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Read Ebook: Cliquot: A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty by Ferguson Kate Lee
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Ebook has 690 lines and 49635 words, and 14 pages
ense 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.
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.
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.
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