King Charles the Second I saw here, Apparently, from the characters introduced, this incident must have occurred at or about 1690. In No. 173 of the Spectator we find an advertisement copied from the Post Boy of September 11, 1711, to the following effect :"On 9th of Oct. next will be run for on Coleshill Heath, in Warwickshire, a plate of 6 guineas value, three heats, by any horse, mare, or gelding that hath not won above the value of five pounds. The winning horse to be sold for ten pounds, to carry ten stone weight if fourteen hands high; if above or under, to carry or be allowed weight for inches, and to be entered on Friday 5th, at the Swan in Coleshill by 6 in the evening. Also a plate of less value, to be run for by asses." The latter, though by no means a noble sport, must have been amusing as a wind-up to the proceedings. Twoyear-old racing, it is pretty generally admitted, has arrested the development of growth of our horses, and done the country a serious injury; indeed it is a grave matter of doubt if we could get a thoroughbred now to carry weight for inches in like proportion as the Coleshill coursers did; we certainly could not get a racer nowadays for the equivalent in value for £10 in those days, not even if we took him from a "cab-rank." Racing truly has grown since the days of Athelstan; so much so that we can hardly recognise in the vast industry which it now represents in this country any trace of what was formerly the pastime of an Anglo-Saxon king. Kinglake has left upon record that "we are a nation of gamblers," and we suppose we must be, as racing has grown into a grand national gambling institution. The breed of the horses, or who or what wins the Derby," is of little consequence to the million of backers who are not "on." They have lost; and whereas in Athelstan's time such a catastrophe entailed temporary disappointment on one, in these days it means sorrow and ruin to many thousands. We have no further space to go into the pro and con of the matter, but prefer to leave racing for the present in 1711, when Coleshill races were wound up by a good ass race, and venture to throw out a hint that a few plates given for improving the breed of the patient "moke" of the costermonger would not be amiss. STRANGER THAN FICTION. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," "THE VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c. CHAPTER XXX. DOROTHY AND MISS THORNTON COMPARE NOTES. FEW days after Will Tunster's visit to Mortimer House "Well, Dorothy," said Lucy, "and what conclusion have you arrived at with regard to your faithful lover, Mr. William Tunster?" "If I say I wish to leave you?" answered Dorothy, with rather surprising promptness. "I shall be sorry," said Lucy. "You don't seem astonished." "I am beginning not to be surprised at anything," said Lucy. "My mother-you know how she grieves after the old place,' said Dorothy. "But I give you pain!" "No, no," said Lucy, with a sigh; "go on." "Will has taken the old house-they have let it to him as an especial favour, though it will not be wanted any more for a keeper, because they are going to cut a railway a quarter of a mile above it," said Dorothy, making an effort to say what she had to say "quick, and get it over," as she afterwards told Will. Lucy saw her embarrassment, and with womanly instinct and sympathy interpreted what Dorothy further desired to say. "And you think you will say 'Yes' to Will's proposition, and leave this fine city, and settle down into a quiet country wife? You are right, Dorothy; Will deserves to have that answer; he has waited long and patiently, and you will be happy.” "God bless you," said Dorothy, while Lucy flung her arms round the woman's neck and kissed her. Dorothy's was a sad and romantic story in its way. In early life she had loved deeply and passionately. She was a fine handsome girl at eighteen, and her lover was a manly young fellow. She had mourned his loss for years and vowed her heart was broken. This had been her reply to Will Tunster any time this fifteen years. At last she told Will he was welcome to half her heart. She could give nobody more than what was left, she said, and she would not give anybody else that except Will, and he said dang his buttons he would only be too glad to have it; for half a loaf was better than none. "It will perhaps be happier for mother," said Dorothy, "for since she has had nothing to complain about, she has only grumbled the more." "But that has not influenced you," said Lucy. "No, I've come to like Will; he is very kind; and we shall all live together in the old house." "Ah, my dear friend, you are right." A gentle tap at the door. "Come in," said Lucy. "The Hon. Max Walton and Mr. Thornton are in the hall," said the servant. "Mr. Thornton wishes to know if you will join them in the park." "I will presently," said Lucy; "in half an hour." "Yes, my lady.” "Tell John I will be ready in half an hour." "I shall leave London," said Lucy. "You!" "Yes, for a couple of years at least." "My dear Lucy," said Dorothy, with tears in her eyes, "you are not happy." "Oh yes, I am," said Lucy, smiling sadly, "but I ought not to have come out this season; I want more education; I must study quietly; I know nothing." "You know as much as other ladies." "No, I do not; my music requires practice; I cannot speak French; my water colours are daubs; I am very ignorant." "You can ride better than any lady in the Row, and dance-Oh, how you did dance the other night! I was watching you from the gallery." "Yes," said Lucy, "and uncle is anxious that I should marry." Dorothy sighed. "I know what you are thinking," said Lucy. "I suppose it is not to be." "What is not to be?" "I was thinking of Jacob Martyn," said Dorothy. "He is not worth thinking about," said Lucy, her face suddenly flushing. "Don't say that, dear." "Well, we will not discuss the subject," Lucy replied. "Of course you are going to marry Mr. Max Walton." "Not of course; there are a dozen men quite as eligible as my lord's brother," said Lucy; "but I must have a nice quiet house in the country, where I can study and make myself worthy to be a wife." Dorothy, in thinking of Jacob, had forgotten for the moment how even she had given up her old lover at last. She did not know that neglect is harder to bear than absence. Dorothy had waited from year to year, expecting her lover to return to her across the treacherous sea, and at last was fain to give him up as dead, and transfer her affections to another. Lucy had waited for tidings of Jacob, and she too was tired of waiting. If you had seen her galloping with her uncle and Mr. Max Walton an hour after her conversation with Dorothy you would have thought her happy and contented. She was the admiration of riders and pedestrians. The latter leaned upon the railings, watching her lithe figure as it disappeared among the trees; the former admired and envied her according to their sex. Sometimes she tried to chat with her uncle about a pleasant country house and two years of retirement from London; but the moment they pulled their horses into a walk under the trees they were surrounded by friends. The Hon. Max Walton was perpetually by Lucy's side, and it was generally believed that he was the most fortunate man of the season. Now and then, however, Lucy gave gossips a little reason to doubt this, by marked flirtations with other admirers. Indeed Lucy played the part of the belle of the season to perfection, and especially as the season advanced, practice in flirtation giving additional grace and piquancy to her natural charms. "They say you are becoming a finished flirt, Lucy," said Mr. Thornton, as they were riding home; "quite cruel and fickle, upon my honour." "Who says so?" "Max thinks so, I am sure," said Mr. Thornton. Lucy burst into a merry little laugh. "Lord Folden has made a bet against Max Walton's success." "Success?" said Lucy, inquiringly. "As the favourite for your hand." "Oh, they bet upon matrimonial events, do they?" "Lord Folden bets on anything." "How droll!" said Lucy; "I will support his judgment." "What is the joke?" asked Max Walton, riding up. "A bet of your brother's," said Lucy, looking across her horse's neck at the speaker, who found himself at a loss what to say in reply. "Do you make bets?" asked Lucy, enjoying his confusion. "Sometimes I backed the Derby winner this year," said Mr. Walton. "Oh, indeed; then you are lucky in your wagers." "Generally, yes." They had arrived at Mortimer House. Lucy alighted; Mr. Thornton and the Hon. Max Walton raised their hats. Lucy smiled, waved her whip, and disappeared, to meet her escort, however, again at dinner. CHAPTER XXXI: DESCRIBES A FAMOUS FAIR, ITS PLEASURES, PECULIARITIES, AND PASTIMES; BUT IS MORE PARTICULARLY NOTEWORTHY ON ACCOUNT OF THE UNEXPECTED MEETING OF TWO TRAVELLERS. "WELL, dang my buttons!" said Will Tunster, who was mounted upon a sturdy cob, doing seven miles an hour on the Dinsley road, about twenty miles from Cartown. "Gee up, Sauce Box, gee up!" Sauce Box shook her head, and declined to gee up. "Vary weel, owd testy, then ston still, and I'll get off." Sauce Box scrambled into a trot immediately. "Thou'rt like th' paddy's pig as had to be shoved t'rong way before it ud go th' reight un." Sauce Box shook her head and walked again. "Weel, niver moind; we're up to him noo; and if it isna Jacob Martyn, whoy, my name's not Will Tunster, that's ole." Will said this in such a loud voice that the object of the remark turned round, and there was a mutual recognition. Jacob, however, looked far less pleased at the meeting than Will, who slipped off Sauce Box and shook Jacob by the hand, and hoped he was well, and hearty, and stunning. 66 "I am very well and glad to see you, Will," said Jacob, after a pause. "Weel now, I shouldna a thout it; thou doesna look ower pleased, master. But niver moind, I know thou's had thy troubles; and dang me, whether thou'rt glad or not, I'm glad. Roide, sir, roide-I've had a long spell, and thou'rt more fit for a horse than I am." Jacob smiled bitterly, and said, "You forget the adage, Will, about putting a beggar on horseback." |