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

"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."

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