CHAPTER IX.
THE CHINK OF GOLD.
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.