V
Saturday morning dawned. Dashes of sunlight at length began to dart through the rifts in the lifting clouds. It had rained heavily during the night, and the mistress, though she had ordered out her carriage for a drive to the race course, felt that the condition of the track would, no doubt, preclude the possibility of Cassandra’s start in the handicap. She remembered that the trainer had said, “if the track’s right.” However, she must go. The spell, the fascination that drew her thither seemed irresistible. Her aunt persuaded her to remain for lunch; but one o’clock found her gazing with intensity into the depths of the bewitching eyes, while she tenderly stroked the shapely little head that Cassandra had at sight of her thrust through the doorway of her apartment.
“I was just starting,” said the trainer, who now addressed her, “for a last inspection of the track before deciding what’s best to do. You know, ma’am,” he continued, “this is to be a hard-fought race, and while I believe the little girl”—nodding at Cassandra—“is well conditioned to go the route of a mile and a quarter, and will stand the punishment, still, in heavy going the chances are all against her. There’s Helen Orland,” he went on, “and Empress and Annabel—the track to-day, ma’am’s to their liking.”
The trainer paused, for he could not help but note unmistakable traces of disappointment on the face of the mistress.
Indeed, nothing could have more delighted her now than merely the appearance of her “little pet” upon the track, if only to receive the words of praise from the spectators she felt sure she would. But, as it was a matter to be left entirely with the trainer, she now turned towards him, and handed him a roll of bills from her purse, saying as she did so: “You are doubtless in need of money for expenses. I shall send Thomas to you for your final decision.” So saying, she stepped into her carriage, which moved off in the direction of the clubhouse.
“Gad!” said the trainer. “Five thousand dollars! This reminds me of old times, when the master was living. Only when he gave me a roll like this it was with instructions to keep my eyes on ‘Bookies,’ and make them keep their odds right.”
The crowd had now commenced to flow into the grounds in droves and bunches. As the mistress, calm and collected, swept down the top balcony of the clubhouse to a position that commanded a full view of the course, admiring glances from every direction followed after her. Unattended as she was, and with manner of complete reserve and composure, she seemed wholly absorbed with her own thoughts.
Seated in a group just to her left, and but a few feet in front of her was Colonel Townsend, an old gentleman, with Major Campbell and two others—evidently horsemen, all earnestly engaged in a discussion of horses and races in general.
As she sat listening—as she was compelled to do—to some of the loud-spoken utterances of the group, she surveyed with interest the crowd below her, which was now growing larger and larger. She chanced to observe a man and a boy walking slowly along the track over in front of the stables.
Adjusting her field glasses she saw that it was her trainer and jockey. They appeared to be examining the track carefully, while the trainer pointed to a spot along the outside rail. They then disappeared. As they were leaving the track she could see the trainer shaking his head slowly, with his eyes bent upon the ground.
The pang of disappointment now rankled within her. She knew that Cassandra’s start had been discussed and that it was abandoned. She had never realized till now how thoroughly expectant she had been. Her thoughts took on the coloring of her insatiate longing with which she battled. Her mind passed in review all the struggles, all the regrets, all the vague fancies it had conjured when coupled with the bare name Cassandra.
“Yet,” thought she, “my husband named her. She was his favorite. Why shouldn’t she be mine? I could not help my attachment. Besides, I’m sure it must have grown strong—as it has—on his account. How I had wished to see her start, wished to hear her beauty praised by others!”
The band in the amphitheatre now struck up a lively air and the horses entered for the first race passed for review before the judges preparatory to going to the post. A stranger, who came pressing his way along the balcony until he had joined the group with Major Campbell, seated himself and looked intently at a programme he carried in his hand.
“Major,” he asked, “what entry is this in the handicap that I hear them call ‘the ghost’?”
“Oh,” replied the Major, “that is the little mare ‘Cassandra.’”
At the mention of the name the mistress inclined her ear instantly. “That’s singular,” continued the stranger. “What’s the significance, Major—or do you know?”
“Why, that’s the name the boys here at the track gave to her and by which she is now generally known. You see,” he continued, “her owner, who was greatly attached to her as a mere weanling, is now dead. Have you never seen her, sir?”
The stranger shook his head.
“Well, she’s a little marvel of beauty, sir, a perfect dream; milk-white from tip to tip and as trim and shapely as a gazelle.”
“Does she start this evening?” inquired the stranger.
“Townsend told me but a while ago that he had just heard she would not start.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the stranger, “but after your description of her, Major, I think I shall make a special trip to the stable to see her.”
“You knew her owner, did you not?” asked the major.
“I can’t recall him,” said the stranger, thoughtfully.
“Why, he’s been with us often—a jolly good fellow he was, too, full of life and—”
“Was he married?” interrupted the stranger.
“No—that is, I think not,” said the Major, “for I heard something once to the effect that he was much in love with Judge Taggart’s daughter. By the way,” he continued, “that young lady is, I believe, married now.”
“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I knew her—Miss Cassie.”
“They’re off!” came the shout from the crowd below, and instantly there was a general careening of necks from the balcony. A minute later and the crowd below surged toward the railing of the track and gathered about the judges’ stand, as the horses rushed toward the wire.
Then there was a wild commotion, followed later by a general movement in the direction of the “board pencilers.”
Thus the evening passed on, race by race, with a repetition of the usual scenes and events, until at last there sounded the bugle call for the handicap.
There was a distinct bustle and stir now among the expectant throng, which said plainly that the race of the evening was about to come off.
“Colonel Townsend,” asked the Major, “have you seen Grannan since his arrival to-day?”
“Yes,” responded the Colonel. “I had a short talk with him this morning. I’m sorry for Grannan,” he continued, “he has been singularly unlucky of late, and he says there seems to be no end of it.”
At the mention of the name of Grannan the mistress leaned over and listened. She had long been sitting motionless, stolid, oblivious to everything save her thoughts. Some one touched her upon the arm, and turning sharply, with a startled look in her face, she beheld the outstretched hand of Thomas, holding a batch of tickets.
“The trainer said, ma’am, to tell you that he just could not help it, ma’am; when he saw twenty to one posted against Cassandra’s chances, he made the ‘pencilers’ rub it off, and here, ma’am are the tickets. Mr. Grannan, he said, had placed a large sum on the Empress,” continued Thomas, “and that he took the liberty to purchase pools on Cassandra at the tempting odds.”
She clutched the tickets nervously in her hand and quickly thrust them into her purse, trembling visibly as she did so.
“Ah,” said Colonel Townsend, “we were speaking of Grannan. There is his mare now—Empress—out for the handicap. I think, though,” he continued, “that Helen Orland—Briggs’ mare—is going to have decidedly the best of it in the going to-day.”
“Well,” said the Major, “I like Rosalind or Houston’s entry—Geraldine.”
“What’s the matter with Annabel?” chimed in the stranger. “There she is now. She certainly looks a winner, and the distance just suits her.”
A wild cheer now suddenly burst from the crowd as Helen Orland passed in front of the judges’ stand. She was evidently a favorite with the spectators, for the cheer was repeated.
“Ho! ho!” shouted the Major. “She is going to start. There comes the ‘little ghost.’”
And simultaneously with his words, a bevy of swipes and stable boys set up a yell.
“Mother of Moses!” ejaculated the stranger. “Major, but you were right. She is a dream.”
“Yes, and a beautiful dream at that,” added the Major.
“Evidently she’s no nightmare,” echoed a shrill voice from the crowd.
Poor little Cassandra! She was prancing to the music of the band as proudly as a queen, tossing her dainty head from side to side as gamely and defiantly as a sparrow.
The mistress turned with a look, intense in its anxiety, to Thomas, who was still standing, and thrusting her purse into his hand instructed him to hurry with it to Mr. Grannan, tell him what the trainer had done and say to him that as he was Cassandra’s rightful owner she desired him to do as he wished with purse and contents.
Then lifting her glasses to her eyes with trembling hands, she scanned eagerly the horses as they gathered at the post. Soon, from sheer trembling and weakness, her hands dropped into her lap. Now, for the first time, she beheld Grannan with his back turned toward the track and searching with an anxious gaze the balcony upon which she was seated.
He raised his glasses to his eyes and began slowly to sweep the crowd. As he did this her head sank involuntarily upon her breast. The blood rushed to her face. She was abashed—painfully so. What had she done? Could she stop Thomas? Would that she had seen him before she had sent Thomas. Yet he had placed a large sum on Empress. Thomas had said so. What if he should lose? The thought chilled her. She shuddered violently. He has already lost heavily. It may ruin him.
“They’re off!” roared the throng, and then came the portentous silence. She raised her eyes and saw the form of Grannan now facing with earnest gaze the approaching horses. On they came, as if some terror-inspiring object had suddenly stampeded them.
“Rosalind a neck, Lucinda a length, Helen Orland a head,” commenced the song of the “caller,” from below.
Another moment and they were sweeping past the judges’ stand.
The stranger, with a manifest anxiety in the tone of his voice, now observed that Annabel was lapped on Helen Orland and that Empress had moved up well to the front. Lucinda, he said, had fallen back.
“The ‘little ghost,’” said the Major eagerly, “keeps well up to the bunch, but she’s too small, though, too small.”
Around the turn they whirled, till now the “caller” cried out: “At the half; Rosalind, a neck; Empress, half length; Annabel, a length; Helen Orland—”
“Rosalind, it seems,” exclaimed the Major, “can’t shake them off. See, she’s falling back. Empress leads now and both Helen Orland and Annabel are coming up on her.”
“Look at the ‘little ghost,’” screamed a voice from the crowd as they were rounding into the stretch.
“Ah, but she’s swerved,” chimed in the stranger, “clear to the rail—too bad, too bad; she’s out of it now; but see the Empress, how determined she is. The fight is on now and Annabel and Helen Orland are running as a team. Look! they’re at her throat on either side.”
“Into the stretch: Empress a head; Annabel, a head; Helen Orland—”
“The Empress will win, sure!” said the Colonel.
“Hold!” shouted the stranger. “Look at that! Look at that! They’ve bumped into her. She’s off her stride.”
“Annabel wins easy!” now shouted a chorus of voices from below.
“But here! here! Look at the rail—at the rail!” yelled the stranger, as the crowd below took up the shout and roared: “The Ghost! The Ghost wins!” “No, it’s Annabel, Annabel!” shouted others, “it’s Annabel!”
And thus they flashed under the wire. The crowd now surged around the judges’ stand. A living stream poured out from the amphitheater. Hideous screams and yells rent the very air: “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Annabel!” “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Cassandra!” “Annabel!” while burning eyes strained, eager to catch the number—No. 7. Cassandra had won.
One long, shrill, deafening shriek now pierced the air, then died away, amidst a rudely descending shower of hats, parasols, and umbrellas. A mad rush for the “bookies,” and the race was ended.
The mistress still stood peering from the balcony as if paralyzed. Her eyes, now fixed, stared from features as pale and immovable as if wrought by the hand of a sculptor. Thomas stood tapping nervously upon the sleeve of her dress, while his ungovernable heels played a tattoo upon the sounding floor. He was unheeded. He ventured a more violent tug, and the shapely figure swung slowly around as though poised on a pivot. “Cassandra’s won, ma’am!”
Her lips moved, but the words were inaudible. Her eyes turned again, bent in the direction of the judges’ stand.
“Have the judges said so, Thomas?”
“Her number’s 7, ma’am,” and pointing to where the number hung, he said: “There’s the number. And here, ma’am,” he continued, gesturing wildly, “are the tickets. I couldn’t find Mr. Grannan, ma’am, and didn’t know what to do, so I lit in and pretty nigh backed Miss Cassie off them boards like I ’lowed Mr. Grannan would have done.”
“We’ll go there at once—to the stables,” said the mistress.
“I’ll fetch the carriage to the side entrance, here, ma’am, if you wish.”
She nodded assent as he hurried away. A familiar voice now caused her to look up into the face of Grannan.
“I must congratulate you,” he said, as he took her hand, “upon the victory of little Cassandra, though I must say I never knew her by that name until now. I was utterly amazed,” he continued, “when I thought I had recognized her. How delighted I am now to know that she won.”
“I am just going to see Cassandra now; will you go with me?” asked the mistress.
A little later, when they were driving in the direction of the stables, she turned to him and said: “I was awfully sorry it had been decided to start Cassandra, when my coachman told me that you had an entry in the race. Did she in any way hinder your chances for success?”
“In no way whatever, I can assure you.”
“Did you lose very heavily on Empress?”
“Oh, nothing that I could say would so much exceed my usual losses of late.”
“Have you ever thought,” she asked, “of the flower that fell from the bier which you persisted in fastening to the lapel of your coat?”
“Am I to be forever doomed, then, for that one perverse act?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I believe, though, there is an old adage which they say affords some consolation to those who recount their losses.”
“And, pray, what is the adage?”
“Let me see—I think it runs something like this: ‘Unlucky in sport, lucky in l—’”
The word died upon her lips. It was smothered by a kiss.
There was a low whinny near the window of the carriage now as it stopped, and little Cassandra was peering eagerly in, from beneath her gray blanket. The boy led her closer to the window; and, as the mistress clasped her head in her arms, Grannan clasped the mistress in his.