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.

[21]

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[22] 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?

[23]

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.

[24]

“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.

[25]

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[26] 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.”

[27]

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.

[28]

“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.

[29]

“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[30] 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.

[31]

“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.

[32]

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.

[33]

“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?

[34]

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[35] 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!”

[36]

“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?”