Gay Lawless looked particularly bewitching the while she entertained her visitors that afternoon. She seemed more charming than usual to both Chris and Carlton Mackrell, while even the Professor, who usually noticed nothing, patted her approvingly on the head, and remarked, "You look very well, my dear."
Gay was gifted (for no one can acquire it) with perfect taste in clothes, and her tea-gown was cut with that attention to detail which results in simplicity itself. Although one could be with Gay for quite a long time, and have the pleasing assurance that she was the best style in the world, there was always a great difficulty in remembering exactly what she had worn.
"What had she on?" envious girls used to ask the men who admired her, and the answer usually was, "I don't know, but it was quite simple, andsuchgood style."
To-day she appeared to both men more lovable than ever, and Chris thought what a shame it would be to bury such a bright creature in a place like Epsom, with no one to amuse or to admire her except himself.
He took short hold of his fancy before it carried him to further flights, however, as he dropped into a chair by her side, while, much to Carlton's disgust, the latter was button-holed by the Professor.
"What's the latest about your Trotters?" inquired Chris, breaking into a smile that accentuated the crow's-feet round his young eyes.
"Great news," Gay replied with enthusiasm. "Mr. Mackrell has bought me a couple he got to hear of, a green Trotter who can go in about 2.18 called 'Silver Streak,' and a pacer with a trial of 2.13¼ named 'Maudie T.' And isn't it kind of him, he's going to lend me his trainer—sounds funny to talk of lending a man, doesn't it?—while the craze lasts, as he calls it. But you know, Chris, itisn'ta craze, it's a—a—almost a disease now! I'm racing one at Waterloo Park next Monday, and oh! I do hope it will win, don't you?" she asked eagerly.
"With all my heart," Chris replied, with more enthusiasm than he thought he could work up over Trotting. "And may I be there to see. Monday, you said, didn't you? That will suit me to a T. I've got nothing to do till Wednesday at Kempton, so perhaps you'll return the compliment, and come over to see me bump round on Beeswing? He did well in a gallop this morning—better than I expected, in fact."
"Answered the question all right, did he?" Gay asked. "Does he represent a betting chance on Wednesday, with the eminent gentleman-jockey up—and is hesafe?" she added, turning a little pale.
"Well, he's about as safe a jumper as an amateur"—he grinned, "that's what some of the professionals in their scorn for the 'leather-polishers' they call us, could wish to ride, and my head lad says he has so much in hand that he could stop to scratch himself, and then win," Chris chuckled. "Oh!hangLossie!"
The stifled ejaculation was prompted by the entrance of a remarkably pretty girl, beautifully dressed in dark blue, who rustled across the room to Gay, and kissed her perfunctorily.
"Howare you?" she inquired, but though her voice was affectionate, her eyes flitted from Gay to Carlton Mackrell—where they stayed.
"A1, Lossie, thanks. I needn't ask howyouare. I never saw you looking better—(or more expensive)", she added to herself with a sigh, as her cousin shook hands with Carlton and Chris, and begged Gay to give her a cup of tea.
Frank Lawless ambled forward, and was soon busily juggling with milk and sugar basin, while Chris wondered what in Heaven was wrong with the girl, for if she always gave him the same displeasing impression, he could not possibly deny her beauty. Tall and dark, with masses of silky blue-black hair, she had eyes blue as heaven, and straight, delicate features that emphasised the irregularity of Gay's changing face, of which the chief charm, perhaps, lay in its expression.
She seemed a bundle of nerves as her slender foot beat a tatoo on the floor, while her wonderful eyes were never still, yet never rested long on any single object save Carlton, who was certainly well worth looking at.
It was Lossie's misfortune to have fallen genuinely in love with him, not for his money, though she liked that well enough, but himself. His was the Saxon temperament which veils the keenest pleasure, and the deepest grief under the same quiet, almost bored exterior, but she knew that his indifference concealed an ardent, even romantic temperament, that might be counted upon sooner or later to betray him into one of those follies so dear to the heart of woman, while Chris's gay, almost affectionate manner to the women he liked, argued a much greater warmth of temperament than he really possessed.
She felt completely out of it as the three sat talking horses, and had leisure to note the eager look on Gay's face as she listened to what Carlton was saying, also to digest the fact that this Trotting fad would bring her cousin and Mackrell more together than ever.
"Both your horses are timed to do two minutes thirty seconds," said Mackrell presently, "and upon that form they will be handicapped on Monday. I think—at least, 'Brusher' tells me—that Silver Streak had improved on that time in private, but he has always been 'just beaten' lately, so they may put him on a few yards closer mark next time he runs. When a horse is entered for a Trotting race, you know," he explained, "the owner has to supply the handicappers with his best time for a mile on a track."
"What's to stop a man representing his horse as being able to do two minutes thirty seconds when he knows he can do it in less?" inquired Chris, for his experience of the Turf had made him familiar with most of the dodges for throwing dust in the handicappers' eyes, with a view to getting dropped a few pounds in the scale. "You can't get weight off in the stable," was a dictum he often heard, but never practised.
"Well, for one thing," Mackrell replied, "the officials generally like to see a horse do his time before they frame their handicap, to prevent mistakes, you know," and he laughed. "For another, if a horse improves appreciably on his entered time, the 'man in the box,' as they call him, wants to know something about it, though, of course, a few seconds faster might be owing to a good track and good going. On the other hand, if a horse does not trot up to his time, they can, if they like, put up their official driver to take him round as fast as he can make him go. If the discrepancy is considerable, the scheming owner will probably find himself suspended for a few months, or even warned off."
"But," said Chris, who at heart deeply resented Mackrell's encouraging Gay in her misguided fancy, "when such men as Rensslaer and Vancouver and that ilk, all hold aloof from the sport as understood in England, what chance has it of becoming a national sport? The trotting tracks here are so bad that it is really kinder not to enumerate them; most are in connection with public-houses, and the people who frequent them are the middle class. Trotting, in short, is the sport of that and the lower classes, and they trot cheap horses in consequence."
"Unfortunately," said Mackrell, with a slightly heightened colour, for he got fearfully chaffed among his own set for his bizarre taste, "the upper classes take no interest in Trotting in England. It will take time to prove to them that a trotter is not necessarily a butcher's horse, but can vie with a hackney and swell carriage horse, and is almost as fast as a motor car as well, thus combining the horse and motor in one animal. Of course we all know that in America the trotter is the National horse, as the thoroughbred is the English one."
Chris was silent. He thought that Mackrell understood trotting, or rather mixed trotting and pacing, as practised in England, but knew nothing of the higher art of trotting, that is to say, real first-class trotting with horses worth money, and which could go in 2.8 or better—like the famous Rensslaer's, for example.
"Are youreallygoing to keep Trotters, Gay?" Lossie cut in sharply.
"Rather! and I'm going to train at Flytton. Inigo Court's close by, you know, and I shall love seeing my horses jog in the morning. They'll let me do that, I suppose?" she asked Carlton Mackrell, and pointedly turning her back on Chris.
"Oh, certainly," he replied, after a moment's hesitation, and much to the disgust of the Professor, who considered that all this horsey talk was more suitable for stables than a drawing-room. He did hope Gay would not become one of those horrid, slangy, racing-women he abominated; almost unconsciously he exchanged a glance with Lossie, who flashed back one of sympathy, for jealousy and envy of Gay corroded her.
All the advantages were with Gay—money, position, freedom—there was even her great capacity for winning hearts to set against her cousin's beauty; it wasn't fair, and the unfairest thing of all was Carlton Mackrell's obvious devotion, and as Lossie sat unnoticed, while Gay was the magnet that drew the eyes and hearts of both men present, perhaps the two smartest and best-looking men of their circle, and one of whom Lossie loved, her gorge rose.
Fortunately Gay was not in love with him, and up to now, at any rate, Carlton had not picked a quarrel with Lossie for loving him unbidden, as some men do (regarding it as an unwarrantable encroachment on their liberty), and when Gay married Chris, whom she loved without knowing it, then Lossie would cut in, and a beautiful woman at close quarters is a beautiful woman all the world over.
Failing him, but the girl shuddered at the thought, there was the Professor ... rich men did not grow on every bush, and her tastes were expensive.
The mother of Frank and Gay had been wealthy, and their father and his family comparatively poor, a fact greatly resented by Lossie, who had a mordant tongue, and was wont to describe the Lawless branch of the family as "the silk cloak," and hers as "the cotton lining."
It was with angry, embittered heart that later in the afternoon she turned her steps homewards, bitterly comparing her lot with Gay's, for Becky Sharp's type is much commoner than is generally supposed—the type that can be good and happy (at a pinch) on five thousand a year, butquitegood, andquitehappy on ten and upwards, and Lossie was of that type.
She had friends, of course, and admirers, who came to see her, George Conant much oftener than she wanted him, but a house without plenty of money, and a man at the head of it, is not half equipped for life and happiness. For the tiny establishment in South Street was run, if not ruled, by Aunt Lavinia (Chris's especial pal), who would greatly have preferred the more roomy comfort of Connaught Square, in which the Professor and Gay buried their unfashionable heads.
Both Lossie's parents were dead, and Lavinia had given her sister's child a home, tackling each day the difficult problem of trying to love a singularly unloveable girl, though "Anyway, my dear, she's delightful to look at!" Lavinia would say confidentially to Gay, after some especially flagrant piece of selfishness on Lossie's part.
Lavinia had a queer religion of her own (but not so queer when you come to reflect that nowadays real religion is found chiefly in those who do not profess any), and it was summed up in the love of humanity, and the law of human kindness.
"Teach folks to love," she used to say; "teach 'em to keep on loving—the rest will follow. No soul was ever yet damned that knew how to love—it's in the loving, not thebeingloved, that we find happiness. Have you ever noticed the courting couples about on Sundays and holidays, that if the girls are not pretty, theylookso? Love has done the trick—not new clothes, or getting themselves up, but justlovingsomething that's not themselves."
Lossie had an immense contempt for the "giving out" process of love as practised by Aunt Lavinia, the more especially when it took the form of cheques better employed in paying the milliners' bills of her niece, nor was the Professor more appreciative, for he seldom or never went to see his father's sister in South Street, though he welcomed her cordially enough on her rare visits to Connaught Square. Perhaps it was because (as he had long ago suspected) she reluctantly recognised him as lazy, self-indulgent, ruined by his too abundant means, amiable with the tepid amiability of a dog who does not fight, and by blandishments hopes to be allowed to retain his bone. Hall-marked he was, with the special form of selfishness that makes the man completely happy in his bodily environment, and mental pursuits and hobbies, shun the society of his kind, and to whom it is a matter of complete indifference that "grass-grown become the paths to friendship that are never trod."
He usually (in quite unconscious antagonism) ordered twenty pounds worth of new books when through Lossie he heard of some preposterously good deed done by Lavinia, but to go and do likewise simply never occurred to him, nor did it at that time to Gay, who, without knowing it, was selfish also.
Yet, but for this blessed privilege of youth, where would beautiful, much-abused youth be? Gay was young, full of life and spirits, and would have to suffer a bit herself before she vividly realised the sufferings of others, even if she responded readily enough to any demand on her purse, if not her time. All of this Lavinia perfectly understood, but much as she loved the girl, Chris, whose mother's friend she had been was the very light of her eyes.
A bright, frosty morning broke for Kempton's second day, and at Epsom, Chris Hannen whistled and sang while he cold-tubbed and dressed, in sheer light-heartedness born of the pleasing conviction of training and riding another winner before the day was out. Besides, Gay was coming to witness his triumph, and the prospect of some hours in her society was enough to make any man happy, he thought, while her "Never mind, old chap; better luck next time," would considerably soften the disappointment if he got beaten.
Having seen his horse started for the station, he himself followed later on his way to town to pick up Gay. That young lady was as cheerful as Chris as she went about the house fixing things up, and arranging for her brother's comfort during her absence.
"Now don't get into mischief, Heron," she had told him at breakfast. "I shall be back soon after five, and I'll tell you all about how Chris gets on. Iknowyou'll be interested to hear, won't you?" she added teasingly.
"I hope he will get on—and stop on," the Professor replied, with as near an approach to a joke as he ever permitted himself. "I like Chris Hannen," he went on, regarding his sister over the rim of his glasses, "and I wish he would give up that dangerous game before it giveshimup You have some influence with him, Gay; can you not exercise it?"
The light suddenly went out of her face; then she shook her head.
"Every man to his own game, Heron, and Chris is as devoted to 'chasing as you are to science, you dear old fossil!"
"Hum!" was all the Professor vouchsafed to this remark, for to comparehispursuit with that of Chris was nothing short of an insult.
When Chris arrived about eleven o'clock he found Gay ready and waiting for him, dressed in a smart, workman-like tweed coat and skirt, and with her glasses slung. A remarkably good-looking and happy pair they looked as they drove to meet the coach that Effie's husband, Captain Bulteel, a sporting man—and who among Gay's friends was not sporting, except Lossie Holden?—was driving down to Kempton Park races.
A place had been found for Chris, and when they arrived at the rendezvous in Eaton Square they were received with great warmth, Gay especially, and were soon on their way.
Effie and Gay talked nineteen to the dozen, and the drive was very pleasant. Though not the coaching season, Tom Bulteel was no believer in his team standing idle during the winter, so drove them to all the suburban meetings, or to Richmond, and other places, when there was no racing within reach. Everyone was in the best of spirits, and expressed surprise when the coach turned on to the course—the all-absorbing topic of horses having claimed the party's attention on the way, it was little wonder that the journey seemed no sooner to commence than it was over.
Naturally everyone had asked Chris about each and every race on the card.
"I never give tips," laughed Chris. "If they come off, people grumble at the price or something—as though I could help that—and if they don't, they look aggrieved, and more than half suspect one of putting them away. But I'll tell you this much—I'm having my maximum of a 'pony' on, and I expect to get it back, plus adequate interest, you know."
Arrived on the course, they made their way to the paddock to find Beeswing. He was in his box, and showed no signs of the railway journey. The lad opened the door as they approached, touching his cap to Gay, and regarding her with the unabashed admiration peculiar to his class.
"All right?" Chris inquired, walking up to the horse and patting him, an example Gay instantly followed. "Good. My bag's in the dressing-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. I see Captain Conant's traps there too. 'E's come to try and ride that 'orse of Gunn's, I s'pose."
"Yes, he always rides for that stable," Chris replied, and smiled. He had a way of summing up people; "drops her h's and calls it h'arsthma," was his definition of a rich, vulgar old woman he and Gay detested, and "a pair of spurs and a grin," had as aptly hit off Captain Conant, who fancied he could ride, and courted public disaster on every possible occasion. He was also an ardent but at present infrequent worshipper at Lossie's shrine, as, greatly to his disgust, his regiment was now quartered in Ireland.
"Pity Lossie's not here, eh, Gay?" whispered Chris in an aside. "Let's go and have some lunch—that is,youcan have some, while I will sit and watch you longingly, and dream of my next meat dinner!"
They returned to the coach for lunch, and Chris looked after Gay with the same care and attention that a trained nurse bestows on a patient whose will she has reason to think has been made in her favour, and the girl enjoyed herself thoroughly.
Captain Conant was to ride in the first race, and her remarks on his ability as a jockey, and his probable fate, would have quite unnerved the gentleman in question could he have heard them.
"There he goes!" she exclaimed as a man cantered past, "whata seat! Did you ever see anything like it?"
Chris smiled.
"Itisugly, isn't it?" he agreed, "but men ride in all shapes, you know, and it isn't always the best-looking in the saddle that is the strongest."
"I know that, thank you," Gay replied saucily, "but George Conant can't ride for nuts, and never will. I wonder he hasn't broken his neck long ago. Of course, he only rides the safest of jumpers, and even so, it's no odds on his not jumping first. You yourself told me, Chris," she added reproachfully, "that he often throws down his reins at the fences, and catches hold fore and aft, shrieking loudly if anything ranges alongside!"
Chris exploded.
"Well, yes," he said, "he's certainly not what one would call a bold horseman. He likes to have most of the course to himself, and regards it as a liberty if anyone approaches within two lengths of him. He once reported a jockey who had the temerity to shout 'Yah!' while they were both in the air over a fence, and in consequence of which remark he lost his balance—he has no grip, you know—and fell off."
"Frightened Isaac!" cried Gay indignantly.
"Well," continued Chris, "he described the ejaculation as an intimidating one, and was surprised that the Stewards did not immediately suspend the perpetrator from riding again. The next time the two met in a race, the professional did not confine his ejaculation to the fences, but kept up a running commentary upon poor George, while his remarks were rather more pungent than on the previous occasion. I have before now helped George back into the saddle over the 'drop' fences—chiefly by the slack of his breeches, you know—and he seemed surprised, not to say grateful, that I had not given him the gentle push that would have dissolved the precarious partnership between himself and his horse."
"Has he ever won anything?" Gay asked, laughing.
"Oh, yes. This year he has won two races, one a walk-over for a National Hunt flat race, and the other when there were three runners. One was not trying, and ran out after going half-way, while the jockey of the other was so beat two fences from home, that he lost his senses, and fell off on the flat. George did not notice this, and for the last quarter of a mile rode a desperate finish, mistaking the jeers of the crowd for appreciation."
"Bet you a pair of gloves he comes undone this time, falls barred," Gay said, and Chris closed, knowing it was a bad bet for him, but welcoming the prospect of buying gloves for Gay, and perhaps being permitted to button them up. What felicity!
Gay's glasses were turned to the starting-post.
"He can't get his horse to join the others," she announced. "He's speaking to the starter—who looks annoyed, from his attitude. I do believe there are tears in his eyes."
"Strong glasses yours, Gay, aren't they?" inquired Mrs. Bulteel mischievously, but Gay was too busy to heed her.
"They're running," she said the next moment. "George has got away all right, and the pace is good. Something in green—what is it, Chris?—is alongside him; oh-h!—that was a near thing. He all but came unglued, as you call it, at that first fence. He's got back again now, and is picking up his reins. Does healwaysdrop them when 'in the air'? Now they're coming to the ditch, and, by the way he's riding, I think I win my bet here. Sit back,sitback, man!" she muttered, as George rose to the fence, and on landing was shot far up his horse's neck, whence he gradually pushed himself back into the saddle.
Mrs. Bulteel laughed right out; it was more interesting to watch Gay than the race.
"Hullo! one's down—blue and white chevrons!" Gay glanced at her card to see its name. "It's 'Topaz.' The jock's up all right, but Topaz is where he fell—winded, I expect. Where are the others?" sweeping the field with her glasses. "Oh, there they are, and Captain Conant's still on top."
The horses were running towards them now, and every incident of the race could be seen without glasses.
"Knight Errant's going best," Chris said. "By Jove, can't he jump! Just through the top of the fence where the 'give' is!"
The horses galloped past, and Gay put up her glasses as they rounded the bend into the back stretch.
"Two more down," she said, "and at the plain fence too! It's a bit on the angle, isn't it, Chris?"
He did not reply. He was watching the three remaining runners approach the water with a quiet smile.
"You'll win your gloves there if anywhere, Gay," he said. "George never did like the water."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the expected happened. George's horse galloped strongly up to the guard fence, dwelt for a second, and then gave a tremendous bound which carried him clear over the water. The impetus was evidently too much for his rider, who abandoned his reins, and incidentally his whip too, at the very moment his mount took off.
With a shriek of despair (which Gay declared she heard quite plainly), he described a parabola in the air, and descended in a heap in the middle of the water. His horse galloped on with the other two—it was not the first time his owner had parted company with him without apparent reason—and he showed his sense of the situation by lobbing along behind the others, thoroughly enjoying himself.
George remained in the water till he thought they had all gone over. He had no intention of being jumped on if he could help it, and he had sense enough to lie where he fell (and he fell pretty often), knowing that a horse coming behind cannot dodge you, if you are trying to dodgehim. Then Lossie's admirer crawled out, a dripping, miserable-looking object, and made his way towards the paddock.
Passing close to the coach, Chris called out to him, "Not hurt, are you, George?" The reply was indistinct, though Gay supplied one.
"Hurt? Of course not!" she said, chuckling; "only badly frightened! And anyway, I've won my gloves!"
Soon after, Chris went over to change, and Gay was all impatience for his race to begin.
"You'll see something worth looking at," she informed the others. "Whenever I see Chris ride I think there's nothing like Steeplechasing, and whenever I see Mr. Mackrell drive, I think nothing can touch Trotting. I really believe I prefer Trotting, though, for it hasn't the danger of this game, and I don't like to see anyone I'm fond—anyone I know—run such risks."
"After all," said Effie, "it's a gentleman's sport, and if the dear boywillbreak his neck at it, he must. But as to your Trotting mania, Gay," hurriedly changing the conversation as Gay whitened, "frankly, I don't think it's good enough for you, and Carlton ought to be ashamed of himself for infecting you with his taste for it."
"He didn't," retorted Gay. "I maintain that a perfect Trotter is every bit as pretty a sight as a horse racing—and not half so dangerous."
"Well, well!" said Effie, a shade of anxiety on her small, weather-beaten face, "take care you don't get drawn in too far, and talked about—it's unusual, you know, a girl going in for that sort of thing, and not quite nice. Pity you can't hand Mackrell over to Lossie—the Trotting Meetings would be good enough for her—they're not for you. Frankly, I think the Professor for once is quite rightthere."
But Gay was not listening, she was just asking herself whether she really were fond of Chris, andhowfond, when that gentleman cantered by with a cheerful nod, her opinion of him in the saddle being amply justified.
His lithe, graceful figure was seen to its best advantage in colours, while his long legs seemed riveted to his horse's sides—leaning slightly forward, and standing in his stirrups, he and his mount were in the most perfect unison, and personified the very poetry of motion.
"He'll take a lot of beating," one of the men on the coach prophesied. "He never says much about his horses, but I know he's very sweet on his chance to-day. I'm going into the Ring to back him," he added to Gay. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Put half-a-sovereign on for me, please," Gay replied, producing the coin, "and see if you can't get over the odds, whatever they are; say it's for a lady," she laughed, and the man lingered a moment to look at her bright face—yes, there was no doubt about it, all the men liked Gay.
In a few minutes the horses were off. There were eight runners, and a lightly-weighted one cut out the work at a strong pace. They strung out a bit over the first few fences, with the favourite Musketeer always nicely placed, and Chris on Beeswing lying handy.
Gay watched the race keenly, describing all the running to Mrs. Bulteel, who noted that most of her remarks concerned Chris.
"Watch him now," she exhorted. "Up! Well over! That's the way to ride over fences. Chris calls it the gentle art of sitting back. He says youcan'tsit back too far."
As the horses passed them she called out, "Well done, Chris! Well done!" in girlish delight. She looked her very best just then, the cold air heightening her colour, her grey eyes almost black with excitement and pleasure.
A fall occurred at the fence before the water, but the rest got safely over, and Musketeer began to improve his position little by little. He was ridden by a jockey who had steered two Grand National winners, and Chris knew too much of the skill of the man to let him get too far ahead if he could help it, so he too sharpened up a bit. As they approached the last fence he saw he had only the favourite to beat, and from the way his own horse was going, he felt he had his measure.
They rose together, and for a few strides ran side by side, Chris going easily, while the other was "niggling" with his hands. Chris improved his position, calling out "Good-bye, Arthur!" having no desire to be caught "napping" by such a consummate artist at finishing as his opponent. He drew away with a length's lead, and in a flash out came the whip on the favourite, who responded gamely, and for a stride or two (or so it seemed to anxious Gay) looked like catching Chris.
But to even a poor judge of racing it was all over. Chris had a lot in hand, and galloped home an easy three-lengths winner, the jockey on the favourite ceasing to persevere when he saw it was hopeless. He was a fine horseman, and a merciful man, a combination by no means common.
"After all," said Gay, with a rapturous sigh, "I'm not sure that I would not rather see Chris win a race, than take the Gold Vase with one of my Trotters!"
"Why not do both, my dear?" said Effie dryly, "so long as you don't take Carlton Mackrell as well."
Acting on Carlton's advice, Gay did not enter her horses for Blackpool, Glasgow, Liverpool, Belfast, or Leeds; the Irish Meetings were of course out of the question with so small a stable, so that she was practically limited to three Meetings within easy reach of town.
"It was," as he privately expressed it to himself, "merely a flirtation with Trotting, not playing the game itself," and he hoped that like other ill-advised flirtations, it would die a natural death. Though he honestly believed that Trotting had a future in England if properly managed, he had most unwillingly come to the conclusion that Chris was right, and though it furnished a healthy amusement for a great number of cheery, happy people, under existing conditions it was decidedly neither his, nor any young girl'smilieu.
No doubts whatever troubled Gay, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, and two days before the meeting at Waterloo Park, at which Silver Streak was to carry her colours for the first time in public, she succeeded in effecting what she had set her heart on, viz., the driving by herself at exercise of one of her horses.
With her usual incorrigible frankness she unfolded her plan to the Professor at luncheon, much to his horror and disgust.
"Can you not be content to be a spectator," he asked, "instead of participating actively in a sport (he pronounced the word with venom) which Lossie tells me claims as its closest adherents publicans and tradesmen? A nice thing it would be to find your butcher or fishmonger careering round the course beside you, encouraging you with shouts and cries such as are practised on all race-courses, or so I am informed, for I have never visited one. I deeply deplore this unhappy infatuation, but, as usual, my wishes are ignored," he concluded huffily.
"Don't be a prig, Heron," said Gay carelessly. "You can't help being a muff, I suppose, or Lossie a sneak, but for father's sake—and a better sportsman never breathed, as you know well enough—dotry to take a little interest in sport, even if you refuse to participate, as you elegantly express it. To hear you talk, one would think you were employed by the Anti-Everything-Healthy-League, and that you had a special mission to fulfil in saving everybody's soul—at the expense of his body, of course! It's enough to make the poor old dad turn in his grave to hear you go on as you do. If he were alive, he'd be the very first to back me up."
She glanced at the clock, and jumped up.
"Time and trains wait for no man," she said. "Run off to your laboratory, old chap, but before you go, give me a kiss—and your blessing."
She stood up on tip-toe to meet the Professor's chaste salute, imprinted somewhere in the neighbourhood of her ear.
"Expect me when you see me," she said maliciously as she made for the door, "and don't be surprised if I return in pads. There's sometimes an accident at Trotting, you know."
The Professor ambled towards her, shaking his head apprehensively, but Gay was half-way upstairs. She had only just time to catch her train, and would get down to Inigo Court by half-past three, with time enough to give the horses their work out round the track.
Tugwood had promised to borrow a speed wagon of a different pattern for her to drive in, for her disregard of public opinion did not go to the length of perching on a seat the size of a soup plate, with her legs stuck out on either side of the horse, which was the usual mode of progression.
On the journey down, she read theTrotting World, a journal devoted to the interests of the sport, and was delighted to find a paragraph about herself and Trotters in it.
"If a few more people of Miss Lawless' and Mr. Carlton Mackrell's class and position could be induced to patronise Trotting," she read, "the sport would soon assume its proper standing, and become, as in America, a national pastime."
Gay walked briskly along the country road leading to Inigo Court, and made her way to the stables. There she found Tugwood in Silver Streak's box, the horse already harnessed, and ready to be put to the wagon.
"Horses all right, Tugwood?" Gay asked, pulling on her driving gloves—thick bus-driver's gloves they were, bought on Carlton Mackrell's recommendation.
"Never better, miss, thank'ee. Silver Streak don't want too much work to-day, with 'is race so near, an' 'e's pretty fit. I 'ad 'im out early this mornin', just to work off any stiffness 'e might 'ave after a good spin against the watch yesterday. A mile easy at 'arf-speed, at a three-minute gait, is about all 'e wants now."
Gay laughed.
"I hope I shall be able to steady him," she said. "He does 'take hold' a bit sometimes, doesn't he?"
"On'y when 'e's racin', miss. 'E don't like to see nothin' in front of 'im. I expect you'll be surprised at the pace 'e goes, an' think 'e's runnin' away. But 'e ain't really, you know," he added reassuringly; "'is manners is too good to bolt with anybody, let alone a lady."
He chuckled at his joke as he helped Gay into the wagon, which was a boat-shaped Benjamin, weighing 46 lbs., the body much like the seat of an outrigger boat, with rounded ends to break the wind.
She made a very pretty picture as she sat in the wagon, excitement and the bloom of health showing in her face. As Tugwood led the horse on to the track, in accordance with instructions, she slipped her wrists through the loops in the reins, and planted her feet firmly against the foot-rests.
"Don't be nervous, miss," Tugwood urged. "Just keep a nice steady hold on 'im, an' keep in the middle of the track. Time enough to think of cuttin' the corners when you know more about it."
Gay had no intention of cutting the corners, and devoutly hoped that Silver Streak had none either, as Tugwood stepped to one side.
"Jog him, miss," he said, "and gradually let 'im out."
Gay did as she was told. Silver Streak "got into his stride" with a suddenness that was a little disconcerting, ready as she thought she was for it, and the wagon shot forward, while her arms felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets.
Shifting her position as soon as she had recovered her balance, she hung on to the reins like grim death, and steered for the middle of the track, as Silver Streak was evincing a partiality for the rails that spelled probable disaster at the bend, unable as she was to balance him properly.
The horse stretched himself out to his work in grand style, and before they had rounded the first turn, Gay felt convinced he was running away. The pace was tremendous, while the wind whistled past her ears and made her face smart with its force. She took a pull at the horse after the way she had seen drivers do when pulling up after a "brush," before a race started, but at once felt the uselessness of it, and was not surprised when Silver Streak pulled back, though his pull was of considerably greater strength than hers, and resulted in another temporary loss of balance, this time nearly over the dash-board.
The horse's hind feet were much too close to be pleasant, and she earnestly hoped he would not cast a shoe, which, for a certainty, must fly into her face, or so it seemed. Along the back stretch she cast a glance in Tugwood's direction, half expecting to see him brandishing his arms, or covering his eyes to avoid seeing her untimely end, but no such view met her gaze. On the contrary, he was leaning over the rails in an attitude that betokened an easy mind, and as she turned her head, he clapped his hands repeatedly, thus conveying to her the reassuring news that she was doing well.
She negotiated the home-bend nicely, though by this time her arms had begun to ache in earnest, and her breathing was not so regular and easy as on foot. Now her natural fears had subsided, she felt that she was having the time of her life, and disregarding her trainer's instructions, actually encouraged Silver Streak to go faster. This the horse did, and made the pace a cracker on the second circuit, though even then he was by no means going his fastest.
Approaching the spot where Tugwood was holding up his hand as a signal to stop, she took another pull at Silver Streak, but with as little result as before. Another pull, but with a like effect—the horse was evidently enjoying himself, and intended to complete another circuit. Gay's horrified look as she sped past, sitting back as far as she could, and hauling at the reins, brought a smile to Tugwood's face.
"Finds it ain't quite so easy as it looks," he said to himself, though with no anxiety, but as the wagon bore towards him again, he opened the gate leading to the stables, and walked down the track with outstretched arms to meet it.
Silver Streak saw him, and pricked his ears, at the same time slowing down till he dropped into a walk almost on the top of his trainer. Gay heaved a little sigh of relief as they turned off the track. She was quite numbed with the cold, and her feet felt like lumps of lead, while her hands shook violently from the strain, as she disengaged them from the reins, and jumped to the ground.
"That was ripping!" she said, stamping her feet.
Her voice sounded catchy, which was not to be wondered at after so much excitement, crammed into such a short time.
"I hope the extra lap won't hurt him, Tugwood?"
"Not a bit of it, miss. Why, 'e wasn't goin' fast enough to keep 'imself warm at any time. You didn't do the first mile in much under three minutes, I'll be bound."
"Well," said Gay, "I've never travelled so fast before in my life, behind a horse, anyhow. I wonder what the excitement of a race must be like?"
A mad idea to dress up as a man, and drive at the next Meeting flashed across her mind, but she dismissed it as altogether impracticable. Besides, it had been done before—in books, anyway—and Gay was nothing if not original.
"'Ow do you like drivin', miss?" Tugwood inquired, as he led Silver Streak back to his box.
"It's splendid!" Gay replied enthusiastically, "but itdoesmake your arms ache, doesn't it? Mine feel all on fire now."
"Ah, that always 'appens to a beginner," the trainer explained indulgently. "You'll get the better o' that after a few more turns, and learn to take a nice steady hold, just to feel his mouth, instead of hanging on like grim death. I suppose you won't drive Maudie to-night, miss? It's rather late, an' just on doin'-up time."
"Oh, very well, I won't, then," the girl answered, "but you must not think I am afraid, you know, because I'm not."
"No fear o' that from one ofyourstock, miss. I've heard tell of your father, an' a better plucked 'un with 'osses never lived. I'm always to be found here, miss, so if you'll drop me a line any time you want a drive, I'll be waitin' for you."
With the promise of a speedy return, Gay took her departure, quite unaware that there had been an interested spectator of her work on the track, in the person of Mr. Rensslaer, who by accident was passing. He occasionally used the track in private for trying a horse when too far from his own place, and happening to look over the hoarding which enclosed the course, had seen Gay driving Silver Streak in his wagon, of which Tugwood had begged the loan.
The sight had greatly amused him, and as she passed, he ducked his head, afraid of "scaring" the girl, for he saw at a glance that she was a complete novice at the game, though he expressed himself emphatically and aloud on her performance.
"Now, that's what I call real sporting," he exclaimed, standing up in his wagon to get a better view, though even then his head barely reached the top of the hoarding.
"Wonder who she is?" he soliloquised. "I'll go in, and inquire of Tugwood when she's finished her work out. Mighty pretty girl, anyway, though she don't look altogether as if she's enjoying herself. That's a nice pure-gaited one she's driving—for England."
At the conclusion of the spin, and after Gay had left the place, Rensslaer continued his drive, turning in at the park gates, then made his way round to the stables, where Brusher Tugwood, hearing the approach of hoofs, left Silver Streak's box, and came out into the yard to see who it was.
His grim old face relaxed into a respectful smile, and he pulled at his cap as the new-comer sprang out of his road wagon, looped up his reins, and adjusted a horse-cloth with the quick dexterity of the professional.
Tugwood waited for developments, looking inquiringly at the powerful, straight-hipped horse in the wagon, and Rensslaer was quick to follow his glance.
"That's old 'Marvel Girl,'" he volunteered, and gave her pedigree; then immediately, keen enthusiasts both, they fell to talking and comparing notes of doings on both sides of the Atlantic, Rensslaer walking Tugwood restlessly up and down, the idea of his original quest quite vanishing from his mind.
"By the way," he said, suddenly remembering it, as he drew the "cooler" off his waiting horse and folded it up, "who is that young lady I saw going round the track a while ago in my wagon?"
"That was my young mistress, Miss Gay Lawless, sir, and very kind it was of you to humour her with the loan of that wagon; she couldn't have done what she was so dead set on else. It was 'er first drive, though where you see it from, I don't know, sir."
"So that was Miss Lawless, was it?" Rensslaer said thoughtfully. "I've heard the name only just lately. There was something in theTrotting Worldabout her, and some horses she had bought. It is a surprise to me to find a lady patronising Trotting."
"Well," said Tugwood, not desiring to typify his mistress as the example that proved the rule, "I shouldn't wonder if before long we don't 'ave a duchess trottin' 'orses under our Rules, the same as they do under the Jockey Club," but his tone lacked conviction.
"I suppose you know Mr. Carlton Mackrell, then," pursued Rensslaer, who himself did, and foresaw through him an introduction to Gay.
"Know 'im, sir? I should think I did indeed," the trainer assured him. "Why, it was me as introduced Mr. Mackrell to Trottin'," and he drew himself up proudly.
"Been fairly successful too, hasn't he?" Rensslaer inquired.
"Remarkably so, sir, I'm pleased to say," said Tugwood, bridling, "though I says it as shouldn't, seein' as 'ow I've 'ad the trainin' of his 'osses till quite lately. I left Mr. Mackrell to come to Miss Lawless, you see, sir, an' I 'ope to be as successful for 'er as I was for 'im, though of course Miss Gay 'as only just started, so to speak. I expect to 'ave a winner for 'er at the next meetin' 'ere, sir—that 'oss you see goin' roun' just now. Silver Streak 'is name is. Come an' 'ave a look over 'im."
Together they entered the horse's box, where Tugwood proceeded to recount Silver Streak's performances before he came into his charge.
"A nice horse," commented Rensslaer, "though I should call him too good-looking. Quite a picture compared to my mare outside, isn't he?" indicating with a jerk of his head the rough-and-ready-looking animal in the wagon. Certainly Silver Streak was more of the race-horse stamp than the trotter, and the expert shook his head as he looked him over from all points.
"Not a record-breaker, I think," he opined, "and what is his best time?"
"Two-twenty on this track, sir," the trainer said, "though I think I can improve 'im a lot on that time. In fact, Miss Gay thinks of enterin' 'im for the Champion Vase, an' though I won't go so far as to say he'll win it, some of the others will know they've been racin' before they're done. There's some good 'osses with form be'ind 'em waitin' with a view to that race. Demonstrator's one of 'em, an' Mr. Mackrell's Billy Q., wot won at the last meetin' 'ere, is not out of it by a long way. From what I know of that 'oss—an' I trained 'im for all 'is races—'e'll very near win it. Whatever beats 'im will win any'ow," he concluded.
"Well, we shall see," replied Rensslaer. "I must be off now, but you'll see me again before long. What did you say Mr. Mackrell's present address was?"
Tugwood did not remember having mentioned it, but he replied:
"The Bachelors' Club will find 'im, sir, though I shouldn't wonder if 'e don't 'ave to resign there afore long from wot I can see of it," he added to himself, but Rensslaer heard him as he climbed into his wagon and drove off.
Tugwood, left alone, shook his head gloomily. His late visitor's low estimate of English horses annoyed him by its assurance; he also resented the slur Rensslaer cast on the sport by abstaining from it in England, while practising it in most of the big capitals of Europe. A fine sportsman, with one of the finest, if notthefinest, stable of Trotters in the world, he was the very man to elevate and establish the sport firmly here, and it was with a sense of depression that Tugwood gave Silver Streak his evening feed, and remained to watch the horse eating it up.
In a spirit of pure mischief Gay had invited Lossie Holden to accompany her and Chris Hannen to see Silver Streak's début, and they drove the short distance from the station to Waterloo Park in excellent spirits, Gay all impatience to see her horse trot, and Chris as interested as he could ever be in anything outside his own stable.
Lossie was entirely out of sympathy with Gay's natural excitement; all sporting tastes were low, she considered, and Trotting quite the lowest of them all. She could not understand a woman possessing the healthy, out-door instinct—a girl's first duty, she considered, was to herself, and her time was much better employed in making herself as attractive as possible in the eyes of men, than in sharing their rude pursuits. Man was woman's lawful spoil, and for her part she quite understood why the "manly woman" remained a spinster, and by not attracting, failed in her mission in life.
In this, as in other matters, Lossie's view was too narrow to be correct, for she could not separate Gay, with her healthy love for horses, and dogs, and an open-air life, from the muscular, loud-voiced, corsetless Amazons who are so frequently much better athletes than men, and well able to protect the lady-like creatures in breeches they usually marry.
Chris noticed the contrast between the two girls especially that day, Gay, looking the picture of health, and thoroughly alive in her plain tweed frock, her workman-like gloves, and stout boots, intent on a good day's sport, and exulting in the part she was to play, and Lossie, "dressed to kill," with her bored, petulant air, tilting her nose (a very pretty nose, too, Chris had to admit), whenever a fly-load of "mellow" Trotting men galloped past.
Arrived at the course, Chris obtained a race-card that they were busy discussing, when a hearty voice called out at Gay's elbow:
"How are you, Miss Gay? Well, Iamglad to see you again."
Gay turned to see Min Toplady, and while she took in the opulent splendours of her attire, with a delighted side-glance she caught the disgusted look on her cousin's face.
"Dear old Min!" she cried, embracing her old friend heartily, then with a quick, mischievous glance at Chris, she dragged the somewhat flustered Min up to where stood Lossie Holden, a supreme figure of elegant disdain. "Why, Lossie, surely you've not forgotten Min Toplady, my dear old nurse," cried Gay. "All my friends are Min's friends, aren't they, Chris?"
"Of course," he replied, with difficulty keeping his countenance, so tickled was he by Lossie's, then raising Min's tightly-gloved hand to his lips, respectfully kissed it. "Min and I are old pals, and I really think she's beginning to quite approve of me at last?" he added with twinkling eyes.
"Oh, you'll do, Mr. Chris," Min said, laughing, "until you break your neck with your silly jumping." She was very quick, and knew that the young man's instant ranging of himself on her side was due to Lossie's frigid acknowledgment of her presence.
"Well, Miss Gay," said Min reproachfully, "I've been expecting you to look me up at the 'Trotting Nag,' Camberwell—I always tell Bob it was the name of our 'pub' that started us at the Trotting game—but you'll be more than welcome when youdofind time."
Gay promised eagerly that she would come soon, and Carlton Mackrell appearing at that moment, they split up into groups, he remaining with Lossie Holden, who regarded with horror the progress of the others to Min's wagonette, where, with exaggerated gusto, Gay assisted Chris to partake of sherry and sandwiches.
"She don't alter much," said Min, glancing at the distant Lossie, now exercising all her fascinations on Carlton, but when Gay with her usual generosity urged that Lossie did not have much of a time, Min interrupted her majestically.
"Don't make no excuses for her, Miss Gay; what she always was as a mite she is now. I've got her weighed up to an ounce, my dear, and if she's arealfriend of yours, and not a spiteful, jealous cat, I've made a mistake, and I don't make many among my own sex, if Ididmake a bloomer when I took up with my old man—" And she beamed upon the enormous and delighted Bob, who had just come up, and acknowledged the soft impeachment with a prodigious smile.
"There goes the bell for the horses to get on the track for the first heat; let's go into the enclosure, and watch the 'plugs' go round," cried Gay, and off she and Chris went together, Gay running back for a moment to give Min a "tip."
"Mr. Mackrell thinks my horse will win his heat and the final—Brusher Tugwood drives, and he knows the horse. He's very sweet on his chance. Mind you back ours, Min dear, and tell your friends to 'help themselves,' as they say."
The first heat over, Gay and Chris went off to the stables, Carlton Mackrell and Lossie joining them. Mackrell studied his card as they went along.
"You are sure to win your heat," he said, "and the time of your horse, and the other two heat winners, will tell us what chance you have in the final, but according to the conditions of the race, I think it's a good thing for you."
Chris smiled. He had seen too many "good things" come undone, though in this case there were no fences in the way, he reflected.
They arrived at the stables in time to watch Brusher Tugwood put the finishing touches to Silver Streak's toe weights. The horse looked splendid, and Gay's brand new colours—blue and white hoops—showed up brilliantly in the wintry sun.
Gay walked beside her driver while he led the horse to the track gates.
"Thisisa good thing, isn't it, Tugwood?" she inquired anxiously. "I do so want to win the first time out, you know, though I oughtn't to expect it," she added.
"We shall win all right, miss," Tugwood assured her. "Do you pop into the ring and back me as if money—or price—was no object." He climbed into his perch, and turned on to the track, where he let Silver Streak stride along at about half-speed.
By the time Gay and the others had got back to the stand, the second bell had rung, and the horses were jockeying on their marks for a start. Gay had invested, through Carlton Mackrell, a couple of pounds on her horse for the driver, Tugwood, and the odds of four to one were obtained.
She would not bet herself. "I don't approve of regular betting," she said; "besides, I shall get five pounds if I win this heat, and fifty pounds, actually fifty golden sovereigns"—she clapped her hands and laughed as if she had never seen so much money before—"if Silver Streak wins the final as well!"
Bang went the pistol, and the horses were off.
"You've won it now," Carlton Mackrell said quietly, his eyes showing his appreciation of the consummate skill of Tugwood in getting off like lightning, and almost in his stride.
Though they had to go three rounds for the mile and a half, the value of a good beginning was soon made obvious as Silver Streak swooped down on the horses in front of him approaching the first bend. Along the back stretch he improved to third place, and though the leader was thirty yards and more to the good there, Carlton Mackrell knew that Silver Streak's driver was only biding his time, and would win comfortably, without distressing his horse with a view to the final.
"I do believe he will win!" Gay cried breathlessly, as the horses passed the stand, the same one leading, while Silver Streak and a pacing mare called Mrs. Wiggs were racing side by side.
"No doubt of it," Carlton Mackrell assured her. "Let me congratulate you."
Gay laughed rather nervously.
"Thank you," she said, "but not yet. Oh, look, there's something—Mrs. Wiggs, isn't it?—that's passing Silver Streak now. Why doesn't Tugwood go after her?"
The apparent catastrophe occurred on the back stretch approaching the turn. Chris, looking on, noticed it, and prayed that Mrs. Wiggs could not sustain the effort. He saw, too, that the pair had considerably decreased the leader's advantage.
"It's all right," Carlton Mackrell declared. "Tugwood will make his effort—an easy one, too—directly they get into the third lap."
And so it proved. Mrs. Wiggs' advantage was only temporary, and directly Tugwood asked Silver Streak to catch the leader, he did so in decided fashion, and Gay breathed a sigh of joy and relief as Tugwood put the issue beyond doubt fifty yards from the box, and jogged in, a two-lengths winner, in 3.36 from scratch.
"Oh! I'm so glad!" Gay exclaimed, and indeed she looked radiant, and altogether adorable, as she received from the two men congratulations so warm that Lossie's silence was quite overlooked.
The beauty was quite out of her element, and took no pains to hide the fact. How Gaycouldmix with such awful people she did not understand, and she registered a vow that this was the first and last visit she would pay to Waterloo Park, or any other of the Trotting Meetings.
It was adding insult to injury, too, for Gay to openly show her friendship with that vulgar person, Min Toplady. She looked angrily in the direction of the carriages, where the "vulgar person's" purple gown refused to be overlooked, and Min was clearly inherelement as she dispensed hospitality with a lavish hand, while Bob conducted an earnest conversation with a professional driver.
"What's the matter, Lossie?" Gay inquired suddenly. "I'm afraid you're not enjoying yourself."
Chris and Carlton Mackrell exchanged glances, both prepared for the same reply.
"No, I'm not," she said positively. "What you can see in this rabble, and travesty of sport I'm sureIdon't know—I mean," suddenly remembering, and turning a dazzle of blue eyes and smiles upon Carlton Mackrell, "from a woman's point of view, of course. I quite understand the fascination driving your own horses has for you, Mr. Mackrell, but I can't admit that it's quite a nice thing for a girl—" But she spoke to unheeding ears, for he had divined Gay's wish that he should take her to the stables, and when he suggested it, she went with him eagerly.
Leaving Lossie and the unwilling Chris together, they made their way through the Ring, Mackrell drawing ten pounds from his bookmaker, who begged him "not to do it again." Her original stake of two pounds Gay put in her pocket, tightly clutching the remainder in her little fist.
They found Tugwood assisting a lad to rub Silver Streak down, and highly pleased with himself. He magnificently waved Gay's outstretched hand containing the eight pounds away.
"Leave it all down, miss, please," he said; "put the lot on our 'oss for the final. We shall win outright now, for the best field was behind me in the first heat. You understand the market 'ere, sir, don't you?" he asked Carlton Mackrell, "so don't forget to distribute the money among the bookies. A quid 'ere, an' a couple there, you know, sir, though you won't get such a nice price again. It's wonderful 'ow they pinch the price for a heat winner for the final."
Together Gay and Carlton watched the next four heats, Gay taking particular interest, naturally, in the heats which concerned her race, and when the horses turned out for the eventful final, Carlton Mackrell walked down the rails to speak to Tugwood, for he had seen something in the second heat that he knew would be valuable knowledge to the driver, and this he told him. He had barely time to get back to the stand before the bell rang to announce the start. But Silver Streak did not get off so well this time, and for the first circuit of the course only improved two places. Passing the stands he was fourth, the heat winners and two fastest losers being qualified to go in the final, and Gay's expressive face looked the picture of despair as the horses sped past to the turn.
"He'll never catch the leaders," she exclaimed; "they're all going well, faster than they went in their heats, it seems to me. Whatever does Tugwood keep looking round at that crimson jacket behind him for? I don't see any sense in it; it's those in front he has to beat, not that one."
Carlton Mackrell laughed.
"He's doing what I told him," he answered. "The crimson jacket is the real danger. Look!"
As if to prove his words, the pacer mentioned suddenly increased his speed in a great effort to pass Silver Streak. Tugwood instantly responded, and a great race for supremacy began between the pair. The terrific speed they were going at, took them past first one leader and then another, while from the enthusiasm among the spectators on the stands, it was apparent that they regarded the race as a match between Silver Streak and the crimson jacket.
Rounding the home bend into the straight in the last lap, there were still three in it—the trotter which had led throughout, Silver Streak, and the pertinacious crimson jacket. Each driver was doing all he knew, but Tugwood had the inside position, which he kept with a bit to spare, thus compelling the other two to go wide at the turn, and Carlton Mackrell and Chris both appreciated his fine and legitimate driving.
A great race ensued up the straight, all three horses' names being shouted in turn, each exhorted by their respective backers to "go on."
Amid a storm of cheers and encouragement the three flashed past the box, but Carlton Mackrell, from his intimate knowledge, knew that the one, two, Tugwood had given Silver Streak a few yards short of the judge, had done the trick, and snatched a bare victory.
Gay was trembling with excitement, while even Lossie sufficiently forgot herself to stand on tiptoe to watch the number board.
"It's all right," Carlton Mackrell announced. "He's putting No. 3 in the frame, and that's yours. Won by a neck, I should say, all out, in 3.32½."
Gay heaved a deep sigh, and then they all went on to the track, and, after Tugwood had dismounted, accompanied Silver Streak in a body to the stables.
The crowd gave Gay a hearty cheer as she passed the Ring, and this completed her cup of bliss. Min Toplady showered congratulations on her, and was so pleased that she actually smiled at Lossie, hastily composing her face the moment she realised the mistake.
It was by deliberate intention, not accident, that Lossie found the Professor alone on the day following Silver Streak's victory, and conveyed to his mind her own epicurean disgust at the associations to which Gay's new Trotting mania had exposed her, though jealousy at the increased opportunities of her cousin for meeting Carlton, was really at the bottom of her interference. Lightly, but maliciously, she ran over the whole scene, the surroundings at Waterloo Park, so utterly different to those of an ordinary race meeting, and, so far as she could see, without a gentlewoman present save Gay and herself. But when, in speaking of the "public-house ladies" present, she mentioned Min Toplady, the Professor visibly stiffened.
"A most estimable woman," he said, "and nurse to all the younger members of our family. She adored Gay, and though we lost sight of her on her marriage, I don't know anyone from whom my sister would take better a word in season than Minnie. I am shocked to hear that the poor woman has taken to racing—married a sporting publican, I fear."
Lossie shrugged her graceful shoulders as her appraising glance ran up and down the Professor's handsome, if unbraced, figure and face, then round the pictures and appointments of the room in which they sat. After all, she might do worse, if—if—but Gay was not going to have it all her own way with Carlton Mackrell. Chris Hannen washerman, and the sooner she realised it the better.
"I have a great mind to go and see Minnie," said Frank nervously, "and get her to use her influence with Gay—but I don't know her address—
"Oh," said Lossie, with curling lip, "Ican tell you—the "Trotting Nag," Camberwell, which is precisely the place and neighbourhood where, from her appearance, you might expect to find her!"
"Now, now," protested the Professor, for unkindness is not so much a matter of speech as of atmosphere, and he thought it unbecoming that so lovely a creature as Lossie should be so acrimonious.
And yet he pitied her, without parents, without money, though why she had not married long ago, and brilliantly, was a puzzle to more worldly people than the Professor.
"Poor Frank," she said, "I'm afraid you'll find her much more Gay's ally in the matter than yours. Why don't you put your foot downyourself, and insist on Gay's giving up this disreputable business?"
The Professor sighed, and Lossie longed to shake him. Fearing that she might be tempted to do so, she got up to go, and she was so tall, and at that moment so beautiful in her contempt, that an unwonted thrill ran through him. After all, he was only a man, and not such a very old one at that, and reading him perfectly, she put up her face to his, and murmuring, "Dear old Frank!" kissed him with rather more than cousinly warmth in farewell.
He stood looking at the door through which she had passed with what Gay called his "gay old dog" air of reminiscence; then his thoughts reverted to Minnie, and her good influence over Gay when the latter had been a wilful, charming child, and on the spur of the moment he decided to go and see her.
It was lucky that Gay was out. It would never do for her to intercept him, and inquire where he was going, for he had a wholesome dread of his sister's discerning eye.
Upon such occasions as he invented "taradiddles" to cover more or less unlawful excursions abroad, he was invariably bowled out, and stood disconsolate, and looking justly sheepish at the emphatic "Rubbish!" with which they were received.
"You're a bad liar, Frank," Gay said one day, "and wouldn't deceive a child. But why lie at all? Besides, your memory isn't good enough."
Now he hailed a hansom, and darting into it as quickly as a rabbit into its burrow, through the trap-door gave as his destination, the "Trotting Nag," Camberwell, looking, moreover, so guilty and self-conscious, that the cabby smiled broadly as he gathered up the reins, and chirruped to his horse.
"Looks more like the British Museum than a 'pub,'" he said to himself, "but, Lord, appearances is such liars!"
The Professor squeezed himself into a corner of the cab, and tried to marshal his ideas and line of attack. He did not relish his job, as he had a lively recollection of Min Toplady's temper years ago, before she was married; he hoped that matrimony had softened her downrightness considerably, and also that her husband would be there. He felt he could count on his sympathy, if not on his support, because men always hang together where a woman is concerned.
Throughout the long drive he talked nervously to himself, and attracted much attention by his silent rhetoric and expressive gestures. His Jehu passed the wink to such other Jehus as congratulated him on his fare, and having peeped through the roof in the middle of one of the Professor's most impassioned appeals, reassured interested curb-loungers by tapping his head significantly, and turning his eyes heavenwards.
Arrived at the "Trotting Nag," the Professor was most reluctant to leave the security of the cab, and merely met the cabman's reminder that he had arrived at his destination, with an "Ah, yes; so I observe."
Finally collecting the fare from the depths of a waistcoat pocket, he thrust it hurriedly through the roof, and hastily descended. Without looking ahead, he made for the door of the public bar, entering with a run, and cannoning violently against a navvy coming out, who had consumed sufficient beer to become severely critical of the manners of other people.
This individual, having recovered his balance against the door-post, promptly inquired "where the 'ell the old image was agoin' to?" But the Professor had sought the far end of the bar, and was inquiring nervously, and with many smiles, if Mrs. Toplady could be seen.
A good-looking barmaid regarded him with speculation in her eye, then remarked:
"I think she is in. Is it about the gas?"
The Professor assured her it was not, but quite a private matter, upon which the barmaid withdrew, and a moment later Min Toplady herself emerged, and gave an exclamation of astonishment.
"Bless my soul! Why, it's Master Frank!"
The remark attracted some attention in the bar, one of the customers remarking that the Professor was "a bit old-fashioned" for a kid, as Min raised the flap of the bar, and escorted her guest through it to the parlour, where a few privileged friends had the right of entrée.
It was empty now, the harassed Professor was relieved to find, and as he stood before the fire, and looked anxiously through the door into the bar, Min's hospitable mind mistook his meaning.
"What will you be pleased to take, Master Frank?" she inquired, and the Professor looked at her blandly as his fingers flitted lightly round his face.
"Take?" he repeated. "Oh, nothing, I thank you. I seldom indulge, you know."
"Oh, but you must have something, sir, if only for the good of the house, as some of the boys say who have had more than is good for them already, just on closing time," she insisted.
The Professor thought of his errand, and in the exuberant presence of Min, felt his courage slipping away from him. Perhaps a little drop of something might revive him, he thought—a little "jumping powder," as those sporting friends of Gay's would call it.
But Min had already disappeared into the bar, and quickly returned, bearing a small glass.
"Being such a cold day, a drop of milk punch won't do you no harm, sir," she said, putting the glass down before the Professor. "It's a wonderful thing for warming the cockles of your heart, and it always does my indigestion—to which I'm a martyr—a power of good."
The Professor could trace no direct connection between the cockles of his heart and Min's indigestion, but nevertheless he took the proffered drink gratefully, and sipped it with the air of a connoisseur, while Min sat down, and racked her brains to find a reason for his visit.
A silence ensued. The Professor was temporising, but by the time his glass was empty, he felt a little more able to open the ball.
"I suppose you wonder why I am here?" he suggested, standing on one leg, and looking more like a heron than ever. "The truth is, I—er, wish to speak to you about my sister's—er—infatuation—"