Handicap Day, and true Handicap weather. A warm sun shining from a cloudless sky, a light cool breeze blowing from the west, a track in perfect condition—what more could the heart of horseman desire on the greatest day of the horseman's year?
As early as twelve o'clock the long procession began to wind its leisurely way toward the track. By automobile, by coach and carriage, by steam yacht and railroad train and electric car, even by bicycle and on foot the crowds surged and flocked and fought their way, until by two o'clock thirty thousand people crowded grandstand and betting ring and paddock, keen, alert, active, on tiptoe with eagerness to see the Essex run.
High up in the grandstand Major McMurtrie, a trifle flushed, more than a trifle excited, eloquent in the extreme, seated himself beside Rose Ashton and Gordon, and with a wealth of gesture fought and refought for their benefit the bygone Handicaps of twenty years.
"The race of the year, my dear boy, the race of the year," he repeated for perhaps the fiftieth time. "No race like it, sir, for the true lover of the racehorse, and a more perfect day for it, sir, I have never seen."
Rose, looking up from her race-card, nodded assent. "Forty thousand dollars to the winner," she said thoughtfully. "It's a tremendous sum, isn't it?"
The Major shook his head vigorously. "No, no, my dear young lady, you mistake me," he cried. "It isn't the money value of the race that makes it. Forty thousand is a snug little sum, of course, but the Metropole is worth fifty, and the Belleview upwards of seventy. But it's the public sentiment, not the cash, that makes this race what it is. The Essex isn't any six furlong scramble for two-year-olds; it's a mile and a quarter for three-year-olds and upwards. It's none of your get-away sprints; it's a horse-race, from start to finish. And more than all that, it's our oldest stake race, with its records for thirty years filled with stories of courage and speed and daring and skill; it's part and parcel of the turf history of the country. Yes, by gad, sir—I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton, I do, indeed—the Essex Handicap's a part of American history itself."
Gordon, himself no mean authority on the history of the track, nodded affirmatively. "True, every word of it, Major," he cried. "Why, away back in '78—"
The Major fairly caught the words from the younger man's lips. "'78!" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir, Kingstreet's year. The greatest sire this country has ever known. I saw him win, sir, by three lengths, in 2:07½. Think of it, sir, for those days: 2:07½! Eleven years that record stood the test, until Contender's year. Ah! Miss Ashton, he was a race-horse. Gentle and kind and true. Home he came that year—'89, wasn't it? Yes, '89—home he came, simply romping in, fighting for his head, and the time 2:06 flat. Ah, there was a race-horse for you. And all the others, too. '96, Gordon, you can remember that; that finish between True Blue and the Florentine. Forty races the mare had to her credit, and, by gad, sir, that was the greatest of them all. A slow first half, and then how they fought it out to the wire. Won by a short head, and she came within a quarter second of the record at that. She went lame afterwards, poor thing, and never faced the flag again. A game, true little mare was the Florentine."
He paused reflectively, and Gordon, seeing the girl's evident interest, again touched the tinder to the flame. "Two years ago, Major," he began.
It was enough. The old man, in his eagerness, half started from his seat. "Yes, yes," he cried, "Custodian! Gordon, that horse, when he was right, was the king of the track." Then, turning to Rose, "Custodian was his name, Miss Ashton, a four-year-old then, black as the ace of spades, and ugly as the devil himself. He had his set days for running and his days for sulking, and nobody but himself could ever pick the days. If it was one of his off days, he'd be last in a field of selling platers; if he made up his mind to run, he was a whirlwind, a thunderbolt, whatever you want to call it, something more than human, anyway. The day of the Essex he started badly, four lengths behind his field, sulked to the quarter, and everybody who'd backed him was properly resigned to walking home, when all of a sudden he took it into his crazy head that he'd mistaken the day, after all. Run! Nobody ever saw such a mile before or since. He nipped Disdain and old Yarboro' a furlong from home, never let up at all, and came under the wire, as if he were just starting to run away, in 2:03¾! The point has never been settled to my knowledge, but it is my solemn belief"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"that if that horse had ever been driven to it, really hard pressed, you understand, he could have made the distance in two minutes flat. Well, I must get down to the paddock. Good-by, Miss Ashton; good-by, Gordon; look for my black to come under the wire in the lead."
He left them, and Rose, half bewildered, turned to Gordon. "It's a world by itself, isn't it, Dick?" she said. "I never thought men followed it that way. It's all Greek to me, I'm afraid."
Gordon laughed. "The Major's certainly an enthusiast," he answered, "but it isn't so mysterious, after all." He held his race-card that she might see, checking with his pencil as he talked. "There, here's the description of the race, and the money value, and all that. Here are the entries down here. The Cynic's the favorite. He's a four-year-old who's had a great record this season; very speedy and one of the most consistent horses in training; he's quoted at 3 to 1 against. Here's Rebellious, one of the best of the three-year-olds, 5 to 1 against. He's a good one, too, but I believe they think a mile and a quarter's a bit too far for him. Old Yarboro' here's campaigning for his fifth season, and pretty near as good as ever, too. He's third favorite, 8 to 1 against. These two here are a couple of 100 to 1 shots. Here's our friend Highlander, 30 to 1 against, and here's—" he broke off suddenly; then, after a moment, added in a very different tone, "Well, of all the remarkable coincidences—"
"What's the matter?" asked the girl quickly, struck by the unusual surprise in his manner.
For answer Gordon passed her the race-card, his pencil under the name of the last starter in the race.
"Palmer's got a horse entered," he said, still in amazement. "I remember now his saying something a while back about starting a string."
The girl glanced at the card. Sure enough, the last entry was Henry D. Palmer's bay mare, Lady May, carrying one hundred and seventeen pounds.
"Well, that is unexpected!" she exclaimed. "Named for his fiancée, too, I suppose. Wouldn't it be strange if she should win?"
She seemed scarcely to realize the import of her words. Gordon nodded grimly. "Very strange, indeed," he assented dryly. "I rather think on the whole it would be better for our friend Palmer if she didn't."
The girl gave a little cry.
"Why, I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "If Lady May should win—oh, but she won't Dick, will she? She can't beat Highlander."
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "The Major doesn't think so," he answered; "but I suppose Palmer's trainer thinks no one can beat Lady May, and The Cynic's owner is sure he's the only horse in the race, and even the rank outsiders have somebody here who honestly believes they're going to win, even at 100 to 1. That's what makes racing. A fool born every minute, they say, or they couldn't keep it going."
The girl shivered. "Oh, Dick, don't frighten me," she cried. "If only the Major is right. Did you get the money all on, finally?"
Gordon nodded. "Three thousand, at 30 to 1," he answered. "I suppose McMurtrie's done considerably better. I understand he began to back the colt way back in the winter books. If he did, he's probably averaged as well as 40 to 1. If the colt's half what he thinks, I should say 10 to 1 would be nearer right. We'll know all about it in another ten minutes, anyway."
Even as he spoke, an expectant thrill seemed suddenly to run through the crowd. All eyes turned in the direction of the paddock. A big, red-faced man seated next to Gordon half started to his feet. "There they come!" he cried.
And then, walking up from the paddock in the dignified, time-honored procession before the race, the nine horses filed slowly by the grandstand on their way towards the start. The Cynic, a bright bay, third in the line, his jockey gorgeous in the blue and gold of the Highcliff stables, walked somewhat soberly along, but the glance from his big, kind eyes seemed to say, "I don't show off beforehand like some of these youngsters, but when the flag drops, then watch out." Even more sedate was old Yarboro', the veteran of a hundred races, to all appearance as fit as ever, but looking as if he considered he had fairly earned the right to an honorable discharge from active racing and a peaceful retirement to the big green pastures of some quiet farm. Farther back in the line Lady May, sporting the red and white of Palmer's stable, was doing her utmost to pull her jockey's arms off, and her dainty hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the track as she pranced and curvetted by the grandstand.
Gordon gazed at the mare in admiration. "She looks awfully fit," he muttered. "Good enough to take a lot of beating."
The girl, not hearing, laid her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Dick," she cried softly, "look at Highlander. Isn't he the darling!"
The black colt, bringing up the rear of the procession, was undeniably a beauty. His glossy coat shone like satin in the soft sunshine, and he looked to be in the very top-notch of condition, lean and hard and wiry, and yet not overfine, but as if he had plenty of speed and strength in reserve. On his back was Bowman, the colored boy, known the country over as the "Kentucky Midget," McMurtrie's first string jockey, resplendent in the gorgeous crimson jacket that made the Major's entry by far the easiest to distinguish of the field.
Back to the barrier, a quarter of a mile away, walked the horses; then came that trying, nerve-racking five minutes of jockeying for position, cautioning of riders by the judges, fretting of the high strung horses, and then, just as it seemed as if the strain were growing unendurable, all at once the barrier leaped upward, the red flag flashed, and the great crowd gave vent to its pent-up feelings in one mighty roar as the nine thoroughbreds leaped forward through the faint haze of dust to a well-nigh perfect start.
Then fell silence, far more eloquent than any mere din of voices could have been, as thirty thousand pairs of eyes were strained to watch the flying racers as they tore down the track. Past the stand they came, Firefly, a rank outsider, running wild a length or two in the lead, then The Cynic, Rebellious and Lady May, bunched close, then Yarboro', a length and a half back, with Highlander at his girth, and the others already tailing, for Firefly had carried the field along at a tremendous clip, the watches catching twenty-four and three-fourths as she flew past the quarter.
Too fast, indeed, for the light-weighted filly, and at the half she had fallen back, leaving The Cynic and Rebellious in the lead, Lady May dropping back a half length and Yarboro' and Highlander moving up almost on even terms with the mare. Forty-nine seconds for the half, and still the five ran true and strong, with no change in the long, steady, machinelike strides. Past the five furlongs, past the three-quarters, and then, as if riding to orders, the jockey on Rebellious for the first time raised his arm and brought it down once, twice and again. Nor had he to wait for his answer; with a mighty bound the game colt shot forward, and in a trice a clear length of daylight showed between him and The Cynic.
A cry burst from the crowd. "Rebellious wins! They'll never head him! The favorite's beat!" The big, red-faced man snarled like a wild beast. "The fools," he muttered savagely. "A half mile more to go. They've spoiled his chance now."
Gordon nodded in mute assent, but for the next furlong it looked as though the crowd was right. Away and away drew the colt, crazed with the joy of feeling the choking pull released from his tender mouth; two lengths, three, four, and then—still he strove, still he seemed to run as fast and free as ever—but the four lengths remained four, and rounding the turn, just before coming into the straight, the colt, suddenly tiring, was thrown for a moment from his stride, and when he swung into the stretch, The Cynic's head was at his shoulder and it was a fresh horse against a beaten one.
And then, as the field squared away for home, old Yarboro' made his challenge for the lead. Out from the ruck he came, past Rebellious, past The Cynic, the long gray head just for a moment showing clear in the lead, and then, with a rush, fresh and strong, The Cynic again shot by, and the old hero of a hundred races, game to the core, disputing desperately every inch of the way, fell slowly back, beaten by a younger but not by a better horse, the old, remorseless, inevitable story of youth and age.
Long afterwards some horsemen dubbed the Essex of the year "The race of surprises," and surely it merited the title. For now the chestnut colt showed clear in the lead, only a furlong from home, and the sight had brought the multitude to its feet, wild with delight, already shouting itself hoarse in anticipation of the favorite's win. And now the mighty roar for just an instant died away, only to burst forth again in redoubled volume as a gleam of crimson and black flashed like lightning, and McMurtrie's colt, the pride of all Kentucky, shot forward like a thunderbolt and challenged the leader in his turn. And this time it was not old Yarboro' who was to be shaken off. This time it was youth against youth, strength and speed and spirit the same, the same brave blood of racing sires surging and pulsing in their veins, the same fleet limbs and mighty hearts opposed, and now it was the black, and now the chestnut, that seemed to gain.
Gordon sat motionless, his face showing no sign of emotion, but his race-card was torn in his hands, and his nails were gripped deep into the flesh. The girl, her lips parted, her breath coming in little gasps, oblivious of everything else, sat with eyes riveted on the flying Highlander, Bowman's crimson jacket gleaming, as the little jockey, riding far forward, brought into play the last ounce of skill and cunning for which he was famous as, nearing the wire at every stride, he lifted his willing mount along. Only a hundred and fifty yards to go, but half a lifetime seemed crowded into those few brief moments. Now, both jockeys crouched low over their horses' withers, at last gone to the whip and riding like demons, the two thoroughbreds came tearing down the stretch, locked stride for stride, Highlander not only holding his own, but gaining inch by inch, the crimson showing clear ahead of the blue and gold, and the win only a hundred yards away; and then—suddenly, hugging the outside rail, a flash of red and white caught the crowd, and Palmer's mare, nostrils distended, eyeballs bloodshot, glaring, with a mad burst of speed, bore down on the struggling leaders, caught them twenty yards from the finish, and flashed under the wire a scant head to the good, queen of the turf, and winner of the fastest Essex ever run.
The dilapidated little engine, with its train of two battered cars, puffed despondently away around the curve, and disappeared in the forest, leaving Rose and Gordon standing alone, the sole occupants of the small station platform.
Everything about the place spoke of desolation. With each gust of wind the weather-beaten door swung to and fro on its rusty hinges; the two cracked windows stood open; beneath their feet the rotting timbers sagged creaking; around them, on every side, the tall black pines towered upward against the sky, save where the narrow ribbon of the little single track stretched away a stone's throw to right and left before losing itself among the winding curves of the forest wilderness.
The girl, glancing about her with much disfavor, gave a shiver of repulsion. "You must be fond of shooting," she said, "if you can stand coming here for it. It's worse even than your description."
Gordon smiled. He remembered vividly his own first impressions of the place, and his wonderment that such a spot could exist only fifty miles from civilization.
"Oh, well," he answered defensively, "it isn't exactly Fulton Street, of course. This is the worst of it, though. Wait till you've seen the island, and you'll change your mind."
For twenty minutes they followed what was by courtesy known as the road, and then, turning abruptly down a narrow wooded path, plunged ahead straight into the heart of the huge pines. To the girl, after the ceaseless roar and tumult of the city, the silence was almost appalling. No sound echoed from their footsteps as they trod the carpet of fragrant pine needles and velvet moss. About them all was dark, and solemn with the hush of the great forest's majestic repose. Far overhead the sun appeared to shine less brightly and the blue of the sky seemed infinitely far away. Ahead and to the right a bluejay screamed. A squirrel poised a moment on the top of a stump before darting away in headlong flight. The girl, subdued and silent, kept close to Gordon's side. "I wish I hadn't come," she sighed, half in jest, half in earnest. Gordon, less imaginative, thoroughly familiar with his surroundings, smiled at her mood. "Just you wait," he kept repeating encouragingly; "you'll see."
At last the trees grew less thickly together. Bushes, higher than one's head, began to appear, and tangled vines stretched themselves underfoot Occasional gleams of sunlight lay quivering across their path. Faintly, as if from far away, a swamp-sparrow's song rang sweet and clear. Chickadees bustled and scolded in the branches. And then, on the instant, Gordon and his companion turned straight to the left, and the lake burst on their sight.
The girl uttered a sharp cry of delight, and Gordon, smiling, stood and watched her in silence. Far away, seemingly to the utmost limit of the eye, the blue waves danced and sparkled before the westerly breeze. Far away to the north, the distant shore eluded the vision with the unreality of a mirage. To east and west, the low black line of the pines stretched on and on till they too melted away against the dark blue of the water and the fainter blue of the sky. Half a mile or so from the shore, a little island, pine-covered, also, like its parent shore, lay sleeping in the afternoon sunshine, and the girl's glance, slowly withdrawn from the sweep of the distant horizon, fell suddenly upon it.
"Oh, that's it," she cried. "It's beautiful, Dick."
Gordon smiled a brief self-satisfied smile, not altogether pleasant to witness. "Yes, isn't it," he answered; "and I think useful as well. You really couldn't find a better place for duck shooting—or for other things."
Instantly the girl's expression changed, and her face clouded. "Ah, don't, Dick," she said. "Let's not spoil our day while we're here. There'll be time enough later to talk of that."
Gordon's expression hardened a trifle. "As you please," he rejoined coolly; "only don't forget that we're here primarily on business, and not for pleasure. If you don't care to discuss things as we go along, I shall take it for granted that you'll at least keep your eyes open."
The girl nodded as if relieved. "Of course," she rejoined, "I'll do that anyway. But out here, on a day like this, to be deliberately planning—well, I can't put it in words exactly, but you know perfectly well what I mean. It's too—cold-blooded—that's the word I want. I've got to get back to Bradfield's before I'll be any good at scheming."
Gordon made no reply, but busied himself with launching the boat. Five minutes later, lying back at ease in the stern of the little rowing skiff, the girl watched the island grow steadily larger and larger as the boat shot forward under Gordon's long, steady strokes. As they approached more nearly, she could see that the whole southern side was guarded by gray cliffs rising sheer from the water's edge, but as they rounded the eastern point they shot into a quiet little cove, narrowing as it ran inland, and ending in a short stretch of smooth gray sand. Here they beached the boat, and walked slowly up the pebbled pathway to the house. Gordon fitted the key to the lock, threw open the door, and stepped back to allow his companion to enter. The girl moved quickly forward, and then paused on the threshold with a soft cry of pleased surprise.
Built square and low, with its back against a huge gray boulder so that winter northeasters might thunder overhead in vain, the shooting-box was little more than the one huge living-room and dining-room combined. To the right were two bedrooms and to the left the tiny kitchen and pantry, but it was on the living-room that Gordon had lavished all his care. Everything was in keeping: the big center-table of dark oak, the enormous fireplace with its store of logs, the heavy rugs on the floor, the guns and shells in their racks, the shooting and fishing prints upon the walls, all combined to make up a room ideal to the sportsman and charming even to the girl's more critical eye.
Crossing swiftly to the cushioned window-seat she tossed hat and coat aside, and with a deep sigh of contentment threw herself back among the cushions. A pretty enough picture she made, and Gordon, gazing at her a moment, crossed the room, and seating himself by her side, drew her to him and covered her face with kisses. Yielding herself to him, the girl suddenly lifted her face to his and clasped her arms around his neck. "Let's not go back," she whispered; "let's stay here for good and all."
Gordon smiled, humoring her mood. "All right," he answered, "I'm agreeable. I suppose my customers might miss me a little, though. And you," he added, a trifle maliciously, "I know they'd miss you at Bradfield's."
The girl's face flushed, and she drew herself from his embrace. "I hate it, Dick," she cried passionately, "I loathe it more and more every day. Nobody can be happy leading a life she was never meant to lead. You know that yourself. And every word I've told you about Bradfield's is God's own truth. What was I when they started me going there? Fifteen years old. Nothing but a baby, Dick. I swear I never knew what it all meant. And now I've met you. Oh, Dick, if only you'd marry me, and let us have a little home somewhere, I'd be so happy. I'd make you the best wife in the world. I'd see to it—" She broke off quickly, with a laugh mirthless, almost of self-contempt; then added, in a very different tone, "but there's no use in saying all this. No man that ever lived can know for a minute what real love—or what a real home—means to a woman. We might as well forget it, I suppose, and go on as we are."
Gordon's face had seemed imperceptibly to harden as she spoke, but his tone, as he answered her, was kindness itself, as one might try to soothe a too insistent child. "I do know," he said, "and I think you're right about it; entirely so. And you know how much I love you, Rose. Just let us get this one thing out of the way, and I give you my sacred word of honor I'll get out of this sort of thing for good, and we'll buy the finest little home in the state, and settle down to farming, or anything else you want. Or we'll go around the world in a steam yacht, if we hit things right. Just which you'd rather. But we can't quit the thing now. It looks too good. After we pull it off, I promise you anything in the world in return, and I shall be very proud of my wife."
He rose quickly, and then, as if to forestall a reply, added with an entire change of manner. "Well, we mustn't get too serious over things, Rose. You were the one that didn't want our day spoiled. So we might as well get down to the point while daylight lasts."
Reluctantly enough the girl rose, with a vaguely dissatisfied feeling of having once more been put off from a definite decision on the unwelcome plan. Gordon's mood, on the contrary, was cheerfulness itself. Taking down his favorite little sixteen-bore from the rack, he snapped it open, ran his eye lovingly through the glistening barrels, tested the safety-catch, and caught up a box of shells from the table. "Come on," he cried, with boyish enthusiasm, "ducks for supper, unless I've forgotten how to shoot."
Leisurely enough, in all the glory of the crisp autumn air just tempered by the pleasant warmth of the mellow, waning sunlight, they made their way down towards the point. Gordon, in a mood entirely different from any the girl had ever seen him display, eager as a boy set free from school, kept constantly calling her attention to one thing and another as they strolled along. Here he pointed out the hollow in the rocks where he had lain all through the great northeast gale of two years before, when the frightened wildfowl, storm driven, low sweeping to the southward, had passed over his head all day long in countless flocks; there he showed her the little cove where he had stalked the Canada geese, and, nearing the point, he made her shudder as he pointed to the treacherous quicksand beyond the clump of pines where, in reckless pursuit of a wounded duck, he had come within an ace of losing his life.
Twenty minutes later found them in readiness, safely hidden in the gunning box sunk level with the ground on the pebbly point of land which stretched far out to the westward of the island. Before them, the little flock of wooden decoys, moored in the lee of the point, nodded and dipped gaily to the rising breeze. The girl's eyes were bright with excitement. "Will the ducks really come, Dick?" she whispered.
For answer Gordon pulled out his watch for the twentieth time; then nodded reassuringly. "Of course they will," he answered. "In fact, it's pretty near—there, look! There they come now!"
The girl peered through the screen of bushes that fringed the box. Sure enough, off to the southward, a flock of ducks was flying swiftly towards them. A moment more, and they swerved farther to the west. She heard Gordon swear softly under his breath, and strangled a hysterical desire to laugh. Then all at once the birds caught sight of the decoys. Just for an instant they seemed to hang motionless against the sky; then, with set wings, came on straight for the blind. The girl felt her heart leap with excitement; for, all in the same breath, she saw the flock wheel quickly, and Gordon rise to his knees. The little sixteen-bore cracked spitefully once—twice—and two of the flock, doubled up in mid-air as if struck by lightning, fell stone dead among the decoys, the others, towering high into the air, made off far to the westward and safety.
Gordon, obeying the wild-fowler's first instinct, swiftly slipped in fresh shells, then turned to his companion, his eyes bright with the triumph of the hunter, his whole bearing alert, eager, confident.
"Well," he queried briefly, "what do you think?—Look out, there they come again!"
A second flock, larger than the first, was bearing down upon them. Just in time to escape detection, Gordon sank into the box. Again the birds swung, again Gordon rose, and again two ducks fell dead to the quick right and left of the little sixteen-gage.
Twenty minutes passed. Fainter and fainter grew the light, until the sun sank low behind the pines, and the laughing blue and white waves turned sullen and gray. Together they left the blind, and, walking along the beach, Gordon began to gather up his spoils. Poor little wild ducks, there they lay, rising and falling as the tiny waves splashed gently against the shore, as if vainly seeking to rouse them once more to flight. No, they would never fly again; quietly enough they lay there, their bright, glossy feathers stained with a faint crimson, their wild, bright eyes closed in death.
With a swift revulsion of feeling the girl knelt over a mallard duck and drake, the little brown mate by some trick of fate, with her dusky head lying across the neck of her bright-plumed lord. "Oh, the poor darlings!" she cried pitifully. "Oh, Dick, we can't wish them alive again."
Gordon stood silent. The faint afterglow still hung in the fading west, but elsewhere all was dark. A star or two shone far up in the blue. The wind, erstwhile such a jolly companion, seemed graver now, as it moaned through the swaying tops of the dark pines. Suddenly the world became a solemn place, sad, unfriendly, vast. Gordon's face set hard as he looked at the kneeling girl and the two little dead wild ducks. "No," he said, with a world of meaning in his tone; "no, we can't wish them alive again," and together they turned toward home.
The breakfast room, flooded with October sunshine, was such a pleasant place that Palmer, leisurely glancing through the columns of the morning paper, deliberately lingered as long as possible over his toast and eggs. Finally he laid the paper aside, slowly poured out a second cup of coffee, and with an expression of good-humored resignation glanced across the table at his secretary.
"Well, Morton," he said pleasantly, "let's have it. What have you got to bother me with to-day?"
The secretary smiled deferentially, as it behooves one to smile when one is earnestly desirous of keeping an easy, gentlemanly position, with little work and good pay.
"There's really very little this morning, Mr. Palmer," he answered. "There were the usual number of begging letters, which I answered in the usual form; a notice of the annual meeting of the polo club; one or two dinner invitations; a letter from Mr. Gordon asking you out to his shooting-box, and the check from the racing club for first money in the Essex."
Palmer chuckled. The winning of the Essex had been one of the never-to-be-forgotten incidents of his life. "Gad, Morton," he cried, "we hit it that time, didn't we? I can see the mare coming under the wire now. Traveling! I'll bet she was traveling! By rights I ought to make the check over to her. She deserves it, if any one ever did. Well, there's nothing very exciting in that mail outside of the check, is there? Nothing immediate, anyway."
Morton smiled faintly. The last three words embodied Palmer's whole philosophy of enjoying life to the best advantage. To live calmly, without haste; to know what was coming in time to enjoy it in anticipation; to be able to put off unpleasant tasks until the latest possible moment—that was Palmer's creed. Some men, nervous and high strung, when the final moment of life itself has to be faced, pray for a sudden death. To Palmer, that would have appeared highly undesirable. Rather, he would infinitely have preferred to have the whole matter indefinitely postponed. So the secretary smiled.
"No," he said, "nothing really immediate, except Mr. Gordon's note. Shall I read it?"
"If you please," answered Palmer indolently, and the secretary read in his even, pleasant voice,
"My Dear Harry:
"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week, over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three to-morrow, and run out for the night?
"Your sincere friend,
"Richard Gordon."
Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure. And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by gad, I'll go."
Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly. Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity, Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers, satellites,—friends, he chose to call them—for when a genuine multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in just the same way they did Gordon.
Thus the prospect of a day at Gordon's shooting-box, sure of good shooting and a pleasant time generally, startled him a little out of his usual calm, and three o'clock found him at the door of Gordon's modest office. Gordon came forward to meet him, his face troubled, a telegram in his hand.
"Confound it, Harry," he cried, as he shook hands, "I'm afraid I've done an awfully stupid thing. About a month ago I got a letter from an old lady up country, one of my mother's oldest friends,—awfully good to me when I was a boy, and all that—saying that she and her daughter were going to run down here for a little trip some time this month. Of course I wrote back, as in duty bound, and told her that I should be out at the shooting-box then, and that she must surely let me entertain her there. I never gave the matter a second thought, and here I've just got a telegram—delayed, of course,—saying they're due in town about half-past two, and will come right over to the office. I suppose they'll be here any minute. I'm infernally sorry. I never meant to let you in for anything like this."
Palmer made a not over successful attempt to conceal his disappointment. "Well, never mind, Gordon," he said reluctantly. "Can't be helped, of course. Better luck another time."
Gordon crumpled the telegram in his hand, and threw it into the waste-basket. "Confound it all!" he cried; "I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't right in the middle of the flight, but this is the very top of the season for redheads and widgeon. The wind's been fresh to the westward all day, too, and now it's just starting to haul out to the north. If it holds there, I'll bet we could kill twenty-five to-night, and God knows how many to-morrow morning at daylight. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, Harry, but I wish you'd come along just the same. You needn't see anything of them, and, anyway, they're not a half bad sort. The little girl gave promise of being quite a good looker the last time I saw her, three or four years back. I really think you'd better come along just the same, and not mind them at all."
Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Oh, thanks, no," he said, somewhat hastily. "Country cousins, you know, and all that. Not much in my line, I'm afraid."
Gordon laughed. "Well, I don't blame you," he said, "only I feel ashamed of myself to have mixed things up so. I can't help the—"
A knock on the door interrupted him, and the office boy appeared. "Two ladies to see you, Mr. Gordon," he announced, and close upon his heels an elderly lady, clad in sober black, came bustling into the room. Her plain, spectacled face fairly beamed with pleasure as she advanced toward Gordon, both hands outstretched in greeting.
"Well, Dick, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "I am glad to see you again. And how well you're looking."
Gordon took her outstretched hands, and shook them cordially. "The same to you, Aunt Dora," he cried; "I declare you've positively grown younger. And where's Marian?"
Mrs. Francis turned toward the door. "Why, she's here," she answered, "I expect I got ahead of her, I was so anxious to set eyes on you again. Here she is now."
Gordon could hardly repress a start of surprise as he glanced up at the girl standing hesitatingly in the doorway. A prettier picture, he thought quickly, he had never seen. Possibly the simple white muslin dress, with its band of crimson at waist and throat, spoke a little of the country girl on her holiday visit to the city, and the girl was evidently a trifle shy and embarrassed, but these small defects only added to the general impression of freshness and charm. Evidently, too, her shyness was not the shyness of gaucherie, but of becoming modesty, and as she raised her blue eyes at Gordon's greeting there was a sparkle in them eloquent of plenty of spirit and humor to be disclosed on closer acquaintance.
"Why, Marian," he exclaimed, "I'd never have known you! You oughtn't to surprise a man like this. I'll swear you were wearing short dresses the last time I saw you."
The girl blushed and laughed. "Don't be silly, Dick," she protested. "Three years is a long time, and we're awfully glad to see you again."
Gordon turned quickly to Palmer, who stood staring at the girl with a surprise evidently greater than Gordon's own. "Where are my manners?" he cried. "Aunt Dora, my friend Mr. Palmer. Marian, Mr. Palmer. Harry, my oldest friend, Mrs. Francis, and her daughter, Miss Marian Francis. I call Mrs. Francis my aunt principally because she isn't. I was just trying to persuade Palmer to go with us on our little trip, Aunt Dora, but he's obdurate. I wish you would try your hand."
The older woman turned to Palmer with much cordiality. "Why, I wish he would," she cried. "Please do, Mr. Palmer. Dick will be bored to death anyway with two women on his hands to entertain. We'll look after the housekeeping, and you men can have all the shooting you want. I'll guarantee one thing, too. I can cook a duck with any woman in the county."
Gordon nodded in vigorous assent. "I'll back that up, Palmer," he cried. "Leaving out of consideration all question of the pleasure of Aunt Dora's society, her cooking is an inducement no sane man ought to think of refusing. I believe you'll go, after all."
Palmer wavered. The "country cousins," one of them especially, were far from being the curios he had imagined. And the thought of the shooting—he could see in imagination the long lines of ducks fighting their way up the lake against the stiff northerly breeze, swinging to the decoys, with set wings—and yet he hesitated—
"Come, Marian," cried Gordon gaily, "try your hand. Apparently Aunt Dora and I have failed. We've promised him plenty of good shooting and plenty of good cooking. What can you offer to make him change his mind?"
The girl blushed charmingly, but her eyes, nevertheless, met Palmer's squarely. "You see," she murmured demurely, "I don't really know Mr. Palmer's tastes."
Gordon roared. "But you'll do anything you can," he cried broadly. "Well, that's fair. There's a challenge direct, Harry. Do you dare refuse now?"
Palmer's face reddened a trifle. His eyes had scarcely left the girl. "Go?" he cried, "of course I'll go. I was only afraid I might be in the way, but since the ladies are so kind—"
Gordon clapped him on the back. "Good boy," he cried, "and now we mustn't lose any time. Just a half minute till I leave word where I'm going."
He pressed a button, and almost immediately the office boy appeared. "Oh, John," he began, and then caught sight of a yellow envelope in the boy's hand. "What's that you've got there?" he asked sharply.
"Telegram for you, sir," answered the boy promptly. "Just came this minute."
Gordon caught the envelope from the boy's hand, and hastily tore it open. Then, as he read it, his face clouded with vexation. "Well, if this isn't too bad," he cried, "I never knew such luck. Here's a telegram from the one man in the world I can't afford to offend. The biggest customer I've got. Says he reaches town at five and wants half an hour kept absolutely free for business of great importance. I guess that means there's no getting out of it for me. It's too bad, though; I hate to see our plans spoiled like this."
Mrs. Francis was the first to speak. "Why, Dick, what nonsense!" she exclaimed. "We know the way perfectly well. It was only three years ago Marian and I were there, and I don't believe things have changed a great deal since then. We'll go ahead and get everything ready, and you can come out on a later train. That's a great deal better than our staying here or going to a hotel, isn't it, Marian?"
The girl, thus appealed to, glanced quickly at Palmer. "I think you forget, mother," she said quietly, "that we ought to consult Mr. Palmer. He may not care to escort us out there without Dick, and I'm very sure I wouldn't care to go through those woods alone."
Palmer rose gallantly to the occasion. "Not care to?" he cried. "Indeed, I shall be honored, Miss Francis. We'll show Gordon here how well we can get along without him, and I'll have all the shooting to myself. Go? Of course we'll go!"
Gordon turned to him gratefully. "You're awfully good to take it this way, all of you," he said, "and I'll surely be out a little after eight. You'd better be starting, though. You haven't but just time. Oh, and Aunt Dora," he called after them, "you don't change at Fairview any longer the way we used to. Remember not to change. Good-by. Good luck. I'll be there about eight."
As the door closed after them he dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered, "so far, so good!"
The tickets secured, the baggage safely stowed away, Mrs. Francis and Marian fitted out with papers and periodicals, Palmer began thoroughly to enjoy his trip. Mrs. Francis insisted on a seat by herself, and an uninterrupted chance to read the OctoberBazaarand Palmer, in the seat behind with Marian, inwardly blessed her literary taste. Not only did the girl's obvious beauty attract him, but as their acquaintance developed, he found her in every way a charming companion; as he himself would more probably have expressed it, "A ripping fine girl."
Thus everything went well until Fairview was reached. Here Mrs. Francis roused herself from her magazine, and turned around to Palmer. "Didn't Dick say we changed at Fairview?" she demanded.
Palmer shook his head. "No, Mrs. Francis," he answered, "I think not. I understood him to say that was just what we didn't do."
Mrs. Francis glanced around her apprehensively. "I was sure he said to change," she replied, "I know we always used to change here. This train waited five minutes for the connection. I'm going to ask the conductor, to make sure."
Palmer started to rise, when the girl laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Please don't bother," she whispered. "Mother's always like this when she's traveling. It wouldn't do any good for you to go. She'll have to find out for herself before she'll be satisfied. And I hate being made conspicuous. So please don't trouble yourself, really."
Palmer perforce kept his seat, and they saw Mrs. Francis walk down the car aisle, and then out on to the platform. The girl laughed.
"I can't cure her," she declared. "She's the best mother in the world, but to travel with her is a nightmare. I've been going through this all day yesterday and part of to-day, so I believe I'm getting a little hardened to it."
Palmer smiled in sympathy. Then, suddenly, as the engine whistled and the cars began to bump and grind, he started to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. "By Jove," he cried, "isn't that your mother coming out of the station? She'll get left, as sure as fate."
The girl glanced hastily from the car window. Sure enough, Mrs. Francis, evidently determined to get her knowledge at first hand, had ventured too far from the train, and had succeeded in getting left behind. Even as they watched her, she began to run awkwardly, waving her umbrella. Her mouth seemed to Palmer to frame the words, "Wait! Stop!" and then, as their speed increased, they turned the curve, and Fairview and Mrs. Francis were left behind together.
Fully expecting a burst of tears or a scene of some kind, Palmer turned apprehensively to his companion. But to his surprise and to his infinite relief, the girl, meeting his glance, suddenly burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and his own revulsion of feeling was so great that involuntarily he joined in her mirth.
"Oh," cried the girl, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Palmer. I oughtn't to laugh, but the humorous side of this awful trip was too much for me. A friend of my mother's was going to escort us yesterday, and he was taken sick at the last moment and couldn't come. Then Dick got that telegram, and now my mother's lost the train. It's like the rhyme of the ten little nigger boys. I wonder which of us will drop out next. Please promise you won't desert me without warning."
Her blue eyes sought Palmer's frankly and innocently enough, and yet with just a trace of coquetry. Palmer leaned a little toward her. "I promise," he said, "if you won't run away, I won't."
The girl laughed delightedly. "It's a bargain," she cried. "I think it's really fun. Thank goodness, I have the key to the house. Mother will get the next train with Dick, I suppose, and we can have everything ready for them. We'll have a fair division of labor. You will have to carry all the luggage and row me over to the island, and then you can have your shooting for a reward, and I'll cook the supper. Is that fair?"
"That's fair," acquiesced Palmer. "At least, it sounds fair. But how do I know how good a cook you are."
"Well, I like that!" exclaimed the girl. "And how do I know whether you can row a boat or not? We've got to take each other on trust, as near as I can see."
Palmer laughed. He found his little adventure much to his liking, and more and more, as the train rattled on, he found himself yielding to the spell of the girl's charm.
Down from the little station through the woods to the lake she piloted him, and he made good the first part of the bargain as he rowed the little boat across, in the teeth of a stiff northerly breeze, in a style as good as Gordon's own. Once arrived at the house, she showed him the way to the point, and a few moments later, Palmer, gun in hand, was striding down the path.
Left alone, a curious change came over the girl. The laughter faded from her face, leaving it white and drawn, and she half fell, half threw herself into the big easy chair in front of the fire which Palmer had set blazing.
"God, what a strain," she muttered to herself. "All right so far, though, if I don't break down and spoil everything. But he oughtn't to have asked me to do it. It's too much for any one. Now let me think—"
For ten minutes she sat motionless. Then, with a sigh, she rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet, and busied herself about the room. Comfortably near the fire she placed the round table, and set it tastefully for four. Then for a time she was busy in the tiny kitchen. Finally, returning to the living-room to find it almost in darkness, she struck a match to light the lamp, and, as she did so, a sudden gust of wind from the half open door blew it out in her hands. She stepped to the window and looked out, and then stopped short, struck with the unexpected change that had taken place in the whole aspect of things.
The sun scarcely shone, and the big gray-black clouds were piling up ominously overhead. Below, a strange murky glow spread far out on either hand. The wind drove down the lake in sudden warning gusts. Flock after flock of ducks came hurtling down from the northward before the gale. She heard the crack of Palmer's gun, and with a start she came suddenly to herself. She laughed half defiantly.
"I believe he's right, after all," she murmured. "Everything is chance, and for once it's on our side. Half an hour more, and they couldn't get across, and we couldn't get back. Nothing could be better. We won't need to use any of the second strings now."
With a glance at the progress of the supper, she relit the lamp and stepped into one of the little bedrooms. "Altogether too pale," she frowned, as she glanced in the mirror. "But that's easily remedied. He isn't the observant kind, evidently." From the closet she took down an evening gown of black velvet, glancing somewhat dubiously at the low neck and short sleeves.
"It's a question, even now," she muttered thoughtfully. "He may think it's a queer rig for a country girl, and get wise, but I don't really think so. It's worth the risk, anyway. Men are such fools. It seems a shame."
Half an hour more and darkness had fallen over the island. Outside the northeaster roared in rising wrath. Within the fire blazed cheerily, and the soft lamplight cast a pleasant charm over the cozy room. Suddenly her heart beat quicker as she heard Palmer's footsteps. An instant, and he entered, buffeted and beaten by the gale, staggering under a load of ducks.
"Well, what do you think of this?" he cried. "Ducks! No end of 'em. Gordon missed the time of his life. But what do you think about it? They can't get across to us, can they?"
The girl shook her head. "No, not possibly," she answered, "and what's worse, we can't get across to them."
Just for a moment Palmer looked grave. Then he laughed boisterously. "Well, this is a go!" he cried; "I never thought I'd come to play Robinson Crusoe. I suppose we must just make the best of it. How about that supper? By Jove, you look as if you'd been working."
The girl laughed, glancing down at the blue checked apron that enveloped her from head to foot. "Supper," she echoed, "the sportsman's first thought. Well, it's all right excepting the ducks; I have them prepared, and I'll give you exactly eleven minutes to get ready in. That was Dick's last word on cooking them. Eleven minutes, provided the oven was right, and I believe it's perfect."
She deftly cleared the table of the two useless places, slipped the much talked of ducks into the oven, and brought two bottles of champagne from the ice box. At the end of the allotted time Palmer appeared, and the girl placed the smoking meal on the table. Then she glanced at him, smiling.
"I know you don't want to eat with the cook, do you?" she asked, and before he could protest she deftly threw off the concealing apron, and stood before him in all the glory of womanhood, a 'delicate flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright, the low cut, somber gown setting off to perfection the rounded whiteness of her neck and arms. Palmer, in admiration, gazed at her until with a laugh she broke the spell.
"I wanted to surprise Dick," she said simply. "He's always making fun of me for living in the country, and I thought I'd show him I knew something about dressmaking, anyway. Do you like it?"
"Like it?" the young man exclaimed fervently. "Like it? Why, by Jove, I should say I did. You're simply ripping, you know. You're—"
Words failed him, and by way of relieving his feelings he began a savage onslaught on the ducks.
As the supper progressed, better and better grew his humor. Everything was delicious, and his third glass of champagne found him gazing at the dainty figure opposite through a mellow haze of sentimental content, until, finally, when she rose and held the match for his cigar, he somehow found the little hand which hung so invitingly at her side, and held it close until she gently withdrew it.
"You mustn't," she whispered, with heightened color. "Won't you please fix the fire? It's half out."
He rose reluctantly to obey, and in that instant she poured the contents of a tiny phial into his glass. Then, as he turned again towards her, his face flushed, his eyes gleaming, his throat working convulsively, she raised her own glass in laughing challenge. "One more," she cried daringly: "To our better acquaintance!"
Palmer touched his glass to hers and drained it at a gulp. "To our better acquaintance," he echoed thickly, and, putting down the glass, he came unsteadily toward her, and, before she could move, had seized her in his arms.
The girl struggled faintly. "Oh, don't," she cried piteously, as she strove to free herself from his grasp; "please don't, Mr. Palmer! Let me go!" But her strength was as nothing compared to his, and with all her seeming shrinking, one would have said that her lithe form clung even more closely to his.
Suddenly Palmer released her, raising both hands quickly to his head as he staggered back. "God," he cried, in a strange, choked voice, "it's all dark! I can't see!"
Then, with a last conscious effort, he reeled towards the window and fell heavily face downwards on the cushioned seat.