At an hour not far from nine o’clock the guests under the hospitable roof of the Budgeree Hotel were assembled at the breakfast-table. What a meal! What a feast for the gods was that noble refection! What joyous anticipation of pleasure was on all sides indulged in! What mirthful conversation, unchecked, unceasing! There had been, it would seem, a dinner and a small party at Horace Bower’s, and, strange to say, every one had there enjoyed themselves much after the same fashion as at Rockley’s. Bower had been in great form—was really the cleverest, the most amusing fellow in the world. Mrs. Bower was awfully handsome, and her sister, just arrived from Sydney, was a regular stunner, would cut down all before her. Mrs. Snowden had been there too—smartest woman in the district; seen society everywhere—and so on.
A race day owns no tremendous possibilities, yet is there a savour of strife and doom mingled with the mimic warfare. Many a backer knows that serious issues hang upon the favourite’s speed and stamina; on even less, on chance or accident. The steeplechase rider risks life and limb; it _may_ be that ‘darkness shall cover his eyes,’ that from a crushing fall he may rise no more.
These entanglements weighed not in any wise upon the soul of Wilfred Effingham, as he arose with a keener sense of interest and pleasure in expectation than had for long greeted his morning visions. His responsibilities for the day were bounded by his vehicle and horses, so that his family should be safely conveyed to and from the course. Mrs. Effingham had at first thought of remaining quietly in the house, but was reassured by being told that the course was a roomy park, that the view of the performances was complete, that the carriages and the aristocracy generally would be provided with a place apart, where no annoyance was possible; that the country people were invariably well-behaved; and that if she did not go, her daughters would not enjoy themselves, and indeed thought of remaining away likewise. This last argument decided the unselfish matron, and in due time the horses were harnessed, the side-saddles put in requisition, and after a decent interval Black Prince was caracolling away in the lead of the dogcart, and Fergus exhibiting his paces among a gay troop of equestrians, which took the unused, but all the pleasanter, road to the racecourse.