Book: The Hippodrome

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HIPPODROME

by

RACHEL HAYWARD







George H. Doran Company
New York
Copyright, 1913,
By George H. Doran Company





TO

EDYTH AND ARTHUR APPLIN

WITH LOVE AND HOMAGE.



"Car vois-tu chaque jour je t'aime davantage,
Aujourd'hui plus qu'hier, et bien moins que demain."
(_Rosemonde Rostand_)




THE HIPPODROME


CHAPTER I

"Aujourd'hui le primtetemps, Ninon, demain l'hiver.
Quoi! tu nas pas l'etoile, est tu vas sur la mer!"
DE MUSSET.


Count Emile Poleski was obliged to be at the Barcelona Station at five
o'clock in the afternoon one hot Friday in May. His business, having
to do with that which was known to himself and his associates as "the
Cause," necessitated careful attention, and required the performance of
certain manoeuvres in such a way that they should be unobserved by the
various detectives to whom he was an object of interest.

He looked round, scowling, till he found the man he wanted, and who was
to all outward appearances the driver of one of the row of _fiacres_
that waited outside the station. Cigarettes were exchanged, and a tiny
slip of paper passed imperceptibly from hand to hand, then he turned
ostensibly to watch the incoming train from Port-Bou. As he was on the
platform it would be better to look as if he had come to meet someone,
and as he had nothing particular to do just then it would make a
distraction to watch the various types of humanity arriving at this
continental Buenos Ayres, the city of romance, anarchy, commerce and
varied vices.

Emile Poleski called it _l'entresol de l'enfer_, and certainly he was
not there by his own choice. It was the centre of intrigue, and to
intrigue his life, intellect, and the little money he had left from his
Polish estates, were devoted. To him life meant "The Cause," and that
exigeant mistress left little room for other and more natural
affections.

In his career women did not count, at least they did not count as
women. If they had money to spend, or brains and energies that could
be utilised, that was a different matter. He had a trick of studying
people as one studies natural history through a microscope.

It was all very interesting, but when one had done with the specimens
one threw them away and looked about for fresh material.

The train came in, slackened speed and stopped, and its contents
resolved themselves into little groups of people all hunting with more
or less excitement for their luggage, and porters to convey the same to
cabs.

The figure of a girl who had just alighted and was standing alone,
caught and held his roving eyes. The pose of her abnormally slim body
had all the grace of a figure on a Grecian vase in its clean curves and
easy balance.

Her head was beautifully set upon a long throat, and her feet were
conspicuously slender and delicate in their high French boots of
champagne-coloured kid. Her face, which as far as he could see was of
a startling pallor, was obscured by a white lace veil tied loosely
round her Panama hat, and left to fall down her back in floating ends;
and she wore a rather crumpled, cream-coloured dress.

She stood, looking round, as if uncertain how to act, evidently in
expectation of someone to meet her. No one appeared and she moved off
in search of a porter. Emile followed at a reasonable distance. Books
he found desperately dull, but humanity in any shape or form was
attractive to him, and the girl's appearance appealed to a deeply
embedded love of the exotic and mysterious.

He watched with cynical amusement as she tried to explain her wishes in
French to a porter, who spoke only the dialect of Catalonia. Her voice
finally decided Emile on his line of conduct. Low-pitched it was, with
subtle inflections, and with a hoarseness in the lower notes such as
one hears in the voices of Jewish women.

A woman, whose vocal notes were of that enchanting _timbre_, was likely
to prove interesting.

He advanced a few steps nearer, saying in French, "I speak the
language. Can I be of any use?"

The girl turned, giving him a comprehensive glance, and bowed slightly
in acknowledgment.

"Many thanks, _Monsieur_! I know scarcely any Spanish. Perhaps you
would tell me where one could get lodgings. It seems rather hopeless
for this man and myself to continue arguing in different languages, so
if you would not mind--"

When they were both in the _fiacre_ she did not speak, but leaned back,
her hands in her lap, her feet crossed, looking straight in front of
her with hazel-green eyes, expressionless as those of the Sphinx.
Count Poleski congratulated himself in silence over his discovery.
Here was a woman so unique that she asked no questions, did not
volunteer after the manner of most women a flood of voluble
information, apparently took everything for granted, and was in no way
embarrassed by himself or his company.

In some respects she appeared a young girl, but her composure was
certainly not youthful.

"So you're out from England," he said at last.

"From Paris," she answered him serenely. "I'm Arithelli of the
Hippodrome." There was a girlish pride in her accents, and she looked
at him sideways to observe the effect of her announcement.

"_Ma foi_! So it's that, is it? Then I've heard something about you.
I know the Manager pretty well. He said you were _un peu bizarre_."

"_Peut etre plus qu'un peu_," Arithelli retorted quickly. "I see you
think he's right."

Arrived at the lodgings she sat still, waiting in the cab with the same
apparent indifference while Emile wrangled with the landlady. At
length he came back to her: "You had better try these for a week," he
said. "They're forty _pesetas_. She will want the rent in advance as
you have no recommendation." For the first time Arithelli seemed
disturbed.

"I'm afraid I can't pay it. I'm to have five pounds a week at the
Hippodrome, but of course I can't ask for that in advance. I had a
second-class ticket out here, and now I've only got four-and-sixpence
left."

She held out a small blue satin bag, displaying a few coins. "Perhaps
I'd better go and explain to the Manager." Emile shrugged his
shoulders. Obviously the girl was very young.

"On the whole I think you'd better not," he said. "You know nothing
about either myself or the Manager, and it seems you've got to trust
one of us so it may as well be me."

When he had arranged matters he departed, saying casually, "I'll come
in again to-night about nine o'clock to see how you are getting on.
Don't do anything insane, such as wandering about the streets, because
you feel dull. It won't hurt you to put up with the dulness for a bit.
You'll have plenty of excitement if you're going to live in Barcelona."

"_Tiens_!" said Arithelli to herself. "What manners and what dirty
nails! _C'est un homme epouvantable_, but very useful. But for him I
should have been prancing round this place all night, looking for
rooms."

She dragged her trunk towards her, and proceeded to unpack the
collection of gaudy dresses that she had bought with so much pride at
the _Bon Marche_ in Paris, and which were all in the worst possible
taste.

Perhaps she had been impelled to a choice of lively colours as being
symbolical in their brightness of the new life on which she was about
to embark. There was a green cloth rendered still more hideous by
being inlet with medallions of pink silk, a cornflower blue with much
silver braid already becoming tarnished in the few times it had been
worn, and a mauve and orange adorned with flamboyant Eastern embroidery.

When she had tumbled them all out they showed a vivid patch of
ill-assorted tints. Arithelli shivered as she sat back on her heels on
the floor, and looked round the sordid room. The excitement of her
arrival had worn off, and the element of depression reigned supreme in
her mind. Certainly the apartment, which was supposed to be a
bed-sitting-room, but which was merely a bedroom, was not enlivening to
contemplate. No carpet, dirty boards, a large four-poster bed canopied
with faded draperies against the wall facing the window. There was a
feeble attempt at a washstand in a small alcove on the left, furnished
with the usual doll's house crockery affected on the Continent,--no
wardrobe and no dressing table.

It all looked hopeless, she told herself disgustedly. Surely there
were better rooms to be found in Barcelona for forty _pesetas_ a week!
Either lodgings must be very dear or else Emile Poleski had meant to
take a large commission for his trouble in finding them!

She was stiff and tired after the long journey and want of proper food,
and every trifle took upon itself huge dimensions. She was daintily
fastidious as to cleanliness, and everything seemed to her filthy
beyond belief. The universal squalor customary in Spanish life had
come as an unpleasant shock.

When she started from Paris she had conjured visions of a triumphal
entry into her new career. Now she felt rather frightened and
desperately lonely, and the horrible room appeared like a bad omen for
the future. But, she reflected, after all, things might have been
worse. She had found one friend already. Certainly he had
disagreeable manners, especially after the artificial and invariable
politeness of the Frenchmen she had met while travelling, but at least
he promised to be useful. She picked herself up off the floor and
began to consider the disposal of her garments. Three or four wooden
pegs, the only accommodation to be seen, were obviously not sufficient
to hold all her clothes.

Presently there was an interlude, provided by the advent of the
landlady. Her dishevelment accorded well with the general look of the
house; her slippers clicked on the carpetless boards at every shuffling
step, and she carried a half-cold, slopped-over cup of coffee. To
Arithelli's relief the woman was mistress of a limited amount of French
patois, and in answer to a demand for a wardrobe of some kind, said she
would send up her son. He was a carpenter and would doubtless arrange
something. She gave a curious glance at the girl's witch-like beauty,
a mixture of suspicion and barely-admitted pity in her thoughts.

As to Emile's share in the drama she had naturally formed conclusions.
After a respectable interval her son arrived, and having delivered
himself of a remark in Spanish and being answered in French, proceeded
to hammer a row of enormous nails into the wall at regular intervals.
Arithelli sat upon her trunk, which she considered cleaner than the
chairs, and watched the process, her green eyes assuming a curious
veiled expression, a hank of copper-tinted hair falling upon her
shoulders.

There was something uncanny in her capacity for keeping still, and she
had none of the usual and natural fidgetiness of a young girl. In
whatever position of sitting or standing she found herself she was
capable of remaining for an indefinite period.

When the carpenter's manipulations had ceased she hung up her dresses
carefully, put the rest of her things back into the trunk, as being the
safest place, and sitting down again began to cry in a low, painful
way, utterly unlike the light April shower emotion of the ordinary
woman.

Here she was in Barcelona, and the fulfilled desire seemed likely to
become already Dead Sea fruit. Supposing she got ill, or failed to
satisfy the audience. She would see her name to-morrow when she went
out in large letters on the posters of the Hippodrome:

"_Arithelli, the beautiful English equestrienne_," and underneath some
appalling picture of herself in columbine skirts, or jockey's silk
jacket and cap and top boots.

She had been crazy with delight over her success in getting the
engagement from the manager in Paris, and it had not occurred to her
that her appearance had had a great deal to do with her having been
accepted. She had signed a contract for a year; and looking forward a
year seemed a very long time. There had been opposition at home.

Her father had said, "I don't approve, but at the same time I don't
know in the least what else you can do. It's Hobson's choice. You can
ride, and you've got looks of the sort to take in a public career."

Her mother had been frankly brutal. Now that there was no money, she
said, she could not have three great girls at home doing nothing. She
had given them all a good education and they must try and make some use
of it. Neither of the younger sisters, Isobel and Valerie, were old
enough to do anything for themselves, so Arithelli at the age of
twenty-four had taken her courage, which was the indomitable courage of
her race, in both hands, and launched herself on the world. The
bare-backed riding of her early days in Galway had proved a valuable
asset, and there was not a horse she could not manage.

Her slim figure seemed born to the saddle, and her nerve was as yet
unshaken.

The man who had engaged her had been more than a little astonished at
the composure with which she showed off the horses' paces, and went
through various tricks. As she was young and inexperienced, he would
get her cheaply; she could be taught all the stereotyped acts with very
little trouble, and her morbid style of beauty would be a draw in Spain.

There was nothing of the English miss about her appearance and few
people would have believed her to be only twenty-four. She had no
freshness, no _beaute de diable_. Her beauty was that of line and
modelling. Her quietness was partly the result of a convent education.
An old Irish nun had told her once that good looks were a snare and a
delusion of the Devil, and that hers would never bring her happiness.

At least they had got her an engagement, and a circus had always
represented to her the very height of romance.

She wondered how she could manage for money till she got her five
pounds next Friday. It was lucky that all her habits, and so on, were
provided by the management. She wished to-morrow would arrive, for she
felt eager to begin work, and see the horses. She had quite forgotten
all about Emile's promised visit, and was just pulling down the rest of
her hair preparatory to getting ready for bed, when he walked in
without any preliminary knock.

"How are you getting on? All right?" Then after a momentary
inspection of the many garments that festooned the dirty walls, he
added: "I don't think you've got very good taste in clothes!"




CHAPTER II

"All women are good; good for something, or good for nothing."
CERVANTES.


The next morning Emile made his entrance with the same complete
disregard of ceremony. Arithelli was still in bed and only half awake.
She raised herself slightly and looked at him with sleepy eyes.

"Oh!" she said. "I didn't hear you knock."

There was the same entire lack of embarrassment in her manner that she
had shown on the previous night. Almost before she had finished her
sentence she shut her eyes again, and leant back yawning. It seemed a
matter of the greatest indifference to her whether he was there or not.
Emile's interest rose by several degrees as he sat down on the edge of
the bed.

"I didn't knock," he said, speaking English fluently enough, but with
the hard, clipped accents of the Slav. "I can't bother about all that
humbug. If you're straight with me I'll be straight with you, and we
may as well be friends. I dare say you think you're very good-looking
and all that, but it doesn't make any difference to me. You're here,
and I'm here, so we may as well be here together."

"I'm so sorry," Arithelli replied, "but I'm always so stupid and sleepy
in the mornings. Do you mind saying it all over again?"

And very much to his own surprise Emile Poleski repeated his remarks.
It struck him that there was something of the boy, the _gamin_, about
her in spite of her exotic appearance. That was so much the better and
would suit admirably with his schemes for her. It was better that she
should not be too much of a woman; for in the realms of anarchy there
is no sex, though comradeship is elevated to the dignity of a fine art.

For chivalry and love making there is neither the time nor the desire,
and those who are wedded to _La Liberte_ find her an all-sufficient
idol for purposes of worship. Human life is held of small account, to
join the Cause being equivalent to the signing of one's own death
warrant. One would probably have to die to-morrow if not to-day, and
whether it were sooner or later mattered little. Emile's fierce
devotion to the cause of his oppressed country had been the means of
leaving him stranded in Barcelona at the age of forty, without hopes,
illusions or ideals. His estates in Russia had been confiscated, his
parents were dead, the woman he had loved was married.

Now he lived in a dirty back street, in a single room, on two pounds a
week, morbid, suspicious, cynical, keeping his own counsel, owning no
friends, and occupying body and brain with plots, secret meetings,
ciphers and the usual accompaniments of intrigue. The Brotherhood
consisted of fifteen men, though occasionally the number varied. Two
or three would disappear, another one come. There was no feminine
element. An Anarchist seldom marries. To him a woman is either a
machine or the lightest of light episodes.

Emile had not the least desire to make love to the girl whom he had for
his own purposes befriended. He was a quick and subtle judge of
character, and had seen at a glance that in her he would find a study
of pronounced interest. Also she might prove of some utility. It was
one of the tenets of the fraternity to which he belonged never to waste
any material that might come to hand. In the finely-cut face before
him, with its Oriental modelling and impassivity, he read brains,
refinement and endurance. Her hair was plaited in two long braids, and
drawn down over her ears, showing the contour of a sleek, smooth little
head.

She had relapsed into silence after disposing of the slovenly meal he
had induced the landlady to provide. The only thing that seemed to
worry her was the superfluous dirt that adorned the cups.

At length she spoke:

"And what sort of a place is this Barcelona?"

"_L'entresol de l'enfer_," answered Emile curtly. "What are your
people doing to allow you to come here alone?"

"They don't know I am here. I ran away, you see. If I get on well,
I'll write and let them know, and if not--"

"_Alors_?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I will get on. Don't you think I ought to make
a success at the Hippodrome?"

Emile ignored the _naive_ conceit of the last remark. "But what are
you doing at the Hippodrome at all?" he demanded.

"I am riding," she answered with an elfish smile in which her eyes took
no part.

"Obviously! What are you going to do about _dejeuner_? The landlady
won't bring you up all your meals."

"I don't know," was the unconcerned answer.

"You'll have to go to one of the _cafes_, and you had better let me
show you which are the most desirable ones. _Enfin_! have you any
intention of getting up this morning?"

Arithelli yawned again. "I suppose I must go round and present myself
to the Manager. I'm to rehearse a fortnight before I make my
appearance in public."

"Then I had better come with you," Emile replied with decision. "As I
told you yesterday, I know the Manager fairly well."

An hour later they walked together through the streets on their way to
the Hippodrome. Emile was a bad advertisement for the secrecy of his
profession, for he looked a typical desperado. His velvet coat had the
air of having been slept in for weeks, and had certainly never been on
terms of acquaintanceship with a brush; and, besides the usual
Anarchist badge, a red tie, a blood red carnation flamed defiance in
his buttonhole.

Under a battered sombrero he scowled upon the world; a dark skin,
fierce moustache, and arching black eyebrows over hard, grey eyes.

There are few people who look their parts in life, but Emile might
without addition or alteration, have been transferred to the stage as
the typical villain of a melodrama.

Arithelli had arrayed herself in the cornflower blue frock, which she
carried with a negligent ease, and she still wore the Panama hat with
the flowing veil. As a matter of fact it was the only piece of
headgear she possessed; for she had been reckless over dresses and
boots in Paris and had found herself drawn up with a jerk in the midst
of her purchases by her small stock of money coming to an abrupt end.

Of her carriage and general deportment, which were noticeably good even
among Spanish women, Emile approved. The crude blue of her dress, the
tags and ends of tinselled braid set his teeth on edge. In his "Count
Poleski" days he had known the quiet and exquisite taste of the
_mondaines_ of Vienna and St. Petersburg, and like most men he
preferred dark clothes in the street. Later on he proposed to himself
the pleasure of supervising her wardrobe, except her boots, which met
with his fullest approbation.

He noticed that she did not talk much but observed in silence. He felt
that nothing escaped those heavy-lidded, curious eyes. "Is everything
dirty in Spain?" she said at last.

"How fussy you are about dirt!" retorted Emile disagreeably.

"Yes. My mother is a Jewess, you know. I expect we notice these
things more than the dirty Gentiles."

Her calm assertion of the superior cleanliness of the tribe of Israel,
amused Emile, who had been accustomed to hear the usual contempt of the
English-speaking races for anyone possessing a strain of Jewish blood.
So it was the Jewess in her that accounted for her haunting voice.

The Manager was a hatchet-faced and haggard man who looked as if he
went to bed about once a week, on an average, and existed principally
on cigarettes and _absinthe_. The simultaneous arrival of Emile and
Arithelli roused him from his normal condition of bored cynicism to
comparative animation.

Like the landlady he naturally made his own conclusions.

"When did you arrive?" he demanded of Arithelli. Emile, not being
afflicted with a sense of the necessity for elaborate explanation,
removed himself a few paces and began to roll a cigarette.

Arithelli stood her ground, listened to the comments on her appearance
which the Manager felt himself entitled to use, returned his cynical
survey with a level glance, and answered his questions with an
unruffled composure.

It was arranged that she should rehearse every day for two hours in the
morning, and another two hours between the afternoon and evening
performances. For the first act she could wear a habit of any colour
she cared to choose, and a smart hat; for the second act, which
included jumping over gates, and the presence of the inevitable clown,
she would have to wear short skirts.

"_They_ won't suit me," she said. "You see how long and thin I am, and
look at my long feet. I shall look a burlesque."

The Manager glared at her.

"I quite believe you will," he snapped. "I suppose you think you're
going to do the leaping act in a court train and feathers! Is there
anything more you would like to suggest?"

The intended sarcasm was not a success. Arithelli considered gravely.

"I don't think so, thank you," she said at last. "But if I _do_ think
of anything else I'll tell you. And I _should_ like to see the horses."

She was filled with a genuine delight by the four cream-coloured
pure-bred Andalusians, El Rey, Don Quixote, Cavaliero and Don Juan.
They turned intelligent eyes upon her as she entered their stalls,
neighing gently as if they recognised a friend. Both the men
experienced the same feeling of surprise at her evident knowledge and
understanding of animals. In five minutes she had shown that she knew
as much about their harness and food as a competent groom.

The astute Manager, upon whom no sign of intelligence was wasted, saw a
good opportunity for getting a little extra work out of his youthful
leading lady. He informed her that she must be down at the stables
every morning at eight o'clock to inspect the horses and see them fed
and watered. As a matter of fact the inspection should have been one
of his own duties, but the girl was not likely to cavil at any little
additional work that had not been exactly specified in her contract.
Besides, if she did, he could soon make it uncomfortable for her.
Arithelli made no objection. Though she hated getting up early she
would never have grudged a sacrifice of comfort made on behalf of any
animal. When all the business was completed, Emile took her to the
Cafe Colomb for lunch.

Before they left he knew the details of her history.

The big house in Ireland, with its stud of horses and unlimited
hospitality, and the rapidly vanishing fortune. Her mother, a Viennese
by birth, a cosmopolitan by travel and education, a fine horsewoman,
and extravagance incarnate. Her father, good-natured, careless, manly,
as sportsmanlike and unbusinesslike as most Irishmen. When his horses
died he bought more, keeping always open house for a colony of men as
shiftless and as easy-going as himself.

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