Part 13 (1/2)

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.