As a bright red streak on the horizon foretold the coming of a
beautiful day in early spring, Neil Emory galloped along the dusty road
to the race-course, and, turning in at its gates, drew rein at the door
of his trainer’s tent.
“Has that boy come?” he asked, as his horse was led off by the groom.
“I think so. I’ll ask Joe.”
In a few moments the man returned, saying that both the blacksmith and
the boy had been waiting quite a while.
Emory walked out towards the track, where a few shade trees stood,
just inside of the low fence. The trainer went to call the blacksmith,
who came from behind the stables, followed by a rather slim boy,
who stopped to chunk at some chickens pecking in the saw-dust. The
youngster stood a little apart, ten or twelve yards off, and threw
clods of earth at them, laughing a trifle when one was struck.
“Is that the lad?” asked Emory.
“Yes, sir,” replied the blacksmith, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired
specimen of humanity.
“What is your name?” asked Emory, taking out his note-book. “I want to
know it and the boy’s, too, for this is a business transaction, and I
am offering a pretty large reward to the fellow who rides this race--a
couple of thousand for the run and a hundred dollars for every race he
wins.”
“My name is Jess Peleg; the lad we call Jack.”
“Jack what?” demanded Emory, pausing with his pencil in his hand. “I
must know how to write the check, if the fellow isn’t killed.”
“Jack Lacy,” replied the blacksmith. “Shall he try the stallion to-day,
sir?”
“Yes, yes, of course; right away!” exclaimed Emory. “This is Thursday,
and we’ve only till Monday to get him used to the lad. Bring out the
rascal,” he added, turning to his groom, who was close at hand.
Quite a little crowd of jockeys and retainers had collected and stood
by to watch the trial of a new hand on this wonderful horse. There was
perfect silence. How would he succeed?
The lad still chunked the chickens. The stable door flew open, and
the horse came out, trotting and snorting a little and holding up his
beautiful head to sniff the morning air. He was a rich chestnut sorrel,
rather over-sized; limbs long and supple as a deer’s, throat slightly
arched, a mane as wavy and bronzed as Gwendoline’s hair. His blanket
removed, after walking him a little the saddle was put on, all quietly
enough.
“Jack,” said Peleg, “come here.”
The boy rubbed his soiled hands over his face, and, sticking them into
his pockets, walked slowly up. He wore a suit of common clothes and a
battered hat. His hair was black, curling close to his head, and his
face very dirty. The blacksmith went up and whispered something to him.
The boy looked at Emory from under his hat and nodded.
“He wants a little cash,” said Peleg. “He hasn’t any jockey clothes.”
“All right,” replied Neil, “but I’ve only a five dollar gold-piece with
me; will he take that?”
So saying, he tossed the coin towards the boy, who caught it in his
hand, put it between his white teeth and then, with a low chuckle,
slipped it into his pocket. The horse was now ready. The lad came
alongside of him, took the reins in his right hand, and, putting his
left under the animal’s mane, began to pass it slowly towards his ears.
As he did so, the horse lowered his head and gave a quivering neigh.
The boy’s hand went softly around his forehead, then crept down his
nose and rested for a moment over his nostrils, as he brought his mouth
close to his ear as if breathing therein, and again the horse neighed.
Then, putting his foot in the stirrup, the lad swung himself into the
saddle, and, gathering up the reins, walked the racer off.
“Hiogh-dough!” laughed the groom.
The walk became a trot, and soon the soft dust rose as he galloped
gently around the track. Again he passed, going a little faster, and
then they saw but a flying streak, which, as it neared the turn, came
down the quarter stretch like a whirlwind, the beautiful neck straight
out and the rider on the horse’s back as firm as a young Indian.
“At last!” sighed Emory, as he folded his arms across his breast. “Now
we will give them a race!”
“Yes,” said the voice of the blacksmith at his side, “and such a race
as they never saw before!”
“If he wins,” exclaimed Neil, “I’ll give you the finest anvil that’s to
be bought, Peleg.”
“Book that,” said the man, “for he’ll win!” and the stallion came in on
his home gallop.
The sun was gilding the steeples of the city when Emory rode home. His
iron-gray bounded lightly beneath the saddle and came down to a soft,
cool walk as his hoofs struck the first stones.
“And if I win,” said the rider to himself, “how shall I be rewarded?”
Did he remember, two years before, when he looked so coldly on
Gwendoline Gwinn as she stood beside that lovely dark-haired cousin,
who had won, at least, his hand? Did he recall the bright hours of his
boyhood, when that tall, lithe, red-haired girl romped at his side and
seemed to possess so little claim to the beauty she now showed to the
world? Had she, indeed, loved him when he returned home from abroad,
and found her so regal a woman? Or, was it only a trap to catch a proud
heart and toss it to another? God knows! and, perhaps, the beautiful
devil, once his wife--really his wife--could answer. Wealth! Who has
not felt its power? Would the year of grace never end? A lie, a living,
breathing lie to the outside world! His wife still lived, and he, too,
lived on, and link upon link the chains gathered around him. One word
and it would be done, one look and it would be over! One embrace, one
kiss of the soul’s passion and hell would yawn--yet, with so glorious a
heaven, would the depths be as nothing!
And so, in the early morning, he rode, seeking at last the brightness
of his chambers to draw down the blinds and pace back and forth like a
yellow lion in its cage.
* * * * *
Mrs. Gwinn came into her sitting-room and rang the bell for her maid,
who, just then, passed the door, hurrying to the kitchen.
“Where are you going, Alice?” she asked.
“Oh! ma’am, the hot water pipes are out of order, and I am going below
for some warm water for Miss Gwendoline’s bath.”
“Hot water!” cried the mother, “on such a warm day? You know Miss Gwinn
always takes a cold bath.”
“But, mamma,” said a voice from above, “I feel awfully lazy this
morning, and you know there’s nothing requires so much exertion as a
cold bath; besides, it was always your idea and not mine. Do let me
have my own way occasionally!”
“Her own way,” thought her mother--“that she has very often,” and she
glanced at the vision above her, in its flowing pink wrapper, the fair
arms resting on the balusters and the tumbled bronze hair falling on
her shoulders. Then, closing her sitting-room door, she shut her eyes
for a moment, and, placing her hand over them, to exclude all but her
thoughts, said aloud:
“Yes, Gwendoline must marry for money--she is too beautiful for a
cottage--and we sell our idols high.”
When Gwendoline was dressed, she came downstairs and greeted her
mother. She wore a long white morning dress, trimmed with lace and
ribbon; and very lovely she looked, as she sank upon the sofa in the
middle of the room.
“Did you enjoy the reception, Gwendoline?”
“Not a great deal,” answered her daughter. “I got tired of Clayton.”
“But not of Col. Coutell?” asked Mrs. Gwinn, eagerly.
“Yes, rather. Don’t you think he is a little old, and far too stately
in his ways?” and the girl looked in a careless, listless manner across
the room.
“Gwendoline!” exclaimed her mother, sharply. “This is folly! You know
that Col. Coutell is deeply in love with you and has spoken to me of
his desire to make you his wife. He is one of the wealthiest of men,
and you are aware that your father left us but a bare competency. Can
you, for a moment, dream of the luxury of a love match--you, with your
idle society ways--you, who loll away the early morn and play with the
midnight hours? Oh! no, my daughter; you must marry for a bed of roses,
with a gilded canopy!” and the handsome woman, who herself had enjoyed
all this, rose and crossed the room to where her daughter sat, placing
her white hand on the girl’s shoulder, with a sarcastic laugh.
Gwendoline sprang to her feet, tossing her tawny mane, as she shook off
her mother’s hand.
“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “this is too much! I will not be bartered for
like a Virginia slave! I am weary, weary of it all, and I can stand it
no longer! Why should I marry at all?”
“Why?” said her mother, waving her white hand slowly back and forth.
“Why, Gwendoline, for a very simple reason--you cannot help it! My
dear, you are hardly the woman to fill the role of an old maid. No, no,
there is too much fire there!” Then, as she walked slowly to the end of
the room, she murmured below her breath, “Latent heat!”
The girl had thrown herself into a chair beside the window. Just then a
servant entered with a note for Mrs. Gwinn, who, having read it, passed
it to her daughter.
“Well, will you accept?”
It seemed a long while, but at last an answer came.
“Yes, I will go, mamma, and I will try to be as agreeable as possible.
I want to please you, just now. I dare say it will be all right in
the end.” A smile crept slowly over the lips of the speaker, and she
repeated, quite low, “In the end!”
And so the note was answered, accepting Col. Coutell’s invitation to
Miss Gwinn for a ride on horseback that afternoon--a gallop on her own
little mare, the one relic of departed glory. When her mother left the
room a few minutes later, the girl turned her head as she lay back in
her chair, and looked around the pretty parlor, a dainty little place,
with brightness over all. The cottage piano stood open and a piece of
new music was on the rack--she played a little, now and then. On the
wall, over the instrument, hung a colored crayon picture of a little
gray poodle, holding a handkerchief in his mouth--a jolly face, with
big brown eyes, over which the fluffy hair hung. There was a landscape
at the back, and in the distance a brown mare and colt were grazing.
“Poor little Fluffy,” murmured the girl, “how he loved me--and they are
all gone!”
Her face grew inexpressibly sad as she gazed on the portrait. That day,
after dinner, as they sat for awhile in the parlor, Mrs. Gwinn remarked:
“Gwendoline, that picture’s the only ugly thing in here.”
Next morning it hung in Gwendoline’s own room.
Emory met the pair later in the evening, returning from their ride,
and it seemed to him that never had Gwendoline looked so beautiful,
her dark green habit fitting to perfection and the loveliness of her
soft eyes enhanced by the glow of health on her cheek. They were riding
slowly through the park and stopped for a moment to speak to him.
The tall form of the Colonel showed well on horseback, and, in the
gathering twilight, he appeared almost a young man.
Emory received his congratulations on his success in securing a jockey.
“I trust he will do,” said Coutell, “and we will yet see the race.”
“Thanks,” replied Neil. “I am sure he’ll suit, though I fear somewhat
for the fellow’s life. There’s no counting on such horses.”
“I’ll be in at the death!” cried Gwendoline, as she glanced up
with--for her--a mischievous smile.
“Nay,” said Emory, “I hope to save you that.”
Her eyelids fell and the sun went down.
Again ere midnight was it fated they should meet.
There was at that time, playing in the city, an actress of some note
and of peculiar standing--a woman darkly beautiful, of good American
family and a reputation fair enough to secure her an entrée into some
of the best society wherever she went. She had paid more than one visit
to N---- and was a favorite; yet, need I say, few women liked her?
For a week or so, she had held sway at the theatre and that night was
to witness her crowning success. Lovers she had in plenty--pure love
they called their infatuation. Her manager was very careful of her, and
she shone forth a “Goddess among men.” The world of our city had given
her some fond admirers, and among those said to be the most ardent
was Neil Emory, who, report stated, knew her, in other places, years
before. That he had bent with warmth above her chair at the receptions,
and almost rested his blond moustache on her white shoulders, was true.
That he had met her behind the scenes and wrapped her shawl about her
at the exposed wings and, once, perhaps, driven her home in his coupé
were also true. That she had staked her jewels and even money upon his
racer were not denied, and that night, when the wealth and beauty of
N---- assembled to witness her final triumph, many eyes and glasses
were directed towards the tall form that alone occupied the left-hand
proscenium box. Opposite, a lively party sat, the box on the right
being tenanted by Mrs. Dale, Gwendoline, Mrs. Gwinn, Clayton and the
inseparable Col. Coutell. The play was a bewitching one, and continuous
rounds of applause greeted the great actress, Cassandra Clovis, “she
who inflames with love.” Yes, surely, to see her was to be inflamed;
yet modesty was her role--trains and dress not too décolletée were her
robes. Those who gazed upon the hidden charms could but wonder and
sleep thus; and so, with glimmer and light, and flowers and jewels,
while the air was stirred by the flutter of perfumed fans, the play
went on. Down sped the curtain upon the fourth act; but one remained,
and when the orchestra had thundered out its last notes, the curtain
slowly rolled up and revealed a scene new to all--a beautiful garden,
not the old garden set upon which N---- had so often gazed, but a
complete revelation of the beauties of nature--fountains of real water,
real roses, all as perfect as an artist could make it; and, as the play
went on with only a little change here and there, at last came the
climax. There advanced adown the marble steps, portrayed at the back of
the stage, a party of gay maskers. They were from the ball beyond.
“Ah!” exclaimed one, “they tell me that the fair Cecilia will excel
herself to-night. Her costume is to be something marvelous--one to
captivate.”
“Yes!” said a second, “to hold and fetter all.”
“Even him!” said a third.
And as they thus spoke and grouped themselves about the stage the music
softly arose and from beyond the trees and through the vines came a
form. Slowly descending the steps, her long green mantle dropping from
her shoulders, came Cecilia. The beautiful dress in Roman style clung
about her supple figure and as she neared the footlights she turned to
their full blaze her right side, where, caught nearly to the hip, was
the soft white fabric, exposing to view her exquisite limb, clothed in
the palest of pink stockinet, while glittering with a thousand gems, a
natural sized horse-shoe held the folds of her garment.
The house rang with applause from the men, in which the women but
faintly joined. From the right-hand box a fleeting something fell, and,
stooping with wondrous grace, Clovis raised a mammoth bunch of violets,
pressed it to her lips, and then, with an upward glance, placed it in
the horse-shoe, where it hung, the loosened flowers dropping upon the
pink below as she moved across the stage.
The passion flush that was for an instant upon Emory’s face must have
reflected its sunset in the opposite box, for a white hand suddenly
drew back the lace curtains and Gwendoline’s beautiful visage,
flame-colored, flashed for a moment; and Neil could not avoid meeting
the eyes that sought his own, or escape the slow smile that crept over
the lips--a cruel smile, he thought, a cold and cruel smile, that had
within itself the commencement of a devil’s laugh.