CHAPTER VII.MONDAY.
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 beforethe 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 hisbrain 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 thequarter-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 hissaddle. 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 clearedthe 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.