Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7. Karel Čapek

      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. The jockey who is riding Holyoakes has his whip out, and Bernie knows he has nothing any longer to fear from him. He glances to the right; the great chestnut is flashing along; there is no whip needed there.

      “Oh God! let me win,” bursts from the boy’s pale lips, as he tightens his rein ever so little, and touches the mare gently with the spur. He is surprised at the effect. He thought she had been going fast before, but she is going faster now. She is quite a length ahead of Corrie Glen, and the jockey of this latter is visibly surprised. He has begun to ride the horse at last, and his whip is actually out.

      “Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” comes the wild shout from the stands, as the noble chestnut, with a supreme effort, closes with the Black Queen. They are hardly fifty yards from the winning post; the roar is terrific. Bernie hears it, but he can see nothing now. He makes, however, a final effort, and calls on the mare once more; he has never used his whip.

      “Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” The words pierce to his brain. He has done his best, he cannot do more; he knows this well; yet would to God he could win!

      “Corrie Glen wins!” Ah! they don’t know the Black Queen. She has answered the boy’s last call; she has made one more magnificent effort; and, shooting ahead of the favourite, passes the post a winner by a neck!

      What a yell goes up from the ring! Blank deadly consternation is in the faces of the backers. In the stands there is very little cheering. Hardly a soul in all that vast crowd has backed the “dark” black mare.

      And Sir Reginald Desmond is still standing where we left him. He is deadly pale; his arms are folded on his chest; there is despair in his eyes.

      “Had a bad race, old chap? I fear we all have,” says a voice at his elbow. He laughs, and turns towards the speaker. This latter starts as he notices the ghastly, haggard look on the young baronet’s face.

      “Yes—well, yes, haven’t had a good one,” answers Sir Reggie coolly, taking out his cigarette-case and leisurely selecting a cigarette therefrom. “Have a cigarette, Fernley?”

      “No thanks, Desmond, am just going to have lunch. Wonderful race young Bernie Fontenoy rode there. Won’t the brat be proud?”

      “Oh! ah! yes, won’t he?” answers Sir Reggie absently. His thoughts have wandered again. He is looking ahead into the black future. Now that it is too late, he is cursing himself for a fool and an idiot. Oh! why did he not take Flora’s advice?

      The stand in which he is, is nearly empty. Every one is making off to get lunch; in a few minutes it is entirely deserted. He sits on alone in it. The cigarette he had lit so ostentatiously not long since has gone out, but it is still clenched between his teeth.

      The future will rise to his mind. How can such as he face it? He has never been brought up to do any-thing; he is ill-read, ill-taught, and ignorant. He has never given his mind to anything but amusing himself; and now if he pays the ring what is justly owing to it he will be a beggar, with nothing to live on and nothing to look forward to but misery, and, in his eyes, disgrace.

      Poor Sir Reginald I He feels his position acutely, it is burning itself into his brain. He feels that it is past endurance, that he cannot