DERBY DAY.
A small crowd was collected in front of the Hotel Mazarin, and its
proportions were gradually being swelled by passing Saturday loungers.
Walter Sedger's drag, drawn up in front of the hotel to receive his
party for the races, was the attraction which drew together this
inquisitive throng, and in spite of the expression of superior
indifference assumed by most of the men and boys composing the crowd, it
was easy to see that the red-wheeled coach, with its smart team of
browns, was an object of more than passing interest. A park policeman
was exchanging a word or two in a knowing manner with the stolid Briton
in boots and breeches at the leaders' heads, and near him a
slouch-hatted veteran, wearing a Grand Army badge, was talking
condescendingly with an ice-man. A large cake of ice, which had been
carried thus far on its way to the hotel bar, was slowly melting in the
sun, and little streams of water flowed from it and trickled into the
gutter; but the veteran and the ice-man still gazed at the shining
panels of the drag, and eyed the "cattle" with the air of connoisseurs,
while a butcher's boy with his white apron and basket of meat, and a
German carpenter with his kit of tools, stood there stolidly, intent
upon remaining until the show was over. A diminutive Italian boot-black,
still attired in the rags of his native Naples, had crowded to the curb
and was standing in front of two Norwegian sailors; just behind them was
a party of Bohemian laborers, and a peddler from sunny Sicily touched
elbows with a mortar-covered mason from Erin's shores, while some
cadaverous clerks from the State Street shops, radiant in the ready-made
attire of assumed gentility, were there, helping to swell this crowd of
perhaps a hundred loungers. They were all citizen of the great Republic,
and though few could speak intelligently the language of their adopted
home, probably most of them, in their hearts, resented the appearance on
the Chicago streets of this English coach as something unAmerican, for
which "them doods" on the Avenue were responsible.
The hands of the hotel clock indicated that the hour was nearing two.
The thin-faced veteran in the slouch hat plunged his hands deeper into
his trousers' pockets, and, turning his head to a critical angle, said
patronizingly to the ice-man: "Them's the things they calls
'tally-ho's.'" The ice-man rolled his shirt-sleeves a little higher
above his elbows, folded his brawny arms and replied, in the accent of
the Teuton, "I dink dot vas it."
"Them swells likes to show off mighty well. Wonder what that machine
cost," answered the veteran. But before the ice-man could reply, a
messenger boy at his side shouted out, "Golly! there goes another of
them 'busses," and the attention of the crowd was attracted toward the
street, where Jack Elliot's coach, with its team of roans, was passing
along the Avenue, bearing a party to the races.
"I wish that chap in the white pants'd toot his horn," said the
messenger boy; but Jack Elliot was a coaching man who did not believe
in arousing the neighborhood with useless music, so the wish was not
gratified.
While the attention of the crowd was thus diverted, Sedger and his
friends emerged from the hotel. The party was composed of Marion and her
husband, Florence Moreland, Harold Wainwright, a Mrs. Smith from
Cincinnati, and Walter Sedger. They had been lunching in the restaurant
of the hotel, and on reaching the sidewalk they at first found some
difficulty in pushing their way toward the coach; but on seeing them the
smart park policeman on duty officiously pushed the crowd back and made
a way for them.
"I can't wait for Grahame any longer," Sedger was saying to Mrs.
Sanderson. "He couldn't lunch with us, and I told him to be here at
half-past one. It's a quarter to two, and we shall miss the first race."
"Don't wait for him, then," said Marion, thinking this was the only
thing to be said, but feeling an inward disappointment at the thought
that Duncan might not see her in her white crepon gown, with its gold
corselet and braided trimmings, just sent her by Mrs. Mason of
Burlington Street, London, W. She knew it was becoming, and she also
liked her Virot hat, but she didn't think it wise to put Sedger in an
ill-humor by asking him to wait, so she walked silently to where a groom
was holding a ladder against the box-seat. Meanwhile Sedger passed round
to his off side wheeler and picked up his reins. Assorting them in
correct road fashion he mounted to his seat, wrapped a light driving
apron about his legs, picked up his whip, caught the lash in a double
thong, and waited while his party took their places. Marion mounted to
the box seat and the rest took the longer seat behind. Just as Sedger
was about to start his team, Marion, who had been constantly looking in
the direction in which Duncan should appear, saw him hastening around
the corner of Jackson Street. "There is Mr. Grahame," she called out,
and while Duncan was hurrying along the street, Roswell Sanderson
suggested that he and Wainwright had better change to the back seat, so
as to give Duncan an opportunity of seeing something of the city.
Duncan came up almost breathless from his rapid walking, and after
exchanging a hurried greeting with the party, mounted to the seat
beside Florence left vacant by Harold Wainwright. "Let 'em go," Sedger
called to the grooms. The lead bars rattled, the leaders pranced as the
grooms jumped from their heads, the wheelers sprang into their collars,
and the coach rolled off down the Avenue.
It was a bright June day, and all Chicago seemed to be in the long,
tree-lined boulevard which stretched away to the south. Hundreds of
vehicles of every description known to the coach-builder's craft were
rolling over the hard macadam pavement, bearing people to the races, and
in this motley array were to be found all sorts and conditions of men
and carriages. Buggies and express wagons, stanhopes and butcher carts,
mail-phaetons and road-carts, char-a-bancs and extension tops, victorias
and "hacks," coaches and omnibuses, aristocracy and democracy scattered
the same dust and rolled toward the same goal. Only the road to Epsom
can present a scene more varied than this; only the Champs Elysees
excels the noble avenue down which Walter Sedger tooled his team of
browns.
"It is a pleasure to live on such a day, with four such horses to drive
behind, isn't it, Mr. Grahame?" asked Florence, as the coach rolled past
the Auditorium, and the team settled down to their work.
"I am surprised you think so," answered Duncan, with a bantering
expression in his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because I don't see how you reconcile so Anglican an institution as a
drag with your patriotic sentiments."
"You forget that George Washington hunted, and had his clothes made in
London."
"Then I am to infer that the highest type of patriot is he who rides to
hounds and gets his coats on Hanover or Conduit Street."
"You are to infer that the highest type of patriot is not he who
blusters sectional prejudice from under the shade of a slouch hat, but
he who is sufficiently liberal to combine foreign excellencies with
native virtues."
"You have a flow of expression which would do credit to a campaign
orator," laughed Duncan. "For my part I don't believe in patriotism, at
least in the sentimental sense of the word. Patriotism is a compound of
pride and jealousy. Eliminate these two factors, to use an algebraic
expression, and nothing remains."
"I fear we shall never agree on such questions," said Florence, anxious
not to enter into a useless argument with Duncan.
"Perhaps, after all, it is my fault," answered Duncan with an expression
of sadness in his eyes which seemed strange to Florence. "I wish I might
believe in noble sentiment, but a man who has had his wings clipped in
Wall Street is not the chap for sentiment."
"Perhaps you will change your mind one day," answered Florence.
"It would only take one example of true sentiment to convert me," said
Duncan gravely. "Well," he added, after a moment, "there may be rough
spots in a worldly life, but there is no dullness, and, after all, that
is what most of us try to avoid. While the sparkle lasts life is sweet,
but when it is gone one might as well give up the fight."
Mrs. Smith of Cincinnati interrupted them by asking Florence if she knew
what the large, brick building on the left was.
"That is the Calumet Club," Florence answered, and then they subsided,
for a moment, into silence.
Approaching Grand Boulevard the crowd of vehicles became denser, and the
coaching party found much to amuse them. Sedger pointed his leaders
around the corner of Thirty-fifth Street, and the coach swayed and
rocked as the four browns dashed around the turn into the short
cross-street. The horn was sounded to warn the street cars of their
approach, and then, after a passing glance of horses, coach, and party,
reflected in the broad shop windows of the street, another corner was
turned, and they were rolling along the broad boulevard leading to
Washington Park. Sedger was late, and, anxious to be in time for the
first race, he sent his lash under the lead bars, and touched the off
leader a clip on the legs which made him jump into his collar in quick
order. The team all caught the inspiration of the lash, the pace was
quickened, and the great vehicle rumbled on past the small fry of the
road, quickly measuring off the two miles or more of straight avenue
stretching away toward the park. The party on the drag laughed and
talked, and occasionally glanced at the quickly changing scene. Soon the
coach was rolling past the great, green meadow of the park so English in
its aspect, and then, after passing a bit of lake where hundreds of
holiday seekers were now stretched in the cool shade of the shrubs on
its banks, rattled down the little incline which leads to the Club House
road. The strains of band-music came over the bit of level ground and
the party could see the great Grand Stand crowded with its ten thousand
spectators. By its side was the Club House, standing on a rise of ground
skirted by lawns and flower-beds, its two verandas filled with people,
and the driveway in front crowded with arriving vehicles.
Sedger urged his team to a gallop, and the horses scampered through the
lodge-gate and up the little hill to the Club House, where he brought
them up "all standing." The people on the veranda crowded forward to see
the coaching party, while Sedger and his guests descended, and the
coachman drove the steaming horses off to the stables. Scores of smart
traps followed the drag up to the club steps, and the party stopped a
moment to view the brilliant scene. Sleek horses and polished brass,
neat liveries and shining panels, bright gowns and gay parasols, moved
in seemingly endless succession to the accompanying music of champing
bits and the restless pawing of countless hoofs. After watching the
changing throng for a moment, Sedger and his party walked through the
Club House to the veranda facing the course, which they found filled
with members and their friends. On the enclosed lawn before them people
were sitting in chairs, or walking up and down. Considering this the
best place to view the sport, they placed seats on the green turf and
sat down in the shade of the Club House.
"A capital course this," said Duncan to Marion, as he glanced across the
turf-covered enclosure filled with smartly dressed people to the track
beyond, where a half dozen racers were taking their preliminary gallop.
"I had no idea you had such a place as this in Chicago," he added, and
then Sedger suggested that they go to the betting ring and see how the
betting was.
"Wait till after this race," put in Wainwright. "There go the horses to
the post."
"Well, if we can't play this race, we must have a hat pool," answered
Sedger, who felt that not to have something on a race was to lose half
the sport. "Let's see, there are just seven horses and seven of our
party. Five dollars apiece for a flyer."
No one objected, so Sedger wrote the seven numbers on little pieces of
paper which he tore off his programme, and, shaking them up in his hat,
he passed them about among his party.
"What horse have you, Mrs. Sanderson?" asked Duncan as she drew her
number from the hat.
"Number seven," answered Marion, and Duncan looked at his card to see
what horse it was. "Orion," he said, "and his colors are purple and
white."
"My husband's university colors; that ought to bring me luck."
"Not on Orion, I am afraid," interrupted Sedger, who prided himself on
his knowledge of the turf. "He was a 'twenty-to-one shot' in town last
night, but I'll be generous and give you two dollars for him."
"No, I prefer to keep him. Orion may prove a lucky star after all."
"By Jove, they're off!" shouted Duncan, who had been watching the horses
at the post on the other side of the course. They were all well bunched,
the red flag dropped, and away they scampered on a five-furlong dash.
"Orion's last, Mrs. Sanderson," called Sedger, who was following the
race with a large pair of russet-leathered field-glasses. "Orion's last,
but I'll give you a dollar for your chance."
"Don't take it, Mrs. Sanderson, he's coming up," said Duncan, as the
horses dashed around the first turn, scattering a cloud of dust behind
them. Then the crowd in front of the Grand Stand began to surge and
sway, and the sea of ten thousand hats was lashed to excitement. A
murmur broke forth from the distant crowd as a mass of color and racers
emerged from the dust and rushed down the home stretch; then the
cheering grew louder and the hats swayed more furiously as the horses
dashed on to the finish.
"Look at Orion now," said Duncan, "he's a good second. By Jove, he
wins!" he shouted, as the purple and white rushed to the front and won
hands down by a neck. "I congratulate you, Mrs. Sanderson."
"Who would have thought the brute could beat 'The Wizard' who sold at
two to one on" said Sedger, and then he suggested that the men should go
to the betting ring and play the Derby.
Duncan turned to Marion and asked if she would not choose him a horse to
play. "You are so lucky that I feel sure of winning," he added.
"But I know nothing about the horses," remonstrated Marion.
"Neither do I, so we have a fair chance."
"Well, I choose Belle of Newport."
"You think she ought to be fast, I suppose."
"No, but the Marquis, who, Mr. Sedger says, is a favorite, will be sure
to follow her."
"Don't you play the Belle, Grahame," said Sedger, as he and Duncan left
the ladies and wandered toward the Grand Stand. "Her owner told me last
night that he is afraid she isn't fit."
"Perhaps he intends playing her himself," laughed Duncan.
Sedger and Duncan passed over the bridge connecting the Club House lawn
with the Grand Stand, and were soon in the midst of the great crowd
moving toward the betting-rooms. The sun beat down upon the heads of
this army of enthusiasts, but, despite the heat, thousands of men
crowded into the low room where scores of keen book-makers, with their
coats off, were ranged in little booths, calling off the odds on the
next race, and taking the money of the eager crowd of gamblers. By the
time Sedger and Duncan had worked their way through this throng up to a
book-maker, and had purchased two tickets on Marquis and Belle of
Newport respectively, they were thankful to hurry out of the stifling
place into the open air.
"I took your advice, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan, after he had returned
to the club lawn. "Belle of Newport is my horse."
"I hope my choice won't bring you ill luck."
"We shall soon know, for there go the horses to the post."
Five of the starters trotted past the Club House, and there was a
perceptible movement among the people on the veranda and lawn as the
contestants for the great event passed before them. The Marquis was the
favorite and he was greeted by a round of applause, as Jockey Gannon
urged him into a brisk hand gallop. The sleek sides of the chestnut
gelding glistened in the sunshine, and he certainly looked a winner.
Close at his heels was the bay Kentucky filly, Belle of Newport, ridden
by the veteran Forest, and the knowing ones could see that the Southern
mare was in prime condition. The first horses were followed by three
stragglers who had been late in saddling, and then the starter's
carriage rolled across the green turf of the field toward the half-mile
post at the opposite side of the course. Hundreds of glasses were
leveled at the bunch of racers over by the stables, restlessly tugging
at their bits. Then there was a scramble and a rush of horses past the
red flag, but one horse was slow in getting away and the flag still
fluttered in the breeze. The jockeys pulled up their mounts and turned
them back to the starting-post. After much manoeuvring for positions,
they scrambled away again, scattering the dust behind them. They were
well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they went on the mile and
a half gallop for the American Derby. The crowd surged wildly and eager
eyes were strained toward the mass of horses scampering over the first
half-mile of the course.
Down they came to the Grand Stand, a cloud of dust enveloping them and
almost concealing the bright colors of the riders. Men rushed to the
railings and strained their eyes down the course; a faint murmur broke
from the crowd and grew louder and louder. "Marquis! Marquis wins!" was
shouted by the favorite's friends, as they saw the long stride of the
chestnut gelding in front. Then the racers clattered past the Grand
Stand, urged on by cheers and applause.
It was nobody's race yet, but Marquis still led, with Belle of Newport a
good second. They passed the Club House with Marquis close to the inside
railing for the turn, when he swerved against the railing and stumbled.
There was a shout of horror, and the women at the Club House turned
their heads away. The racers rushed on to the finish, but the favorite
lay there in the dust, with the blood gushing from a broken knee, and
Jockey Gannon motionless at his side. Some men ran on to the course and
carried Gannon away. The poor Marquis tried to rise and looked
pleadingly at his owner who had rushed to his side. From the distance
came a cheer. It was for the Belle of Newport, the winner of the great
race. Jockey Forest had seen the Marquis go down before him, and
pressing his knees to the sides of the Belle, had raised the filly and
carried her over the fallen favorite. The other riders had seen the
accident in time, and, swerving their mounts aside, they had rushed on
to the finish, while the Marquis lay there in the dust pleading for help
with his mournful eyes. A veterinary bent over the horse's wound. He
held a hurried consultation with the owner; then some one placed a
revolver against the poor beast's head; there was a loud report, a
convulsive kick, and the noble racer lay dead on the field he had
striven so hard to win. A pair of work-horses was brought on to the
course and all that remained of the Marquis was dragged away, while over
by the little lake, under the shade of an elm, Jockey Gannon lay
stretched on the turf. A physician was by his side, and a crowd of
curious people gazed at the pale face before them. "He may live till
morning," the physician said, and then the wounded jockey was silently
borne away. The band played again, the blood stains on the course were
covered by fresh dirt, and the bell rang for the next race. People asked
a few questions about the dying man, and then he was forgotten in the
excitement of the sport. It was only a jockey.
"You see, you brought me luck, Mrs. Sanderson," Duncan said to Marion,
after he had returned from getting his Belle of Newport ticket cashed.
"Two hundred dollars for forty. That is luck, isn't it?"
"Yes, but that reminds me of the accident. Do you know, I feel quite
unnerved after that sight."
"You had better walk with me on the lawn. It will do you good, I am
sure."
"I hope so," said Marion as she rose to go with him.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn,
chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the
first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he
made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless
and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a
strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which
told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted,
but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but
hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the
words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.
Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was
an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired,"
he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came,
and Marion could feel that Duncan was looking into her face, but she did
not dare to meet his glance. He leaned toward her and spoke in the soft
tones she remembered so well. "You are cruel," he said.
She looked up, startled. "Cruel, what do you mean?" she asked.
"You are cruel to forget so easily. You are cruel to treat me as you
have."
"I, cruel; I don't understand," she said, and she thought of his
careless manner and how she had waited for him to speak.
"Yes, you women are all alike. You play with us men for the moment, and
then we are cast aside like a toy which no longer pleases. I thought you
were different from the rest."
Marion looked up into his face with an expression of astonishment. She
met his grey eyes, and for a moment she felt again that subtle power she
had been dreaming of so long.
"Have you forgotten?" he said slowly.
Marion turned her head away. "Don't talk of that, Mr. Grahame," she
answered. "That is all ended."
"It can't be ended while----" He did not finish for he saw a man
approaching. "Here we are, Sanderson," he called carelessly. "I suppose
you are looking for your wife."
"Yes," answered Roswell, coming nearer. "Mr. Sedger has tea ready on the
upper veranda, and he wants his party. You look pale, Marion, is
anything the matter?"
"I felt very much upset by that accident. I came here to get away from
the people for a moment."
"A cup of tea will put you right," said Duncan.