E-text prepared by Al Haines
HIPPODROME
by
RACHEL HAYWARD
George H. Doran Company
New York
Copyright, 1913,
By George H. Doran Company
TO
EDYTH AND ARTHUR APPLIN
WITH LOVE AND HOMAGE.
"Car vois-tu chaque jour je t'aime davantage,
Aujourd'hui plus qu'hier, et bien moins que demain."
(_Rosemonde Rostand_)
THE HIPPODROME
CHAPTER I
"Aujourd'hui le primtetemps, Ninon, demain l'hiver.
Quoi! tu nas pas l'étoile, est tu vas sur la mer!"
DE MUSSET.
Count Emile Poleski was obliged to be at the Barcelona Station at five
o'clock in the afternoon one hot Friday in May. His business, having
to do with that which was known to himself and his associates as "the
Cause," necessitated careful attention, and required the performance of
certain manoeuvres in such a way that they should be unobserved by the
various detectives to whom he was an object of interest.
He looked round, scowling, till he found the man he wanted, and who was
to all outward appearances the driver of one of the row of _fiacres_
that waited outside the station. Cigarettes were exchanged, and a tiny
slip of paper passed imperceptibly from hand to hand, then he turned
ostensibly to watch the incoming train from Port-Bou. As he was on the
platform it would be better to look as if he had come to meet someone,
and as he had nothing particular to do just then it would make a
distraction to watch the various types of humanity arriving at this
continental Buenos Ayres, the city of romance, anarchy, commerce and
varied vices.
Emile Poleski called it _l'entresol de l'enfer_, and certainly he was
not there by his own choice. It was the centre of intrigue, and to
intrigue his life, intellect, and the little money he had left from his
Polish estates, were devoted. To him life meant "The Cause," and that
exigeant mistress left little room for other and more natural
affections.
In his career women did not count, at least they did not count as
women. If they had money to spend, or brains and energies that could
be utilised, that was a different matter. He had a trick of studying
people as one studies natural history through a microscope.
It was all very interesting, but when one had done with the specimens
one threw them away and looked about for fresh material.
The train came in, slackened speed and stopped, and its contents
resolved themselves into little groups of people all hunting with more
or less excitement for their luggage, and porters to convey the same to
cabs.
The figure of a girl who had just alighted and was standing alone,
caught and held his roving eyes. The pose of her abnormally slim body
had all the grace of a figure on a Grecian vase in its clean curves and
easy balance.
Her head was beautifully set upon a long throat, and her feet were
conspicuously slender and delicate in their high French boots of
champagne-coloured kid. Her face, which as far as he could see was of
a startling pallor, was obscured by a white lace veil tied loosely
round her Panama hat, and left to fall down her back in floating ends;
and she wore a rather crumpled, cream-coloured dress.
She stood, looking round, as if uncertain how to act, evidently in
expectation of someone to meet her. No one appeared and she moved off
in search of a porter. Emile followed at a reasonable distance. Books
he found desperately dull, but humanity in any shape or form was
attractive to him, and the girl's appearance appealed to a deeply
embedded love of the exotic and mysterious.
He watched with cynical amusement as she tried to explain her wishes in
French to a porter, who spoke only the dialect of Catalonia. Her voice
finally decided Emile on his line of conduct. Low-pitched it was, with
subtle inflections, and with a hoarseness in the lower notes such as
one hears in the voices of Jewish women.
A woman, whose vocal notes were of that enchanting _timbre_, was likely
to prove interesting.
He advanced a few steps nearer, saying in French, "I speak the
language. Can I be of any use?"
The girl turned, giving him a comprehensive glance, and bowed slightly
in acknowledgment.
"Many thanks, _Monsieur_! I know scarcely any Spanish. Perhaps you
would tell me where one could get lodgings. It seems rather hopeless
for this man and myself to continue arguing in different languages, so
if you would not mind--"
When they were both in the _fiacre_ she did not speak, but leaned back,
her hands in her lap, her feet crossed, looking straight in front of
her with hazel-green eyes, expressionless as those of the Sphinx.
Count Poleski congratulated himself in silence over his discovery.
Here was a woman so unique that she asked no questions, did not
volunteer after the manner of most women a flood of voluble
information, apparently took everything for granted, and was in no way
embarrassed by himself or his company.
In some respects she appeared a young girl, but her composure was
certainly not youthful.
"So you're out from England," he said at last.
"From Paris," she answered him serenely. "I'm Arithelli of the
Hippodrome." There was a girlish pride in her accents, and she looked
at him sideways to observe the effect of her announcement.
"_Ma foi_! So it's that, is it? Then I've heard something about you.
I know the Manager pretty well. He said you were _un peu bizarre_."
"_Peut être plus qu'un peu_," Arithelli retorted quickly. "I see you
think he's right."
Arrived at the lodgings she sat still, waiting in the cab with the same
apparent indifference while Emile wrangled with the landlady. At
length he came back to her: "You had better try these for a week," he
said. "They're forty _pesetas_. She will want the rent in advance as
you have no recommendation." For the first time Arithelli seemed
disturbed.
"I'm afraid I can't pay it. I'm to have five pounds a week at the
Hippodrome, but of course I can't ask for that in advance. I had a
second-class ticket out here, and now I've only got four-and-sixpence
left."
She held out a small blue satin bag, displaying a few coins. "Perhaps
I'd better go and explain to the Manager." Emile shrugged his
shoulders. Obviously the girl was very young.
"On the whole I think you'd better not," he said. "You know nothing
about either myself or the Manager, and it seems you've got to trust
one of us so it may as well be me."
When he had arranged matters he departed, saying casually, "I'll come
in again to-night about nine o'clock to see how you are getting on.
Don't do anything insane, such as wandering about the streets, because
you feel dull. It won't hurt you to put up with the dulness for a bit.
You'll have plenty of excitement if you're going to live in Barcelona."
"_Tiens_!" said Arithelli to herself. "What manners and what dirty
nails! _C'est un homme épouvantable_, but very useful. But for him I
should have been prancing round this place all night, looking for
rooms."
She dragged her trunk towards her, and proceeded to unpack the
collection of gaudy dresses that she had bought with so much pride at
the _Bon Marché_ in Paris, and which were all in the worst possible
taste.
Perhaps she had been impelled to a choice of lively colours as being
symbolical in their brightness of the new life on which she was about
to embark. There was a green cloth rendered still more hideous by
being inlet with medallions of pink silk, a cornflower blue with much
silver braid already becoming tarnished in the few times it had been
worn, and a mauve and orange adorned with flamboyant Eastern embroidery.
When she had tumbled them all out they showed a vivid patch of
ill-assorted tints. Arithelli shivered as she sat back on her heels on
the floor, and looked round the sordid room. The excitement of her
arrival had worn off, and the element of depression reigned supreme in
her mind. Certainly the apartment, which was supposed to be a
bed-sitting-room, but which was merely a bedroom, was not enlivening to
contemplate. No carpet, dirty boards, a large four-poster bed canopied
with faded draperies against the wall facing the window. There was a
feeble attempt at a washstand in a small alcove on the left, furnished
with the usual doll's house crockery affected on the Continent,--no
wardrobe and no dressing table.
It all looked hopeless, she told herself disgustedly. Surely there
were better rooms to be found in Barcelona for forty _pesetas_ a week!
Either lodgings must be very dear or else Emile Poleski had meant to
take a large commission for his trouble in finding them!
She was stiff and tired after the long journey and want of proper food,
and every trifle took upon itself huge dimensions. She was daintily
fastidious as to cleanliness, and everything seemed to her filthy
beyond belief. The universal squalor customary in Spanish life had
come as an unpleasant shock.
When she started from Paris she had conjured visions of a triumphal
entry into her new career. Now she felt rather frightened and
desperately lonely, and the horrible room appeared like a bad omen for
the future. But, she reflected, after all, things might have been
worse. She had found one friend already. Certainly he had
disagreeable manners, especially after the artificial and invariable
politeness of the Frenchmen she had met while travelling, but at least
he promised to be useful. She picked herself up off the floor and
began to consider the disposal of her garments. Three or four wooden
pegs, the only accommodation to be seen, were obviously not sufficient
to hold all her clothes.
Presently there was an interlude, provided by the advent of the
landlady. Her dishevelment accorded well with the general look of the
house; her slippers clicked on the carpetless boards at every shuffling
step, and she carried a half-cold, slopped-over cup of coffee. To
Arithelli's relief the woman was mistress of a limited amount of French
patois, and in answer to a demand for a wardrobe of some kind, said she
would send up her son. He was a carpenter and would doubtless arrange
something. She gave a curious glance at the girl's witch-like beauty,
a mixture of suspicion and barely-admitted pity in her thoughts.
As to Emile's share in the drama she had naturally formed conclusions.
After a respectable interval her son arrived, and having delivered
himself of a remark in Spanish and being answered in French, proceeded
to hammer a row of enormous nails into the wall at regular intervals.
Arithelli sat upon her trunk, which she considered cleaner than the
chairs, and watched the process, her green eyes assuming a curious
veiled expression, a hank of copper-tinted hair falling upon her
shoulders.
There was something uncanny in her capacity for keeping still, and she
had none of the usual and natural fidgetiness of a young girl. In
whatever position of sitting or standing she found herself she was
capable of remaining for an indefinite period.
When the carpenter's manipulations had ceased she hung up her dresses
carefully, put the rest of her things back into the trunk, as being the
safest place, and sitting down again began to cry in a low, painful
way, utterly unlike the light April shower emotion of the ordinary
woman.
Here she was in Barcelona, and the fulfilled desire seemed likely to
become already Dead Sea fruit. Supposing she got ill, or failed to
satisfy the audience. She would see her name to-morrow when she went
out in large letters on the posters of the Hippodrome:
"_Arithelli, the beautiful English equestrienne_," and underneath some
appalling picture of herself in columbine skirts, or jockey's silk
jacket and cap and top boots.
She had been crazy with delight over her success in getting the
engagement from the manager in Paris, and it had not occurred to her
that her appearance had had a great deal to do with her having been
accepted. She had signed a contract for a year; and looking forward a
year seemed a very long time. There had been opposition at home.
Her father had said, "I don't approve, but at the same time I don't
know in the least what else you can do. It's Hobson's choice. You can
ride, and you've got looks of the sort to take in a public career."
Her mother had been frankly brutal. Now that there was no money, she
said, she could not have three great girls at home doing nothing. She
had given them all a good education and they must try and make some use
of it. Neither of the younger sisters, Isobel and Valèrie, were old
enough to do anything for themselves, so Arithelli at the age of
twenty-four had taken her courage, which was the indomitable courage of
her race, in both hands, and launched herself on the world. The
bare-backed riding of her early days in Galway had proved a valuable
asset, and there was not a horse she could not manage.
Her slim figure seemed born to the saddle, and her nerve was as yet
unshaken.
The man who had engaged her had been more than a little astonished at
the composure with which she showed off the horses' paces, and went
through various tricks. As she was young and inexperienced, he would
get her cheaply; she could be taught all the stereotyped acts with very
little trouble, and her morbid style of beauty would be a draw in Spain.
There was nothing of the English miss about her appearance and few
people would have believed her to be only twenty-four. She had no
freshness, no _beautè de diable_. Her beauty was that of line and
modelling. Her quietness was partly the result of a convent education.
An old Irish nun had told her once that good looks were a snare and a
delusion of the Devil, and that hers would never bring her happiness.
At least they had got her an engagement, and a circus had always
represented to her the very height of romance.
She wondered how she could manage for money till she got her five
pounds next Friday. It was lucky that all her habits, and so on, were
provided by the management. She wished to-morrow would arrive, for she
felt eager to begin work, and see the horses. She had quite forgotten
all about Emile's promised visit, and was just pulling down the rest of
her hair preparatory to getting ready for bed, when he walked in
without any preliminary knock.
"How are you getting on? All right?" Then after a momentary
inspection of the many garments that festooned the dirty walls, he
added: "I don't think you've got very good taste in clothes!"