away with a clear lead of about six lengths ahead. I put my arm round the verandah post, for I felt I could hardly stand without support. Speak I could not; all sorts of hopes and fears were madly coursing through my brain, and I listened as a woman beside me put my thoughts into words.

“Oh,” she said, with a long-drawn breath, “what an awful pace! And they’ve got to go round again, too! That horse in front will be done before they’ve gone much farther.”

“Not much,” said the man on the other side, scornfully, “that big grey can keep it up for a week. He’s all there as long as Griffith can keep him quietly in front. Oh, he’s a beautiful jumper, he is, when he’s properly ridden, but he’s got the devil’s own temper. Go it, old pard! go it!” he shouted again, and his enthusiasm gave me such comfort, I would have thanked him had I dared speak.

All around the course I watched them, and at every fence my heart gave a bound of thankfulness as I heard the man beside me shouting hurrahs at Boatman’s success. Gladder and gladder I grew, and nothing else in the world mattered to me so long as the big grey was still sailing along, even that he was ahead gave me only a momentary joy, so thankful was I that he was still safe, and likely to be safe.

“He’s the best rider that ever I seed, Jim, sure,” said the woman beside me, and I could have kissed her for the praise.

“Best rider this side of the Murray,” said the man laconically, and Hope, Hope, before me stretched my future, bright, and happy, and smiling, such happiness as I had never dared dream would come into my life. A horse fell, another refused; what was it to me? There was Paul still ahead. Then, at the other side of the course, he was joined by Mick Power’s Bangle, and another that I did not recognize, and Vixen’s yellow and black stripes went up to within a couple of lengths of the leaders, and a length behind her came the ruck.

“Ah! I told you so,” sighed the woman, “they ‘ve collared ‘im. Boatman’s beat.”

“The race’s a gift to him,” reiterated the man, “if he can only stand up to these three fences. Why, that boy’s riding Bangle to keep him in his place already.”

A roar went up from the crowd.

“Boatman wins! Boatman! Boatman!”

“Vixen! Vixen!” cried a voice here and there, but they were drowned in a universal cry of, “The grey wins, hands down. Boatman! Boatman!”

I was a happy woman for those brief seconds, the happiest woman in all the wide earth; not a fear for the result troubled me. Already I seemed to feel the glad clasp of Paul’s hand, to see the light in his eyes, that would say to me, even though others were present, that he had won his bride, and I watched them coming down to the last fence, the fence that led into the straight, without a tremor.

How could I? How could I? It makes me sick to think of it now, but then I was so certain of success, I put my hand to my throat and took off the little silk handkerchief that I wore there, that I might wave it in triumph, and all round me the people, wild with excitement, were shouting, “Boatman wins! Boatman wins!” It seemed as if they were all in sympathy with me, and in my heart I blessed them for it.

Then, then, oh, Hope! how can I tell you? I didn’t understand it for many a long day, and though I saw it with my own eyes, I could not tell you how it happened. All of a sudden the glad shouts of “Boatman wins” changed to one of “They ‘re down, they’re both down,” and then, before I had thoroughly grasped the situation, while I still held my little scarf ready to wave, the shout went up just as joyously, oh, just as joyously, “Vixen wins, Vixen! Vixen!”

Even then I did not understand the full extent of my misfortune; other men had fallen and been all right, why not Paul? On my left, the man who had put his money on the grey, swore an oath through his clenched teeth that made me wonder had he as much at stake as I.

What happened? Oh, it was simple enough. They told me afterwards, when it was nothing to me whether a race was ever run again in this world. The grey had the race easily, they said, and was going strong. Paul steadied him for the fence, but in the last couple of strides the Vixen came with a tremendous rush, at the risk of his own neck, they said, and the grey stood off his fence. Such a little thing, dear, such a little thing. Boatman stood off his fence, landed on top, and turned clean over on to his rider. Vixen hit all round, but by rattling good horsemanship--as good as Paul’s own, they said--was kept on her legs, and came in winner of the Yanyilla Steeplechase.

I wanted to go to Paul, to rush across to where already a little crowd were collecting. Why should he be hurt--so many had fallen already, and not one was badly hurt--why should he be? No, I told myself, I need not fear, and yet I was afraid to move, and I stood there, and listened to the woman beside me counting the horses as they came in.

“Vixen first, Sandy second, the Dingo--no, Bones third. ‘Ard luck on Mr. Griffith, ain’t it, Jim? I don’t believe the ‘orse as got up. Couldn’t have killed ‘im, eh?”

The whole place was swimming before my eyes, but there came to me a feeling I must know the worst, and I put the little kerchief that was to have waved for my lover’s triumph over my head, and started out into the brilliant sunshine towards the little crowd that was collecting round the last fence. The woman tried to stop me.

“Don’t ‘ee go, dearie, don’t ‘ee. Jim ‘ere’ll go,” but I pushed her away. Why should she try and stop me, what right had anyone to come between me and my love? Then the crowd parted, and I saw a little procession come towards me. What was that borne by four men? I just caught the gleam of a scarlet jacket, and then some man’s voice said, not unkindly:

“It’s his sweetheart. For God’s sake take her away.”

But some one else--the doctor I think--put in a word.