So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit and
colourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. The
dear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lightening
the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear
gold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of
working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again.
The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship and
sorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk
laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could have
thought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird
on the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, the
colour it flaunted was bright.
The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortune
that this horse's hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a
happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life
the glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder's wife, and the
feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers on
the young man's legs, the cigar in his mouth--all is Goodwood gold. It
glitters in that girl's ears and on this girl's finger.
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