Bright rose the sun upon the "White Hart" tavern that stands within
Eltham village, softening its rugged lines, gilding its lattices,
lending its ancient timbers a mellower hue.
This inn of the "White Hart" is an ancient structure and very
unpretentious (as great age often is), and being so very old, it has
known full many a golden dawn. But surely never, in all its length
of days, had it experienced quite such a morning as this. All night
long there had been a strange hum upon the air, and now, early though
the hour, Eltham village was awake and full of an unusual bustle and
excitement. And the air still hummed, but louder now, a confused
sound made up of the tramp of horse-hoofs, the rumble of wheels, the
tread of feet and the murmur of voices. From north and south, from
east and west, a great company was gathering, a motley throng of
rich and poor, old and young: they came by high road and by-road, by
lane and footpath, from sleepy village and noisy town,--but, one and
all, with their faces set towards the ancient village of Eltham.
For to-day is the fateful fifteenth of July; to-day the great
Steeplechase is to be run--seven good miles across country from point
to point; to-day the very vexed and all-important question as to
which horse out of twenty-three can jump and gallop the fastest over
divers awkward obstacles is to be settled once and for all.
Up rose the sun higher and higher, chasing the morning mists from
dell and dingle, filling the earth with his glory and making glad
the heart of man, and beast, and bird.
And presently, from a certain casement in the gable of the "White
Hart," his curls still wet with his ablutions, Barnabas thrust his
touzled head to cast an anxious glance first up at the cloudless
blue of the sky, then down at the tender green of the world about,
and to breathe in the sweet, cool freshness of the morning. But
longest and very wistfully he gazed to where, marked out by small
flags, was a track that led over field, and meadow, and winding
stream, over brown earth newly turned by the plough, over hedge, and
ditch, and fence, away to the hazy distance. And, as he looked, his
eye brightened, his fingers clenched themselves and he frowned, yet
smiled thereafter, and unfolding a letter he held, read as follows: OUR DEAR LAD,--Yours received, and we are rejoyced to know you so
successful so far. Yet be not over confident, says your father, and
bids me remind you as a sow's ear ain't a silk purse, Barnabas, nor
ever can be. Your description of horse reads well, though brief. But
as to the Rayce, Barnabas, though you be a rider born, yet having
ridden a many rayces in my day, I now offer you, my dear lad, a word
of advice. In a rayce a man must think as quick as he sees, and act
as quick as he thinks, and must have a nice judgment of payce. Now
here comes my word of advice.