When the carriage containing Gwendoline and her companion had passed
the outer gate, Neil Emory started forward like one mad, and hastened
towards the highway.
“Where are you going?” said a voice, and a hand was laid on his arm.
“Hail that carriage!” he shouted, without looking round. But it was far
beyond the reach of human voice. Then he gazed about him and saw his
friend Gray at his elbow.
“I’ve been watching you,” said he, “and I saw you put the boy in the
carriage. I dare say he’s all right. Peleg is a pretty good fellow,
and he’s well-known on the track. Only a faint, was it? You ought to
be glad the buck wasn’t killed. Come!” and he slipped his arm in his
friend’s. “I see they’ve caught Cliquot; but the rascal is neighing
and plunging worse than ever. I say, Emory!” as they walked on, “he’s
brought you in a tremendous pile, but, if you don’t secure the services
of that last jockey, you’d better part with the animal!”
Part with Cliquot! The words rang in his ears. Part with him now? Not
for ten thousand worlds! Not for ten million jockeys! Had she not
ridden him? Thank God! no one but himself knew. No one saw the sweet
face of his love beneath the dark hair and scarlet cap. His alone the
secret denied even to her. He would hug it, with that other, to his
breast, and overpower her in his joy! Soon, ah! how soon might it,
could it be?
Half-dazed and bewildered, he walked to the stand. The excitement was
nearly over. Bets were being settled, and the pool-rooms were empty. As
he came up, many hands grasped his and handkerchiefs waved, and kisses
were thrown from the women above.
They were putting Clovis’ mares back into the carriage, and she was
preparing to leave. She raised her veil, and turned her dark eyes upon
him--those beautiful orbs so full of fire usually, now so filled with
the tender light of love for him. Can he resist them, even at this
moment when his own heart is stirred with a passion which well nigh
stops its beating?
He raised his hat, went over to where she sat, and, taking her
outstretched hand in his, said:
“I feel that I have your congratulations.”
“You have, indeed,” she whispered; “and--and--the boy?--he was not
hurt?”
“No! thank God!” How hoarse and low his voice sounded; and the woman
at his side saw what he did not--a tear fall on the ungloved hand that
went up to her veil as he walked away.
Gray met him on the road to his stable.
“The heaviest loser here to-day is Clayton,” he said. “I never saw a
more upset man. Of course, he swears there was foul play and is making
himself generally disagreeable. He has been drinking champagne by the
quart for days. Last night he was up with Bob and others till a late
hour. I went to his rooms about midnight and found them. A blaze was
dancing up the grate, where he was destroying some old love letters.
I got Bob home, for I knew Selina wouldn’t like to hear of it. The
others kept it up; and to-day the same party have had ice and wine for
hours in the reception-rooms. I hope you won’t have any trouble with
him, Neil. I should not like you to meet him just now, for the sake
of----well, for a good many reasons,” he concluded, hastily.
“Never fear,” said his companion, with a smile. Ah! that slow,
beautiful smile that had won him so many women’s hearts.
A couple of grooms were busy scraping and rubbing down his horse,
which, in no very amiable mood, was having his jaws forced open by the
wet sponge and the sweat cleaned from his sides.
“Did he hurt either of the mares, or frighten the ladies much?” Neil
inquired.
“He made one of the mares break a trace, and gave her a pretty good
lick on the shoulder, that’ll make her limp awhile; but the ladies,
sir!--they behaved finely--we quite admired them. Be quiet there!” he
called, as Cliquot kicked out, just missing the man’s arm. “I declare,
Mr. Emory, it’s as much as one’s life is worth to groom such a horse as
this.”
“Well! so it is--there! that’s for your risk; something extra,” and
he handed him a five-dollar gold-piece. “Take lots of care of him, my
man,” he called out as he departed.
“What extravagance!” exclaimed Reginald.
“That’s my mood, just at present,” and Neil laughed.
Reginald was right in thinking George Clayton would give Emory some
trouble if they met. Like all cowards, he was a dangerous fellow when
aroused by wine. His dark, handsome face looked like a demon’s, as he
came out of the pool-room, holding his hat in one hand, while he ran
the other back and forth through his hair, and swung his long limbs
across the track.
“Don’t talk so loudly,” said one of his friends; “there’s Emory!”
“Just what I want,” cried the young man, in a violent manner, going up
to where Neil stood, waiting for a hack to take his friend and himself
home.
Neil had turned at the sound of his name, and now, with his cool, calm
face, confronted the speaker, whose visage was inflamed by passion and
wine.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”
“A settlement of this infernal business!”
“What do you mean?” and the blond man straightened himself a trifle.
“I mean, Mr. Emory,” and he leaned over and shouted the words in his
ear, “the way your cursed jockey rode! I call it----”
A cloud of dust and a falling, bleeding man, with his lip cut open,
were all the spectators saw. There was a cry of, “For God’s sake,
Emory, enough! enough!” and Reginald, with some of his friends,
hurried him away, while the dust-covered, blood-stained face of
Clayton was shut out from their view by the crowd.
The hack drove up, and Emory and his friend made their way to it. Not a
word was spoken, and in silence they returned to the city.
The sun was low in the horizon and the lights in the streets began to
glitter as they reached home.
“I wish I’d killed him,” said Neil, “so it would all be over!”
“Do you think he’ll fight?” asked Gray.
“Yes,” responded Emory, “when he gets intoxicated again.”
“Oh! by the bye, old fellow, here’s a photo I picked up from the
ground. Does it happen to belong to you?” and Gray took from his pocket
the picture that Clayton had thrust into his the night before, and
handed it to Emory.
One glance, one swift, penetrating glance, and he knew her.
This then was the man for whom she had left him! This was the cur who
had escaped him! Would no peace come for him? Was his life ever to be
one of dramatic disclosures and startling episodes?
“Reginald,” he asked, “don’t you know her?” and he held the picture
under the gaslight, as they stood in the room.
“Your wife!” and the staring eyes of his friend met his.
“Yes, Reg.,--and--I didn’t kill him! It came from his pocket. I saw it
fall, with some papers, when I caught hold of his coat and held him as
I cut his accursed lip open.”
He went over to the window to hide his face, and a dead one rose before
him.
“Shall I tell him?” he thought. Yes, he would; for in time all would
know. Going back to the table, where he had thrown the picture, he took
it up, and, turning to his friend, said, simply:
“She is dead, Reginald, and--I forgive her. Leave me, old boy, I would
be alone.” And the door soon closed behind departing footsteps.
Alone with his thoughts, he folded his arms in his old way, and walked
up and down the long room. Once, as he passed before a handsome
sideboard, he stopped, and, taking a decanter of brandy from a shelf,
poured some into a tumbler and drank it.
“My first drink in an age!” he thought.
The strong liquor stirred his cold and stagnant blood, and soon a glow
showed itself on his cheeks.
“I needed it,” he thought; “my very heart was getting chilled.”
He rang the bell for his servant, who, when he came, was told to order
a supper sent from a restaurant.
“I cannot face a crowd--no, not to-night. I must think and be alone,
and sleep if I can.”
So he waited for his solitary repast.
Having partaken of it and dismissed his servant for the night, he
turned off the hot and flaring gas, opened the door of his sleeping
apartment, that the light might shine from beyond, and, drawing a chair
to the large window, pushed back the hanging curtains so the breeze
might fan his cheek and brow as he sat in the gloom.
No doubt, the wish to rush forth to where his love lay slumbering the
hours away was strong within him; he, however, yielded not to it, but
thought:
“Not yet, not yet will I disturb the halo that encircles her. Let the
days speed by, and the nights, though but a few, waft their bright and
fluttering pinions over us a little longer. I would not startle thee,
oh, my darling, in this hour. How careful must I be, as I unfold to her
my knowledge.”
Thoughts like these, half-spoken to the midnight air came thick and
fast; then others crowded on his brain.
He knew that the Gwinn’s were poor. Money! Was it for the reward--two
thousand dollars?--and he must pay it--to her!
“No, no!” he cried aloud, springing to his feet, and pacing the room as
before. “I know not what to think, what to do!” And thus, his mind torn
by a thousand contending feelings, he passed the hours till dawn.