The eventful day had come, that day looked forward to for over a week
by all the city of N----. With opaline splendor, the sun rose over the
undulating suburbs and fell on spire and field. It promised to be a
little cool, for a slight breeze wafted a few light clouds that floated
high over the waking town.
The race, set for two o’clock, was to be the only one.
The crowd began to gather long before the appointed time. All along the
road could be seen vans and carts of various descriptions, traveling
in one direction. Tents containing refreshments were erected and the
pool and lemonade stands open and ready for business by noon. Throngs
of ragamuffins hung on the fences, waiting the opportunity to slip in
unnoticed.
At one o’clock many business houses closed, and the hacks and private
carriages began to find their way to the course.
Among the vehicles, Cassandra and her inseparable Kitty, reclining
luxuriously in the shade of a dark green-lined drag, furnished with
a pair of beautiful bay mares, drew up under a small tree near the
Judges’ stand.
Already the field was covered with conveyances, and upon the grand
stand there was not a vacant seat. The part occupied by the ladies
looked like a bed of flowers and was beautiful to behold.
The two horses to run against the stallion were, of course, the same
black and bay, then walking in the sunlight on a distant section of the
track.
Emory had been in and out of the judges’ stand a dozen times. As the
bell tapped the first time, he hurried towards his stable and met the
trainer at the door. Peleg, just outside, came towards him, followed by
the groom, who carried the boy’s saddle.
The stallion was in splendid condition. With pride his master eyed his
superb limbs and glossy coat.
Again the bell tapped, and the race-horse was led on the track.
As Emory passed in front of the ladies’ stand, he gave a fleeting
glance to where a well-known blue, lace covered parasol waved its
drooping fringe before the half-revealed face, which he thought he
recognized. The soft folds of a silk dress he once admired, with Paris
gloves to match, made him almost certain he knew where she sat.
Again the bell! This time two hasty taps. A jockey in red and blue
brushed by him and ran under the judges’ stand, his saddle on his arm.
A crier called out the horses’ names: “Black Boy! Bay Thomas! Cliquot!”
Around the pools went the sound, repeated a hundredfold: “Black Boy!
Bay Thomas!” But ever at the name of Cliquot a yell went up and the
rabble clattered louder.
A few last notes from the band, a tightening of girths and the constant
tapping of the bell. At length the three horses have turned and trotted
slowly up the quarter-stretch. Yellow and white are the colors worn by
the jockey who rides Black Boy, pink and green those of Bay Thomas,
while red and blue distinguish Cliquot’s.
Cliquot was behaving well. Neil, from behind the bell, watched him
stepping softly on towards the starting post, his jockey’s back-curls
shining in the sun. Every nerve in the owner’s body quivered, and his
brain whirled to the verge of madness. Reginald Gray had hardly dared
approach him, and then only whispered a word or two.
Now the red flag waves softly in the hands of the starter as the three
horses turn in their tracks. The bay becomes a little restless and
breaks beyond the string. By the time he is brought back again, the
black sidles in an ugly way against the fence. With his head arched,
going gently up and down, champing his bit a little, Cliquot stands,
the hand of his jockey moving back and forth under his mane. Now and
then, he slightly lifts his off foot and paws the ground.
“Remarkable!” murmured Gray.
“I cannot understand it,” replied his companion.
Three or four impatient sounds from the bell, and the jockeys have
straightened themselves and made ready for the start. A word, a lick
and a click and--yes, wonderful to relate, the flag falls! Off? Yes,
really off! Whoever saw a better go! Away they speed, neck and neck!
Two mile heats! Breathless, the people lean forward to watch them, as
they grow dimmer in the distance. Now on they come! As they near the
quarter-stretch they still keep together, and pass beneath the string
in the same order. So far, it is a beautiful race. Again they come! Men
and boys shout wildly as they see a gap, a little gap, when they turn
once more.
“I dare not look!” said Emory. “Reg., tell me!”
“The black is behind.”
“And the bay?”
Before the reply came, a flash of red went alone under the string and
the first heat was over!
The boy sprang from the horse and tottered against the blacksmith, who
was near at hand. The yelling, surging crowd almost overpowered them.
Neil approached and asked if the boy was sick or hurt.
“Curse it!” he swore, harshly, “don’t give in, Jack! Hold the lad up!
Here, give him this!” and he took a cup of brandy from the groom who
was about to pour it on his horse’s back and put it to the lips of the
boy, who, with a quick, low cry, broke away, dragging the blacksmith
through the dust.
“Keep back!” yelled Jess. “He’s all right!”
The men and boys began to collect, and he could hardly get beyond the
gate leading into the field.
“Mr. Emory, keep that crowd back,” he cried again, “or I’ll not answer
for the consequences!” and Neil, pushing here and there, assisted
by the police, dispersed the restless, curious stragglers of the
race-course.
Peleg threw his arm around his half-exhausted companion and hurried him
through the heat and dust to the shade, where an old buggy stood.
The track swarmed with people, and a hundred voices took up the cry:
“Cliquot wins! A thousand to one on Cliquot! Going, going, going, gone!”
“Pool, sir? Pool, sir, on Cliquot?” and the air was rent with the wild
cries, oaths and bets on the stallion.
Thirty minutes, and again the bell sounded.
“Stop that accursed band!” yelled a big man, with five hundred on Bay
Thomas, as that nag shot by in a mad bolt around the track.
A laugh from fifty mouths greeted him, as he went through the dust
roaring like a mad lion.
The bell again, and once more the horses move beyond the flag, all
behaving pretty well. Cliquot’s rider is a little pale, but sitting
quite at ease in his saddle. The blacksmith walks to the starting
point, and, now and then, he and the boy speak to each other. This time
there is no trouble about the start and they are off in a moment.
Round, as before, to the quarter-stretch; then, the black drops far
behind.
Only the two came thundering and panting on, and, when the string is
reached, neck and neck are bay and stallion. On! together, on! How the
dust flies and the sun pours down!
When opposite the stand, a hundred glasses are leveled at the horses,
but not a shade of difference is seen in the speed of the two. Now
they have reached the quarter-stretch. Bay Thomas’ rider uses his whip
fast and quick. Cliquot’s carries no lash, but, with his slender knees
pressed hard against his horse’s sides, with lips drawn tight above the
clenched teeth, the red jockey swings around the curve, and, as he does
so, leans over and, in a clear voice, cries:
“Up! up! there!”
Like an arrow from a bow, swifter than a flying cloud, with heaving
sides and quivering nostrils, the beautiful stallion rushes in to
victory! He has cleared the string, leaving the other far behind, and,
still galloping on, stops at length beyond the gate!
With difficulty his rider turns him towards the stand. Cliquot knows he
has won. Rearing slightly and fretting a little, he is almost beyond
the control of the exhausted jockey.
Near the fence, inside the field, Clovis had drawn her team, and one of
the mares threw up her head at the approach of the stallion. He caught
the restless movement, and, with a long, low, quivering neigh, reared
high in air, cleared the fence with a bound, and dashed towards the
mare, while his rider slid from his seat into the dust.
In a moment twenty hands caught the horses attached to the carriage;
but Cliquot tore away, snorting and wheeling to look back as he ran.
Emory, who had witnessed all, hastened forward, and was about to lift
the fallen jockey when the boy sprang to his feet, apparently unhurt.
The blacksmith, who seemed always at hand, reached him; but, just as
they were about to walk away, the boy sank upon his knees and covered
his face with his hands.
“He is injured!” said Emory, who lingered by. “Where are you hurt?” he
asked, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
A low moan was the only answer.
“Call my carriage! Quick, Peleg!” Emory said, pointing across the field.
The boy did not stir or remove his hands till the conveyance drew up,
and then, as Emory took him in his arms, he uttered a low cry and
fainted, yes, fainted dead away, and Neil struggled into the carriage
with his burden.
“Run for some water,” he said, turning to the man behind him. He sped
off, and when he returned the gentleman was kneeling on the floor
of the carriage, gazing like one bereft of his senses at the still,
upturned face and its wealth of bronze-colored hair. It was the
beautiful face of Gwendoline Gwinn!
“Come away, for God’s sake, come away, sir, before she recognizes you!”
cried the blacksmith, pulling him from the vehicle.
Emory allowed himself to be dragged out, and before he could say a word
the door was slammed and the carriage gone.
“Only a faint, thank God!” thought Peleg, as he picked up Gwendoline’s
wig from where it had fallen when she was laid in the carriage. “She
shan’t know from me that he found her out!” and he got her home safely,
as he had often done before.