Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
PRICE 25 CENTS.
CLIQUOT
A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty.
BY KATE LEE FERGUSON.
_PHILADELPHIA: T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS: 306 CHESTNUT STREET._
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=LINDSAY’S LUCK.= By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
=MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER.= By Henry Greville.
=OUT OF THE DEPTHS.= The Story of a Woman’s Life.
=CLIQUOT.= A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty. By Kate Lee Ferguson.
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CLIQUOT.
BY
KATE LEE FERGUSON.
“CLIQUOT,” a new love romance from the pen of Kate Lee Ferguson,
a rising young Southern authoress of the Amélie Rives school, is
full of passion, piquancy and breathless interest. All through it
possesses that quality which the French call chic, which gives it
that flavor which everybody likes. Neil Emory’s domestic drama--for
he is a man with a past in his history--and his deep-rooted passion
for Gwendoline Gwinn, as well as the fascination exerted upon him by
Cassandra Clovis, an actress, are intermingled with an exciting tale
of the race-track in which the foremost figures are Cliquot, a fleet
but unmanageable racing stallion, and the mysterious jockey who rides
him to final victory after the superb horse has been the death of all
his predecessors. The scene is laid in the South and the agreeable
volume gives a most charming glimpse of fashionable Southern society.
The racing incidents are very graphic and will take a firm hold on all
admirers of horse-flesh. “CLIQUOT” is written in a sprightly style and
is just the book to raise a sensation and be talked about in every
direction.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
1889.
_“Cliquot,” a bright and peculiarly interesting novel in which
burning love and a wonderfully exciting episode of the race-course
are the chief ingredients, is the production of Kate Lee Ferguson,
one of several young Southern authors who have recently sprung up to
cultivate the fruitful field in which Amélie Rives has worked her
way to notoriety. It is a strong and spicy romance, always fresh and
crisp, with never a superfluous line and very interesting in the very
first paragraph. The locality is the South and the characters typical
Southerners. Neil Emory, a man with a past, is the hero, and the
heroine is Gwendoline Gwinn, who, while admired as a belle, petted by
her mother and apparently fond of her ease, is yet a woman to do and
dare. A theatrical element is cleverly introduced in the shape of two
actresses, Cassandra Clovis and the mysterious “Kitty Who Laughs.” The
book takes its title from a thoroughbred racing stallion, capable of
great things on the turf but addicted to killing his jockeys. A boy
is at last found who rides him to a successful finish and about whom
some very singular developments are made. The description of the race
which the stallion wins is spirited and vivid to a high degree. Some
of the incidents are exceedingly naturalistic and striking. It is not
too much to say that “Cliquot” will be read with avidity and that it
will be discussed with considerable ardor, for, while it is undoubtedly
absorbing, it touches upon some topics which most writers have seen fit
to avoid. But the best way is to examine and find out for yourself._
CONTENTS.
Chapter. Page.
I. A SHORT HEAT. 21
II. A DEVIL’S LAUGH. 32
III. SHE WHO INFLAMES WITH LOVE. 46
IV. “OUT FROM THE GOLDEN DAY.” 52
V. PRETTY GOOD ARMS. 56
VI. BACKWARDS. 61
VII. MONDAY. 70
VIII. “MY BEAUTIFUL! MY BEAUTIFUL!” 79
IX. THE CHINK OF GOLD. 85
X. FALSE COURAGE. 94
XI. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE. 102
XII. “I KNOW YOU, GWENDOLINE.” 113
XIII. “WITHIN A WEEK.” 122
XIV. IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS. 129
XV. “SOFT AS ZEPHYR.” 139
XVI. AT LAST. 142
* * * * *
CLIQUOT.
CHAPTER I. A SHORT HEAT.
Another jockey had been killed on the race-course. The utmost
excitement prevailed. The magnificent animal which had caused the death
reared and plunged in the hands of a groom, his foam-covered sides
catching the dust from his flying heels. The crowd poured and surged
from the stand, while the band still played. The two other horses were
led away, one quiet enough, but the other, a black gelding, fretting
and sidling through the throng.
Mr. Emory, the owner of the restless stallion, hurried down the steps
of the grand stand. He was a tall blond, and wore a soft gray hat. He
grew a shade paler as he saw the dead man raised from the ground by two
hostlers, his broken neck dangling over the arm of one of them as they
bore him through the gate.
“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “and he thought he could ride!”
He whispered a few words to his groom, then asked a policeman to
clear a passage, that his horse might be led away, a thing not easily
accomplished, as with trembling limbs and quivering nostrils the
beautiful creature rose repeatedly in his tracks, while the man swung
to and fro at his bit. At length, he sprang forward and rushed for the
stable; breaking loose beyond the gate, he dashed madly into his stall,
when the door was closed upon him, while the crowd yielded and swayed
and dashed about, in that aimless, foolish, reckless way so often
noticed under such circumstances.
Of course, there was the usual flutter and stir on the ladies’ stand--a
shutting of fans, a rustle of silk, and the starting forward of some
excitable ones. Exclamations were heard of “How horrible!” “Oh! I wish
I’d never come!” or, “We women have no business here!” while others
thought, “I would not have missed it, dreadful though it is!”
The race was off--thousands of dollars staked and only one heat over.
Which horse had won?
Now the police were busy, for the dead man’s form and the maddened
stallion no longer held the rabble at bay. Tongues began to wag fast
and faster, and hot and hotter grew the discussions about the track and
pool stands. Yells of the officials for the police to clear the sward
for the next race filled the air, and, finally, when the judge tapped
the bell and the crier announced that the race would come off the
next day, a little order was restored and the band began to blow its
loudest, as a couple of fillies trotted through the gate.
But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty,
while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through
the exit and the women were gone.
Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to
his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then,
turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few
steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was
inside, and the two drove rapidly away.
Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a
regiment of friends.
“Hard lines,” said Gray. “Two jockeys in six months.”
“Yes,” replied his companion, “and where on earth will I find another
willing to risk his neck on that beast?”
“A few hundred dollars will find one.”
“I doubt it,” said Emory. “I will have to make it a few thousands.”
“Well! considering the amount staked on the animal, you will have to
make it a couple, I dare say.”
They drove on in silence, the owner of the horse busy with his thoughts
and unwilling to discuss a matter so close to his heart even with his
best friend.
When they reached the city, Neil parted with his companion and went up
to his rooms. His servant had lighted the gas and arranged his bath.
He occupied a handsome suite of apartments, and his sitting-room was
one of the prettiest in town, only the absence of the usual display of
lovely women’s photos distinguished Neil Emory’s abode from all others.
Perhaps in some far-away corner, veiled, was a picture, or, perhaps,
only in his heart there existed such an image, though most people
thought it but that of a rampant steed.
When he had finished his toilet, it was quite dark. Turning down the
gas, he threw himself into a chair at the open window. Thoughts,
thoughts, thoughts, wild and mad, surged through his brain.
Almost wealthy! Only a little while ago a comparatively poor man, alone
in the world, well born, handsome and educated--but a little while
since able to purchase a small but beautiful estate, situated a few
miles from the city, sold at a bargain just as an unlooked for legacy
from a distant relation enabled him to become the purchaser--but a
little while ago so fortunate as to buy at auction a young thoroughbred
stallion, which unexpectedly proved to be one of the greatest racers of
the age, but was possessed of a disposition so unmanageable that but
two men had been found able to ride him, and both of those had been
killed. If he could but win this race, how much it would mean for him!
Money he must have, come what might.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, rising and stretching forth his arms in the gloom,
“Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me, win for me, or I perish!”
* * * * *
Two nights after the day of the race there was a reception at the
residence of Mrs. Dale, one of the fashionable women of the city of
N----. Every one spoke, more or less, of the accident on the course.
“They say,” said one, “that he has offered an immense sum for a jockey.”
“Yes,” said another; “over two thousand dollars.”
“I dare say he’ll find some fool to ride the beast,” added a third,
“and for far less money.”
“But,” said a bystander, “two days of the week have passed and Emory
has not unearthed his man yet.”
Just then Neil came down from the dressing-room and entered the
parlors. Little Selina Maury was standing by the door.
“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come! I thought you were so cut up that we
wouldn’t see you to-night.”
He smilingly bowed his acknowledgments.
“Heavens!” thought the girl, “I wish Bob had so lovely an expression!
He does nothing but grin!”
Then she took a rose from her breast and held it out to Neil.
He was fastening it in his coat when Mrs. Dale came up.
“How late you are! Let me take you to the supper-room. I dare say you
may find an ice there.”
Excusing himself to Miss Maury, the young man went away with his
hostess. There was a jam at the door, which caused them to stop by a
recessed window, where a girl sat, leaning lazily back against the
cushions of a sofa, her slippered feet crossed before her and the trail
of a green silk coiled out on the carpet beyond.
The soft fold of her dress under Neil’s foot caused him to look up. She
saw him and put her hand out through the curtain.
“How d’ye do?” she said, in an indolent way.
He took the soft fingers, devoid of jewels, in his and smiled again.
A dark, stylish man was beside her, holding an ice. He brushed some
crumbs of cake from his lap, looked up, scowled slightly and spilled
the ice.
The girl laughed a little.
“Can I replace it?” asked Neil.
“Oh, no,” she said; “I am glad it’s gone that way! But do you think
now that you could manage to procure for me a very small glass of
champagne, with quantities of ice--quite a small glass, and mostly
_ice_?”
This she rather murmured than said, leaning back and idly toying with a
gauze fan.
“I really don’t think I could,” replied Emory. “You see what a jam
there is.”
“I can!” exclaimed the young man beside her, springing to his feet,
and before they could utter a word he was gone and Neil had taken his
vacant place.
“It’s all an awful bore; don’t you think so?”
He looked at her and, perhaps, heard her, “I do not know.”
Oh! the white throat--the lovely jeweless throat and hands--the
glorious violet eyes, that graceful drooping head, with its crown of
waving, bronze-hued hair, those supple limbs, clad in a close-fitting
robe of green silk!
“A bore! my God!” and the room grew dim, and the lights went out, while
before his eyes a maddened crowd came, the dangling neck of a dead
jockey rose, and a foam-covered, rearing steed stood, while there was a
cry in Emory’s heart: “Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me or I
perish!”
“See, I have brought the wine,” and young Clayton stood before them.
The girl put the glass to her lips and slowly drank. When she had
finished, she toyed with the ice at the bottom of the glass and looked
lazier than ever.
“Would you like to dance?” asked Clayton. “I believe there is a band.”
“No,” she replied; “I never dance in a train. It coils about one’s feet
so, or gets around a man’s limbs and I am constantly imagining that I
am a serpent, coiling and uncoiling in an earthly paradise.”
“A very beautiful and telling comparison,” said Emory.
“But one I don’t like,” added Clayton, “for it leads a fellow to look
upon Miss Gwinn as a temptress.”
“Well!” said the girl, with a rippling laugh, “is a little knowledge a
dangerous thing?”
The but half-concealed fury which flashed from the young man’s eyes
showed Neil Emory a little of the volcano that lurked beneath.
Mrs. Gwinn came up on the arm of a handsome man. He had a courtly
bearing, wore his silver hair close cut, had a moustache, a complexion
like a girl’s, and was a wealthy sugar planter and desperately
enamoured Gwendoline Gwinn, this lovely girl who held her court in the
most indolent fashion. Her mother was very gracious in her manner to
him, and spoke to her daughter at once.
“Will you come with us, my dear? It is almost time to leave and so
many persons are asking where you are.” Then, perceiving Emory, she
said: “Have you found a jockey?”
“Not yet, Madam; that is, none to suit, but I am promised one
to-morrow.”
“Ah! indeed!” she said, indifferently, and was turning away, when
Selina Maury came by.
“Oh! Mr. Emory, do tell me, is the race really off, or will there be a
man to ride your lovely horse? I am perfectly wild to see him again!”
and in her eager, restless way, with the usual girlish impulse, she
laid her hand on his arm, looking up into his face as if a whole world
of adoration were in her eyes.
“Pretty enough eyes, too,” thought Neil, as he smiled.
“If he looks that way again,” said the girl to herself, “I’ll box Bob’s
jaws when he kisses me!”
“Yes,” said Emory, “I hope he will run on Monday, if the promised man
suits. A blacksmith is to bring a youngster to-morrow and I shall judge
what he can do. Would you like to see another jockey tossed, Miss
Gwinn?” he asked, laughing a little, hard laugh as he turned to her.
“Are they always killed?” she asked; “and does it hurt very much to
have one’s neck broken? I wonder why persons will be so silly as to
fall off and get their necks broken!”
“But he was thrown,” cried Selina, “and so his neck was cracked.”
“No,” said Gwendoline; “I don’t think I care to see that any more; but
I promise to be at the race, if that comes off--and not the jockey.”
A little laugh from the bystanders, and then she rose, slowly drawing
herself away from the dark cushions, and, uncoiling her train from
around her feet, bowed to those beside her and glided after her mother
in and out of the crowd, like a long green serpent.