PRICE 25 CENTS.

Cliquot

A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty.

BY
Kate Lee Ferguson.

PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS:
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

PETERSONS’ 25 CENT SERIES.

Books by Mrs. Southworth, Zola, etc., Published by

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And for sale everywhere at 25 cents each.

• TRIED FOR HER LIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• CRUEL AS THE GRAVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE CHANGED BRIDES. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE BRIDE’S FATE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE BRIDAL EVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE FAMILY DOOM. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• THE MAIDEN WIDOW. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.
• NANA. By Emile Zola. His Great Realistic Novel of Life in Paris.
• NANA’S DAUGHTER. A Sequel to Emile Zola’s Novel of “Nana.”
• LA TERRE. By Emile Zola. Zola’s Last and Greatest Book.
• L’ASSOMMOIR; or, NANA’S MOTHER. By Emile Zola.
• A GIRL’S LOVE. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”
• HELENE. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola.
• ALBINE; or, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION. By Emile Zola.
• THE GIRL IN SCARLET. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”
• NANA’S BROTHER; or, GERMINAL. By Emile Zola.
• LE REVE. (The Dream.) By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”
• FASHION AND FAMINE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
• THE OLD HOMESTEAD. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
• THE OLD COUNTESS. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
• LORD HOPE’S CHOICE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
• LINDA, or The Young Pilot of Belle Creole. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.
• ROBERT GRAHAM. Sequel to “Linda.” By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.
• RENA; or, THE SNOW-BIRD. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.
• MARCUS WARLAND. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “Linda.”
• KATHLEEN. A Charming Novel. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• THEO. A Sprightly Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• MISS CRESPIGNY. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.
• MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Greville.
• OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman’s Life.
• CLIQUOT. A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty. By Kate Lee Ferguson.
• INDIANA. A Fascinating Novel. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo.”
• MY SON’S WIFE. By the author of “Caste,” “Mr. Arle,” etc.
• MY HERO. (The Man I Love.) By Mrs. Forrester.
• A HEART TWICE WON, or Second Love. By Mrs. E. Van Loon.
• THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ABBE. By Louis Ulbach.
• THE PRAIRIE FLOWER. By Emerson Bennett.
• RUN DOWN. A Psychological Novel. By George D. Cox.
• LENI-LEOTI. Sequel to “The Prairie Flower.” By Emerson Bennett.

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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

Cliquot.

BY
KATE LEE FERGUSON.

“Cliquot,” a new love romance from the pen of Kate Lee Ferguson, a rising young Southern authoress of the Amélie Rives school, is full of passion, piquancy and breathless interest. All through it possesses that quality which the French call chic, which gives it that flavor which everybody likes. Neil Emory’s domestic drama—for he is a man with a past in his history—and his deep-rooted passion for Gwendoline Gwinn, as well as the fascination exerted upon him by Cassandra Clovis, an actress, are intermingled with an exciting tale of the race-track in which the foremost figures are Cliquot, a fleet but unmanageable racing stallion, and the mysterious jockey who rides him to final victory after the superb horse has been the death of all his predecessors. The scene is laid in the South and the agreeable volume gives a most charming glimpse of fashionable Southern society. The racing incidents are very graphic and will take a firm hold on all admirers of horse-flesh. “Cliquot” is written in a sprightly style and is just the book to raise a sensation and be talked about in every direction.

PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

COPYRIGHT:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
1889.

“Cliquot,” a bright and peculiarly interesting novel in which burning love and a wonderfully exciting episode of the race-course are the chief ingredients, is the production of Kate Lee Ferguson, one of several young Southern authors who have recently sprung up to cultivate the fruitful field in which Amélie Rives has worked her way to notoriety. It is a strong and spicy romance, always fresh and crisp, with never a superfluous line and very interesting in the very first paragraph. The locality is the South and the characters typical Southerners. Neil Emory, a man with a past, is the hero, and the heroine is Gwendoline Gwinn, who, while admired as a belle, petted by her mother and apparently fond of her ease, is yet a woman to do and dare. A theatrical element is cleverly introduced in the shape of two actresses, Cassandra Clovis and the mysterious “Kitty Who Laughs.” The book takes its title from a thoroughbred racing stallion, capable of great things on the turf but addicted to killing his jockeys. A boy is at last found who rides him to a successful finish and about whom some very singular developments are made. The description of the race which the stallion wins is spirited and vivid to a high degree. Some of the incidents are exceedingly naturalistic and striking. It is not too much to say that “Cliquot” will be read with avidity and that it will be discussed with considerable ardor, for, while it is undoubtedly absorbing, it touches upon some topics which most writers have seen fit to avoid. But the best way is to examine and find out for yourself.

CONTENTS.

CLIQUOT.

CHAPTER I.
A SHORT HEAT.

Another jockey had been killed on the race-course. The utmost excitement prevailed. The magnificent animal which had caused the death reared and plunged in the hands of a groom, his foam-covered sides catching the dust from his flying heels. The crowd poured and surged from the stand, while the band still played. The two other horses were led away, one quiet enough, but the other, a black gelding, fretting and sidling through the throng.

Mr. Emory, the owner of the restless stallion, hurried down the steps of the grand stand. He was a tall blond, and wore a soft gray hat. He grew a shade paler as he saw the dead man raised from the ground by two hostlers, his broken neck dangling over the arm of one of them as they bore him through the gate.

“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “and he thought he could ride!”

He whispered a few words to his groom, then asked a policeman to clear a passage, that his horse might be led away, a thing not easily accomplished, as with trembling limbs and quivering nostrils the beautiful creature rose repeatedly in his tracks, while the man swung to and fro at his bit. At length, he sprang forward and rushed for the stable; breaking loose beyond the gate, he dashed madly into his stall, when the door was closed upon him, while the crowd yielded and swayed and dashed about, in that aimless, foolish, reckless way so often noticed under such circumstances.

Of course, there was the usual flutter and stir on the ladies’ stand—a shutting of fans, a rustle of silk, and the starting forward of some excitable ones. Exclamations were heard of “How horrible!” “Oh! I wish I’d never come!” or, “We women have no business here!” while others thought, “I would not have missed it, dreadful though it is!”

The race was off—thousands of dollars staked and only one heat over. Which horse had won?

Now the police were busy, for the dead man’s form and the maddened stallion no longer held the rabble at bay. Tongues began to wag fast and faster, and hot and hotter grew the discussions about the track and pool stands. Yells of the officials for the police to clear the sward for the next race filled the air, and, finally, when the judge tapped the bell and the crier announced that the race would come off the next day, a little order was restored and the band began to blow its loudest, as a couple of fillies trotted through the gate.

But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty, while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through the exit and the women were gone.

Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then, turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was inside, and the two drove rapidly away.

Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a regiment of friends.

“Hard lines,” said Gray. “Two jockeys in six months.”

“Yes,” replied his companion, “and where on earth will I find another willing to risk his neck on that beast?”

“A few hundred dollars will find one.”

“I doubt it,” said Emory. “I will have to make it a few thousands.”

“Well! considering the amount staked on the animal, you will have to make it a couple, I dare say.”

They drove on in silence, the owner of the horse busy with his thoughts and unwilling to discuss a matter so close to his heart even with his best friend.

When they reached the city, Neil parted with his companion and went up to his rooms. His servant had lighted the gas and arranged his bath. He occupied a handsome suite of apartments, and his sitting-room was one of the prettiest in town, only the absence of the usual display of lovely women’s photos distinguished Neil Emory’s abode from all others. Perhaps in some far-away corner, veiled, was a picture, or, perhaps, only in his heart there existed such an image, though most people thought it but that of a rampant steed.

When he had finished his toilet, it was quite dark. Turning down the gas, he threw himself into a chair at the open window. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, wild and mad, surged through his brain.

Almost wealthy! Only a little while ago a comparatively poor man, alone in the world, well born, handsome and educated—but a little while since able to purchase a small but beautiful estate, situated a few miles from the city, sold at a bargain just as an unlooked for legacy from a distant relation enabled him to become the purchaser—but a little while ago so fortunate as to buy at auction a young thoroughbred stallion, which unexpectedly proved to be one of the greatest racers of the age, but was possessed of a disposition so unmanageable that but two men had been found able to ride him, and both of those had been killed. If he could but win this race, how much it would mean for him! Money he must have, come what might.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, rising and stretching forth his arms in the gloom, “Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me, win for me, or I perish!”

Two nights after the day of the race there was a reception at the residence of Mrs. Dale, one of the fashionable women of the city of N——. Every one spoke, more or less, of the accident on the course.

“They say,” said one, “that he has offered an immense 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.

“Oh, no,” she said; “I am glad it’s gone that way! But do you think now that you could manage to procure for me a very small glass of champagne, with quantities of ice—quite a small glass, and mostly ice?”

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.

CHAPTER II.
A DEVIL’S LAUGH.

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.

“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.”

“Thanks,” replied Neil. “I am sure he’ll suit, though I fear somewhat for the fellow’s life. There’s no counting on such horses.”

“I’ll be in at the death!” cried Gwendoline, as she glanced up with—for her—a mischievous smile.

“Nay,” said Emory, “I hope to save you that.”

Her eyelids fell and the sun went down.

Again ere midnight was it fated they should meet.

There was at that time, playing in the city, an actress of some note and of peculiar standing—a woman darkly beautiful, of good American family and a reputation fair enough to secure her an entrée into some of the best society wherever she went. She had paid more than one visit to N—— and was a favorite; yet, need I say, few women liked her?

For a week or so, she had held sway at the theatre and that night was to witness her crowning success. Lovers she had in plenty—pure love they called their infatuation. Her manager was very careful of her, and she shone forth a “Goddess among men.” The world of our city had given her some fond admirers, and among those said to be the most ardent was Neil Emory, who, report stated, knew her, in other places, years before. That he had bent with warmth above her chair at the receptions, and almost rested his blond moustache on her white shoulders, was true. That he had met her behind the scenes and wrapped her shawl about her at the exposed wings and, once, perhaps, driven her home in his coupé were also true. That she had staked her jewels and even money upon his racer were not denied, and that night, when the wealth and beauty of N—— assembled to witness her final triumph, many eyes and glasses were directed towards the tall form that alone occupied the left-hand proscenium box. Opposite, a lively party sat, the box on the right being tenanted by Mrs. Dale, Gwendoline, Mrs. Gwinn, Clayton and the inseparable Col. Coutell. The play was a bewitching one, and continuous rounds of applause greeted the great actress, Cassandra Clovis, “she who inflames with love.” Yes, surely, to see her was to be inflamed; yet modesty was her role—trains and dress not too décolletée were her robes. Those who gazed upon the hidden charms could but wonder and sleep thus; and so, with glimmer and light, and flowers and jewels, while the air was stirred by the flutter of perfumed fans, the play went on. Down sped the curtain upon the fourth act; but one remained, and when the orchestra had thundered out its last notes, the curtain slowly rolled up and revealed a scene new to all—a beautiful garden, not the old garden set upon which N—— had so often gazed, but a complete revelation of the beauties of nature—fountains of real water, real roses, all as perfect as an artist could make it; and, as the play went on with only a little change here and there, at last came the climax. There advanced adown the marble steps, portrayed at the back of the stage, a party of gay maskers. They were from the ball beyond.

“Ah!” exclaimed one, “they tell me that the fair Cecilia will excel herself to-night. Her costume is to be something marvelous—one to captivate.”

“Yes!” said a second, “to hold and fetter all.”

“Even him!” said a third.

And as they thus spoke and grouped themselves about the stage the music softly arose and from beyond the trees and through the vines came a form. Slowly descending the steps, her long green mantle dropping from her shoulders, came Cecilia. The beautiful dress in Roman style clung about her supple figure and as she neared the footlights she turned to their full blaze her right side, where, caught nearly to the hip, was the soft white fabric, exposing to view her exquisite limb, clothed in the palest of pink stockinet, while glittering with a thousand gems, a natural sized horse-shoe held the folds of her garment.

The house rang with applause from the men, in which the women but faintly joined. From the right-hand box a fleeting something fell, and, stooping with wondrous grace, Clovis raised a mammoth bunch of violets, pressed it to her lips, and then, with an upward glance, placed it in the horse-shoe, where it hung, the loosened flowers dropping upon the pink below as she moved across the stage.

The passion flush that was for an instant upon Emory’s face must have reflected its sunset in the opposite box, for a white hand suddenly drew back the lace curtains and Gwendoline’s beautiful visage, flame-colored, flashed for a moment; and Neil could not avoid meeting the eyes that sought his own, or escape the slow smile that crept over the lips—a cruel smile, he thought, a cold and cruel smile, that had within itself the commencement of a devil’s laugh.

CHAPTER III.
SHE WHO INFLAMES WITH LOVE.

Cassandra Clovis arose late the next morning, and, after a refreshing bath, made an elaborate toilet and went out for a drive. She stopped on her return and brought home the one woman for whom she cared, Kitty Mays by name, a person who deserves a brief mention in these pages.

In appearance Kitty Mays was exactly the opposite of the actress. She was exceedingly small, with a face so surrounded by flying, fluffy blond hair as to be almost invisible, while a fluttering, restless movement of head and shoulders, arms and body, made the occasion rare when one could tell whether she was pretty or not. And yet she was pretty. Sometimes, suddenly checking her movements, she would raise her face, and, throwing back her head, open her beautiful mouth and give vent to laughter long and rippling as a child’s, while the color came into her cheeks and her eyes grew bright and large with mirth. Thus it was that on and off the stage people went to hear “Kitty’s laugh,” carrying home the remembrance of its bell-echo ripple. Was she daft? Some thought so. Who had ever known her to say or do anything bright? Was it that Clovis kept her seated on her train to echo her smiles? Was that laugh artificial? You must wait and see. I shall help you all I can.

When they had sent away the carriage and laid their hats aside, they ordered a lunch, with wine. Kitty sat curled up on a sofa, but with characteristic restlessness was tossing pieces of bread in the air and trying to catch them in her mouth, her shaggy head bobbing to and fro like a yellow poodle’s.

“Stop!” said Clovis; “you make me nervous.”

“Just one more time!” cried Kitty. “I’m sure to catch the next.”

Again and again the white flakes flew up and down; at last, one fell in the rosy mouth and the white teeth closed.

“Ha! ha! ha!” and the silver bells rang.

“Bravo!” cried a voice at the door. “May I come in? I couldn’t make any one hear, so I strolled this way. Say, now, did you leave the door open on purpose?”

“Go away,” said Kitty. “We don’t want you. We are having a private rehearsal.”

“So I perceive; but I want to be admitted. Do, Miss Clovis, ask me to have a glass of wine. I have so many things to tell you.”

“Of course, of course,” she replied, as she rose and rang the bell for another glass, and so Reginald Gray came in.

“Catch!” said Kitty, throwing him a piece of bread. He caught it in his hand.

“Not that way—like a dog!” and she held up another piece.

“Be quiet,” said Clovis, “and go away, Kitty! You may come back directly.”

The girl sprang from the sofa, and, without a word, went into the next room, closing the door after her.

“Well!” said Cassandra, “what did he think of it?”

“He—was—shocked!” and her companion leaned back, putting the tips of his fingers together.

“Tut! What did he say? Tell me—I really want to know!” and she tapped her foot on the carpet.

“A great many things; among them that—that he was surprised and—and bewildered—by—er—er—the brilliancy of the horse-shoe. By the by, would you like a mate for it?” and he caught her by the wrist as she held up her hand, lapping some wine from its rosy hollow.

“Be careful, or you’ll spill it! There!” and she threw it in his face, laughing, though her eyes flashed.

He put his handkerchief up, removed it and looked a trifle angry; then he walked over to where she stood, and, catching her by both hands, imprisoned them behind her and kissed her on the mouth.

“That’s all you’ll ever get,” she hissed through her teeth.

“That’s all I want!” and he released her.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Ask Emory, when you are ready for a pair of diamond horse-shoes,” and he took up his hat.

“You may tell him that when Cliquot wins I’ll be ready; and you may give him my love, and say anything else you choose quite safely, for I am sure his horse will never reach the goal.”

She didn’t look at all amiable as she walked to the window, where she caught hold of the tassel of the shade, running it up and down in a restless way, with her back to her companion.

“Good-bye!” and in a moment he was gone.

“Kitty, come here!”

She threw open the door, and the girl appeared, blowing bubbles.

“There! that’s Coutell!” and it broke. “That’s Gray!” and it broke. “That’s Emory!—and it breaks on your shoulder!” Again the laugh, rippling through the room with bell-like music.

“Pshaw! listen to me. That man kissed me!”

“Ah! Did he hug you too?” and Kitty shook her mane and shrugged her shoulders.

“No!”

“Then he must have been intoxicated!” and the little woman hummed a tune, as she clicked time with an empty glass that stood on the table.

Clovis took up a bottle of red wine and filled one of the glasses.

“Goodness! it looks like blood!” cried Kitty.

“Does it? Watch then!” and catching up her skirts the beautiful woman exposed her well-formed and graceful limb far above the knee clothed in a dainty cream-colored stocking. Lifting her foot to a stool, she bent over and slowly poured the garnet stream down her leg, whence it flowed in a long, irregular line to the floor.

It was a lovely picture, as she stood in her rich dress, staining the purity of her skin with so costly a bath. Thus thought Reginald Gray, who had paused for a moment in the passage beyond the door, and drew back, pale with emotion, as he gazed upon the scene before him.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Kitty, springing forward, and turning her back to the opening, “I never felt such a draught!”

Her skirts flew out beyond her, and the door closed with a bang.

CHAPTER IV.
“OUT FROM THE GOLDEN DAY.”

Yes, Neil Emory was a married man and a man with a scandal, but a scandal so hushed and screened by law and friends as to be almost forgotten.

One day the beautiful woman who bore his name went away from him. You know many such stories. I wish I could make this a new one. Perhaps it is a little different from the hackneyed tales of the dashing lover, who finally deserts his sweetheart, etc., etc., for this woman rose in the brightness of a May morn, dressed herself for traveling, and, with satchel in hand, walked into her husband’s study and told him that she no longer loved him; that, in fact, she never had loved him, nor ever would. It might be she cared for another; and she was going away forever. At the end of a year, she hoped he would divorce her. No! she would listen to nothing he might say. Should he compel her to remain he must bear the consequences. Who was the man? That he should never know. Let her depart in peace, for she knew he did not love her any more than she loved him.

One year and she disappeared. The law crept slowly on—as yet no release. “Would to God it could come another way!” And now that he had again met Gwendoline, did he know that he loved her? If so, why rushed the color to his cheek when the footlights flashed or the yellow dust rose around the flying wheels of Cassandra’s coach?

He well knew he had many rivals. What could he offer either girl or actress, wife or sweetheart? His friend Reginald Gray was one for whom the beautiful dark woman of the boards seemed ever to smile; but “Kitty who laughed” was always on the alert.

One day, as he sped swiftly down the street, a voice hailed him. Turning, he beheld Clovis leaning from her carriage; and when he came up, the slippered foot peeping from the lace of her dress and the blue veil over her face were all he saw of her companion.

“Did you get my message?” asked Clovis.

“Yes,” he murmured, “but I knew it meant nothing.”

“Hush!” she replied. “I want your good opinion, and I’ll have it yet!”

Her lips closed tightly as she looked at him.

“You know that I am a poor man, Clovis—you know that when Monday morning comes I will be either richer by many thousands or ruined. What will you have? A diamond horse-shoe or a worthless kiss?”

“Neither!” said the woman. “I desire more—your name!”

The man started back.

“That is impossible,” he said under his breath.

He started again, for a little bell sounded in his ears—a little silver tinkle that must have come through the carriage as the women drove off.

Would he never hear from the distant lawyer who had his case in hand? As secretly as possible he was conducting it. Gwendoline knew so little, her mother more, perhaps, of his affairs. On what grounds did he work? That his wife was untrue? No! That they could not live together in peace? No! What then? Only this: she had left him and asked for release. One year! Perhaps it would come!

He went into his room and sat down. It was Saturday night and noisier than usual on the street. The week had dragged slowly enough, yet he began to dread the coming of that Monday morning, that day which would mean so much for him. He shaded his eyes from the soft twilight, and seemed to see it all! The hot and restless crowd, the ever-penetrating rays of the summer sun, the quivering, panting steed—and, perhaps, the death of another jockey in the end.

“If this happens again,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll blow out the infernal beast’s brains!”

There was a knock at the door, and on opening it a telegram was placed in his hand. Slowly he tore off the covering, thinking: “How tired I am!”

Yes, he was tired, so tired that the four words of the telegram that should have brought him joy had no effect except it was to rivet him to the spot; and there, two, three hours later, he still sat looking down upon the carpet, where the yellow paper had fallen, with the writing upturned, and this is what he saw:

“Your wife is dead.”

CHAPTER V.
PRETTY GOOD ARMS.

Dead! Gone forever “out from the golden day.” Just the release he had dreamed of, perhaps wished for, yet hardly prayed for. Men seldom do that; only women drop down on their knees and pour out their hearts that way, rising sometimes to say it is all for the best.

Emory at last rose from his chair and left his room. It was almost midnight, and the streets were deserted when he reached the City Park. A few steps brought him to a seat under a tree, near which a fountain splashed, a place where he had often sat alone.

“I’ll do as the fellow does in the novels—cool my fevered brow,” he thought, and laughed a little, as he took off his hat, caught some water in the hollow of his hand and wet his forehead. The laugh was hard and hollow, and the sigh that followed it heavy and dull. Of course, he was not sorry for what the world would call his “loss,” but he was a sick-hearted man, disgusted with the way his life began, horrified at the ruggedness of the path he trod.

“I must go home and sleep, if I can; and I must see Cliquot exercised in the morning.”

Thus he thought; and all night he dreamed of the race and the woman he loved.

When he reached the track in the early morning, he saw a boy run out of one of the stables, jump into a buggy with a man and drive away.

“Where’s the jockey?” he asked.

“Just left, sir,” said the groom.

“Has he been here both days?” he inquired.

“No sir.”

“Why?” and Emory grew pale with anger.

“Peleg reported him sick, sir.”

“Stuff!” muttered the owner; “but I trust he’s all right now.”

“I think so, sir,” said the man, “for he rode like a major to-day.”

Sunday! How would he ever get through the hours? Go to church? No! Never at the best of times did he love the inside of a chapel, and now that it suggested a vision of a dead woman and flowers could he go?

Should he tell Mrs. Gwinn of his wife’s death?

What mattered it to her? She was now planning to marry her daughter to a millionaire. Let Gwendoline know? Not yet! Oh! not yet! But let him win this race—then, then the whole world might know, and Cassandra do her worst! What was it that at times blanched his cheek as he thought of her—“she who inflames with love?” Did he deem her a dangerous woman? Perhaps. But what about that other—“Kitty who laughs?”

Gwendoline sat before her glass, that morning, in a blue wrapper, with her hair down. Alice Legare, her maid, stood behind her and softly brushed out its silken waves. It was beautiful hair, but not long—falling only a little below her shoulders, a few tapering coils going nearly to the waist. It grew so lovely upon that shapely head! It is not always the wealth of hair that is attractive. A great many women have that; but all along the brow, around the ear and back of the neck it went wandering away as if it were a wave of light. And then the color—rich red brown, the bronze you read about, the “sunset glow,” and all that you see in the “Cenci” pictures.

Alice kept brushing and toying with it; and, as she did so, she began to think, and at last forgot to brush. Her mistress glanced up.

“Crying again, Alice?”

“Yes,” murmured the girl. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You have thanked me, Alice, more than once, more than you know.”

“So little, so very little, Miss,” she said. “I would it were more.”

“Never mind,” replied Gwendoline; “all may yet be well. Why, you have grown almost pretty again; and your hair is now quite as bright as ever. See! it is just the color of mine, but it does not curl or wave.”

“Only when I crimp it,” laughed the maid.

“Ah! there, that’s right! I love to see you merry. Now, go. I can finish. I am sure mamma wants you,” and Miss Gwinn gathered up her tresses as the girl quitted the room.

“She is almost as tall as I am, and might be my sister. How funny,” she added, “to have a maid like that—only she isn’t half as lazy as I! Dear, dear, how weary I am!”

With a rippling laugh, she threw herself on a sofa and put her white arms up over her head. She took them down directly, and, pushing up her sleeves, patted first one, then the other.

“Pretty good arms, pretty good arms, mon ami!”

Then, throwing them out before her, she exclaimed:

“Bon jour, Monsieur Emory—ha! ha! Now I will dress.”

CHAPTER VI.
BACKWARDS.

Sunday night, and I have three pictures to show you.

First, let us glance at the open windows of Cassandra’s reception-room. The vine-clad balcony, behind which waved soft lace curtains, appeared cool and inviting in the stillness of that warm, star-lit evening. Soft rays of rosy light from shaded lamps streamed out upon the floor.

Lying back in a large chair, in all the glory of jewels and fleecy lace, was the lovely Clovis. Her large dark eyes had a dreamy, far-away look, for she was thinking of the one man in all the world whom she loved. Yes, with her whole heart, her whole soul, she loved Neil Emory.

Years ago, let me tell it now, she ran away from home and married a handsome, worthless fellow, who, when he died, left her nothing. She was of English birth. Her mother was dead and her father married a second time. An uncle, a stage manager in America, offered her a home, which she accepted, and, for a long while, she was his housekeeper. She was frequently at the theatre, occasionally assuming some minor part in the play; but she was never considered an actress—she was merely a “responsible lady.”

One day her uncle fell sick and she was compelled to take his place. He became almost an invalid, so it happened that for a long while she was virtually the manager. Yet so efficiently was the business conducted that the world never suspected the real manager was rarely behind the scenes.

About that time an actress of some note was engaged for thirty nights on her uncle’s boards. When she had played fifteen nights, and each time to an admiring audience, she caught a violent cold and lay dangerously ill.

Now a strange thing happened. The sick actress sent for the manager’s niece and informed her she must take her place in the bill. There was a wonderful resemblance between the two women; in form and feature, hair, eyes and brow, they were alike. The almost dying woman pleaded that she should assume her very name and finish her engagement, urging that, as the girl had watched her performance for fifteen nights in the wings and had even understudied the part, she ought to be able to play it.

“Keep my engagement for me,” she begged, “for, far away over the water, I have a little child dependent on me.”

It would require too much space to give all the particulars, but that night the girl walked the stage in borrowed name and robes, and, when the curtain fell, had achieved a triumph as an actress. Such is the public. It paid blind tribute to her and she was content. None knew the difference. Night after night, she played her part, and long before the thirty days expired the sick actress had passed away to the unknown shore, bequeathing her name and glory to another.

Thus, as Cassandra Clovis, the girl began life anew and constantly sent to the child across the water all she needed.

One night, the theatre at which she was playing caught fire and was destroyed. In the red glare of the flames a woman threw herself in front of Clovis and begged to be saved. They were in a dressing-room beneath the stage.

“I cannot help you!” cried Clovis. “Look to yourself!”

“I am beside myself with fright!” the woman cried.

Clovis seized her by the hand.

“Quick, then, this way!” and with difficulty they reached the street where they were safe.

Clovis asked her companion where she would go, where were her friends and home.

“I have neither friends nor home!” was the reply. “He has perished in the flames! Let me go with you!”

Together they went, and thus it happened that Cassandra kept about her the woman known to the world as “Kitty who laughs.”

She was seated, that Sunday night, on a low stool, dressed in white and blue. A bowl of water, in which were a number of beautiful flowers, stood beside her. She was making a wreath and humming a tune.

The flowers were to adorn their rooms next day, should Cliquot win.

“What folly!” said Clovis. “Toss away the blossoms!”

“Oh, no!” said the other; “we don’t fling aside full-blown roses, and there are no buds here!”

“I understand,” said the actress, and went on dreaming, while Kitty sang an old song—“Did they Tell Thee I was Dead, Katy Darling?”

Having finished the garland, she rose, and, opening a drawer, took from it some gilt letters.

“I might as well fix it all now,” she said; “there won’t be time to-morrow.”

She pushed a chair against the wall and began to tack the letters on the paper. She had completed the name “Cliquot” in gold and was busy arranging the wreath in the shape of a horse-shoe around it when a voice cried:

“Come down! come down! A most dangerous position! I really must hold you, for I think you are growing giddy!” and she felt two hands clasp her waist.

“Let go, Reginald! I don’t like that!”

“But I do!”

Clovis looked up, angrily.

“Stop that child’s play!” she said. “You’re always at it!”

“Don’t you think you are a little cross to-night, Miss Clovis?” the man asked, going over to where she sat. “It must be that, for you’re never jealous.”

“Of you?”

“Hardly,” he muttered; “but wasn’t it saucy of her to be sticking that (pointing to the decoration) in your very face?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that!” she replied. “A lot of letters and flowers will never bring him success!”

“Let us see.”

“Oh!” cried Kitty, “please don’t pun; you know it is the lowest order of wit.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man; “I did not mean it as such.”

“Did you come to tell us about the race to-morrow?”

“Yes, I can tell you of it now I am here, though I really did not come for that. You know I am fond of you myself after a fashion, Cassandra!” and he gave her a bright, half-impudent look.

“He’s a handsome sort of a fellow, and I wish I could have loved him!” thought the woman.