I
Less than a hundred miles from the city of Gotham, across broad green
fields, dotted into squares and oblong valleys by full-leafed maple,
and elm, and mulberry, was the village of Brookfield. A hundred years
of expansion in the surrounding land had acted inversely with the little
hamlet, and had pinched it into a hermitical isolation.
The Brookfieldians had discovered a huge beetle in the amber of their
serene existence; it was really the Reverend Dolman who had unearthed
the monster. The beetle in the amber was horse racing, and the prime
offender, practically the sole culprit, was John Porter.
By an inconsistent twist of fate he was known as Honest John. His father
before him had raced in old Kentucky to considerable purpose, and with
the full vigor of a man who races for sport; and so to the son John,
in consequence, had come little beyond a not-to-be-eradicated love
of thoroughbreds. To race squarely, honestly, and to the glory of
high-couraged horses was to him as much a matter of religion as the
consistent guardianship of parish morals was to the Reverend George
Dolman. Therefore, two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides
of the fence.
Even in the Porter household, which was at Ringwood Farm, was divided
allegiance. Mrs. Porter was possessed of an abhorrent detestation of
horse racing; also an assertive Christianity. The daughter, Allison, had
inherited the horse taint. The swinging gallop of a striving horse was
to her the obliteration of everything but sunshine, and the smile of
fields, and the blur of swift-gliding hedges, and the driving perfume
of clover-laden winds that passed strong into spread nostrils. For
Alan Porter, the son, there were columns of figures and musty-smelling
bundles of tattered paper money where he clerked in the bank. There had
been great unison in the Porter household over the placing of Alan. In
addition to horse lore, John Porter was a fair judge of human nature,
and, beyond doubt, there was a streak of velvet in Alan which would have
twisted easily in the compressive grip of the race course.
The Porter family were not the only dwellers of Brookfield who took
part in racing. Philip Crane, the banker, wandering from the respectable
highway of finance, had allowed himself to become interested in race
horses. But this fact was all but unknown in Brookfield, so the full
resentment of the place was effusively tendered to John Porter.
In his younger days some money had come to Philip Crane. The gambler
spirit, that was his of inheritance, had an instinctive truth as
allied to finance; but, unfortunately for Philip Crane, chance and a
speculative restlessness led him amongst men who commenced with the
sport of kings. With acute precipitancy he was separated from the
currency that had come to him. The process was so rapid that his racing
experience was of little avail as an asset, so he committed the first
great wise act of his life-turned his back upon the race course and
marched into finance, so strongly, so persistently, that at forty he was
wealthy and the banker of Brookfield.
Twenty years of deliberate reminiscence convinced him that he could
gratify the desire that had been his in those immature days, and
possibly work out a paying revenge. Thus it was that he had got together
a small stable of useful horses; and, of far greater moment, secured a
clever trainer, Dick Langdon.
Crane's latter-day racing had been successful--he made money at it.
No man was ever more naturally endowed to succeed on the turf than was
Banker Philip Crane. Cold, passionless, more given to deep concentrated
thought than expression, holding silence as a golden gift--even as a
gift of rare rubies--nothing drew from him an unguarded word, no sudden
turmoil quivered his nerve. It was characteristic of the man that he had
waited nearly twenty years to resume racing, which really came as near
to being a passion with him as was possible for anything to be. There is
a saying in England that it takes two years of preparation to win a
big handicap; and these were the lines upon which Philip Crane, by
instinctive adaptation, worked.
Quite by chance Dick Langdon had come into his hands over a matter of
borrowed money. It ended by the banker virtually owning every horse that
raced in the trainer's name. In addition, two or three horses ran in
Philip Crane's own name. If there had been any distinctive project in
the scheme of creation that gave Dick Langdon to the world, it probably
was that he might serve as the useful tool of a subtle thinker. Now
it did seem that Langdon had come into his own--that he had found his
predestined master.
John Porter had not been successful; ill fortune had set in, and there
was always something going wrong. Horses would break down, or get beaten
by accident--there was always something. The steady financial drain had
progressed even to an encumbrance on Ringwood.
Ringwood was simply a training farm, located close to an old disused
race course, for there had been no racing in Brookfield for years.
* * * * * *
Inadvertently the Reverend Mr. Dolman had intensified the strained
relationship that existed between the good people who frowned upon all
racing endeavor and those who saw but little sinfulness in John Porter's
way of life.
The church was in debt--everything in Brookfield was, except the town
pump. The pastor was a nervous, zealous worker, and it occurred to
him that a concert might lighten the financial load. The idea was not
alarmingly original, and the carrying out of it was on conventional
lines: local volunteer talent, and a strong appeal to the people of
Brookfield for their patronage.
The concert in the little old clap-boarded church, it's sides faded
and blistered by many seasons of tempest and scorching sun, was an
unqualified success up to the fifth number. Nothing could have been more
successful, or even evoked greater applause, than the fourth effort,
“Anchored,” as rendered by the village pride in the matter of baritone
singing; even De Reszke never experienced a more genuine triumph. The
applause gradually fell away, and programmes were consulted preparatory
to a correct readiness for the fifth offering. The programmes confided
that “The Death of Crusader,” by Miss Allis Porter, was the next item.
In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe
quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor,
and whispered, “It's that racin' gal of John Porter's.”
The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: “I'm right glad
she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them
Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to boardin'
school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account of the
war.”
The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with
decisive bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in
astonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the
center of the improvised platform.
From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding
skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Porter
eyes--confronted the quaint little old lady.
“That's the Porter gal,” her neighbor squeaked; “I've seen her a-top
them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter wouldn't
melt in her mouth, she's that prim now.”
“The coat would melt it,” commented the quaint one.
Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive
nervousness, giving it a lilt like a robin's, said:--