"How much will your dressmaker take off her account?" she said, for she always preferred coming to the point, to beating about the bush, and she was used to these periodical attacks on her pocket.
"Thirty pounds would do. Then I could order something for—"
"Don't," said Gay, who had drawn out her cheque-book, and begun to write. "Lossie," she said half sadly, as she came forward, and handed her cousin a slip of pink paper, "why do you bother so much about the outside of you? Be rice, be natural, bekind; don't talk scandal—menhateit—" She paused and blushed; unconsciously she was trying to teach Lossie those pretty manners and ways of her own that men cherish so deeply, and to which their homage, so long forgotten among brusque women, inevitably sprang.
"I can't be a dear little charmer like you, Gay, if you mean that," said Lossie, as she put the cheque away, and warmly thanked its giver, though after all it was no more than her right. Those whohad, ought to share with those who had not, and our Labour Members' vigorous contention that people who have money, should be forced to provide for those who have spent theirs, also for those who can't and won't work, expressed her opinion exactly.
And yet the cheque did not make Lossie as happy as usual. In sudden flashes, now and then, she realised her position—saw over. Beauty she had, and brains, but up to now, and she was twenty-seven, they had brought her little good. She had received no really good offers, but it never seemed to strike her that her extreme expensiveness in dress and tastes had a good deal to do with it, and her absorbing (and patent) passion for Mackrell still more. To be sure there was that ridiculous George Conant, at present the favourite nephew and heir of the enormously rich Mrs. Elkins, but as the old lady made a new will every three months or so, and he might do something specially idiotic to annoy her, it would be madness to bet onthatchance.
Poor Frank would be safe, and less trouble—anyway, she had no intention of drifting into that grey life in which one is first with nobody, or worse still (for Aunt Lavinia's pension died with her), forming one of that hopeless army of incapables that is always "looking for something," and helpless, unbraced, expects a heaven-born post to fit it, not that it should learn to fit itself for a post.
Lossie sighed impatiently, and glanced across at Gay, who sat, needlework in hand, in the charming room that was feminine like herself, and fresh and sweet, with nothing whatever about her to suggest the Trotting or Race-course, and, as often before, she tried to analyse the irresistible charm of her cousin.
"A good sort" (from the women), "adarnedgood sort" (from the men), was the invariable verdict passed upon her, and even taking up vulgar Trotting, and doing things men hate their women to do, had not affected her popularity. "The first time you see Gay Lawless you'll hardly think her good-looking, the second you'll fall in love with her, and the third you'll ask her to marry you!" Lossie had once heard one man tell another—but as tobeauty! It was true that Gay's eyes had a curious power of refraction, so that shades of feeling chased each other over them like shadows on a clear pool, and her skin had the clear transparency that goes with hair that not so long ago, as Gay confidentially told her men friends, was "carrots," though the laugh with which she said it, showing the loveliest little white teeth in the world, usually inclined the person addressed to a quite contrary opinion. But compared with what Lossie found in her own mirror, Gay had no good looks at all.
"I half expected Mr. Rensslaer," said Gay, glancing at the clock.
"He's not a beauty," said Lossie, with some irrelevance, but he was no favourite of hers, and, on his part, he had never found reason to alter his summing up of her on the first occasion they had met.
"His kind face is more distinguished than any man's I know," cried Gay with spirit. "I learn more from him in five minutes, than all the stupid people I've ever known put together!"
"Including Chris?" said Lossie drily.
"Including Chris."
"Then the sooner you make yourself happy with this pattern of all the perfections, including a few millions, the better," said Lossie, who did not care who Gay married, so long as it was not Carlton.
Gay laughed. "Wasn't it Nathaniel Hawthorn who said that 'to have wealth beyond a certain point, is only to undertake the labour of living the lives of ten or a thousand men as well as your own?' And besides—can't you see, but of course you can't, that a man like that must have had his own ideal, his own romance, ages before he ever saw silly little me? There's a story in his life, and no mean one, I'll wager."
"Really," said Lossie, "I don't think your lovers are much comfort to you. One lets you in for a disreputable sport, another breaks your heart by half-killing himself, and the third string to your bow isn't in the very least in love with you!"
At that moment the door opened, and Rensslaer came in.
"So Mr. Hannen is going on all right," he said in a tone of great pleasure as he shook hands with Gay, and Lossie, with a vague wave of her hand, disappeared.
"Yes—thank God!"
"Nice boy," said Rensslaer, as he sat down opposite Gay, and she gave him a few details of Chris's case. There were dark rings round her eyes—she looked really ill, and Rensslaer guessed that if Chris's accident had shaken her into a vivid realisation of her love for him, it had only the more convinced her that to see his life in almost daily jeopardy for five months out of the year, would be more than she could bear, and that this was the real parting of their ways.
"Couldn't you persuade him to give it up?" he said abruptly; it was not the first time he had startled her by knowing precisely of what she was thinking.
She shook her head
"You know," she said, "Chris is too tall for a jockey—hewilltrain—and, apart from accidents, all the tall jockeys go out quickly. There was Archer—there are many others. It's sheer perversity in a man of six feet to want to be a jock—"
Her voice broke, and Rensslaer bent his head, and looked away—it struck her then that a man's silence is more decent, and worth more sometimes, than all a woman's sympathy, and talk, and kisses.
"Perhaps this will sicken him of the game," he said presently.
It might have enlightened him as to Gay's chances of happiness to know how at that very moment Chris, for the most part in bandages, was using almost his first conscious moments to have held up before his eyes by an unwilling nurse, his note-book of "fixtures" for the ensuing week, the while eagerly calculating his chances of being able to ride before the last day of the month, when steeplechasing ended.
Gay pulled herself together, but when Rensslaer spoke of her horses and their engagements, and the much-coveted Gold Vase, she felt that for the time being, at any rate, she hated anything to do with a race of any kind.
And yet it was no more than two days ago that she had told Carlton she would break her heart if it did not become hers, and he had by no means forgotten....
"You must let me drive you down to Waterloo Park," said Rensslaer, and then told her that on the Gold Vase day, he was for once entering a horse, and going to drive himself, though not in competition for the Vase.
Gay hardly heard him. She wanted to go to the telephone and get the latest news of Chris. The Professor, now taking some rest, was to go down to Epsom later in the day.
It was not without protest on the part of the Professor that Rensslaer drove Gay to Waterloo Park for the race for the Gold Vase, and when, punctually to the minute, the latter appeared in Connaught Square with the road wagon and pair with which he was subsequently to win first prize in the "Road Rig Appointment Class" at Olympia, an animated colloquy was going forward, in which Lossie Holden bore an animated part.
"You and Frank can come down by train if you like," said Gay defiantly, as through the window she saw the pair of almost thoroughbred-looking seal brown mares, no white, with long tails and manes. Then, with no more ado, she walked out, and took her place by Rensslaer's side.
Mamie H. and Nancy Clancy, each with a record "low down in the teens," were in the habit, whenever their heads were loosed, of going along at a 2.30 gait, and on the way down to the races they went together like one horse, without pulling or shying, or being afraid of motors, passing everything on the road drawn by horses, and making it lively even for the motors.
They were harnessed a little differently to what they are in the show ring, as instead of collars, (which are obligatory in a pair horse "road rig" class) they had breast or "Dutch" collars, such as are used in Vienna for pair horse racing, with the object of giving horses more freedom, also the reins were of the Viennese style, which, instead of coming together at the coupling, have single hand-pieces, continued double all the way, there being four reins in the hand instead of two.
Rensslaer explained that the breast collars have terrets only on the outside, so that the inside reins come back to the pad terrets, and give a more direct pull on the reins than if the horses wore collars, and Gay listened with all the eagerness of the novice, who has the luck to get from an expert "inside" knowledge of which the public—and even Carlton Mackrell—knew little.
Many murmurs of "There goes Rensslaer!" followed them on the road. Some of the men wondered who was the uncommonly pretty girl with him, others, again, recognised her as the somewhat remarkable Gay Lawless. She wished that the drive might last indefinitely, but all too soon it was over, the horses averaging sixteen miles an hour all the way down from Town to the course.
The scene when they arrived was pretty enough, and the attendance unusually good, as it was known that Rensslaer was driving—an extraordinary circumstance that had raised the hopes of the Trotting fraternity sky-high.
The race for the Gold Vase is a handicap in mile and a half heats, the entries, sixty, being divided into six heats with ten horses in each heat, with two semi-final heats for the twelve horses who have been first and second in these preliminary heats, and a final heat for the first and second horses in these semi-finals.
Gay's and Carlton Mackrell's horses were both at "scratch," but were drawn to start in different heats, the first heat being with Carlton Mackrell's horse scratch.
Ten horses were in this heat, the limit horse a raw-boned, uneven-gaited trotter, ridden by a small boy in shirt sleeves, who, the moment the pistol went off, bolted with the boy, and tried to jump the rails, but was brought back, and finished the heat last, amidst the jeers of the public.
Mackrell's horse trotted very fast and steadily, his toe weights flashing in the sun, and without a slip or waver, without any urging, overtook one horse after the other, had them all beaten before the last turn, and jogged the winner in twenty lengths in front. Time: 3 minutes 30 seconds.
As Gay's horse had never been able to do a trial for the distance faster than 3 minutes 36 seconds (all out), she felt very despondent, much to the delight of Lossie, who had arrived with the ruffled Professor in tow, and who hoped that Gay would get such a beating that day as to sicken her of the sport for the remainder of her life.
Rensslaer and Carlton vied with each other in their attention to, and care of, the downcast Gay, as they watched the next heat, in which none of their party had horses. A hobbled pacer was the limit horse, and bore the name of Birmingham Joe, although he looked a typical common American, and English horses are not pacers; he won, after a most desperate finish, by a short head in 3.36.
This horse, therefore, was equal to Gay's in speed, and with a start of 200 yards over hers, would have a great advantage if he got into the final, as he would not have to come through his horses, and although he seemed very stiff and old, such horses often improve in speed in later heats, if they are kept moving between heats. Most likely, said Rensslaer, he had a low record in the States about "the time of the flood," and might get some of that speed back when he got warmed up, and worked the stiffness out of his old legs.
Between the second and third heats there was a curious exhibition of the Guidless trotter, Gold Ring by Wild Brino, Mr. Wilkinson, the owner, leading the old stallion out with a surcingle, overhead check, and side reins, like a circus horse, then taking him fifty yards down the stretch, turned him to face the starter, and walked away, the horse standing like a statue.
At the report of the pistol he darted off on a strong trot, and not cutting the grass corners, but keeping fairly on the track, he trotted the full two laps for the miles in 2.24, mane and tail flying, finishing with a spurt at his top speed.
As he passed the wire the bell was rung, when he at once pulled up, turned slowly round, and jogged up to Mr. Wilkinson, who was waiting for him.
"Isn't thatpretty?" cried Gay warmly, and forgetting all her nervous fears as they went over to look at the big chestnut stallion, with very high action, that won the Richmond (Surrey) Horse Show Pace and Action Class some years ago.
"I have a good many young trotters by him," said Rensslaer quietly to Carlton; "he is so exceptionally well-shaped, and has a very low record."
The third heat was won easily by a pony with a long start, under saddle, in 3 minutes 42 seconds. (This pony got beaten in his semi-final.)
Between the third and fourth heats there was much excitement when Rensslaer drove Hettie C., the pacer (to establish a record for pacing mares for England on a half-mile track), in a Faber speed wagon. She was a thoroughbred-looking mare, but with rather a big head, dark chestnut, and he had two men out with galloping thorough-breds in jogging carts, one of whom stood his horse close to the outside of the track near the judge's stand, whilst the other cantered behind Hettie C. as she had a few preliminary brushes the wrong way of the track to open her pipes. She came out on a trot, and only got into her pace when she got beyond a 2.50 gait.
Hettie C. did not wear hobbles, or any of the rigging usually seen on the third-rate pacers usually imported into England, but only quarter and shin boots to protect her in case she stepped into an uneven bit of footing. She carried the lightest of racing plates, and a rubber bit and side check, and paced almost as upright as a trotter, with just a flip to her fetlocks, and knees and hocks stiff.
When she was ready, she came down for her flying start towards "Uncle," the galloper some four lengths behind her, but Rensslaer shook his head, and "Uncle" did not drop the flag (for this start was by flag, as the trial was on American lines), and Rensslaer gradually stopped the mare, and jogged back on a trot.
The second time the mare was going to his satisfaction, and he nodded for "Uncle" to drop the flag, and the trial had begun. The people had been asked to keep quiet, so as not to upset the mare, and nothing was heard but the "tapa, tapa" of the pacer's feet, and the "tip-a-tip, tip-a-tip" of the galloper.
They got to the quarter mile in 32 seconds, the galloper stretching out faster than a hunting gallop, but losing ground. Round the turn his driver hit him, and he did all he knew, closing up the gap, and getting to the mare's girths, the half being done in 1 minute 3 seconds. Here the second galloper joined in, and as they came to the third quarter, the first galloper was done, and dropped back, the second galloper taking his place alongside the mare. This quarter was done rather slower, in 32½ seconds, the time for the three quarters being 1 minute 35½ seconds, the mare beginning to tire on the heavy, sandy track.
Both drivers of the gallopers beginning to shout, the mare made a desperate spurt, and Rensslaer drove her out with the reins, not the whip, and she finished (with the second galloper head and head with her) in 31 seconds for the last quarter, making 2 minutes 6 seconds, far and away the best record for England. The first galloper cantered in behind, quite done.
There was great applause at this, the most sensational feature (so far) of the day, and then came the fourth heat—the heat where Gay's horse was in at scratch.
Her driver, a very good English one, manœuvred very well for a start, and got off well, the horse in front of him starting badly, so that he got clear of him at once, and sailed after the leaders, one of which, a very small pony with a very long lead, went zigzagging all over the track, so that every time he tried to pass it, the pony got in his way. Finally, however, when the pair of them were in the lead, it got into a bad break, and galloped under the wire, neck and neck with Gay's horse (of course being disqualified), the latter winning the heat in 3 minutes 40 seconds.
Gay's horse could have done the heat faster if he had not been so interfered with by the pony, but this interference had taken a lot out of him, and he seemed rather tired after the heat, and cooled out badly.
The sixth heat was won by two lengths (of course no horse of her party was in this) in 2.40 by "Our Tom" rather easily, and the winner therefore looked capable of going faster in the finals (this was the Trotter in the final heat).
Mackrell's horse was in the first semi-final heat, but not Gay's. Mackrell got a wonderfully quick start, and got very soon up to the leader, did not pass him, but kept just behind till they came into the stretch, and then passed him, and won in a jog by a length in 3.35.
Although he had won by only a length, so as to not expose his horse's speed too much, he had won so easily, that when the betting on the final came, he was the favourite at almost any price, as he seemed to be an absolute certainty.
Now came the second semi-final, Gay's horse at scratch. He got a very bad start, being half turned round when Uncle "loosed off," and he had a hard struggle to get up to the horse in front of him. As he did so, he and that horse got up to the one in front of them (who had made a standstill break), and Gay's horse being in the middle, his sulky got crushed between the other two, and though he drew in front, it was seen that his near tyre, the one on the outside of the turn, had come off.
Gay drew in her breath sharply, but Rensslaer soon reassured her, for with luck and a clever driver all was not yet lost.
The tyre had got jammed up in the axle fork, and also the wheel, which could not revolve in consequence, and dragged along the ground, but by trotting his hardest, the horse still kept gaining on the leader, although the wooden rim of the wheel got worn through by the friction on the track. As the horses came round the final turn, Gay's horse got level with the leader, and after a desperate drive won, the wheel just holding till the wire was passed, when collapsing, the sulky turned over.
As it did so, the driver, seizing hold of the harness with his left hand just above the crupper, lifted himself forward, and putting his right hand on to the pad, vaulted on to the horse's back, and stopped him.
Time: 3 minutes 37 seconds.
When the driver returned to the paddock, he was cheered by the crowd for his pluck and skill, but Gay's horse was very exhausted, and all of a shake, as the stuck wheel made a terrible handicap on him in the race, he had also slightly cut his near hind fetlock with the broken wire spokes.
The betting, which originally had been on Gay's horse, now, as I said above, had veered round to Mackrell's; in fact the race was considered as good as over.
When the time came for harnessing for the final, Rensslaer, who had been looking after Gay's horse all the time, and found him in a very bad state, went as a final desperate remedy to the refreshment bar, bought a bottle of their best champagne, and at the risk of its being considered doping, he drenched the horse with the liquor. The effect in a few minutes was very marked; the horse brightened up, and seemed almost himself again.
But the trouble was by no means over. In the bar Rensslaer presently found, to his horror, that the driver of Gay's horse had been given drinks to celebrate his plucky driving with the broken wheel, so often, that the man was already dead-drunk, and of no earthly use to drive.
Rapidly seeking out Gay, and drawing her aside, Rensslaer briefly told her the state of affairs, and offered to drive for her, but like lightning she leaped to the longed-for opportunity, and whispered that if he would lend her his Faber speed wagon (in which he drove Hettie C. in her trial pace against time earlier in the day) she would drive the race herself.
Gay's horse was therefore harnessed to the speed wagon; she took her place in it, and Rensslaer tucked her well in with a light rug.
But all this took time. The moment of the start for the final was long past; in fact a stout young man had been shouting "Get on your marks," in a voice like a bull for some time, when suddenly Gay appeared on the track behind her horse, and after a moment's stupefied silence, a deafening cheer rang out, succeeded by another, and another.
There was no time to warm up the horse; she had to trot down fast to her mark, overshot it some forty yards, and swung her horse round in a hurry, spurting to get up to her mark, as she saw "Uncle's" back with upraised pistol.
It was fortunate she did so, as at that moment the pistol went off, and she was at top speed on to her mark as the pistol was fired, Mackrell's horse being at a standstill at the same mark (they were both scratch mark horses, you may remember), she having the outside position.
Mackrell's horse was into his stride in a moment, however; Gay and Mac raced side by side after the leaders. There were, of course, only four horses in this final, one of the leaders being the old ex-American hobbled pacer, Birmingham Joe, who had 200 yards' start of Gay and Mac, the fourth horse being the trotter Our Tom, with 150 yards' start.
Gay's and Mackrell's horses trotted side by side like a pair, rapidly overtaking the two leaders, but Gay could see out of the corner of her eye that Mackrell was holding his horse, and could at any time draw clear of her if he liked.
At the turn he pulled slightly back, and let her take the inside, and there came an ominous jeer from the spectators when they saw him giving way, instead of keeping the advantage he had gained. The moment, however, they were round the turn, he drew up level again on the outside, when suddenly his horse made a most disastrous break (a horse noted for never breaking), and every time Mac tried to catch him, he went off into a worse break, till finally he cantered in a long way last, the horse refusing to trot.
Gay, of course, saw nothing of this, she only knew that Mackrell's horse had suddenly fallen back, and that she was gaining hand over hand on the trotter Our Tom in front. She passed him as she went round the track the second time, and calling on her horse, she saw him stretch out his neck still further, and lower himself till he seemed inches lower than his proper height, whilst he began to sway his head slightly from side to side, as he reached his utmost in each stroke.
She swept round the last turn but one at such speed that she found she must keep her eyes fixed on her horse's ears, as the least glance to the side made her feel giddy, and as if she would lose her balance, and now she got up with the pacer in the hack stretch, who was wobbling along in the regular third-rate pacer style, instead of moving almost as upright as a trotter, as Hettie C. the pacer did earlier in the day.
A really perfect-gaited pacer has very little roll in its gait, and if seen from the side could not be distinguished from a trotter except by an expert, but poor old Birmingham Joe was labouring along like a channel boat in a south-wester, and his hobbles were singing from the strain like an æolian harp. It was this strain, and the fact that poor old Birmingham Joe's master hadeverythingold (including the horse), which won Gay the race.
The sulky was an old heavy metal one, made in England years ago, the hobbles had been patched and mended till little of the original hobbles remained, and as the two horses came neck and neck (Gay on the outside) round the last turn, the æolian sound of the hobbles changed to a sudden rending crash, and old Birmingham Joe turned a complete somersault, pitching his driver over his head, and landing on top of him, the hobbles having broken.
Gay jogged in a winner in 3.35, a second faster than her horse had ever trotted before, and whilst the driver of Birmingham Joe was carried in on a stretcher with a broken leg, Mackrell finished on a canter last of all, amidst the yells of his backers, that alternated with loud cheers for Gay Lawless.
In these cheers neither Lossie nor the Professor joined. They had not understood what Rensslaer meant when he had suddenly appeared beside them, and hurried Gay away. They had hardly understood what it meant when after a considerable delay (for they were at some distance from the stables) they had seen a woman's shape in a Faber, driving rapidly towards the track, and when in the first round Gay had swept by close to them, looking extraordinarily pretty and determined, her little feet planted firmly on the rail before her, eyes wide with excitement and courage, the Professor had all but fallen down in a fit, while Lossie rejoiced—even Carlton Mackrell's affection could hardly survive that.
On all sides kodaks had flashed; indeed in the event, nearly every illustrated paper made a scandalous feature of a sight common enough in Vienna. Min Toplady alone of the women clapped her hands, and cheered at the top of her voice; but the excitement now over, Gay herself felt shaky, and more than half inclined to burst into tears.
Even the presentation to her of the Gold Vase was by no means the ecstacy she had expected. It was by a desperate effort that she held her head up, spoke her thanks, smiled, and marched away with Rensslaer, who tucked the Vase under his arm as if used to such ridiculous impedimenta, and took her straight to her brother, followed by the cheers of the lookers-on, in which a nice ear might detect a certain note of familiarity. Possibly she detected it, but was quite unaware that Carlton was about having a very bad quarter of an hour, called as he had been before the Stewards, for an explanation of his extraordinary driving.
He declared that his horse lost a toe weight at the first turn, which caused him to break, and he could not, or would not settle afterwards, and when the horse was examined, it was seen that the near toe weight was missing.
While the discussion was still going on, one of the distance judges brought in the toe weight, and also the screw which held it, but instead of the screw being broken, or the threads worn, it was seen that the screw had only a head, and very short shank, and that the latter showed marks of its having quite recently had the end of the screw shank filed off, so that there was only a head, and a little bit of shank.
The blacksmith who was employed at the trotting track said that Mackrell borrowed a file of him before the final heat, and being curious as to what he wanted it for, he followed him at a distance, and saw him filing something behind a tree, after which he went to screw on his horse's toe weights.
The blacksmith went behind the tree and picked up the half of a screw (the point end), which he produced, and it corresponded to the screw which Mac's horse had lost with his toe weight.
Result—expelled from ever driving in the Clubhouse, and outlawed forever.
Mackrell bowed, and withdrew with perfectsang-froid. He had pulled off what he intended, and if Gay had been made happy by getting what she wanted, he did not in the least grudge the price he had paid. But when he joined, or rather intercepted, her on the way to the gates, he found a pale, almost tearful Gay, and one glance at the Professor's and Lossie's faces convinced him that they had been baiting her cruelly, in spite of Rensslaer, who cool and imperturbable as ever, walked beside her.
"Hearty congratulations, Gay!" Mackrell cried, taking her hand. "It was the best done, pluckiest thing I ever saw in my life, and the Gold Vase is yours."
Gay controlled her voice to thank him, but Rensslaer shot a quick glance at the other's face—he had, of course, seen Mackrell's game from the first, and was also aware of that summons to the Stewards' room, to which there could only be one issue.
"I am astonished," said the Professor in quavery tones, "astonished and shocked at your congratulating my sister on the disgraceful, unwomanly exhibition she has just made of herself, and for which I am to blame, in not having put my foot down on this degrading sport from the first."
"Oh! put it down," said Carlton, who looked very handsome and determined, "and keep it there if you like.I'mgoing to take Gay home, and the quieter she is kept the better"—he turned on Lossie Holden a glance beneath which she quailed—"so you can travel back as you came, with the Professor."
He put Gay as he spoke into a waiting carriage, seated himself beside her, and drove off, Rensslaer having handed to Gay her coveted trophy.
"I believe," said the Professor, "that the indecency on wheels in which my unfortunate sister drove was your property, Mr. Rensslaer, and as she could not possibly have used it without your consent, I imagine it was at your suggestion she did so."
"You're right there," said Rensslaer encouragingly, "and I'm proud to know my Faber's been of use to the nicest, pluckiest girl, bar none, I've seen in England."
"Anyway," cried the Professor, trembling with rage, "I shall make it my business to see that she has no opportunity of disgracing herself and me again," and seizing Lossie's arm, he hurried her away.
If God sends friends, the devil sends collaterals, for the former, in addition to their superior good qualities, at least have the civility to knock at your door, the latter walk straight in to torment you at their pleasure, and Carlton had hardly left the house when Lossie appeared, furious at the determined way he had carried Gay off, and more furious still at the rebuke he had administered to herself.
"You've done it now, Gay," she said spitefully. "Frank's raving mad—how I got him to town, I don't know."
"Let him rave," said Gay coolly, holding one little foot to the fire. Her eyes still sparkled, a lovely colour was in her cheeks, on a table near glittered the coveted Gold Vase, and though her arms ached horribly from the late strain on them, she cared no more for the ache than for Lossie's acrimonious reproaches.
"Toes turned out, first position," said Lossie, watching Gay's face cruelly. "It was something to be thankful for, I suppose, that your feet weren't further apart than they were!"
Gay flushed.
She had thought only of bracing her toes hard against the foot-rests, not at all of how they looked.Hadshe looked immodest after all?
"Lucky you had no feathers in your hat," said Lossie with a sneer, and at that injustice to her invariably neat racing garb, Gay rebelled indignantly.
"Did youeversee me befeathered on a race-course?" she said contemptuously, but Lossie shrugged her shoulders.
"It looks as if you'd dressed for the part, and went down with the full intention of playing it," she said. "That rug, too, outlining you like a sheath—thatwas ready also, strange to say!"
"It was Mr. Rensslaer's," said Gay. "I suppose it wasmyfault that my driver got drunk, and someone had to be found at the last moment to take his place?"
"Mr. Rensslaer could have taken it, and would have done, if you'd let him—" And as this was true, Gay had no answer ready on that point.
"Anyway, I won it," she said, and tossed her pretty head, "that's the main thing."
"Because Carlton Mackrell let you," said Lossie. "Didn't you hear the crowd howling at him when he gave you the inside place? Or so a man told me who was watching the race through his glasses. Hark!"
Through the window came the yell of a newsboy in the street:
"Well-known owner of Trotters expelled for unfair driving at Waterloo Park to-day!"
Lossie ran out of the room and downstairs, while Gay, her heart beating wildly, and very pale, felt her triumph turned to sawdust between her teeth.
Carlton's horse was a far better one than hers ... Rensslaer had told her so ... he knew how to drive, she did not.
"Here it is," cried Lossie, returning. Unfolding the sheet at the latest news, she read aloud a brief paragraph announcing that Mr. Carlton Mackrell had been expelled from the Clubhouse, and barred from ever driving again, for tampering with his horse's toe weights in the race for the Gold Vase, won by Miss Gay Lawless.
And he had not said one word to her of this. Oh! what had she done? For a whim, and in pure hot-headedness, she had taken up a sport suitable for men only, made herself notorious, inflicted pain on her brother and Chris, and, finally, made a man who loved her submit to disgrace, and deprivation of his favourite amusement, rather than she should be disappointed of a silly Gold Vase! Did Rensslaer know—had heseenit, and made no sign?
"Poor Mackrell!" she said, then dried her tears, as she would not have done had he or Chris, or Rensslaer been present. At that moment the distracted Professor came into the room, and Gay, with an impulse of pity, went up, and laid her hand on his arm.
"My driver was drunk, Frank," she said, "and it had to be decided all in a moment. It didn't seem to me wrong at all then—and even now I'm not sure that it was—it's Carlton Mackrell I'm worrying about—" then went away, and locked herself into her room.
She was very quiet when she got there, poor Gay, sitting on the side of her bed, with all the triumph of a few hours ago fizzled out. A debt of honour came before all others, and this was one of them.... Gay's heart was generous enough to realise that surely Carlton had never meant her to know, never meant to be found out, but he had bungled at his tricky work, as honest men will, and he meant her to have that Gold Vase, and she had got it—for what it was worth.
Suddenly the ugly, the sordid side of this sport she had taken up so recklessly, showed to Gay. She seemed to see the man carried away with his broken leg—yes, there were accidents at Trotting as well as at Chris's game—and the clamorous desire to win something, money or a bit of plate, or the success that is notoriety, took on its true colours—something loud, common, of no value to a woman of taste, whose true kingdom was her home.
She had all along fought her love for Chris because of the danger, the unhealthy excitement of his life, and deliberately she had emulated it, and was now tasting the bitter fruit of disillusionment, of disgust. It struck her then, as it has done so many others, that it is doing the things that we want to do, not those that we ought, that we mostly come to our ruin.
* * * * * *
Chris Hannen, speeding slowly towards a perfect recovery, had succeeded in turning out his nurses, and Mrs. Summers, to her great joy, was now his sole attendant. Promoted to a sofa, he had opened eagerly the last evening special to see if Gay had won the Gold Vase, only to be confronted with a piquante description of her as she had appeared when seated in the Faber, looking as a man would prefer almost any other woman than his sweetheart or sister to look, as she steered her horse to victory.
He winced as he read, and when he came to Carlton Mackrell's summary expulsion, and the reason, his heart sank, for now Gay would consider herself bound in honour to reward the man who had not hesitated to disgrace himself, so that she might possess the toy after which she had so often hankered in his hearing.
Chris had always hated Gay's going in for Trotting, and yet, was he himself any better—risking his life for excitement, wringing Gay's heart? Why not be asportsman?—ride for pleasure, not gain, though to be sure it was pleasure, and to spare to him!
"Serves Mackrell jolly well right for being kicked out," he growled, and did not pity him a bit—but Gay would, and there was the rub.
Rensslaer, too, had behaved badly. He was a much older man; he was under no illusions as to the status of the sport in England, yet he accompanied her to meetings—would probably go on doing so now that Mackrell was barred from the Trotting course.
Chris's meditations made him so feverish, and brought out such a hectic flush on his cheeks, that Mrs. Summers was seriously alarmed when presently she arranged his dinner on the invalid table slung before him. But looking shrewdly about for the cause, she caught sight of the paper on his knee, and though they had never exchanged a word on the subject, Mrs. Summers knew well enough what place Gay held in his heart, and that the young lady was racing her horse for the Gold Vase that day.
"Has Miss Gay won, Mr. Chris?" she inquired, and he nodded, but did not pursue the subject. Evidently, he thought, Gay had been carried away by audacity and high spirits, for of course he did not know of the driver's mistimed conviviality that had given the girl her longed-for opportunity. And now they were baiting her, no doubt, that spiteful Lossie, and the hysterical Professor, and he not able to stand by her—she wanted someone badly...
For a minute or two he racked his brains, then suddenly remembered Min Toplady, and leaving his dinner untouched, he turned to the telephone within reach, and picking up the book, found to his great relief her husband's number.
He was lucky enough to get on quickly, and to his "Are you there?" it was Min's cheery voice that responded.
"Yes—it's Chris Hannen. I want you to go at once to Miss Gay, she has had a trying day—no, you needn't say I sent you—only that you wanted to congratulate her on her success—you will go? Thanks—yes—she did it splendidly, you say? Never saw anything prettier? Rotten shame about Mr. Mackrell—something must be done—yes—you're going at once—good—'phone me to-night how she is, if possible—yes—good-bye."
He replaced the receiver, and returned to his half-cold dinner with more appetite than he had begun it. Min Toplady was a doughty champion, capable of routing Lossie or the Professor with great slaughter, and Chris grinned to himself as he imagined the passages-at-arms likely to occur.
Anyway, Gay would not stand alone, and with her own courage, and such a powerful backer, ought to pull through with honour.
His spirits rose. Mrs. Summers, coming and going, was delighted to find him in such good fettle; she thought Miss Gay's success in winning the Gold Vase had something to do with it, and though privately a little shocked at the young lady's sporting tastes, she was glad of anything that did her young master good.
But when she had left him, with his cigarette-case at his elbow, he got restless again; the quiet room, in which he had lived so much lately, got on his nerves, and a profound depression stole over him. He longed for someone to talk with; if he had not been such a confounded way from town, he would have called up one of his club friends, and got from him the popular opinion of the day's events at Waterloo Park.
Most of all, he would have liked to see Carlton Mackrell, and as if the thought had summoned him, the door quietly opened, and that gentleman, announced by Mrs. Summers, walked into the room.
"The very man I wanted to see," cried Chris as they shook hands. "You'll have some dinner? Mrs. Summers won't keep you waiting long."
Mackrell shook his head.
"I had all I want in town," he said, sitting down opposite Chris. He look tired and ill; it is always easier for a dark man to look out of sorts than a fair one, and in spite of all that he had lately suffered, Chris had the advantage of the other at that moment.
"It's a rotten game, Trotting," said Carlton abruptly, "and I'm more than sorry I ever encouraged Miss Gay to go in for it. But she has won her Gold Vase, and now I hope she'll chuck the whole thing, especially"—he smiled—"as I'm chucked."
Chris looked into the fire,
"When you think of the practices that go on at the game," said Mackrell, "how a man will win a race with a certain horse, then fake him, change his name, and enter him for another race under a different name, and that the Stewards spend half their time investigating 'shady cases,' it's almost an honour to be fired out—at least, I know Rensslaer would think so."
Chris was still silent, staring into the fire.
"Can't you speak, man?" cried Mackrell irritably.
"You have laid Miss Gay under an obligation," said Chris quietly. "She is the soul of honour—as you well know—and she will pay it to the last penny. She gets her Gold Vase—yes, but you have played to get what is worth a million gold vases—herself."
Mackrell uttered an exclamation of anger and half rose, but Chris went on unmoved with what he had to say.
"Has it struck you that we are both rotters—both utterly selfish in our aims and pursuits—that neither of us is good enough for that dear little girl—that Rensslaer is a far finer sportsman, and better all-round man than either of us? He is doing real good with his breeding stables, and improvement of the breed of horses—he pursues a definite aim that the State should be grateful for—thatisappreciated by almost every country but England—but what good are you and I doing? Miss Gay hates my profession as jockey—its danger, its excitement, its more or less unhealthy surroundings—yet I persist in following it, and when I come to grief, inflict pain on her.... And you, Mackrell, who lightly infect her with your own love for Trotting, who are mainly responsible for her taking up a rôle that few men would permit in a sister, are you much better than I am? You wanted her company, and you got it—and, as usual, it's the woman who has to pay."
"Damn it, man," burst out Mackrell fiercely, "you make me out a scoundrel, who offers a farthing doll as a bribe to get possession of a great treasure, but you're wrong, utterly wrong. Unless Miss Gay sends for me, I shall not go near her—"
"And she will send," said Chris grimly. Too late he now remembered that Min Toplady was with Carlton's suit heart and soul, and much too clever not to make ample use to-night of the opportunity given her by the day's events.
Mackrell looked up, his face suddenly grown old and lined.
"I came to you for bread, and you've given me a stone," he said. "You make it impossible for me to ask Miss Gay to be my wife—and you know it."
"I think you did wrong to cheat, so that she might win what was practically valueless," said Chris quietly. "I repeat that you had no right to lay her under such an enormous obligation."
"I did not expect to be bowled out," said Mackrell sullenly. "Her dearest wish was to win the Vase—it was my earnest desire that she should do so—my thoughts went no further than that. If that infernal chap hadn't followed me, Miss Gay would have believed she had won on her horse's merits, for you may be sure I should never have undeceived her."
Chris silently held out his hand, and Mackrell, after a moment's hesitation, took it.
"Can nothing be done?" said Chris. "It's preposterous that you are to be made an example of like this! Have you seen Rensslaer?"
"No. I took Gay back to town—of course she did not know about me. Heavens! I expect they're tearing her to pieces at Connaught Square. It's on her account I'm here—I thought she might have 'phoned to you—told you how she was."
"No, but I expect to hear presently. I've sent Min Toplady to her."
"Good old Min!" exclaimed Mackrell. "I'm sorry for anyone who attempts to bully Miss Gay inherpresence."
Chris laughed.
"Have a drink, old man, and buck up," he said. "Unless I'm much mistaken, Miss Gay drove her first and last race to-day, and her horses will be "scratched" without delay. It wouldn't trouble me much if mine were," he added gloomily, "for I have no luck."
The telephone bell rang.
"Yes—yes—are you there? It's all right, Mr. Chris, Miss Lossie is gone—I've rated the Professor, and put Miss Gay to bed. There's been a lot of fur and feathers flying ...thatMiss Lossie. I 'phoned Mr. Mackrell at his club, but he wasn't there. Miss Gay wanted him to call to-morrow morning first thing after breakfast—"
"Here," said Chris, and held out the receiver to Carlton.
"Oh! it's you, Mr. Mackrell, that's all right—yes, I'll 'phone Miss Gay in the morning that you're coming. What ... you can't ... you're going to Paris! Miss Gay sent her love to Mr. Chris. Good-night."
* * * * * *
Gay had made no reply to the frequent and irritating knocks on her door, but soon after eight had struck, a welcome voice issuing from the keyhole made her jump up, and promptly turn the key.
"My lamb," cried Min Toplady, folding her in a motherly embrace, and Gay, clinging to her, cried her heart out, and was comforted and made comfortable, and presently, with the blinds pulled down, a wood fire lit, and a dinner tray placed before her that the cook had carefully prepared, Gay was able to laugh at herself, and even enjoy Min's unconcealed delight at the brilliant style in which she had won her race that day.
"Never saw you more bewitching," cried Min, "and the dress and attitude were modest enough, it was only the idea of the thing, that prudes might call indelicate. Toplady says all the men were wild about you, for of course they knew about your driver being squiffy, and thought it the gamest thing out, your driving yourself. Of course," added Min, "your horse wasn't half good enough for you, my dear, or even as good as Mr. Carlton's—"
"Oh, Min!" cried Gay, "Mr. Mackrell has ruined himself that I might win that wretched Gold Vase!"
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Min stoutly. "His toe weights were all right, and as to what that rascal swore to, there's not a word of truth in it. Why, one of that lot would sell his own soul for a shilling, and tell any lie for sixpence. Not but what he wanted you to win, Miss Gay, for he worships every hair of your head, but he was getting tired of the game, and ain't sorry to quit it. And, my lamb," went on Min tenderly, "you've had your bit of fun, and you've won what you wanted, and if I were you I'd leave it at that, now Mr. Mackrell won't be here to make things pleasant for you."
"Oh, Min," cried Gay sadly, "you also! Everyone is against me—even Mr. Hannen. He must have seen the papers to-night—whatwillhe say?"
"It was Mr. Chris who asked me to come up and see you," said Min reluctantly, for Carlton Mackrell's chances with Gay had never seemed to her better than now, if he only followed them up quickly.
Tears sprang to Gay's eyes at this evidence of Chris's thought for her, and an intense longing to see, and speak with him, seized her. She had begged the Professor to take her on one of his frequent visits to Epsom, but he had always refused, very unkindly, as Gay thought.
"Did he think I was in trouble, then?" she said, and blushed.
"He knew Mr. Mackrell's being warned off would upset you, I expect," said Min, "also," she added with a sniff, "he may have thought Mr. Frank andthatMiss Lossie would be getting at you, and you wanted protection."
At that moment a knock came at the door, and a servant appeared with a message from the Professor, requesting Mrs. Toplady to give him a few minutes' conversation in his study. With an ominous flounce, and toss of the head, but a reassuring squeeze of the hand to Gay, Min descended, full of fight, to find, as she expected, Lossie lounging by the fireplace.
"Good-evening, Mr. Frank," said Min beamingly. "I'm paying you a return visit, you see. Hope you got home all right that time?"
The Professor squirmed, and pushed forward a chair, upon which Min settled her ample person, then, affecting to see Lossie for the first time, remarked in a tone of lofty rebuke:
"You shouldn't sit moping so near the fire, Miss Holden—it makes your nose red—for you're no chicken, and it's sinful to spoil your chances of a husband like that! Now Miss Gay, with her outdoor life and sports, will never grow old, or want for lovers, bless her!"
"It's just about these sports that I wanted to speak to you, Min," said the Professor with nervous haste. "The—ah—shocking exhibition my sister made of herself to-day—"
"Wonderful driving for a beginner—won-der-ful!" said Min admiringly. "Did you ever hear such cheering? Trotting 'ud soon look up if you could get half-a-dozen Miss Gays to drive their own horses."
"I don't believe that out of all England you'd find one other such immodest girl as my cousin," said Lossie, "or one family that would permit her to do what she did to-day."
"How could I stop her?" cried the Professor irascibly. "I nearly had a fit when she appeared on the track."
"You could have stopped it at the beginning," said Lossie sharply, "before she had ruined Carlton Mackrell's career, and made of herself a public scandal."
"It must be a comfort to you, Miss Lossie," said Min silkily, "thatyouhadn't enough influence with Mr. Mackrell to make him do anything wrong. He just worships Miss Gay, and when he found she had set her heart on the Gold Vase, why, he took care that she should get it, like the true lover that he is!"
"This woman has always been a bad influence with Gay," Lossie said furiously to Frank, "and they make a combination that will be too strong for you, if you don't look out."
"I came here to talk to Mr. Frank, not you," said Min equably. "My motto is, 'let every tub stand on its own bottom,' and if I were you, I'd try and get some beaux of my own, and not be always grabbing at Miss Gay's."
"Insolent woman!" cried Lossie, with flashing eyes, but Min merely nodded in a maddening way, and said:
"You always hated Miss Gay because all the men loved her—what one man likes, the rest mostly do, and perhaps if you could have got hold ofone, Miss Lossie, others might have come along too. At present it looks as if you'll have to put up with poor Mr. Frank after all, for you can't live without plenty of money!"
Having produced her effect, if the Professor's terror-struck face were to be trusted, Min proceeded to the discussion of the matter really in hand.
"You want Miss Gay to give up Trotting," she said, addressing Frank quietly, "and now she hasn't Mr. Mackrell to help her, I think perhaps she'll be willing. But if you bully her, Mr. Frank, she'll go on with it just to defy you, for Miss Gay has got a temper and a will of her own, for all that she's the sweetest, and best, and prettiest little lady in the world."
"What do you advise?" said the Professor quaveringly, for Min's reckless unveiling of Lossie's secret intentions towards himself (failing anyone else) had half-frightened him out of his senses.
"I advise you to let her alone, Mr. Frank," said Min, "and make that poke-nose"—she pointed an accusing finger at Lossie—"stop at home, and not come here meddling and interfering, for if Miss Gay wants advice, Mr. Rensslaer'll be the one to give it, and settle what's to be done about her horses. And now, Mr. Frank, I'll say good-night, as I'm going to put my lamb to bed, and if you want me at any time, why, you know where to find me, and any hospitality Toplady and me can show you, (one eye closed in an almost imperceptible wink) we'll be proud and happy, I'm sure."
"Good-bye, Min," said Frank hurriedly, as he opened the door for her to go upstairs, then skipping out with her, closed it behind him—and ran.
Min stood, shaking with laughter, as in the distance she heard the laboratory door shut, and the key turned.
Those who thought they knew their Gay, and that she was humbled, penitent, and willing to amend her "trotting" ways, speedily found themselves mistaken on this point, and the first to whom she gave a taste of her quality was the unhappy Professor, who entered the breakfast-room next day, gibbering, and extending towards her an illustrated morning paper.
Gay took it calmly from his hand, but a flush of anger rose to her cheek as she saw that, whether from spite or ignorance, the artist had maliciously altered the position of her feet, a pose emphasised by the devil-may-care look in the pretty, saucy face turned impudently over her shoulder.
"Somebody who doesn't like me, evidently," said Gay, sitting down at the head of the table, and commencing to pour out coffee. "Wonder if it's anyone Lossie knows?"
"Hardened! Shameless!" sputtered the Professor, walking to and fro and wringing his hands. Gay felt glad Chris was not there, as he used to get behind the Professor, and wringhisin imitation, convulsing her.
"I insist on it," cried her brother, "that you wire your trainer instantly to 'scratch'—I believe that is the expression—your horses for all future meetings, and I will take you abroad till this shocking scandal is forgotten. Why, even there, we shan't be safe, for you will be lampooned on the boulevards—an English lady driving like a stable-boy—in a man's attitude"—his voice rose to a shriek as Gay walked to the chafing-dishes on the sideboard, and helped herself to bacon.
"Shouldn't wonder if I get mentioned as a 'horrible example' from a pulpit or two," she said placidly, "and probably there will be several fancy sketches of me drivingreallylike a boy—in one of those old-fashioned sulkies where you can't even see your horse's head, and have to guide him by faith and a double squint. Have some kidneys, Heron? They're awfully good."
But the angry Professor waved away the proffered delicacy, and resumed his wind-mill antics up and down the room, thereby getting on Gay's nerves.
"Look here, Heron," she said quietly, "it may save trouble if you will just grasp the fact that my horses will not be withdrawn, that their engagementswillbe fulfilled, and that I shall be present atallthe meetings, and if you don't care to chaperon me, I'll find someone who will."
"Lossie won't!" screamed the Professor, now almost beside himself at this flat rebellion, "nor Mrs. Bulteel either! You've never been able to persuade her to set foot on a Trotting course—even if she were willing, Tom Bulteel wouldn't let her!"
It was true, and Gay thought it horrid of Effie; then her soft little face hardened, and she shot her bolt.
"Then I'll go under Min Toplady's protection," she said. "I can make her do anything I like—andsheshall take me—and jolly good times we shall have, too!"
"Good God!" cried the Professor, "my sister—mysistergoing to Meetings with public-house ladies in public-house traps"—he forgot that he had once censured Lossie for thus speaking of Gay's old nurse.
Gay nodded emphatically.
"I shall stay at the 'Trotting Nag' altogether, if you're going on as you are now," she said. "Lossie can come and keep house for you—no one could say anything on the score of propriety, you know," she added, with as much malice as her sweet temper permitted, "for she is a relation!"
The Professor shuddered. He had not yet got over the shock Min Toplady's remarks about Lossie had given him overnight. What would become of his specimens, his microscopic work, ofhim, if pitchforked into matrimony?
Lossie was a deuced pretty woman, of course, but she had a horrid temper, and original as Gay was, his natural selfishness, and sure male instinct, told him he was safer with the latter than the former.
"Well, well," he said, and sat down dejectedly. "A wilful man will have his way, they say, and now that my feminine little sister has taken up with a man's life and sports, I suppose she'll, like him, haveherway, no matter who pays."
"Heron!" exclaimed Gay, suddenly contrite, and got up, and went round to him. For a moment she did not speak, and it struck her that she had shed more tears, felt more "sloppy," since she started Trotting, than in all the years of her life before—yes, and apparently done more mischief to others.
"Don't you see, Frank, that if I don't face the music, if I seem ashamed of all this hateful publicity—for itishateful—I shall only be a coward, and make things worse? I don't promise that I'll give up Trotting, but probably I may—with poor Carlton warned off, I don't expect to take much pleasure in it again. And now, Frank"—she kissed him, and smoothed his hair—"you've got to eat your breakfast, and forget about all this for the present."
She helped him to kidneys, and rang, for fresh coffee. Presently, comforted against his will, Frank stole a glance at Gay, who seemed deep in thought, and indeed with one lover outlawed from his favourite sport, and the other absent, prevented for the time being, from following a dangerous profession that Gay hated, she felt at that moment very friendless indeed.
If Mr. Rensslaer would only weigh in, and race Trotters himself, she thought, but he wouldn't, and then she got up, fetched her little basket of keys, and waving her hand to Heron, set out on her usual morning tour of housekeeping.
The Professor waited till she had gone, then deliberately kicked the offending newspaper round the room (all men of science are childish), and departed, well-pleased with himself, to his study. Inflating his pigeon-chest, he said to himself that Gay was a dear little thing, if misguided—and after all she hadhimto stand by her. The escapade of yesterday would probably do no more than make a nine days' talk, then blow over, and when she married Chris, as the Professor had always felt sure she intended to do ultimately, she would be just a domesticated girl, with all this racing rubbish knocked clean out of her head.
At eleven o'clock, Rensslaer was announced, and Gay rose eagerly to meet him, for he might be able to give her news of Carlton, from whom she had heard nothing, and she put the question without loss of time.
"Well," said Rensslaer, "it struck me as ironic that one of the few men who had conferred distinction on the sport of Trotting in England, should be expelled the Club, when so many undesirables remain to disgrace it, so I looked in at St. James's Place just now to tell him so."
Gay opened her lips to ask how he looked, then checked herself, but in reality Carlton was not in the least disgraced. Everyone knew how he had lost a race purposely that a pretty girl might win it, but hedidblame himself for encouraging Gay in her fad, and still more for the weakness that had at all costs determined her girlish wish for the Gold Vase should be gratified.
He had done her as ill a turn as a man can do the woman he loves, but he felt justly, that Rensslaer was to blame for the scandal of Gay's driving herself, that the latter should have dissuaded her, and taken Brusher's place, and had not hesitated to tell him so when he appeared.
"We had a talk over his plans for the future," said Rensslaer, "and I strongly advised him to race his horses in Vienna and Paris, and offered him every assistance should he decide to do so. But he didn't seem keen on it—promised to think it over, and let me know. Said he was taking a short run abroad for the present—would probably do a cure at Aix."
A look of keen relief crossed Gay's face, and at that moment a servant entered with an express letter. While Gay, asking permission from Rensslaer, read it, he thought how almost incredible was the amount of wicked, even dishonest, things that a dear, pretty little girl, honest as the day, could make a man do, and how ungrateful she could prove herself for his doing them.
"Will she feel bound to reward him, I wonder? Will he expect it?" he thought.
Yet with William Blake, Rensslaer knew that
"He who bends to himself a joy,Does the wingéd life destroy,But he who kisses the joy as it fliesLives in eternity's sunrise."
"For it's that Hannen boy she loves, and he her. I've watched her face—still, as he won't promise not to steeplechase, and she won't marry him if he doesn't, I don't see what's going to happen."
"You're quite right," she said, "Mr. Mackrell is off to-day, and will not have time to call here before he starts. I told my brother this morning that my horses will keep the engagements for which they are entered, but after that—" She hesitated, and looked at him anxiously.
"After that, Miss Gay," he said gravely, "don't enter them for any more. It's not a woman's game—at least, for one so womanly as you are—and you'll never do any good at it over here."
"Aren't those snapshots and sketches of me horrible?" said Gay in a whisper. "I'm looking forward with terror to the illustrated weeklies."
"It was a plucky idea, pluckily carried out," he said, "though Mackrell didn't mince his words to me just now—told me I ought to have prevented you and done the driving myself. But I don't think"—he smiled whimsically—"anything short offorce majeurewould have stopped you."
"Not even the devil," cried Gay, with sparkling eyes. "I sin with my eyes wide open, and I'd do it again this very minute."
"Why not?" he said equably. "As I said before, you must come over and drive for me in Vienna. I have won so many prizes there," he added quaintly, "that they don't like me to compete any more. Let me know the dates of any Meetings you have to attend, and no matter how far away I may be, I'll come back to escort you."
"Thank you," she cried, impulsively holding out both hands, and as he took them, the door opened, and Effie Bulteel came in.
When he had gone, and he went immediately, Effie flung her arms round Gay, and gave her a good hug.
"I don't care what Tom says, or how those horrid papers lampoon you," she cried, "it was awfully game of you, and I'd have loved to do it myself!"
"You're a trump!" cried Gay. "You see, the driver was tight, and Ilongedto do it, so when the opportunity came, I was like the teetotaler who joined the Blue Ribbon Army, because he thought it must be so delicious to be tempted—and tofall—and I fell!"
Effie laughed heartily, then exclaimed:
"Poor Carlton! But what a fool to be caught like that! Gay, if ever you want a thing done properly, get a knave to do it—"
"But Ididn'twant," cried Gay, "and as to that Gold Vase, it may be turned into a coal vase for all I care. He—he is going abroad at once—he has written to tell me so."
"Reculer pour mieux sauter," said Effie significantly. "Awfully good form of him, though, to clear out just now, instead of appearing like a tradesman with his bill made out, waiting for it to be paid, and a receipt given! And Chris out of the running, too! Poor Gay! You'll have to take the Trotting man after all."
"Only, even if I wished it, he won't take me," said Gay, and laughed at the epithet—Effie, like others, was still possessed of the entirely mistaken idea that Trotting was the be-all and end-all of Rensslaer's life, when in fact it was only one, and that by no means the greatest, of his hobbies.
"I don't believe in platonics, you know," said Effie drily, "and I intruded on quite an affecting little tableau just now. But now, Gay, what are you going to do? Tom says, of course, you'll drop it—the Trotting, I mean—
"I'd die sooner!" cried Gay, with flashing eyes. "Effie, if you've come here only to tell me that, then you are no real pal of mine. The least you can do is to stand by me, you and Tom—I can't attend the race Meetings alone, or with Lossie, who has been perfectly hateful to me."
"Ah!" said Effie sympathetically, "she would, you know!"
"And Frank simply won't—besides, I don't want to be regarded as keeper to a lunatic. Failing you and Tom, I'll have to attend the meetings with Rensslaer or Min Toplady—or both! We don't want our friends when we are in the right, but to dig us out of holes that our own folly has let us into—though in spite of everything I'm glad,gladI drove yesterday!"
"It's true I have some influence over Tom," said Effie thoughtfully.
"Boundless," murmured Gay.
"But I don't think it goes far enough to make him attend, or consent to my appearing at, a Trotting Meeting. I believe he's really glad Carlton's warned off—a sort of being saved from the evil to come, you know."
"If the man I married, refused to perform an act of Christian charity for my greatest friend, I'd know the reason why, that's all," said Gay curtly.
Effie gasped. This was a new Gay, with whom she did not know how to reckon—evidently Trotting was spoiling her sweet temper....
"But is it charity?" she said.
"Didn't you say just now how you'd have liked to do what I did?" cried Gay in a rage, "and now you're jibbing at the consequences! I don't—I face them. And it's just a piece of snobbishness for Tom to turn up his nose at what is good enough for Rensslaer, and the very pick of American sportsmen!"
"Yes, everywhere but in England," said Effie absently.
Gay's jibes had hit her hard, and she was wondering if it would be possible to persuade Tom...
"When is the next Meeting—and where?" she said.
Gay told her, and making a rapid calculation of dates and engagements, Effie exclaimed:
"There's no racing that day! Look here, Gay, I'll use every means of bribery and corruption to get Tom to drive us down—"
"Don't," said Gay coldly. "Put it on the bare ground of loyalty to a friend."
"Call it what you like. And if he does, we'll stick to you like burrs—anyone who cheapens you, takes on the three—"
"Thank you, Effie," said Gay quietly, but wishing all the same that her friend had done the right thing, without having the way pointed out to her so violently.
"Come out," cried Effie briskly—"come out and show yourself. My motor's at the door. Put on your smartest hat and clothes, and your best 'don't-care-a-damn' smile, and face the music."
Gay did, and by the time they had shopped in Bond Street, traversed Piccadilly twice, dropped in at Effie's club, and fooled round generally till lunch-time, then attended an At Home or two, winding up with tea at Rumpelmeyer's, it was the general opinion of those who saw her, that the person least ashamed of what she had done the preceding day, was Miss Gay Lawless.