A LITTLE more than a year after Miriam became Mary Faust’s pupil and partner, the new Madison Square Garden was opened with the annual horse-show, which, for ages, had been a leading function of New York society.
The new building covered four city blocks, and was raised above the vast plaza in the midst of which it stood by flights of ornamental steps. The great central tower rose fifteen hundred feet above the pavement, and the towers of less elevation stood at the four corners. Forests of delicate columns supported the superstructure, which mounted height above height in snowy elevations, finely touched with gold and color, till the central tower leaped aloft like a fountain. So just were the proportions of the whole that the edifice seemed rather to rise upward with an aspiring impulse than to press upon the earth.
The populace filled the plaza, thronged the steps, and streamed inward through twenty broad doorways. The king and court were to attend the ceremony of the opening, and the uniforms of the guards divided with their bright lines the masses of the crowd. Air-boats, like great birds, chased one another high overhead in sweeping circles, dropping small parachutes carrying bags of sugar plums, which were caught by the crowd. The October sun shone on the front of the marble edifice, kindling all into airy splendor.
A young man of modest demeanor but of striking aspect was slowly edging his way through the throng. He was nobody in particular—an artist, Jack Paladin by name. But he was tall, well formed and handsome; his fellow students in the art class, a few years before, found a strong resemblance between him and the statue of Hermes, ascribed to Praxiteles, and used to get him to pose for them. Jack was good-natured and easy-going; but his mind was not centered upon himself. It did not even dwell upon one or another beautiful girl, with whom he could imagine himself in love. He thought of and loved nothing but art: was a Galahad of art, in short. Mankind and the universe were to him material for pictures: his constant problem and delight was to make them serve art purposes. He had little money, and only one living relative—his uncle, Sam Paladin, quite a notable personage, who had been a great traveler and adventurer in all parts of the world, a hero of daring escapades, a soldier of fortune; but now, at a little less than fifty, had settled in New York, enjoying the society of a few old friends and applying himself enthusiastically to astronomy; as if, having exhausted the resources of this planet, he were seeking further entertainment in other satellites of our sun. Jack had no heartier backer and sympathizer than Uncle Sam, though art was an unknown region to him. Though by no means a rich man, Uncle Sam devised all sorts of pretexts for “tipping” him; and Jack was obliged to stipulate that his uncle was not to buy any picture of him which had not already been sought by some outside purchaser. Hitherto, the outside purchaser had seldom brought the stipulation to the test.
Jack was going to the horse-show because, if anything could share a place in his heart with art, it was fine horses. He had almost been born on horseback, and there were few better riders alive. Since horses had been retired from utilitarian service, the art of breeding had been cultivated, and magnificent animals were produced.
As he reached the broad flight of steps at the front of the building, bugles announced the approach of the royal party. The king and queen, simple and unostentatious persons, drove up in a carriage-and-four of the fashion of fifty years ago. The popularity of the monarch was attested by the cordial greetings of the populace. The old man’s stately head was uncovered, and he bowed with kindly smiles at the acclaim. On the platform at the top of the steps a group of officials awaited him, foremost among them Terence Mayne, with a tall black-haired woman by his side. Jack happened to get himself within arm’s reach of this woman; she slowly turned her head, and their eyes met.
At first her smooth cheeks paled; then she lowered her eyes, and her face was covered with a blush. At the same moment the music of ten thousand silver bells sounded; the royal party reached their hosts and changes of position occurred in the group, so that the black-haired girl disappeared. But her image had entered Jack’s soul and banished all else except the purpose to follow her forever!
Availing himself, unobtrusively, of his great strength, he made his way to the interior immediately in the wake of the royalties. The spectacle was astonishing—an oval of blue and gold nine hundred feet in diameter surrounding the dark red tan-bark of the arena. From above the seats, which accommodated one hundred thousand spectators, arches rose to the spring of the tower, meeting at the base of the golden dome, through whose central aperture further heights were visible, with frostwork arabesques, ascending into a misty vagueness of rainbow light. The royal box was in the center of the middle circle of seats, and to the left of it Jack soon identified the gray hair and stalwart figure of Terence Mayne chatting with the Maharaja of Lucknow. But the girl of his soul was nowhere to be seen.
“Miriam Mayne is to ride in the ninth race, I hear,” said some one to some one else at his elbow. Miriam! That must be she! How he worshipped the name!
At another bugle-blast, several hundred beautiful animals entered the ring and began to move round it. Many of the riders were women. The usual riding-costume for both sexes was a close-fitting silken tunic and leggings: the hair of the women flowed loose from a fillet, or hung in braids. As the procession passed him Jack noted in the ninth rank a rider on a white Arab. Dense black hair streamed out from beneath her fillet; the movements of her body were full of supple dignity, replying to those of her horse; she rode without saddle or bridle; her dress was gray silk embroidered with gold, and in her right hand she carried a red rose. Miriam!
Jack leaned far over the balustrade. Miriam Mayne, in the magic of a moment, had thrown wide the gates of his heart and transformed the boy dreamer into the lover full grown. She was blood to his heart and air to his lungs. To be hers—to make her his!
As she drew near she did not look toward him; but her Arab began to curvet and dance, and she playfully struck him on his glossy neck with the rose. Hereupon the beautiful creature reared erect; she flung her body forward, and in the act the rose somehow escaped from her hand and fell into Jack’s breast. She passed on.
Had she meant it? Jack dared not believe so. He had never considered the effect upon a woman of his commanding stature and noble bearing. Many a fair woman had followed him with her eyes, in vain.
But here was her rose, the most sacred object he had ever possessed! Did it not create some ineffable understanding between them?
The parade filed out, and on consulting the program Jack found that Miriam’s race was two hours hence. He determined to visit the stalls below.
Among the noticeable horses was a roan, belonging to the maharaja, seventeen hands, to be ridden in the ninth race by a Mohammedan groom as big as Jack himself. Jack took a fancy to him, and, though warned by the groom, entered his stall and petted him. He was a natural horse-tamer. After a few moments the formidable creature responded to his advances, and the groom stared.
When he returned to the arena the royal party had withdrawn and the spectators, freed from court etiquette, were visiting one another and strolling about the lobbies. But Miriam was nowhere to be seen. However, as he was ascending the tower on one of the escalators, he saw, through the carved interstices, a party descending on the opposite side. An exclamation broke from him.
She was there, with her father and the maharaja. Her back was toward Jack. But as they passed she turned slowly, and for the second time their eyes met. Oh, the poignant delight to him of that moment! As she averted her glance she seemed to notice the rose in his doublet, and he thought she smiled. The next moment the relentless machinery of the escalators had separated them and hope of overtaking her was vain.
Returning to the arena he found Miriam absent from her father’s box; the latter was talking animatedly with the prince, and near by stood the big Mohammedan groom with a dejected air. It seemed that he had just stabbed another attendant and was under arrest. The official was sorry, but an assault with a deadly weapon could not be overlooked. As no one else could ride the roan, the animal must be withdrawn from the race. The maharaja smiled and bowed politely, shrugged his shoulders, and resigned himself to the will of Allah; but gave the groom a glance that boded no good for his near future.
Jack had an inspiration; he flung a leg over the railing of the box and strode up to its astonished occupants. “I’ll ride for you,” he said to the maharaja, “I know your horse and can manage him.” His highness gazed at him with an inscrutable Oriental smile. Mayne, his Celtic temper already somewhat ruffled, growled out in the brogue that always more pronounced in emotional junctures, “An’ who might you be, me frien’? Ye have yer nerve wid ye, anyhow!”
Before Jack could reply a long-legged, athletic figure came striding down the aisle with a grin of amusement on his aquiline features. It was Uncle Sam!
“It’s all right, Terence!” he called out, a laugh in his deep voice. “That’s only my nephew, Jack. How do, prince? Oh, the boy can ride, all right. If you want to win that race, the youngster can come nearer doing the trick for you than any other jockey on the track!”
The atmosphere changed. None ventured to dispute Sam Paladin. Terence smoothed his hostile front. The maharaja bowed with engaging grace. “My horse has killed six men,” he observed in liquid tones, “but I see your nephew is a big, brave man. I am content—Bismillah!”
Jack lifted his head and his chest expanded; his eyes shone with joy. “Thanks, uncle; thanks, prince!” he said. “I’ll fix it!” and he was off. He remembered afterward that he ought to have said something nice to Miriam’s father; but it was too late.
There was a bare twenty minutes before the ninth race. Jack, the pacific, plunging down to the basement, abruptly became the despot of the stables. He stripped the roan of the cumbrous saddle, patted him, divested himself of shoes and doublet, bound the broad blue sash of the maharaja round his waist, fastened Miriam’s rose over his heart, vaulted at a bound astride the great horse, and was ready for the ring five minutes ahead of the bell.
Some of the best horses and riders in the world faced the starter—seven of them. The champions of England and of Australia; a black from Morocco, carrying a Berber prince as black as he; a famous Chinese mare bestridden by a mandarin’s daughter; a wiry brute from Russia backed by a Cossack. But where was Miriam?
Jack’s heart sank. Without her his presence was a farce. True, honor bound him to defeat her if he could; but he believed her Arab was unbeatable. The riders took their places, while a murmur of admiration from tens of thousands of lips created a soft but thunderous vibration in the enclosed space. The starter’s arm was uplifted!
“Miriam, my soul, where art thou?” Had Jack spoken aloud? At all events, as if in response to a summons, and to Jack’s unspeakable delight and agitation, out she paced, quietly, from behind the barrier and moved to a place directly at his side!
She gave no sign, however, of recognizing his presence. She tossed back over her shoulder a heavy strand of her hair, leaned forward and whispered in her stallion’s ear, then straightened her limbs and lifted her body, alert with life and vigor. At the second signal she crouched forward over the withers and threw up one arm, keen for the signal. It came—the race was on!
Jack, with a hoarse shout of love and war, made himself one creature with the roan, and they hurled forward. His blood thundered in his veins, the frenzy of his pulse was answered by the leap of his steed. They flew forward smoothly, and the ground swept beneath them like the fleeting of a cataract. Hippomenes and Atalanta—a memory of that, read in a shadowy corner of his father’s library, sped through Jack’s mind. Triumphant power, mingled with the exquisite sense of Miriam’s companionship, made him greater than himself. He knew, without looking, that she was still at his side, riding with elastic ease. What a girl! What a rider! What a queen of heart and soul, whom he with heart and soul was striving to overcome!
The first circuit was a free course; after that, obstacle succeeded obstacle, each of increasing difficulty. Few would survive the finish! The great ring seemed to speed round like the rush of a whirlpool. The riders were trying out one another’s powers. As yet there was little change in their relative positions. With the first obstacle, foresight and strategy began to match themselves against mere swiftness.
Jack suddenly felt that Miriam had changed her place, but at the jump a waft of her hair touched his cheek and something like a great white bird swept past him; she alighted just ahead of him, closely followed by the mandarin’s daughter on her gray. The two girls had outmaneuvered him.
Rapid vicissitudes followed. At the third fence the Englishman collided in mid air with the Berber and both came down in a headlong ruin. As Jack swung into the fourth circuit a tall, white fence with a ditch beyond it rose before him; some one was at his shoulder; but Miriam and the Chinese girl had already passed it. The roan leaped a thought too soon, and his hind feet failed to reach the edge of the ditch; in regaining it he was passed by the Cossack, with the Australian at his heels. Jack was last in the race!
But the roan was fresh as ever, and two circuits of the course remained. Jack, moreover, knew by a sixth sense that he and Miriam would finish together, with the rest nowhere. A glimpse of Miriam flashed before him, leading the field by a scant head, her hair streaming out like a sable oriflamme to lead him on. Like a bolt shot by Hercules, the roan answered his call. The Cossack and the hardy Australian fell to the rear, but Jack and the former swung around the corner nearly abreast; the two girls were close in front; all four would take the final jump almost together!
The spectators were on their feet and the air roared with the gigantic diapason of their cheers. Jack’s nerves were steady as iron now and his spirit dilated, till the whole desperate struggle seemed to be taking place within himself, and the end foreordained.
The last barrier was seven feet high, at the top of a slight incline. Beyond was a six-hundred yard stretch to the tape.
The mandarin’s daughter, riding superbly, but near the end of her physical endurance, had the gray’s head at Miriam’s knee. Miriam, at the incline, slightly abated her pace; the other shot forward at full stride, but her mount, embarrassed by the incline, struck and snapped the top rail and fell, with the near foreleg broken on the further side. Miriam, in leaping, had to swerve to escape the sharp end of the broken rail and to avoid landing on her rival. But the latter picked herself up unhurt; the gray lay kicking on its side.
Meanwhile the Cossack, relying on the lightness of his horse, took the incline at top speed, grazing the roan’s shoulder as he went by, and he and Miriam, in unison, but on converging lines, rose in the air. With Jack between them, a catastrophe was imminent. A hush, followed by hissing of breath drawn between the teeth, showed that the spectators realized the peril.
Jack, self-possessed in that crisis, knew what to do and had the power to do it. Miriam’s white Arab cleared the bar first and unscathed; but the kicking gray beneath caused him to stumble on alighting and he fell on his right side. Miriam threw her right leg over his head as he fell and thus avoided injury, but she was unseated and thrown heavily; unprotected from the Cossack and from the hoofs of the struggling gray, she lay prostrate, partly stunned.
The Cossack leaped ruthlessly; but Jack leaped with him, at an angle which hurled the Russian aside; the fence crashed and fell, the man pitched on his shoulder, breaking his collar-bone; his horse, recovering, scurried riderless down the course.
Jack, descending, saw beneath him the pale, upturned face of Miriam, her eyes half closed. To all in the house her instant death seemed inevitable; in the horror-stricken interval shrieked out the voice of old Terence Mayne: “My girl! My girl!”
But as the roan with stiffened forelegs dropped earthward, Jack flung himself far down on the left, holding on by arm and heel, Indian fashion; and before those deadly hoofs touched the tan-bark, he gathered up the unconscious girl with his right arm, regained his seat by an incredible effort, and thundered on to the finish with Miriam across the roan’s withers.
A long-drawn roar of amazement and relief greeted them. Even in that age of unmatched horsemanship, such a feat had never before been witnessed. The roan was halted; Mayne, Sam Paladin and the maharaja were pressing through the throng. Jack slid to earth with the girl he loved still in his arm; and thanked God, humbly, in his heart.