“You got me wrong, B.D. I wasn’t laughing at you.”
“I admit I’m contentious when it comes to anything which touches you, boy. I love you as if you were my own. It isn’t losing the money I care about only; it’s the idea of our being licked by Rousseau, the maddening sense of frustration. When I think of it, I feel as if I could pull Mark Hoyt from his grave, shake him till his bleached bones rattled back to life, and make him tell what he did with those letters of Anne Pardoe’s.”
The dark redness of Ben Damon’s face startled Nicholas. He put an arm across his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, B.D. I can’t, I won’t believe that we will lose. If we do, I’ll make myself believe that Rousseau is Uncle Mark’s son.”
“If he is—I’m afraid he’ll win Sandra—”
“Oh no, he won’t! That will be another fight. I …” The telephone rang. Nicholas picked up the instrument.
“Stone House.… Hulloa yourself, Linda.… Still here to watch Fortune’s workouts.… Sorry, every night filled for the next two weeks.… Sure, I’ll be at the Hunt Club Ball.… Linda, do something for me … ? That’s a rash promise.… Make your committee invite Mrs. Newsome to receive at the ball, will you … ? Don’t argue. I know what I’m asking. Do it or not. Good-bye!”
He replaced the instrument and answered the question in Damon’s eyes.
“Linda’s reaction to my request was shrill, but she’s a good sort. Mrs. Pat is known all over the world for the high standard of her horses. The owner of the Seven Chimneys stables ought to be in the receiving line at the ball. Out of partisanship for me, my friends have ostracized her. That’s got to stop.”
Damon regarded him from above the cigarette he was lighting. “Your viewpoint has changed in the last few weeks, Nick.”
The sarcastic comment deepened Nicholas’ color, but there was a smiling challenge in his eyes as they met the older man’s.
“It will change more. You’ll be surprised. I didn’t realize until you spoke of it that Mrs. Pat’s heart was being tortured. Can’t stand that. You and Jed are right. I have made a big mistake staying away from Seven Chimneys. I’ll eat a huge hunk of humble pie and ask Mrs. Pat if I may come to dinner.”
“And then?” Damon asked eagerly.
Nicholas looked up from the pipe he was lighting. Little flames were reflected in his eyes.
“And then? I’ll win out on one account at least. Guess which?”
CHAPTER XI
“Glory be, Miss! How you frightened me!”
Sandra, perched on the top of the high steps in front of the shelves in the library, glanced from the maid’s white face to the book sprawled on the floor. She had been absorbed in a colorful account of a horse-race, when a squeak had drawn her eyes to the desk with its countless drawers and pigeonholes. Emma was running her hand over the front of it!
Maddening that she had dropped the book. Had she kept quiet, she might have discovered the reason of the woman’s presence at Seven Chimneys. She had not as yet confided her suspicion to any one that Emma might be here for another purpose than that of earning her living. Time enough for that when suspicion had crystalized to conviction. Was she a tool? Whose? Huckins? He had been standing suspiciously close the day she had seen the two together in the hall. If that were so, why was he here?
Sandra glanced at the table with its heap of jig-sawed scraps. That sort of puzzle was not needed in this house; one was assembling with humans for the pieces, unless she had missed her guess, and she was quite sure she hadn’t.
“Please excuse me for disturbing you at your reading, Miss. I forgot to dust the desk this morning—I’m helping till the new parlor maid comes—and hurried in to do it. You know how the madame is if we skip anything, Miss.”
The maid had come to the foot of the steps. Her manner was perfect for her position, yet she had answered an advertisement for a social secretary first. The fact needed explanation. Light from the jeweled window rested in triangular red patches on her cheek bones. The color intensified the brilliance of her eyes. There was a glint in them which twanged along the sensitive fibre of Sandra’s imagination. Did she resent the fact that the girl looking down at her had secured the position she herself had wanted?
“That’s all right, Emma, I was through reading. Hand me the book, will you? I’ll put it back on the shelf. Thanks.”
Sandra watched her as she left the room. Dusting! Afraid that “the madame” would rage at her carelessness. Evidently she had forgotten that Mrs. Pat had gone away for a few days.
“ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ ” she reflected as she carefully examined the book in her hand. Quite a drop for a volume so old and rare. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Unharmed. She replaced it on the shelf. This was the fourth on the subject of the horse she had read. Fascinating, but out of date. The next she selected would be the latest publication the shelf offered. Some day she would startle nice Mr. Damon by the amount of knowledge she had acquired from the books which his old friend had collected. How Mark Hoyt must have loved them! In each one was noted the date and place of its purchase.
She was still pondering over the maid’s interest in the library desk when an half hour later, mounted on Happy Landing, the roan Mrs. Pat had set aside for her use, she drew rein on top of the hill to look down upon the colorful pattern riders were spreading over the lovely country which offered all that a hunting-mad community needed: grass meadows, open fields, a long, trying half-mile rise crowned by an in-an-out, post and rail fences, clay roads, patches of woodland. Spectators were scattering, some on foot, some on horseback—though not part of the field—and more were in automobiles.
Men in pink coats and white breeches, yellow waistcoats, women in smart brown felt hats, Scotch plaid coats, tan breeches, jack boots, were setting their horses’ heads homeward. The carefully groomed mounts glistened in the sunlight. The low-headed, diversely colored hounds followed a pair of bob-tailed cobs, whose riders apparently were in animated discussion. She watched them take a stone-wall as easily as feathers lifted by a breeze. It was a beautiful wall, all gun-metal and slate color and light granite glistening with silver, one of the few hand-made things left in this mechanistic age.
What a day! Its clouds were almost silver, its blue infinite, its green had a bronze-gold tinge. A flotilla of gay autumn leaves came sailing and bobbing down the shining river. Fluffs from a milkweed pod winged away in front of her like little white fairies in a hurry as she guided Happy Landing into a wooded road, checkered with quaking shadows, where the late sunlight shone through trees whose brilliant leaves were a-flutter in the soft breeze.
Rather a pity that she couldn’t have joined the hunt, she was not too bad to look at in her canary color breeches, dark blue coat, matching soft felt hat, snowy stock and black top boots. Lucky that every girl wasn’t as mad about clothes as she. But she couldn’t have gone had she been invited; Mrs. Newsome’s social secretary had no right to accept what would not be extended to her employer. Besides, Nicholas Hoyt would be one of the riders, and since their skirmish at Stone House she had not cared to meet him. It had been more than a skirmish; it had been a declaration of war. She had tried to put him out of her mind. If he retained his inheritance, she would find another position; if he lost it, he would doubtless fade from the picture, which eventuality would be all right with her.
Apparently life went on as usual at Seven Chimneys. Horse buyers and gentlemen fond of horses came and went; enthusiasm over the approaching races was at fever-heat. Mrs. Pat was backing Iron Man enthusiastically. She had ordered neckties in orange and black for her men who would accompany the gray to the track, and all buckets and bottles which would be used were having a coat of Rousseau’s colors. She was getting increasingly difficult. Curtis Newsome was gay and sombre by turns and went about with tormented eyes. Estelle Carter was bearing down hard on the glamorous note. Only Philippe Rousseau appeared untouched by the ominous forces which seemed to be gathering just beneath the surface.
Sandra had a strange feeling that storms were drawing in from all points of the horizon, that the atmosphere was saturated with electricity.
Philippe was still superbly confident in his role of rightful heir restrained for a short time from slipping on the rich cloak of his inheritance. A week passed since Nicholas Hoyt had told her that she would believe in him—and like it. The mere thought of his challenging voice and eyes sent that curious feeling of aliveness quick-stepping along her veins. One would never have known by his manner that day that just as Fortune stood to win or lose a race, his owner stood to win or lose a fortune.
Was Philippe making progress in establishing his claim? She had noticed yesterday at tea that Mrs. Pat’s cronies were beginning to count him as one of themselves. They had been excited over Iron Man’s victory in a tryout. Piggy Pike, his jockey, had held the gray just off the pace and had pegged back a roan named Five Up as they turned into the straight. Then Iron Man had bounded forward as if touched by a spring, had stretched out and won.
Sandra preened with self-satisfaction. That summing up had not been so bad. It showed the effects of browsing among the books on horses and racing in the library. She had been at Seven Chimneys but twenty-four hours when she had determined that she would know something of horseflesh that she might look intelligent at least when champions of the turf were mentioned. That brought her back to Emma again. Why had she been in the library?
Happy Landing nibbled at late pink-topped clover as Sandra pulled up outside a rail fence to watch the brood mares and baby Thoroughbreds grazing in a green pasture. A few colts were running round nose to tail. Astonishing how they had grown since she first had seen them a few weeks ago. Beside a water hole a small stallion nipped not too playfully at a peaceably grazing colt, whereupon a young filly let her heels fly to land squarely on the mid-section of the offender who galloped away squealing.
Again the eternal triangle. Interesting and fascinating business this raising of Thoroughbreds. That aggressive young stallion might be a potential Gallant Fox, a Twenty Grand, or, wonder of wonders, a Man O’War.
She touched the roan lightly with the crop; he bounded forward in response. Was that the gilt weathercock of Stone House stables glinting above the trees? She had not realized that she was so near. She would love to stop for a chat with adorable Nanny O’Day—better not, she might meet Nicholas Hoyt.
Who would ride Fortune for him? The jockey who had spoken to her that day at the paddock? She was beginning to understand some of the subtleties of the turf, but she still felt like a rank outsider looking through a window. As the days passed, her sense of aloneness grew rather than diminished. Sometimes when she woke in the night and couldn’t sleep, she would get panicky, thinking distorted thoughts of what illness would mean; it seemed as if she could hear the hours hurrying along. It made one curiously shivery to realize that one was the last of one’s family. The dogs and Irish Bridie were her only confidantes, but she could not say to them:
“Do you remember when … ?”
There was no one with whom she could talk over subjective things, presentiments, impulses. Her godmother was a fashionable, vague sort of person who would not have recognized an ideal had it tapped her on the shoulder. Of course a normal girl shouldn’t spend a moment fearing the future, but perhaps she had not yet returned to normalcy after the heart-twisting experiences of the last year; perhaps she should have married—foolish thought; who? Why worry when her horse was sprinting—her eye-lashes felt as if they were being uprooted—when the air was glorious?
A whirling spiral of dry leaves skittered across the road. With a sharp whir of wings a partridge followed. The combination was too much for Happy Landing. He recoiled with a suddenness which sent his rider over his head. Before she realized what had happened, she was sitting on the ground gripping her left shoulder.
A man with a gun burst through the underbrush. “I heard a thud …” Philippe Rousseau recognized her, dropped to one knee beside her. “Sandra! What happened?”
“A happy landing. See it? Speed but no control.” She giggled foolishly. The laughter faded from her eyes. She bit her lips. The pain in her shoulder was gruelling if she moved her left arm, but he must not know. The roan stood with low-hung head as if overcome with shame.
“We were going like the wind. A partridge startled the poor dear, and my mind was hundreds—of miles from here. From—the—the way I feel … It has stepped out … altogether now. My brain—is a nice—great … empty room. It was not his fault … he is beautifully mannered. Doesn’t he … look contrite?”
“Don’t try to talk! Stop laughing! Are you hurt?” Rousseau laid his hand on hers. She shook it off. Something within her suddenly rebelled against his touch. His eyes narrowed, his voice grated along her nerves.
“What’s the matter? You haven’t gone back on your old friend, have you? Has the big shot set you against me?”
“The big—s-shot?” Sandra shut her eyes. She must have hit her head when she fell. If only she could dig her toes and fingers in and hang on to her whirling senses.
“I mean Nicholas Hoyt, of course. What has he been saying about me?”
His voice sawed into her mind; then his head described a parabola and righted. The wave of unconsciousness frightened her. “You are not faint. You … never fainted in your life … remember,” she told herself over and over.
“If you would get me some water … instead of growling and imagining all sorts of … absurd things, it would be more to the … the point, Philippe.”
“You said something then.” He stood up and looked down at her. “You are hurt. You’re white as a sheet.”
“Don’t stand there telling me how I look! I shall begin to think … I am faint. Ever heard of mental … control? Get me some water. I can … hear the tinkle of a brook.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll get it.” He broke through the brush and disappeared.
What made the trees so unsteady? Was that a horseman approaching, or was she seeing things? No. He was real. He was coming on at a gallop. If only those tricky trees would keep quiet.
“Drink this!” Something burned down her throat. She looked up into gray eyes. The proximity of Nicholas Hoyt, the man she so cordially disliked, cleared her mind as nothing else could have done. She struggled to her feet. He regarded her with a frown. He was terrifyingly tall and impressive in his pink coat and white breeches. His polished boots were slightly spattered; a tiny dab of mud, like the patch of an old-time belle, under one of his eyes, increased its clear brilliance. He looked from her to Happy Landing nibbling by the side of the road.
“Did he throw you?”
“It wasn’t Happy Landing’s fault … I was dreaming. A partridge flew across the road. Haven’t I … said that before? He stopped …” Something seemed to whirl inside her brain.—“I shot over his head. I often … get off that way. Simplest stunt … in the world.”—How hazy things seemed.—“Want me … to show you?” She caught at his sleeve to steady herself.
“Not now. Where did you hit?”
“My shoulder … perhaps … my head.” She bit her lips and closed her eyes. She seemed to be floating in a thick fog.
“Don’t talk. Here, Board Boy!”
The hunter came close. Nicholas Hoyt caught Sandra gently round the waist and lifted her to the horse’s back. He kept one arm about her as he mounted.
“Which shoulder?” he asked gruffly.
Her lips barely formed the word “Left.” He shifted her position gently. As he picked up the reins, Philippe Rousseau emerged from the bushes. Water trickled from his cap as the two men stared at each other.
“Put my girl down!” The belligerence of the Kentuckian’s voice brought Sandra out of the haze in which she was aimlessly drifting. The blaze in his eyes frightened her.
“You … better put me … down, really you’d … better,” she warned in a shaken whisper which trailed off into a hard drawn breath. In answer, the arm about her tightened.
“Ride Miss Duval’s horse back to the stable—Rousseau. I’ll take her to Stone House; it’s nearer.”
“Rousseau! It won’t be Rousseau long—now.” The hatred and defiance in the repetition pierced Sandra’s consciousness. She must separate them; Philippe had a gun. She clutched at the pink sleeve about her. She rallied her strength; not as a heroine of romance did she plead, instead she demanded impatiently:
“Are you two … going to—glare at each other, while I—I …”
In her excitement she twitched her injured shoulder. Her head dropped back against something heavenly warm and alive, something which pressed close against her cheek, something behind which she could hear the hard, throb, throb as of a distant drum. Through a haze, stabbed with fiery spurts of pain, cut a voice.
“Get out of the way, Rousseau, or I’ll run you down. Can’t you see that Miss Duval is unconscious?”
“I’ll have her out of your house before night.…”
Sandra struggled to clear her senses. Who had said that? How easily the horse stepped. There was no pain in her shoulder. She looked up into eyes dark with concern.
“Is it hurting horribly?”
Her lips twisted in what she hoped was a sporting smile. “Wouldn’t know—I had a shoulder …” She clinched her teeth on a moan.
How long had she been in the dark? She struggled to clear her senses. Of course that was not chunky Nanny O’Day crooning over her, tenderly loosening her blouse. Her shoulder … did the hatchet-faced Puritan realize how it hurt? He was looking down upon her … dead eyes … had Nanny said that they once had been live eyes? Live eyes—eyes of the thing she had seen at the pool! She tried to cover her face. Some one caught her hand, some one said huskily:
“Don’t move it, darling.”
It seemed a year or two before the doctor arrived. His hands were gentle, but—she sniffed greedily at the sickish stuff he held to her nose. That eased the pain—eased.…
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