Sybil, Or, The Two Nations Read online

  "Will any one do anything about Hybiscus?" sang out a gentleman in thering at Epsom. It was full of eager groups; round the betting post aswarming cluster, while the magic circle itself was surrounded by ahost of horsemen shouting from their saddles the odds they were ready toreceive or give, and the names of the horses they were prepared to backor to oppose.

  "Will any one do anything about Hybiscus?"

  "I'll give you five to one," said a tall, stiff Saxon peer, in a whitegreat coat.

  "No; I'll take six."

  The tall, stiff peer in the white great coat mused for a moment with hispencil at his lip, and then said, "Well, I'll give you six. What do yousay about Mango?"

  "Eleven to two against Mango," called out a little humpbacked man in ashrill voice, but with the air of one who was master of his work.

  "I should like to do a little business with you, Mr Chippendale," saidLord Milford in a coaxing tone, "but I must have six to one."

  "Eleven to two, and no mistake," said this keeper of a second-rategaming-house, who, known by the flattering appellation of HumpChippendale, now turned with malignant abruptness from the heir apparentof an English earldom.

  "You shall have six to one, my Lord," said Captain Spruce, a debonairpersonage with a well-turned silk hat arranged a little aside, hiscoloured cravat tied with precision, his whiskers trimmed like aquickset hedge. Spruce, who had earned his title of Captain on theplains of Newmarket, which had witnessed for many a year his successfulexploits, had a weakness for the aristocracy, who knowing his gracefulinfirmity patronized him with condescending dexterity, acknowledged hisexistence in Pall Mall as well as at Tattersalls, and thus occasionallygot a point more than the betting out of him. Hump Chippendale had noneof these gentle failings; he was a democratic leg, who loved to fleece anoble, and thought all men were born equal--a consoling creed that was ahedge for his hump.

  "Seven to four against the favourite; seven to two against Caravan;eleven to two against Mango. What about Benedict? Will any one doanything about Pocket Hercules? Thirty to one against Dardanelles."

  "Done."

  "Five and thirty ponies to one against Phosphorus," shouted a little manvociferously and repeatedly.

  "I will give forty," said Lord Milford. No answer,--nothing done.

  "Forty to one!" murmured Egremont who stood against Phosphorus. A littlenervous, he said to the peer in the white great coat, "Don't you thinkthat Phosphorus may after all have some chance?"

  "I should be cursed sorry to be deep against him," said the peer.

  Egremont with a quivering lip walked away. He consulted his book; hemeditated anxiously. Should he hedge? It was scarcely worth while to marthe symmetry of his winnings; he stood "so well" by all the favourites;and for a horse at forty to one. No; he would trust his star, he wouldnot hedge.

  "Mr Chippendale," whispered the peer in the white great coat, "go andpress Mr Egremont about Phosphorus. I should not be surprised if you gota good thing."

  At this moment, a huge, broad-faced, rosy-gilled fellow, with one ofthose good-humoured yet cunning countenances that we meet occasionallyon the northern side of the Trent, rode up to the ring on a square coband dismounting entered the circle. He was a carcase butcher, famous inCarnaby market, and the prime councillor of a distinguished nobleman forwhom privately he betted on commission. His secret service to-day was tobet against his noble employer's own horse, and so he at once sung out,"Twenty to one against Man-trap."

  A young gentleman just launched into the world, and who, proud of hisancient and spreading acres, was now making his first book, seeingMan-trap marked eighteen to one on the cards, jumped eagerly at thisbargain, while Lord Fitzheron and Mr Berners who were at hand and who intheir days had found their names in the book of the carcase butcher, andgrown wise by it, interchanged a smile.

  "Mr Egremont will not take," said Hump Chippendale to the peer in thewhite great coat.

  "You must have been too eager," said his noble friend.

  The ring is up; the last odds declared; all gallop away to the Warren.A few minutes, only a few minutes, and the event that for twelve monthshas been the pivot of so much calculation, of such subtile combinations,of such deep conspiracies, round which the thought and passion of thesporting world have hung like eagles, will be recorded in the fleetingtablets of the past. But what minutes! Count them by sensation and notby calendars, and each moment is a day and the race a life. Hogarth ina coarse and yet animated sketch has painted "Before" and "After." Acreative spirit of a higher vein might develop the simplicity of theidea with sublimer accessories. Pompeius before Pharsalia, Harold beforeHastings, Napoleon before Waterloo, might afford some striking contraststo the immediate catastrophe of their fortunes. Finer still the inspiredmariner who has just discovered a new world; the sage who has revealeda new planet; and yet the "Before" and "After" of a first-rate Englishrace, in the degree of its excitement, and sometimes in the tragicemotions of its close, may vie even with these.

  They are saddling the horses; Caravan looks in great condition and ascornful smile seems to play upon the handsome features of Pavis, as inthe becoming colours of his employer, he gracefully gallops his horsebefore his admiring supporters. Egremont in the delight of anEnglish patrician scarcely saw Mango, and never even thought ofPhosphorus--Phosphorus, who, by the bye, was the first horse thatshowed, with both his forelegs bandaged.

  They are off!

  As soon as they are well away, Chifney makes the running with PocketHercules. Up to the Rubbing House he is leading; this is the only pointthe eye can select. Higher up the hill, Caravan, Hybiscus, Benedict,Mahometan, Phosphorus, Michel Fell, and Rat-trap are with the grey,forming a front rank, and at the new ground the pace has told its tale,for half a dozen are already out of the race.

  The summit is gained; the tactics alter: here Pavis brings up Caravan,with extraordinary severity,--the pace round Tattenham corner terrific;Caravan leading, then Phosphorus a little above him, Mahometan next,Hybiscus fourth. Rat-trap looking badly, Wisdom, Benedict and anotherhandy. By this time Pocket Hercules has enough, and at the road thetailing grows at every stride. Here the favourite himself is hors decombat, as well as Dardanelles, and a crowd of lesser celebrities.

  There are now but four left in the race, and of these, two, Hybiscusand Mahometan, are some lengths behind. Now it is neck and neck betweenCaravan and Phosphorus. At the stand Caravan has decidedly the best,but just at the post, Edwards, on Phosphorus, lifts the gallant littlehorse, and with an extraordinary effort contrives to shove him in byhalf a length.

  "You look a little low, Charley," said Lord Fitzheron, as taking theirlunch in their drag he poured the champagne into the glass of Egremont.

  "By Jove!" said Lord Milford, "Only think of Cockie Graves having goneand done it!"

  Book 1 Chapter 3