elegance, and Lawrence wondered why people called Bessy Houghton so
plain. Her figure was strikingly symmetrical and softly curved. Her
abundant, dark-brown hair, instead of being parted plainly and drawn
back into a prim coil, as usual, was dressed high on her head, and a
creamy rose nestled amid the becoming puffs and waves. She wore black, as
she always did, but it was a lustrous black silk, simply and fashionably
made, with frost-like frills of lace at her firm round throat and dainty
wrists. Her cheeks were delicately flushed, and her wood-brown eyes were
sparkling under her long lashes.
She offered him a half-opened bud for his coat and pinned it on for him.
As he looked down at her he noticed what a sweet mouth she had—full and
red, with a half child-like curve.
The fact that Lawrence Eastman took Bessy Houghton to the Bailey’s party
made quite a sensation at that festal scene. People nodded and winked
and wondered. “An old maid and her money,” said Milly Fiske spitefully.
Milly, as was well known, had a liking for Lawrence herself.
Lawrence began to “go with” Bessy Houghton regularly after that. In his
single-mindedness he never feared that Bessy would misjudge his motives
or imagine him to be prompted by mercenary designs. He never thought of
her riches himself, and it never occurred to him that she would suppose
he did.
He soon realized that he loved her, and he ventured to hope timidly
that she loved him in return. She was always rather reserved, but the
few favors that meant nothing from other girls meant a great deal from
Bessy. The evenings he spent with her in her pretty sitting room, their
moonlight drives over long, satin-smooth stretches of snowy roads, and
their walks home from church and prayer meeting under the winter stars,
were all so many moments of supreme happiness to Lawrence.
Matters had gone thus far before Mrs. Eastman got her eyes opened. At
Mrs. Tom Bailey’s quilting party an officious gossip took care to inform
her that Lawrence was supposed to be crazy over Bessy Houghton, who was,
of course, encouraging him simply for the sake of having some one to beau
her round, and who would certainly throw him over in the end, since she
knew perfectly well that it was her money he was after.
Mrs. Eastman was a proud woman and a determined one. She had always
disliked Bessy Houghton, and she went home from the quilting resolved to
put an instant stop to “all such nonsense” on her son’s part.
“Where is Lawrie?” she asked abruptly, as she entered the small kitchen
where George Eastman was lounging by the fire.
“Out in the stable grooming up Lady Gray,” responded her older son,
sulkily. “I suppose he’s gadding off to see Bessy Houghton again, the
young fool that he is! Why don’t you put a stop to it?”
“I am going to put a stop to it,” said Mrs. Eastman grimly. “I’d have
done it before if I’d known. You should have told me of it if you knew.
I’m going out to see Lawrence right now.”
George Eastman muttered something inaudible as the door closed behind
her. He was a short, thick-set man, not in the least like Lawrence, who
was ten years his junior. Two years previously he had made a furtive
attempt to pay court to Bessy Houghton for the sake of her wealth, and
her decided repulse of his advances was a remembrance that made him grit
his teeth yet. He had hated her bitterly ever since.
Lawrence was brushing his pet mare’s coat until it shone like satin, and
whistling “Annie Laurie” until the rafters rang. Bessy had sung it for
him the night before. He could see her plainly still as she had looked
then, in her gown of vivid red—a color peculiarly becoming to her—with
her favorite laces at wrist and throat and a white rose in her hair,
which was dressed in the high, becoming knot she had always worn since
the night he had shyly told her he liked it so.
She had played and sung many of the sweet old Scotch ballads for him, and
when she had gone to the door with him he had taken both her hands in his
and, emboldened by the look in her brown eyes, he had stooped and kissed
her. Then he had stepped back, filled with dismay at his own audacity.
But Bessy had said no word of rebuke, and only blushed hotly crimson.
She must care for him, he thought happily, or else she would have been
angry.
When his mother came in at the stable door her face was hard and
uncompromising.
“Lawrie,” she said sharply, “where are you going again to-night? You were
out last night.”
“Well, mother, I promise you I wasn’t in any bad company. Come now, don’t
quiz a fellow too close.”
“You are going to dangle after Bessy Houghton again. It’s time you were
told what a fool you were making of yourself. She’s old enough to be your
mother. The whole settlement is laughing at you.”
Lawrence looked as if his mother had struck him a blow in the face. A
dull, purplish flush crept over his brow.
“This is some of George’s work,” he broke out fiercely. “He’s been
setting you on me, has he? Yes, he’s jealous—he wanted Bessy himself, but
she would not look at him. He thinks nobody knows it, but I do. Bessy
marry him? It’s very likely!”
“Lawrie Eastman, you are daft. George hasn’t said anything to me. You
surely don’t imagine Bessy Houghton would marry you. And if she would,
she is too old for you. Now, don’t you hang around her any longer.”
“I will,” said Lawrence flatly. “I don’t care what anybody says. You
needn’t worry over me. I can take care of myself.”
Mrs. Eastman looked blankly at her son. He had never defied or disobeyed
her in his life before. She had supposed her word would be law. Rebellion
was something she had not dreamed of. Her lips tightened ominously and
her eyes narrowed.
“You’re a bigger fool than I took you for,” she said in a voice that
trembled with anger. “Bessy Houghton laughs at you everywhere. She knows
you’re just after her money, and she makes fun”—
“Prove it,” interrupted Lawrence undauntedly. “I’m not going to put any
faith in Lynnfield gossip. Prove it if you can.”
“I can prove it. Maggie Hatfield told me what Bessy Houghton said to her
about you. She said you were a lovesick fool, and she only went with you
for a little amusement; and that if you thought you had nothing to do but
marry her and hang up your hat there you’d find yourself vastly mistaken.”
Possibly in her calmer moments Mrs. Eastman might have shrunk from such a
deliberate falsehood, although it was said of her in Lynnfield that she
was not one to stick at a lie when the truth would not serve her purpose.
Moreover, she felt quite sure that Lawrence would never ask Maggie
Hatfield anything about it.
Lawrence turned white to the lips. “Is that true, mother?” he asked,
huskily.
“I’ve warned you,” replied his mother, not choosing to repeat her
statement. “If you go after Bessy any more you can take the consequences.”
She drew her shawl About her pale, malicious face and left him with a
parting glance of contempt.
“I guess that’ll settle him,” she thought grimly. “Bessy Houghton turned
up her nose at George, but she shan’t make a fool of Lawrence, too.”
Alone in the stable Lawrence stood staring out at the dull red ball of
the winter sun with unseeing eyes. He had implicit faith in his mother,
and the stab had gone straight to his heart. Bessy Houghton listened in
vain that night for his well-known footfall on the veranda.
The next night Lawrence went home with Milly Fiske from prayer meeting,
taking her out from a crowd of other girls under Bessy Houghton’s very
eyes as she came down the steps of the little church.
Bessy walked home alone. The light burned low in her sitting room, and in
the mirror over the mantel she saw her own pale face, with its tragic,
pain-stricken eyes. Annie Hillis, her “help,” was out. She was alone in
the big house with her misery and despair.
She went dizzily upstairs to her own room and flung herself on the bed in
the chill moonlight.
“It is all over,” she said, dully. All night she lay there, fighting with
her pain. In the wan, gray morning she looked at her mirrored self with
pitying scorn—at the pallid face, the lifeless features, the dispirited
eyes with their bluish circles.
“What a fool I have been to imagine he could care for me!” she said,
bitterly. “He has only been amusing himself with my folly. And to think
that I let him kiss me the other night!”
She thought of that kiss with a pitiful shame. She hated herself for
the weakness that could not check her tears. Her lonely life had been
brightened by the companionship of her young lover. The youth and
girlhood of which fate had cheated her had come to her with love; the
future had looked rosy with promise; now it had darkened with dourness
and grayness.
Maggie Hatfield came that day to sew. Bessy had intended to have a
dark-blue silk made up and an evening waist of pale pink cashmere. She
had expected to wear the latter at a party which was to come off a
fortnight later, and she had got it to please Lawrence, because he had
told her that pink was his favorite color. She would have neither it nor
the silk made up now. She put them both away and instead brought out an
ugly pattern of snuff-brown stuff, bought years before and never used.
“But where is your lovely pink, Bessy?” asked the dressmaker. “Aren’t you
going to have it for the party?”
“No, I’m not going to have it made up at all,” said Bessy, listlessly.
“It’s too gay for me. I was foolish to think it would ever suit me. This
brown will do for a spring suit. It doesn’t make much difference what I
wear.”
Maggie Hatfield, who had not been at prayer meeting the night before, and
knew nothing of what had occurred, looked at her curiously, wondering
what Lawrence Eastman could see in her to be as crazy about her as some
people said he was. Bessy was looking her oldest and plainest just then,
with her hair combed severely back from her pale, dispirited face.
“It must be her money he is after,” thought the dressmaker. “She looks
over thirty, and she can’t pretend to be pretty. I believe she thinks a
lot of him, though.”
For the most part, Lynnfield people believed that Bessy had thrown
Lawrence over. This opinion was borne out by his woe-begone appearance.
He was thin and pale; his face had lost its youthful curves and looked
hard and mature. He was moody and taciturn and his speech and manner were
marked by a new cynicism.
In April a well-to-do storekeeper from an adjacent village began to court
Bessy Houghton. He was over fifty, and had never been a handsome man in
his best days, but Lynnfield oracles opined that Bessy would take him.
She couldn’t expect to do any better, they said, and she was looking
terribly old and dowdy all at once.
In June Maggie Hatfield went to the Eastman’s to sew. The first bit of
news she imparted to Mrs. Eastman was that Bessy Houghton had refused
Jabez Lea—at least, he didn’t come to see her any more.
Mrs. Eastman twitched her thread viciously. “Bessy Houghton was born an
old maid,” she said sharply. “She thinks nobody is good enough for her,
that is what’s the matter. Lawrence got some silly boy-notion into his
head last winter, but I soon put a stop to that.”
“I always had an idea that Bessy thought a good deal of Lawrence,” said
Maggie. “She has never been the same since he left off going with her. I
was up there the morning after that prayer meeting night people talked
so much of, and she looked positively dreadful, as if she hadn’t slept a
wink the whole night.”
“Nonsense!!” said Mrs. Eastman decisively. “She would never think of
taking a boy like him when she’d turned up her nose at better men. And
I didn’t want her for a daughter-in-law, anyhow. I can’t bear her. So
I put my foot down in time. Lawrence sulked for a spell, of course—boy
fashion—and he’s been as fractious as a spoiled baby ever since.”
“Well, I dare say you’re right,” assented the dressmaker. “But I must
say I had always imagined that Bessy had a great notion of Lawrence. Of
course, she’s so quiet it is hard to tell. She never says a word about
herself.”
There was an unsuspected listener to this conversation. Lawrence had
come in from the field for a drink, and was standing in the open kitchen
doorway, within easy earshot of the women’s shrill tones.
He had never doubted his mother’s word at any time in his life, but
now he knew beyond doubt that there had been crooked work somewhere.
He shrank from believing his mother untrue, yet where else could the
crookedness come in?
When Mrs. Eastman had gone to the kitchen to prepare dinner Maggie
Hatfield was startled by the appearance of Lawrence at the low, open
window of the sitting room.
“Mercy me, how you scared me!” she exclaimed nervously.
“Maggie,” said Lawrence seriously, “I want to ask you a question. Did
Bessy Houghton ever say anything to you about me or did you ever say that
she did? Give me a straight answer.”
The dressmaker peered at him curiously.
“No. Bessy never so much as mentioned your name to me,” she said, “and I
never heard that she did to any one else. Why?”
“Thank you. That was all I wanted to know,” said Lawrence, ignoring her
question, and disappearing as suddenly as he had come.
That evening at moonrise he passed through the kitchen dressed in his
Sunday best. His mother met him at the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked querulously.
Lawrence looked her squarely in the face with accusing eyes, before which
her own quailed.
“I’m going to see Bessy Houghton, mother,” he said sternly, “and to ask
her pardon for believing the lie that has kept us apart so long.”
Mrs. Eastman flushed crimson and opened her lips to speak. But something
in Lawrence’s grave, white face silenced her. She turned away without a
word, knowing in her secret soul that her youngest born was lost to her
forever.
Lawrence found Bessy in the orchard under apple trees that were pyramids
of pearly bloom. She looked at him through the twilight with reproach and
aloofness in her eyes. But he put out his hands and caught her reluctant
ones in a masterful grasp.
“Listen to me, Bessy. Don’t condemn me before you’ve heard me. I’ve
been to blame for believing falsehoods about you, but I believe them no
longer, and I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”
He told his story simply and straightforwardly. In strict justice he
could not keep his mother’s name out of it, but he merely said she had
been mistaken. Perhaps Bessy understood none the less. She knew what Mrs.
Eastman’s reputation in Lynnfield was.
“You might have had a little more faith in me,” she cried reproachfully.
“I know—I know. But I was beside myself with pain and wretchedness. Oh,
Bessy, won’t you forgive me? I love you so! If you send me away I’ll go
to the dogs. Forgive me, Bessy.”
And she, being a woman, did forgive him.
“I’ve loved you from the first, Lawrence,” she said, yielding to his
kiss.
I.
_I am the product of the centuries. I am the child of the aeons which
were. I have always been and I shall always be. To make me it has taken
fire, water, star-dust, the Spirit of God, the lives of a million people
and the lights of a million suns. I have grown from heat and star-dust
to the Thing Which Thinks. What has happened to me has been good: what
shall happen will be better, for I am Evolution, and Evolution goes ever
upward. Life has been good, Death will be better, for I am the Cause of
all the Past, making toward one great Effect. My debt to the Past is
great. Let me in part repay it by doing the best I can, following the
light within me. And the clearest light is Kindness._
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
The History of the Hals
THE FATHER OF THE TURF IN TENNESSEE.
CHAPTER VII.
By JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
The other day I inquired of Uncle Berry how he thought Maria would
compare with the best horses of the present day. In reply he said: “If
I were forty and Maria four years of age, I would not want a greater
fortune than I could win with her at Fordham and Saratago.”
He thinks the improvement in training and the condition of race tracks
accounts for the difference in time of this and former days. He thinks if
the horses of the present day were galloped, in sweats, sixteen or twenty
miles under eight or ten Mackinaw blankets, and every morning and evening
galloped four miles and repeat under two or three blankets and ran their
races on deep, heavy tracks, as formerly, they would make slow time, and
very few of them would be seen on the turf at the age of nine years, and
I agree with him.
In old times, in cases of severe fevers, doctors excluded the fresh air
and wrapped their patients in blankets, and gave them warm water to
drink. The first cargo of Yankee ice brought to New Orleans was thrown
into the Mississippi by an order of the Mayor, under advice from the
medical board.
I believe that it is conceded that Flying Childers and O’Kelly’s
Eclipse were the fastest horses the world has ever produced, or, in the
expressive language of John Randolph, “they were the swiftest quadrupeds
that ever appeared upon the earth.” Childers was the son of Darley’s
Arabian, and Eclipse was his great-great-grandson, and the dam of Eclipse
was by Regulus, the best son of Godolphin’s Arabian. These two Arabians
were the “diamonds of the desert”—the pure fountains with which we are
delighted to connect our thoroughbreds by the unbroken links of an
extended chain. The third dam of her sire, imported Diomed, was by Flying
Childers and he by Darley’s Arabian (1). The seventh dam of Diomed
was by Spanker, he by Young Marsque, he by Marsque (sire of O’Kelly’s
Eclipse), he by Squint, he by Bartlett’s Childers (own brother to Flying
Childers) and he by Darley’s Arabian. (2) Diomed was by Florizel, whose
third dam was by Flying Childers. (3) Florizel was by King Herod, whose
fourth dam was by Darley’s Arabian. (4) The dam of Herod was by Blaze,
and he by Flying Childers. (5) The dam of Diomed was by Spectator, whose
third dam was by Darley’s Arabian. (6) The second dam of Diomed was
by Blank, whose dam was by Bartlett’s Childers, own brother to Flying
Childers (7), making seven courses of Darley’s Arabian through Diomed,
three of which are through Flying Childers and two through his own
brother, Bartlett’s Childers.
The dam of Maria was by Taylor’s Bel-Air (the best son of Imported
Medley). Medley’s fourth dam was by Bartlett’s Childers (1). Medley was
by Gimcrack and he by Cripple, whose second dam was by Flying Childers
(2). Medley’s second dam was by Snap, he by Snip, and he by Flying
Childers (3), making three courses of Darley’s Arabian through her dam,
two of which are by Flying Childers and one through Bartlett’s Childers,
making in all ten crosses of Darley’s Arabian in Maria’s pedigree,
five of which are through Flying Childers and three through Bartlett’s
Childers. Maria has the following crosses of the Godolphin Arabian: The
second dam of Diomed was by Blank and he by the Godolphin (1). Bel-Air
was by imported Medley, he by Gim Crack, he by Cripple and he by the
Godolphin (2). The second dam of Bel-Air was by Black Selima, by imported
Fearnought and he by Regulus, the best son of Godolphin (3). The third
dam of Bel-Air was imported Selima by the Godolphin (4). If the imported
mare to which Maria traces could be identified she would probably add
several additional crosses of these famous Arabs.
For the performances of Maria I have relied mainly upon her memoir
published in the sixth volume of the American Turf Register, which was
written by Judge Thos. Barry, of Gallatin, who obtained the facts from
Captain Haney in his lifetime, which are corroborated substantially by
Uncle Berry.
In my last communication, in referring to the race of Blucher and
Walk-in-the-Water at Natchez, I made a mistake as the time when the
Jockey Club changed the rule taking twenty-one pounds off of Blucher. It
was not done the night before the race, as stated, but it occurred some
time before. It was the evening before the race that Col. A. L. Bingaman,
a member of the Club, moved to have the rule rescinded so as to make
their weight equal, but his motion was voted down, and Blucher carried
one hundred pounds and Walk-in-the-Water one hundred and twenty-one
pounds.
B. C. Oscar, foaled in spring of 1814, bred by the Rev. Hubbard Saunders,
of Sumner County, Tennessee, stood without a rival on the Tennessee turf
in his day. He never paid a forfeit or lost a heat, nor did he ever meet
a competitor able to put him to his top speed. His pedigree is not only
pure, but rich and choice. He was got by Wilkes’ Wonder (he by Imported
Diomed out of Mary Gray by Tippoo Saib, the dam of Pacolet).
First dam—Rosey Clack, by Imp. Saltram.
Second dam—Camilla, by Symmes’ Wildair, the best son of Imp. Fearnought.
Third dam—Minerva, by Imp. Obscurity.
Fourth dam—Diana, by Clodius.
Fifth dam—Sally Painter, by Imp. Sterling.
Sixth dam—Imp Silver, by Belsize Arabian.
Seventh dam—By Croft’s Partner.
Eighth dam—Sister to Roxana, by Bald Galloway.
Ninth dam—By Akaster Turk.
Tenth dam—By Leeds’ Arabian.
Eleventh dam—By Spanker.
This pedigree, in the language of my late friend, the Rev. Hardy M.
Cryer, “is pure as the icicle which hung at the north corner of Diana’s
Temple.”
Oscar was a dark bay, of uniform color, with black points, full fifteen
hands three inches high, owned and run by that high-toned gentleman, Dr.
Roger B. Sappington, of Nashville. He was a horse of commanding presence,
possessing great power, especially in the shoulders and chest, in which
he resembled the lion, high, oblique withers, short back, prominent hips,
hindquarters rather light, when contrasted with his shoulders and chest,
stifles and hocks excellent and limbs superior, hind feet well under him,
with a head, eye and windpipe which could not be surpassed. He reminded
me of Uncle Berry’s answer to my questions about the head, limbs and
action of Ball’s Florizel. He said: “His head was all mouth and nostrils,
and he could stand with all his feet in a washtub.” Oscar won his first
race, a sweepstake, in October, 1817, over the Nashville course, two
mile heats, one hundred dollars entrance, which he won with the greatest
ease, beating Mr. James Jackson’s McDhane (by imported Eagle, out of his
imported mare, Virginia, by imported Daredevil) and Dr. Butler’s splendid
filly, by Pacolet. The next day he walked over the course for the club
purse.
In May, 1818, he won over the same course a jockey club purse, four
mile heats, beating with ease General Jackson’s Gun Boat, by Pacolet.
Gun Boat was withdrawn after the first heat. In October, 1818, over the
same course, he won the jockey club purse, four-mile heats, beating with
ease at two heats, Mr. Morton’s horse, by Potomac, and Colonel Elliott’s
(Uncle Berry’s) horse, by imported Whip. This Whip colt belonged to Uncle
Berry, whose history is as follows: Uncle Berry volunteered in Capt.
John W. Byrns’ light-horse company early in the Creek War and served out
his term under Gen. Jackson, for which he now is and has been for about
twelve months in the receipt of a pension of ninety-six dollars per
annum, payable quarterly. He commenced to receive this pension under the
late Act of Congress, in the ninety-fifth year of his age. He said to me
the other day: “I am sorry the government don’t pay it all at once, for
twenty-four dollars won’t buy anything, and it is always gone before the
next payment arrives.” When his term of service expired he was about to
re-volunteer, but Colonel Elliott, who was then in command of a regiment
in the army, persuaded him to return home and look after the women and
children and blood stock, which he reluctantly consented to do. After
spending some time in Tennessee, he visited a friend, Colonel Faulkner,
of Garrard County, Ky., who invited him to examine a lot of two-year-old
colts, some of which he contemplated entering in a sweepstake, to come
off the ensuing fall. On returning to the house, Mrs. Faulkner inquired
of Uncle Berry what he thought of her colt, to which he replied: “I
consider him, Madam, the best of the lot,” at which she was very much
gratified and begged that he would enter, train and run the colt in the
stake, to which he consented, and won the race with ease. He purchased
this colt of Mrs. Faulkner, brought him to Tennessee, where he won
several races, and was entered by Colonel Elliott in the four-mile race
against Oscar, as above stated.