The Hippodrome Part 13

Arith.e.l.li turned to a mirror on the wall.

"Do I look very ghastly?" she asked.

"Not much more than usual. None of us look very fresh out here, do we?

Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop? Well, it isn't! Hurry up,--it's late. No, I'm not going down there with you. I'll stay here, and do some writing."

The rehearsal that morning seemed interminable. For the first time since she had ridden in public Arith.e.l.li bungled over her tricks. She jumped short, miscalculated distances, and once barely saved herself from a severe fall.

The ring-master, with whom she was a great favourite, shook his head reproachfully at her, as he paused to rest and wipe his heated countenance. He was a greasy and affable personage, whose temper was as easy as his morals. He was more soft-hearted than most of his compatriots, and he honestly liked Arith.e.l.li and admired her riding.

"What have you there, Mademoiselle?" he enquired pathetically. "Never have I seen you like this before. You fear the grand people, is it not so? You have no heart, no courage! But again! Again!"

In the midst of his exhortation the Manager descended suddenly upon the scene. As a matter of fact he had been watching for the last ten minutes from one of the entrances, and he had seen her failure to accomplish her jumps successfully.

"This won't do for to-night," he said angrily. "We want your best work, not your worst. Do you suppose I'm going to stand your laziness?"

Arith.e.l.li was sitting at ease upon Don Juan's back as he paced slowly round the ring. She did not look up or answer, which enraged the Manager still further. Her silence was one of the things about her that always annoyed him most? She was the only woman he had never been able to bully into a state of collapse.

He turned on the ring-master, who was grinning to himself.

"_Allez-vous en_! I'll see to this."

Senor Valdez looked uncomfortable. For an instant he felt almost inclined to expostulate on Arith.e.l.li's behalf, but the Manager's rages were well known to his employes, and the little man had no intention of losing his present position. He flung down his long whip, and retired muttering vengeance.

The Manager strode into the centre of the ring, picked up the lash and drew it through his fingers.

He swore at Arith.e.l.li, he swore at Don Juan, and he started the rehearsal all over again.

Arith.e.l.li clenched her teeth and rode doggedly forward. The arena swam before her, and her limbs felt weak and heavy as those of one who is drugged, and her lacerated hand added to her difficulties. That she should presume to be ill, had not entered into the Manager's calculations. If he had realised the fact he would have said that people who were ill were of no use in a circus, and the sooner she left it the better.

The treadmill continued until Arith.e.l.li would have welcomed an accident as a break in the grinding monotony. The exercise instead of making her hot, had made her s.h.i.+ver as if with great cold. She felt as if she had been practising for days instead of hours. It was of no use! She could not go on any longer. She slipped from her standing position on the broad pad saddle to Don Juan's back, and without waiting for the word of command, reined him to a standstill in front of the Manager.

"You must let me go," she said. "I can't do any better now."

The Manager stepped back a pace, and dropped his whip with sheer astonishment. For an instant he stared with open mouth, then he found speech.

"You sit there, do you, and tell me you refuse to work! You with your insolence! When you fall and that long neck of yours goes _crack_" (he snapped a finger and thumb together in expressive pantomime), "then I shall laugh--_nom d'un chien_!--how I shall laugh."

Arith.e.l.li waited in silence, a faint smile curling her lips. One hand, laden with rings, moved caressingly up and down Don Juan's silky mane.

She had hitherto answered abuse with maddening indifference. Now she flung back her head and mocked him.

"So you hope I'll fall," she said. "Perhaps I hope so too. Do you think I care, that I'm afraid of breaking my neck?"

Her voice was not raised a tone from its ordinary level, but pa.s.sion and contempt vibrated in every accent. An unwilling admiration stirred the man's dull brutality. He could dismiss her to-morrow, but he would never find another woman who would be her match for physique and endurance. Besides, others would know their value and demand a larger salary.

He pointed to the performers' exit. "_Allez_!"

As she rode past, Arith.e.l.li made him a little bow. It was the salute of a courteous duellist to his adversary. To his profound surprise the Manager found himself acknowledging it, with like dignity.

At eight o'clock that evening she sat before the gla.s.s in her dressing-room and awaited the shouted summons of the impish call-boy, who respected no one on earth, and to whom she was never "Mamzelle" or "Senora," but only Arith.e.l.li. The dresser had gone out for an instant, leaving the door ajar, and a noisy burst of applause swept along the pa.s.sage.

The audience was in a particularly good temper, and ready to be amused at anything. In view of the royal guests the Manager had provided several exciting novelties. There was a wonderful troupe of performing horses who did everything that a horse is popularly supposed to be incapable of doing; there was a gypsy girl from Seville with a marvellous bear, whose intelligence appeared to be of a superior quality to that of the average human being; there were new jokes, new tricks, fresh costumes.

As Arith.e.l.li rode in she heard her name called, and her state of frozen misery suddenly gave way to a hot thrill of excitement.

Her head went up like a stag, and her nostrils dilated. She inhaled again the familiar warm scent of freshly strewn tan and hay and animals. It had intoxicated her as a child of twelve, when she had been taken to see a travelling circus in Ireland, and it intoxicated her now.

The seats were a packed ma.s.s of people, and in the upper places and from the royal box, bright colours flamed, and jewels and restless fans glittered and moved. In honour of the occasion every woman had draped herself in the graceful mantilla, either black or white, and even the poorest wore a scarlet or orange silk-fringed _crepe_ shawl.

The usual precautions as to detectives and a guard of soldiers had been taken, but the buxom and amiable Infanta was popular among the lower orders, so that no revolutionist outbreak was feared.

Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so.

She smiled graciously at Arith.e.l.li as horse and rider bowed before her, and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the ledge, threw them into the arena. As the girl looked up and the level unsmiling gaze met hers, the older woman started back.

"_Santa Vierge_!" she muttered, hastily crossing herself. "She looks in Purgatory already, with those strange eyes!"

CHAPTER X

"The nights that were days, and the days that were nights, Griefs and glories and vain delights, With Fame before us in fancy flights, We mocked each other and cried 'All's well'!"

LOVE IN BOHEMIA.

Of her first act Arith.e.l.li had no fear. She knew that she was safe in trusting to the skill and training of her horse to accomplish successfully all the stereotyped movements of the _haute ecole_. She had only to sit still and look graceful, and guide him through his paces as he waltzed, turned or knelt. She carried a whip for show, but she had never used it. A word, a caress had always been enough, and she would have been beaten herself rather than touch the beautiful creature that carried her.

In the next act it would be all different. Everything depended on her own balance and accuracy. It would be all trick work then, not riding.

As she slid out of her habit and into the ugly ballet-skirts she loathed, her courage vanished and she trembled as she faced the audience for the second time, transformed in white satin and pale blue, the thinness of her neck and arms painfully apparent.

The flying rush through the air as she jumped the hurdles and gates made her feel horribly dazed and giddy, and unable to collect her senses in time for the next leap. As she descended lightly in her heelless silk slippers upon Don Juan's back after the fourth hurdle had been pa.s.sed, she swayed and only by a violent effort recovered herself.

Her heart seemed to be beating right up in her throat and choking her.

She put up one hand and pulled at her turquoise collar till the clasp gave way and thrust the blue stones into the low-cut bodice. The band sounded louder than ever, the light danced and waved. Round and round and round again, while the ring-master's whip cracked monotonously.

The rhythm of the waltz beat in her brain as the music in some delirious dream. She wondered dully why there was so little applause now. Was she doing so badly? Once she had jumped too low and knocked against a hurdle instead of clearing it properly. The grooms had helped her by lowering everything as much as possible, but all they could do had not been able to disguise her unwonted awkwardness.

She would have a few minutes' rest when the clown came on, and perhaps that would help her to go through the rest of the act without an absolute breakdown.

The interlude was all too short, the signal came and she sprang up and poised herself mechanically. Again the waltz music struck up and Don Juan's hoofs fell with a soft thud upon the tan. The hurdles and gates had all been cleared successfully, and now she must dismount and let her steed go round alone while she ran across from the opposite side of the ring and vaulted from the ground to the saddle.

It was the trick she had found impossible to get through at the rehearsal, the trick she most dreaded. Everything depended on her coolness and steadiness. She must start exactly at the right time, and measure the distance with unerring precision. For the first time in her life she feared the audience. She knew too well the fickle nature of a Spanish crowd. To a performer who failed to please them they would be merciless. People who screamed aloud for more blood when the sport had been tame at a bull-fight, people who habitually tortured their animals, were not likely to show consideration to one who was paid to entertain them. They would applaud furiously one minute and hiss furiously the next.

As she stood alone, waiting, she glanced instinctively towards the place where Emile always sat, and wished he had been there. He would be angry with her if she failed, but she felt somehow that he would be sorry for her as well. Perhaps he might even make excuses for her, for he was the only person who knew about the episode of the previous night, and her injured hand. Sometimes she had loved the swaying crowd of human beings for whose amus.e.m.e.nt she risked her life and limbs. Now she hated the eager watching faces. They only wanted to see her fall, she told herself.

She ran blindly across the open s.p.a.ce. The next instant she was on her feet on the ground again and Don Juan had stopped short. Her upward leap had carried her on to his back, but she had not been able to keep her balance.

There was dead silence and then the hissing in the audience broke out, vehement and unrestrained.

That she had pleased them hitherto went for nothing in her favour now.