Tom Bulteel, red-faced, blue-eyed, taciturn, with Gay beside, and his wife and Rensslaer behind him, tooled his bays down to the next Trotting Meeting, and tried to look as pleasant as the character of the big crowd and unwonted surroundings permitted. The attendance was a record one, the front of the track thronged with people, while the number of conveyances of all kinds, from waggonettes to nondescript traps, was altogether phenomenal, for it was the expectation of seeing Miss Lawless drive again, and also the possibility of Rensslaer doing so, that had brought down a strong contingent of the press. A multitude of snapshotters attended her every look and movement, those, however, who expected an Amazon, found a pretty, modest little girl, very quietly dressed, under the powerful ægis of the well-known Captain and Mrs. Bulteel, and the boisterous half-cheer of greeting from the Ring that broke forth at sight of her when the coach swept up, was somehow never finished.
Probably if Rensslaer had not been present at her recent new departure, and displayed such an obvious interest in her, no particular scandal would have attached to it, and Gay's driving herself been regarded merely as the bold freak of a free-and-easy young lady, who went in for a free-and-easy sport, and as such applauded. But his close attendance had focussed public attention upon her, inclining an eager trotting world to the belief that she had converted him to her views, and that shortly he would bring his enormous experience, superb driving, and splendid cattle to the sport, thereby giving it a tremendous leg-up. But in this also, as in Gay's case, they were disappointed, for neither then, nor at any subsequent time, did Rensslaer repeat his performance on the Gold Cup day.
Min Toplady was there, and greeted Gay with effusion when the latter went over to speak to her, but nervously, too, for those "snapping fiends," as she called them, who pursued Gay everywhere, more than ever brought home to Min the conviction that this Trotting business was a hideous mistake on the part of so young a girl, and that Gay's daring escapade had cheapened, and inflicted a distinct loss of prestige on her. Thanks, however, to the countenance afforded by Captain Bulteel and his wife, as they made a tour of the track, she was everywhere received with a silence that passed for respect, instead of the familiar badinage that Min dreaded, though if Gay appeared to notice nothing, she was really having a very bad quarter of an hour, and longing for it to be over.
Just before the second race, she and Rensslaer strolled quietly down to the rails to investigate the cause of a long delay, which was really owing to the drivers all jockeying for a good start, when the face of a little man in orange, driving a handsome pacer, suddenly became such a vivid study in emotions of fear, astonishment, and horror, as made Gay glance quickly at her companion for an explanation.
"It is only that he thought me in Paris," said Rensslaer drily, "so is driving my private sulky that I keep here for occasional use," and Gay's face changed as she thought of that delicious unlawful drive of hers, when Brusher Tugwood had, unknown to her, borrowed Rensslaer's wagon, and its owner by accident had seen her, and so a new and delightful friendship had come into her life.
Anyway, her mania had not been all loss—and then, as much against his will, owing to false starts, the guilty little man passed, and repassed them, a fresh expression on his face every time, and all intensely diverting, Gay laughed more heartily than she had done for days past.
"What will you do to him?" she inquired, wiping her eyes, when at last the horses had started, the lightness and grace of Rensslaer's wagon showing in favourable contrast to the clumsy make of the English ones, but he only shook his head; she knew well enough he would do nothing.
They leaned forward, watching the race, and soon it was apparent that a collision was inevitable, as the man in the orange jacket unfairly overhauled the leader; the next moment, the wheels of both sulkies locked, and the driver of the one "fouled," fell heavily on the track.
"Badly hurt, I'm afraid," said Rensslaer, and Gay turned pale as she saw through her glasses the faces of the crowd that had closed round the prostrate man. Almost at the same moment, a cheer rang out, for the driverless horse decided to race on his own account, pacing past in grand style, and going much better on his own, than when under control. It really was a remarkably pretty sight as he went round the course four times at the rate of 2.40 a mile, before he caught a wheel, and was easily stopped.
"There's nothing to beat it, really," exclaimed Gay with some of her old enthusiasm, for she honestly thought a trotter or pacer going his fastest, a far greater example of the poetry of motion than a racehorse. "But do go and find out if that poor fellow is very much hurt. It was a bad day for you when you came out, my little man," she remarked to herself as Rensslaer departed—"first to be caught, then to 'foul' and half-kill your rival"—for soon she saw a sad little procession winding away, and Rensslaer returned to tell her that the driver's injuries were very serious, and that he was on his way to a local hospital.
This damped Gay's spirits. She thought of Chris, began to think that she brought bad luck, and even her excellent prospects for the next race did not cheer her, though in the event her expectations were not justified.
The start was bad, and Gay's pacer went to a break, losing probably fifty yards. Miss Letty brought the field along for the first half at a merry gait, and Old Joker drew up to her, while Gay's horse was a long way behind. In the last quarter of a mile he stepped a terrific gait, and in spite of so much ground to make up, he looked to have a chance, but one hundred yards from the finish he went to a break, and Old Joker gained the verdict.
Winner's gait per mile, 2.20, as Gay saw by the stop-watch on her wrist that Rensslaer had secured for her (similar to those used by the judge and starters), which by pressure on a button, registers the exact number of seconds in which a race is won, also the time taken by the second horse.
Suddenly, as Gay watched her man place a cooler, with her monogram in the corner, over the horse and sulky, completely covering both, a great distaste, disgust even, for her surroundings seized her. All the bubbling joy that had attended her new pursuit right up to the time of winning the Gold Vase, was completely quenched in her, and Chris's indignant protests against Mackrell's encouraging her in so unsuitable a pursuit rang in her ears, as she moved about with Rensslaer, snapshotted here, stared out of countenance there, though with nothing worse than a tentative remark occasionally addressed to her by Trotting habitués, who regarded her probably as one of themselves.
"Better luck next time, miss," smirked one obviously public-house gentleman, but Rensslaer did not resent the freedom as Mackrell on her account would have clone. She had always been quick to note that he evinced no distaste when claimed in acquaintance by common persons in the crowd, who seemed to look up to him with almost supernatural admiration, and once again Gay admired the simplicity of the man, the entire absence of "side" that distinguished him, in whatever company he found himself.
Luncheon was taken on the coach, and Gay's second race, in which Maudie T. was successful, coming on soon after, it was comparatively early when Tom Bulteel headed his bays for town.
"Thank God that's over!" he thought with a sigh of relief, for disagreeable as the duty was, at least his presence, and that of his wife, had effectively saved Gay from overt impertinence, and the running fire of chaff to which only a coster-lady would have been equal in reply.
Unhappy about Chris, worried at Carlton's self-expatriation, and deeply dissatisfied with her sporting experiment, Gay got into the way of going much oftener to the little South Street house than usual; she even accompanied Aunt Lavinia on some of her secret charitable errands, and found her own troubles recede to very trumpery affairs indeed, in the light of the real tragedy of the poor that underlies all, especially town life.
She began to question her right to waste money as she did on Trotting and otherwise, and her ambitions seemed puerile, even common, as contrasted with those of this dear little lady, who was always sowing as flowers in the King's garden, the loving thoughts, the helpful deeds, that unlike earthly flowers, would never fade. And as Lavinia was growing old, and time was short, she sowed as hard as she could, and unhappy, selfish people looking at her, always busy, always happy, wondered what her secret was—Lossie would never learn it, but Gay perhaps got some inkling in those visits to the poor, where her bright face and warm heart served her well.
It came as a great surprise to her to find that Chris, who in an unobtrusive way helped his less fortunate brothers of the pigskin far more than he could afford, assisted many poor people through Aunt Lavinia, and while she knew that racing men are proverbially generous, not to say princely, in their charities, she was greatly pleased at this new light on his character.
"Chris has the loveliest disposition, and the tenderest heart in the world, my dear—it's as big as an ox's," said Lavinia one day, when she and Gay were returning from a visit where they had poured sympathy into a bereaved creature's bleeding heart, and incidentally food and firing into her larder and cellar. "Carlton Mackrell hasn't—and it's such a pity, as he's so rich, and could help so much—but that's how it always is in this world, and always will be."
Gay turned her head aside to hide a blush of pleasure, for praise of Chris was very sweet to her—indeed, he was so constantly in her thoughts, that the merest shake brought his name to her lips.
"He's always doing something kind to somebody—except me," she said. "He knows it breaks my heart for him to ride, and he will do it."
"Poor boy," said Aunt Lavinia, and sighed, "he can't help it. That passion for horses is in the blood of his family. You can spill it if you like, but you can't get it out."
"But it's rough on other people," cried Gay. "Chris gets all the fun, and those who love him the sorrow."
"So youdolove him, Gay?" said Aunt Lavinia, who for all her goodness had on occasion a most unsaintly twinkle in her eye, as at that moment.
"Auntie,whowould love a man who keeps your heart in your mouth, and always—always in a drivelling state of terror that he'll be brought home to you in pieces, just alive in the biggest piece? I have a feeling that the mere thought thatI expecthim to have an accident every time, will bring about one! I'd rather be an old maid (I should never make a delightful one like you) and dry-nurse Heron for the rest of my life, than live in such a purgatory of hopes and fears."
"Well, Gay," said Aunt Lavinia, "he would die in the way he liked, wouldn't he? And real love consists, not in making others do what we like, but in wanting them to be happy, so long as it is in no disgraceful way, let us suffer what we may. I hate racing, as you know—but then I don't like your Trotting at all either, my dear"—and shook her head, Gay was on the wrong tack, but only going through the mill would set her on the right one.
Gay sighed. She had long ago found that Trotting, like marriage, "takes a lot of kidding," and the less she enjoyed it, the more she "kidded," but not to herself, being by now very sick of the fad that she had so light-heartedly taken up.
The horses themselves, the actual racing part, still appealed to her; she thought their action the prettiest possible sight, and never lost her pleasure in seeing them go—loved a close finish—it was the surroundings that disgusted her.
"Anyway, my fad is not dangerous to life—like Chris's," she said, then suddenly remembered the ugly fall she had witnessed from the tiny perch on Rensslaer's borrowed sulky, and the life-long injury to the back that ensued.
"Are you not both a little selfish, my dear?" said Lavinia. "Laddie, (her pet-name for Chris) won't give up his racing, nor you your trotting—but there is more reason in his asking the sacrifice from you, than your demanding it from him. His mother did not."
"Oh!" cried Gay passionately, "knowing what it must have cost her, how could he do it?"
"I believe there is a special Heaven to which good sons go," said Lavinia, softly putting the question by. "I don't say good mothers—that's natural—but to be a perfect son, and yet to be a man at all points—a man of the world even—like Chris—that's rare—rare and most beautiful."
Then Lavinia confided to Gay with a blush that the only reason she ever regretted not having married—and at times she regretted it intensely—was because she wanted a son—a son like Chris.
"You and his mother were great friends," said Gay very gently.
"Yes—if either of them could have any real friend but each other. They made the most delightful pair. Whenever you met them—and they were never apart except when he was racing—they were having no end of a good time, and cutting jokes together—what one said, the other thought, and it was always amusing. I remember her talking one day to Chris about something she would do 'when she was old and respectable,' and he said, 'you'll never be old, and you'll never be respectable,' and they both roared—it was a treat to see them together."
"He will never think any other woman fit to tie her shoe-string," said Gay.
"Oh," cried Lavinia, "she was by no means perfect! 'Chris loves me for what I might have been—not for what I am,' she said to me one day. But cheer up, Gay, the dear boy will put on weight, and settle down quietly, and ride to hounds like any other country gentleman, once you are married."
But Gay could not see Chris jogging to hounds on a weight-carrier, and she worried a good deal in a quiet way. The world said there was nothing like taking up a man's pursuits to rub the bloom off a girl's face, and being so famous—or notorious—had by no means improved her.
Something of her snap and freshness had departed, and Min Toplady, who occasionally saw her at Meetings, observed with much concern that her young lady had grown thinner, quieter, that the radiant girl who had gone to Inigo Court with Chris, to applaud Carlton Mackrell when he won, had vanished, seemingly never to return. Min wished that gentleman would come home, persuade Gay to marry him, and settle down in the country as a sporting squire, with her for the Lady Bountiful that Nature had plainly cut her out to be. Of course Mr. Chris was a dangerous rival, but neither rich like the other, nor desirable as a husband, from the habit he had of risking his neck whenever he got a chance. And Min did not think Miss Gay would elect to live with her heart in her mouth for at least six months out of every year, so that the betting was at least even on Carlton Mackrell. Of course,thatMiss Lossie was always waiting to cut in, and get the latter for herself, but, as Min vulgarly expressed it in her own mind, he wasn't taking any.
Fortunately the Professor did not worry Gay, for as if to make up for wasted time, and terrified of meeting Lossie, he had disappeared among his microscopes and tubes, and burrowed there. He seemed, as Gay expressed it, to be chewing the cud of ticklish experiments that wouldn't come off, and when he went down to see Chris, he did not offer to take her, nor did she propose to accompany him, for even while her heart yearned over the boy, she felt for him a curious anger, realising all that his love of steeplechasing cost her.
He also was having by no means a rosy time, either in body or mind, for by careful editing, she was made to furnish spicy tit-bits to the newspapers, and he raged at the accident that had put him out of the running in more ways than one, just when Gay had never so badly wanted all her friends.
Brusher Tugwood's disgust at Carlton Mackrell's expulsion had been deep and bitter. He always persisted in it that private spite was at the bottom of the affair, that his master had been too successful in beating the public-house pacers, and he also resented Gay's lukewarm interest in the sport she had taken up so keenly, and blamed her for not interesting Rensslaer in it to some practical purpose.
But now, to all lovers of horses, a new topic had arisen. There had begun to loom up in the public view, a forthcoming International Horse Show at Olympia, that was to eclipse anything of the kind ever before seen in England.
At first women took but a languid interest in it, and if anyone had predicted that all London would literally besiege the historic hall to catch a glimpse of the wonderful arena, and the brilliant equine contests conducted therein, he would have been laughed out of court. But when a whisper flew round that it was to bethebig social event of the season, that the King and Queen were going, and it would be a place for one's very smartest frock and hat, also that at least six millionaires had entered the pick of their studs, and over two thousand entries were already made, public attention awoke; everywhere horses, and the sumptuous surroundings they were to have, became the principal topic of conversation.
It seemed that although Great Britain had all the time been the premier horse-breeding country of the world, it was only now that Englishmen in general had awakened to the fact—strange in a horse-breeding nation, that had for one and a half centuries, prided itself upon its devotion to, and its pre-eminence in, this all-important matter!
It was a surprise to Gay to find that Rensslaer took so much interest in it, for she knew him to be a rather severe critic of horse shows in general (he excepted shows such as Richmond, etc.), his criticisms being based on firm foundations, but she quickly discovered how completely his heart was in it, when he discussed animatedly with her the scope of the idea.
"You see," he said, "in England hitherto a horse show has been designed solely for horsey people—for those who desire to buy and sell; the scene is gloomy, and in consequence the spectators consist almost entirely of men, only the horsiest women attending them."
"Iknow," said Gay, making a little face, for she had attended one with enthusiastic Chris—to her sorrow.
"The curious thing is," went on Rensslaer, "that though horse shows undoubtedly originated in England, starting with classes for young breeding stock at the agricultural shows as early as 1840, the development of this idea is undoubtedly due to a book—Mr. Samuel Sidney's 'Book of the Horse.' From that time the movement spread in Europe, America, and the Colonies, and the International view was taken up by foreign supporters of horse shows, who held them in Paris, Berlin, Brussels, The Hague, Chicago, and New York."
"Especially New York," said Gay. "Is it true that the Madison Square Gardens Horse Show sets the American fashion for the year?"
"Yes—the public goes to view the show, but the show that it views is in the boxes, not the ring. The horses? Oh! there are some very fine horses shown, and the papers devote a quarter of a column or so to describing them. But it's a good thing all the same."
"It's time we 'bucked up,' for England was dropping behind a bit," said Gay confidentially. "But what can you expect with Free Trade, and the present Government?"
Rensslaer laughed.
"She won't be behind this time. No such show will ever have been held in England. The great point is, that the thing has been so conceived that the most unintelligent mind on horsey affairs may be thoroughly interested. In those details where every other horse show usually bores, because of tedious routine, this one will appeal to the expert, and non-expert, and if you'll contrast jumps made of real turf, with the way other shows are done, with bare boards and dirty hurdles as the enclosure of the ring, you'll see the improvement. Then the natural disappointment among foreign visitors that there are no English gentlemen of the same class to ride against, is being met—no grooms will be seen in the ring, and a great effort is being made to get English officers themselves to ride."
"Of course it is a move in the right direction that gentlemen in appropriate costume should ride the jumpers, and not dirty stable-boys in hobnailed boots," said Gay, thinking of how Chris would havelovedto ride, and how delightful he would have looked.
"It's astonishing how much better a gentleman sits, and in how much better form he rides," said Rensslaer, "so that the moment he commences riding, you can tell he is one."
Gay nodded; she had often remarked it.
"We hope to have picked out the best features of every International Horse Show," said Rensslaer. "The system of having appointment classes, will spare the public the ugly sight of seeing horses driven in quite inappropriate carriages, such as a fat hackney in an American speed wagon, and so on, thus a great impetus will be given to the carriage trade. Then there will be the ladies' 'George the Fourth' phaeton class, a low two-horse carriage with a seat for a servant behind, which is the proper carriage for ladies driving, instead of a high dogcart, or any two-wheeled carriage, which is only fit for a publican's wife out on a bank holiday."
"Or a Trotting Meeting," said Gay slyly.
He laughed.
"There is no doubt," he said, "that the show will do good, not only by welding the forces of breeders, exhibitors, and dealers together, but also by encouraging the breeding of the best type of the English horse, and thus help to remove one of the most serious objections to automobilism—the fear that it will result in the ultimate extinction of the horse. It will be the finest display of horse-flesh and of horsemanship that has ever been seen on so gigantic a scale in England, or perhaps even in the world."
"I hope we are all right!" exclaimed Gay, jealous for her mother-country.
"Well," said Rensslaer, "though the competition of America and the Continent will be strong, and meet with a certain amount of success, I think the English exhibitors will hold their own, and from whatever country the winners come, it is always the English strain that wins, though the fact is possibly more obvious to the foreigner than to ourselves. I want you and the Professor to come to Elsinore one day, and see what I am sending—"
But Gay declared this to be impossible; her brother had completely withdrawn into his scientific shell, and to dislodge him was impossible. Besides, Rensslaer had delayed so long in inviting them, a little to her surprise, that now she felt in no particular hurry to go, and he did not press the point. It was only later that she discovered in his apparent inhospitality, but another instance of Rensslaer's fine tact, how it was not until he knew her to be finally disgusted with Trotting as a sport, that he showed her the real thing, the game as it should be played, such Trotters as she had never dreamed of.
It would be hard to say why Rensslaer, in whose life women had no place, (though he had his own romance hidden away, as Gay had always suspected), took so much interest in the girl, gave her so much precious time, when in his many-sided life, and the multiplicity and engrossing interest of his hobbies, he had none to spare for his old friends, much less for society, which he despised.
But he liked her sporting spirit when first he saw her at Inigo Court, pitied her for the disillusion that her Trotting passion was bound to bring her, admired her pluck when things went wrong, found her true-hearted, honest and kind, therefore after his own heart.
Yet when he went presently away, he somewhat sadly thought of the careless, happy girl, enthusing about her Trotters, whom he had found on his first visit. Unconsciously he murmured to himself:
"Give her back her youth again,Let her be as she was then!Let her wave her little handWith its gesture of command...."
Yes, even the lightest bruise on youth, splendid, unbroken, unconscious even in its selfishness, was a pity.
Lossie, waiting in the tiny blue dining-room in South Street for Gay to fetch her, glanced round at the blue walls, the old copper prints, the bits of old Nankin, at the flowers on the table, blue also, and looking in the glass at those bluer flowers in her own head, felt a sudden nostalgia, a longing to have Carlton Mackrell beside her in her ownmilieu. It is what a woman in love always wants, and everyday her pain at the deprivation of Carlton's society became sharper, for there is no greater spendthrift in love than the selfish woman who has the full intention,bien entendu, of getting her own back, in one form or another.
Turning to the window, she saw Gay drive up, and cheerily wave her whip to her—that was the disgusting thing about Gay, that whether really happy, or only pretending, she always pluckily tried to live up to her name, thought Lossie, as she went out, pretending to herself that she was a mere cat's-paw, to be used or ignored by Gay as occasion served, but really glad of the opportunity of displaying her lovely clothes.
"Aunt Lavinia's slumming," said Lossie, in reply to the other's query, as she climbed to her perch. "Why don't you start a motor?" she grumbled. "This Ralli car is so selfish—you can't give your friends any sort of a time with it, or take them any distance. Nowadays one must either motor or be motored—and I prefer to do the motoring myself."
"Thank you," replied Gay with spirit, "I'm like Roosevelt—when someone asked him the other day when he was going to buy a motor-car, he said not while there were horses! I think it's just splendid," she added warmly, "for the Americans to come over here, and revive our rapidly waning interest in horses, and if some of our English millionaires spent their money in the same way, then so much the better would it be for horses, and for us! The horse is our friend even more than the dog, and I'd like to see him kept for enjoyment, not degraded to rough street work—that'swhere the motor-car should come in!"
Lossie did not trouble to argue the point, she was better occupied in watching the effect of her beauty on the passers-by, and certainly the despised Ralli was very smartly turned out, as usual. The occasion, too, was pleasant, for they were on their way to see Mr. Vanderbilt's coach start from the Berkeley Hotel on its trial trip to Brighton, hence Gay's delight at the fillip given to coaching.
"You don't seem to have troubled much about your Trotters lately," said Lossie presently as they turned into Berkeley Square. "Yet here is poor Carlton hounded out of England, treated like any low welsher, because you fancied a wretched Gold Vase! I wonder you dare show your face at the Meetings as you do!"
"I shouldn't," said Gay with spirit, "if I had a face as sour as yours is at this moment! Really, Lossie, when I look at you, I feel thankful I wasn't born a beauty—it makes you leave everything else—manners, good temper, such lots of nice things, to chance, and the odds are forty to one!"
"Oh, we can'tallbe a dear, artless little thing, truckling to men's brutal prejudices—one reason you are so popular with them is, because you pretend you don't want women to have the vote!" cried Lossie.
"Nor do I!" cried Gay warmly. "I consider an excited, shrieking crowd of sober women clamouring for their rights, more indecent than a crowd of men drunk whodon'tclamour, and when it comes to slapping policemen's faces, padlocking themselves to railings, and rolling in gutters, it makes me ashamed of wearing a petticoat!"
"Brains never were your strong point, Gay," said Lossie comfortably, and Gay emphatically thanked Heaven they werenot.
"The most rabid shrieker of them all would become mild as milk, if her own little baby were put in her arms, and she had her own man to love her," declared Gay. "And as there aren't enough men to go round, why don't the women emigrate, and fulfil themselves somewhere else?"
"All women are not so primitive as you are," said Lossie, sneering, unaware that it was the capacity tofeellove as well as evoke it, that made much of Gay's charm; at the back of all her follies was a heart of gold, while a cherry stone represented Lossie's own assets in that particular, save where Carlton was concerned.
But there was no time for further argument, for they found themselves jammed in the midst of a crowd delighted at the recrudescence of the horse, with his grace, beauty, speed, and spirit, just as ten years ago a similar crowd had assembled to see start for the same destination, that marvel of power and ingenuity which was expected to displace him—the motor-car.
The glorious days of the "Old Times" coach seemed to be revived when, drawn by four beautiful greys, their manes braided with red and white ribbons, their heads decked with red and white camelias, a clean-shaven, eager-faced young man, with keen dark eyes, the correct blackness of whose attire was broken by his large red and white buttonhole, brought his coach up with a flourish, and followed by shouts and cheers and many cries of "Good luck," shortly sent it on its way.
Smarter than ever in his tightly-fitting coat, showing the neatly-folded four-in-hand tie, and segment of scarlet gold-buttoned waistcoat, Godden sprang from the leaders' heads, and climbing to his place, blew a cheery blast upon his coach-horn. And then began the American's triumph, for he could not have driven a hundred yards before he found the reward of his enterprise in the way the people, whether on foot or awheel, recognised, and gave way to him as king of the road.
Immediately the way was clear, and at a spanking trot, the coach went bowling along, every horse-drawn or motor-driven vehicle, effacing itself in honour of the fine team. The crowd's eyes sparkled with pleasure and welcome at the sight, policemen saluted, women fluttered their handkerchiefs, men cheered, the while Godden cheerfully chirruped a return of their welcome and good wishes, but of all the people in the streets, those to whom the sight of the splendid horses gave the most joy, were the cabbies, who took off their hats to a man, and waved them with ecstatic delight, shouting themselves hoarse, and nearly falling off their boxes in the process.
It was a royal progress from start to finish—from the time the greys, that had not turned a hair, were changed, and four browns substituted, to the mixed team of two chestnut wheelers, black near leader, and grey on the off lead, that in turn gave way to one of perfectly matched black-browns. At every stage there was a big crowd, till at Brighton it ended in an extraordinary demonstration of enthusiasm, and through dense, cheering masses that only left a narrow lane for the coach's passage, the Metropole was reached.
Blocked in the crowd, Gay inclined an eager ear to the cheers that ran down Piccadilly. She would have loved to go all the way ... her thoughts swerved sharply to racing, which was dangerous, wicked even—did not the poor horses often break their hearts, either dying on the course, or quietly after the race in their stables?
And Trotting was apparently disgraceful (in England), but to drive a coach with such horses as she had just seen—why, that would be at once heavenly andright, thought Gay, as she listened to the echoes, and tried to imagine herself handling the ribbons of the Vanderbilt coach.
She longed for someone congenial to talk with, and as if in answer to her wish, Rensslaer, ducking under the horses' heads, suddenly appeared at her elbow, and Gay's enthusiasm boiled over.
"Even if itisonly a passing excitement for a man to whose great wealth the newest crazes and the most costly distractions are mere commonplaces," she said, "anyway its a more noble one than any of the other American millionaires have thought of, and Mr. Vanderbilt deserves all the credit as a true sportsman that is already his, or I'm much mistaken."
Rensslaer smiled.
"Aren't you rather hard on millionaires," he said, "almost as hard as your favourite Roosevelt, who has a healthy hatred for the multi-millionaire,—says he is worse than a demagogue? He quotes some chap who declares that the multi's face has grown hard, while his body has grown soft, that his son is a fool, and his daughter a foreign princess, and his nominal pleasures at the best those of tasteless and extravagant luxury, but whose real delight, and real life-work, are the accumulation and use of power in the most sordid, and least elevating form!"
"Out of breath, aren't you?" said Gay. "Well, thank Heaven you're not a multi"—not knowing that Rensslaerwas—"at least he would admit that you are doing good work with this wonderful Horse Show."
"By the way, I heard from Mr. Mackrell yesterday," said Rensslaer. "He is coming over for it."
Gay, looking between her horse's ears, waiting for the uplifted hand of the constable to fall, and release the traffic, turned pale. There are some debts of honour more binding than the friend's I.O.U. that is never presented, and Gay felt that Carlton's was one of them—a queer prophetic instinct told her that this Horse Show was to be the turning point of her life.
"I was glad to find Mr. Hannen so much better when I went to see him yesterday," went on Rensslaer. "He told me he hoped to be well enough to call on you next week"—here he ducked, and disappeared as the policeman's hand fell, but Lossie, whose ears were quick, was in the seventh heaven of delight.
Carlton was coming back; Chris, whose absence and misfortune had melted Gay's heart, thinned her body, and almost quenched her bloom, was appearing once more on the scene—everything promised well.
After all, it was chance that dictated Gay should go to Elsinore, or rather the accident of Rensslaer's having cut in just before the Professor, and obtained a certain rare edition that the latter greatly coveted. He would cheerfully have started for Kamschatka to read or borrow it; Elsinore was nearer, and when Gay mentioned the invitation, he jumped at it, and went.
So one fine morning in May found brother and sister in the train, and Rensslaer waited for them at the station with a pair of magnificent Trotting horses, harnessed to a light road wagon of hickory wood and steel. Inviting Gay to share the very small seat with him, he pointed out, to the Professor's intense relief, a sober open carriage for the latter's use.
"Take care, Gay," Frank cried quaveringly after her, as she squeezed in beside Rensslaer, and the next moment, her host's hands twisted into the loops of the reins, they were sweeping through the silent streets, and out on to the open road, the air whistling in their ears, the dust striking Gay's eyes and cheeks like pellets, the country almost indistinguishable as they flew past, and the sensation so thrilling that she surrendered herself to it in complete enjoyment.
Smoothly as a sleigh on snow, rode the frail vehicle of less than a hundred pounds, and record-makers both, were the powerful steeds that guided by the imperturbable driver with arms outstretched, swift as the wind, swept up hill and down dale, only once beaten by a motor that was afterwards overtaken, and then Rensslaer eased his steeds, remarking that they had covered five miles in twelve minutes.
By then they were in his park, and the horses went more quietly, so that Gay had leisure to observe the sylvan beauty of the landscape surrounding Elsinore, to notice the herds of deer visible in every direction, and also his Indian fighting cocks, who roamed his fields in intermittent warfare with the old English game. Somehow Gay felt that all were sharers in that instinct of friendliness which seemed to inspire his relations, not only with all his dumb retainers, but with his fellow-humans as well.
Original in his house as in everything else, Elsinore was an extended copy of a Russian peasant's cottage. Made of logs, with a great deal of carving in wood, and a big Russian stove in each room, the furniture was covered with linen, embroidered in blue and red by Russian peasants, the tiles of the stoves being incised in dark blue, red, emerald green, and gold with white, in true peasant style.
Simplicity was evidently his rule of life, but one room was filled to the ceiling with books, and to this the Professor naturally gravitated on his arrival. Leaving him perfectly happy among those rare editions of which at odd times Rensslaer was an inveterate collector, Gay and her host sauntered through the quaint house, singularly modest for the far-spreading park surrounding it, but containing many trophies of his skill, and to her utter astonishment, in other realms than that of sport.
The cases full of gold and silver medals, of stars and decorations, interested her very little, nor did Rensslaer trouble to explain that none of those prizes were for horses, but for a domain in which he stood alone as champion of the world. But she came to a full stop before the figure, raised on a pedestal, of a girl with strange barbaric head-dress above her sweet face, hands folded on breast, and the drapery a little blown away from the exquisite line of back and hips, and "Exhibited Allied Artists, 190-" written below.
"That's La Russie," he said. "The colouring and tinting are an exact reproduction of the actual dress and jewels."
"It's beautiful," said Gay, to whom the colouring mattered nothing but the idea was everything, and reluctantly she tore herself away to look at an Indian Chief in all his war paint, and modelled in silver, on a table hard by.
From the summit of his brow, and outlining his haughty back, his feathers made a regal silhouette that extended beyond his horse's tail, and the contrast of his grim impassivity, and icy air of detachment, with the horse's eagerness as it strained forward was marvellously rendered, making Gay declare that the horse was a dear, and that whoever did that, must love horses.
The same remark applied to a model of Ascetics Silver, winner of the Grand National 1906, his ribs plainly showing, his upward, proudly-soaring eye, dilated nostrils, and the veins standing out on his face and body, drawing from her a cry of delight. Beneath was written, "Exhibited Paris Society Animal Painters," and the name of the sculptor made the girl jump.
"Youdidthat?" she cried incredulously, the colour rushing to her face.
"And here is my Little Mermaid," said Rensslaer, and Gay knew that what she saw before her was dear to him.
"What a darling!" she exclaimed, and indeed it was a sweet little body, with childish, startled eyes, and hands impulsively put up to her cheeks. One couldseethe grief and horror in the poor little thing's face—for of course she was watching her beautiful human prince being married, and the tears seemed to be just coming.
It was a wonderful piece of work, and threw a new light on Rensslaer's character. Gay realised vividly how strong the love of beauty was in him, how great the power that enabled him to create it, how profoundly some human experience must have wrought in his mind to produce such results.
She was silent, shy even, as he showed her the picture of his grandfather, who had written a wonderful book on religion that had estranged him from his family, and that the Professor was even at that moment handling reverently in the library.
"And this is my great-great-great-grandfather," said Rensslaer as they turned from the inspired head, the tremendous intellectual force of the author, to an obvious Dutchman of quite another type, but just as remarkable.
"He was a famous Dutch painter—our present name is an ugly corruption of his. We can't help it," said Rensslaer whimsically, "we must all follow art in one form or another—" And this was the man who, by the irony of circumstance, was by the multitude supposed to regard fast Trotting as the be-all and end-all of life! Gay blushed to think of his amusement when she at first regarded him in the same light—it was perhaps to correct this impression that he had invited her here, but no, he was too modest, too sincere for that.
"I've never wanted to be a man till I knew you," said Gay a little enviously; "you turn perpetually from one thing to another, and there can be no dull moment in your existence."
Was there not? Across his brown eyes came a shadow that gave the lie to her words, and once again Gay wondered what the secret romance of his life was, this man whose ideals of beauty were of the highest, as his capacity for interpreting them, a conjunction that is very rare.
They were looking at an extraordinary collection of pistols of which Rensslaer merely pointed out the exquisite workmanship, and it had just occurred to her that she had heard somewhere that he was a fine shot, when a servant came to announce luncheon, and on looking for the Professor, they found him where they had left him. He had merely moved entranced from book to book that he had long coveted, and one rare edition had almost, as Frank confessed, slid into his coat-tail pocket, so that when Rensslaer asked him to accept it, his joy knew no bounds.
Yet, after all, Rensslaer's heart was in his horses, not books, as Gay discovered, when after luncheon, followed by the Italian greyhound that adored and never willingly left him, they walked towards the racing track, on the inside of which was turf smooth as a billiard-table, and surrounding it in the distance, a great belt of glorious trees.
Gay glanced round eagerly; there was no sign of a horse anywhere, no stables within sight or hearing, only a peaceful sylvan landscape. Perfect quiet prevailed as Rensslaer explained to her that his Trotters were practised, not on the track, but on grass, if they were to be shown where the ring is of grass, as otherwise a trotter would be apt to break.
"This grass is kept mown very short, and the turns are purposely not banked up," said Rensslaer, "as they never are at English horse shows, and the horses have to get used to it. I shoe my horses with spikes when showing, so that they shall not slip up, and have strong wheels made for my speed wagons, as the strain on unbanked-up turns, is apt to buckle a very light wheel, which is quite safe on turns that are banked-up.
He then showed her that on the half-mile track there were quarter-mile posts, and also eighth of a mile posts at the ends of the "straights"; the track was two "straights," of an eighth, and two turns of an eighth of a mile at each end.
"A horse's utmost speed for an eighth can thus be tested," said Rensslaer. "It is never advisable to put a horse at his utmost limit for more than an eighth."
Excusing himself for a brief minute, Gay next saw him in enormous goggles, bunched up on a slender sulky weighing about twenty-eight pounds, swinging round curves behind a Trotter that did half a mile in about a minute or so, and yet never broke into a gallop, and Gay realised that not so much in his Trotters themselves, as in the masterly driving of them, Rensslaer's pleasure consisted. He held his arms differently—he drove differently to anyone she had seen before, in its essence his was the same deep joy that Chris found in the riding at which he excelled.
Her heart warmed to him as she thought of how he had spared her the humiliation of knowing that Mackrell and she had been playing at a bad make-believe all the time, that the difference between their horses and Rensslaer's was, that his had quality, shape, and soundness—they looked like well-bred chargers, carried themselves with perfect balance, their hind legs well under them, stopping at a word without any pulling or fighting, and when the mile was finished, standing quite still. The sort of horse to which she and Carlton were accustomed, were mostly unsound old screws which had a fast record in America many years before, but having broken down, or being otherwise cheap, had been bought and patched up, then raced in England.
At first they had horrified Gay, these poor old raw-boned pacers with bent knees and hobbles, pulling all on one rein, with any amount of appliances to enable the man who was pulling for dear life to be able to hold them, or else little rats of Iceland ponies shuffling along, and only fit to be seen in a coster's barrow.
"And to think," cried Gay, in tragic tones, "that Carlton and I fanciedourselves—our trotters, I mean!"
"Of course," said Rensslaer, "although speed is the first essential, I will have no horse which is not absolutely sound, has not good manners, and does not have to wear boots (except as a precaution against accident when racing), and a light mouth."
Gay nodded. She had for the first time discovered how deceptive the long, raking stride of a record trotter is, for without appearing to move fast, he is yet making phenomenal time on the track, as drawing the light, four-wheeled racing wagon with rubber-tyred bicycle wheels, he glides smoothly along.
Then one by one, or in pairs, the finest animals in the stables were shown. Yet with so little effort did horse after horse, team after team, draw up under the trees in the background, and succeed each other, that they only blended with the beauty of the landscape, did not disturb it, and Gay presently gave a great sigh of delight.
"Oh," she said, "it's too much! I'd like the whole world to enjoy it—it's too good for poor little me!"
"Well," said Rensslaer quietly, "it will—later."
It was a lovely day, with zephyr breezes—the great charm of it all was, that there was nothing to suggest the circus or show ring, no crowd, no betting, no shouting hoarse voices to break the peace, only splendid animals full of fire, energy, and work, who were just going at their best for sheer joy in life, joy in their own swiftness, strength and beauty, delighted to run their race with the green sward underfoot, and the blue sky overhead.
Rensslaer had made her free of a new and glorious world—the world of horses, Chris's world. She longed for him to be there also, for though she keenly appreciated the daintiness of these thoroughbreds, their delicate legs and feet, the sheen of their satin coats, their perfection of grace and movement, she yet felt that she was not sufficiently a connoisseur to give to every point its full value, as Chris would so well have known how to do.
"Getting ready for Olympia," said Rensslaer, as a thoroughbred galloper was harnessed in a jogging cart, and accompanied the trotters at a hard gallop, often being put to his utmost stretch to keep up with them, after which Rensslaer showed her several "eighths" in 15 seconds, a two-minute speed for a mile.
"Just fancy if that dare-devil and Chris got together!" whispered Gay when there rode out from beneath the trees a superb horseman, young, cool as a cucumber, who, riding the centre horse, holding the two outside ones, put them at an obstacle that they cleared like birds.
"He has broken every bone in his body," said Rensslaer grimly; "the last time the doctor said it was his back, but he wouldn't admit it—and here he is, you see!"
The boy gave them a taste of his quality when presently his horse twice swerved aside from the jump, an American runabout luggage wagon, but cleared it the third time—and once more Gay thought of Chris, for the two men were alike in not knowing what fear was. The resemblance between the two physically, struck her at once—each was tall, and lean to a fault, each had the same dash and devilry, the same indomitable pluck, each took an "outing" as part of the day's sport, and with the fixed purpose to go on doing and daring, and as by a miracle each had hitherto escaped the clutching hand of death, and flown beyond its reach.
And yet—and yet, as Chris said, could one die better? She recalled Robert Louis Stevenson's query, "And does not life go down with a better grace, foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably straggling to an end in sandy deltas?"
Those two magnificent horsemen, Whyte Melville and Hughie Owen, went out at the sport that they loved, and save for those whom they loved, would they have wished to go any differently?
"I'm very proud of my jumpers," said Rensslaer, who was a keen hunting man, getting in his six days a week during the winter. "That horse"—he pointed one out—"was parted with by his former owner because he could not jump, and since then, he has cleared six feet ten inches high, and once a seven-feet jump. But the Belgians will win the high-jumping competition at Olympia—Belgian officers easily out-jump the world,"—and he related some notable feats of theirs, remarking with great approval that they govern their horses by kindness. "As you do," thought Gay.
"That," said Rensslaer, as the handsome rider of a beautiful roan gelding made his horse dance, and paw, and prance with extraordinary perfection, in all the tricks of theHaute École, "is the best show rider in Europe."
And so the "private view" went on, it was all quite effortless, and apparently so unpremeditated, then presently, as she and Rensslaer quietly chatted, Gay felt the peace accentuated, and glanced around. They had the wide, lovely park to themselves; the distant trees, beneath which had emerged the pick of the world's equine beauty, threw long shadows on the sward only, and Rensslaer, glancing at his watch, remarked that the Professor would think they were lost.
"Poor fellow! What he has missed!" said Gay, while Frank, wrapped in ecstasy, was oblivious of time and place, of everything but having the run of a treasure-house to which eternity itself could not enable him to do full justice.
Rensslaer showed her the polo ground, and part of the steeplechase course, two miles long, then proposed a visit to the stables that were so completely invisible from the park or house. But now he turned sharply to the side of the latter, and by a steep, winding path concealed among trees, they emerged on the great quadrangle.
In striking contrast to the simplicity of Rensslaer's house was the vastness of these outdoor belongings, where was celebrated the cult, the worship, the very apotheosis of the horse, and yet the atmosphere was one of rest; the sunlight slanted through the green boughs that overhung the wall, the water sparkled in the centre, there were no signs of hurry, and but few visible of the small army that served the beauties in their stalls and loose boxes. There must be magnificent organisation here, thought Gay, as she noted the noiseless, perfect machinery—when a man was wanted, he sprang up, when not wanted, was not to be seen, and without raising his voice, Rensslaer's orders were implicitly obeyed—even for the "show" arranged that afternoon he had merely dropped a few words to his stud groom, and the thing had gone by itself.
As she moved from horse to horse, each with his famous name on the wall above, and below, a print of one equally famous, and in the centre, a superb medallion in marble of a famous trotter going at full speed, Gay admired the way they just turned their heads to look quietly at her, like the true aristocrats that they were. But Rensslaer was another matter—they knew him even better than he knew them, and manifested the most lively pleasure when he called each by name.
"Look out!" he exclaimed, as Gay approached a veteran of twenty-one years old, who was only retired for old age, after racing till he was nine, getting a record at 2.15, and then being driven constantly hard on the road till two years ago. "He won't let anyone but me go near him," explained his owner, "he bites everyone else. Each of these horses has worn out five or six of the English carriage horses that did not have nearly so hard a life"—and he explained that the American horse can do the work of two hackneys, his legs being as hard as iron.
Amongst the old pensioners, (as their master had never sold a horse that had done him good service) he showed Joe W., a horse seventeen hands two inches high, who was nineteen years old. He had driven him on the road twelve years, had raced, and only now retired him because he was getting old, though his legs were still perfectly sound and he had never been lame, except once from an overreach in a race. He had not been coddled, but whenever he was driven on the road, was pelted along at twenty miles an hour, however hard that road might be.
Only the pick of the horses were stabled there—about sixty were at a place too far off for Gay to visit, and she got bewildered when she found that the stable sheltered scores of horses collected from all points of the compass—English hackneys, American, Russian, and Austrian trotters, polo ponies, hunters, exhibition leaping horses, and harness ponies, but Rensslaer did not go in much for steeplechasing, and for what was done, the boy who had ridden just now, was responsible.
Gay sighed. What a little heaven to Chris, and what would not he and that other boy do—a pair of dare-devils—if pitted against each other! She dreaded, while she longed for him to know such bliss, and herein lay her inconsistency—that she herself loved horses, was happiest near them, yet would put a limit to Chris's far greater passion, as if it were to be measured by rule of thumb!
It was in this spirit that she asked Rensslaer to get him down later, but on no account to let him and the other boy meet, and Rensslaer laughed, and promised. He had already decided on making Chris a certain offer, and had great hopes that he might accept it.
Resuming their progress, he explained to Gay that his horses did one thing only—the trotters only trotted, the jumpers only jumped, and the horses went through special courses of medicine, and special courses of food on a strict system. To train a horse so that he shall be both heavy and fit, requires a refinement of training to which only the Americans have attained, and at Elsinore the most elaborate system of discipline was carried out, but in a kindly spirit, and the horse prepared for the life he had to lead. He took her off to the breeding paddocks, that had a lot of both American ex-champion trotting and "Pace and Action" mares, and also prize hackney mares, all with foals by trotters and hackneys, his idea being to breed, besides racing trotters, for racing on the Continent, show horses which should have more speed and quality than the hackney, whilst retaining their action, and to this end he crossed the American trotter with the hackney.
"If my attempts to improve the English hackney by giving him some of the pace and action of the fast trotting horse should be crowned with success, I shall be satisfied," he told Gay, and he pointed out a foal that looked like a thoroughbred, and moved like a trotter with hackney action. In fact, most of these cross-bred foals looked the ideal carriage horse—good whole colours, great quality, long necks, very high action, great speed, and perfect manners, and there was never any difficulty in breaking them. Then came an inspection of the racing sulkies, which had an extra low seat so as to come round the turns better; then there were the long-shaft sulkies for a horse who has high action, and makes the ordinary sulky bob up and down, the jogging carts for exercising in, and the four-wheeled, single-seated racing wagons, called speed wagons, used by gentlemen driving in the States for Matinée or Amateur Trotting races. This obviates the necessity of spreading the legs apart on each side of the horse, and for some horses this does not diminish their speed, in fact they can go faster in a wagon than in a sulky, in spite of the extra weight, as it runs smoother, and does not hamper them.
Rensslaer next took Gay to the outdoor training school, which is specially designed for the education of jumpers, on the inner side of which was a platform from which the attendants controlled them, and she watched them run loose on the track, jumping heavy tree trunks, fences, and other obstacles, and if they failed in their riderless freedom to clear them, they gained experience in the tumble that ensued, which served them well later.
She was shown how a horse is made familiar with the trials and the terrors of the road, and is taught to understand them. A machine that makes a noise like a score of motors all going at once, convinces the animal that the hateful thing means no danger to him, and quick to take a hint as his nature is, he approaches with confidence and freedom the tasks he has to face in his curriculum, and is soon well-equipped to face the emergencies of his career.
Then followed an extraordinary exhibition of skill in which Rensslaer was evidently keenly interested, that consisted in the lassoing of a supposed vicious horse by long reins held in the hands of theHaute Écolerider, so that he is brought first to one knee, and then another, and rendered helpless, and the lesson taught him that force is of no avail against brains and cunning.
Gay sighed when at last they left the great quadrangle, steeped in the peace of the evening hour, and visited the yard where choice Belgian griffons and Pomeranians yelped in ecstatic chorus when Rensslaer approached their kennels—yet much as Gay loved dogs, she could not admire them like the beauties she had just left. Moreover, it was growing late, and they entered the house.
When she had dug out the Professor, still dead to the world, and asking nothing better than to remain dead, they had tea, and departed.
"Really a most remarkable individual, my dear," said the Professor, for a man who could do all the varied things his host could, and yet have the brains and taste to collect such books as the Professor had been gloating over, was not to be met above once in a lifetime. "Inhiscase, success is not due to his wealth."
"In spite of it, you mean!" cried Gay. "If it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, it's a million times more difficult for him to live his own life, act up to his ideals, and fulfil the genius that is in him. The world won'tlethim as a rule."
"And to think that such a man as that should keepTrotters!" said the Professor, who, if he thought at all of what Gay had been doing that glorious June afternoon, concluded that she had enthused over something a trifle better than the weedy specimens he had seen at Waterloo Park.
But Gay sat very still, thinking. She had found herself admitted to a paradise hitherto undreamed of; it was as if, seeking a single diamond, she had found a Golconda, and something of Chris's passion for horses had been breathed into her ... they were so much, much more beautiful than humans, more clever even in some respects ... with one-half of her soul she worshipped, with the other half feared them, as the real rivals to her happiness.
Chris looked very white and thin, but just as smart as ever, and completely unsubdued in spirit and intention, when he called in Connaught Square one afternoon late in May, and found Gay in.
She looks prettier than ever, he thought, if less rounded than of yore, and if he had expressed sorrow at causing her so much pain, Gay's tender heart would instantly have melted, but for all his delight at seeing her, his evident determination to treat his accident as a trifle not worth talking about, put her back up to begin with. And when he unblushingly asked her to condole with him on the number of good things he had missed, and roundly abused the Professor and his understudy, for refusing him permission to ride with an arm strapped to his side, Gay's patience gave way utterly, and the first little rift within the lute made itself known.
Poor Chris felt that coldness in the air, but had not the key to the puzzle, and he could not make Gay out. Instead of the jolly little girl, eager to hear all about his stable, to discuss his horses, his hopes and future chances, to buck him up as she had so often done when things went wrong, she did not seem to have a word to throw to him except about trivial matters that didn't in the least interest him—or her, formerly.
How could he tell that those moments in which she saw his colours closed in by a mêlée of struggling horses and men, had changed her from a careless, happy-go-lucky girl, who laughed at accidents, had scarcely flung a fear even to death, to a thoughtful woman whose outlook on life would never again be quite the same? In a word, what he did before had not mattered, but now that she knew she loved him, itdid, yet this solution never occurred to him, nor was there anything in her manner to suggest it—quite the reverse, in fact.
He asked her a few questions about her horses, and what they had done lately, as the papers did not always chronicle their doings, and she told him of their failures and successes, quite without enthusiasm, and Chris came to the conclusion that experience and Rensslaer combined, had put her off Trotting. And if she did not tell him that her horses were entered for no more fixtures after the end of June, and that her brief connection with Trotting would altogether cease on her return from abroad, Chris saw, clearly enough, that she took no more interest in the sport into which she had so light-heartedly plunged, than she did in his.
If hitherto Gay's life had been regulated by a warm heart, high spirits, and quick wits, he knew that it was so no longer, and resented the change in her. Sunbeams might not fulfil any recognised place in the scheme of creation, but they were delightful all the same, and he had been quite satisfied with her as she was. If he had only known it, she loved him at that moment more than ever, realising now she was with him, how completely he had spoiled her for everyone else, that he was the one companion of whom she never tired, never could tire.
"Frank and I are going abroad early in July," she said presently, and Chris's face lengthened. Steeplechasing was over for the year, and until he began to train his horses at the end of August, there was only the flat racing he despised, very seldom took the trouble to look at—and now Gay, on whose precious company he had counted, was going away in a little more than a month.
"I shan't be riding again till autumn, worse luck," he said. "And I'm too late for Olympia."
Gay looked at him, half-angry, half-reluctantly admiring—here he was, a mere gaunt shadow of himself, after the worst outing he had ever had, with only one longing—to court another!
Chris was very sensitive, and his hatred of talking about himself was only equalled by his horror of being a bore. So although the change in her manner hurt him more than either he or she knew, he abruptly changed the subject.
"You'll let me escort you to your meetings now, with Lossie, of course," he added grudgingly. "Tom Bulteel will be jolly glad to be off duty, I expect."
"And Effie too," said Gay candidly. "She did detest coming with me so, but they both played up splendidly, even if Tom's temper has been perfectly horrid."
"And where is this wonderful Gold Vase?" said Chris, looking at the centre of the carpet as if he expected to see it installed there as tutelary god.
"Oh, I hate it!" cried poor Gay, with tears in her voice. "It's covered over with a piece of sackcloth—I mean silk—in my den. It was won by a fraud—paid for with Carlton's good name—the great mistake was his thinking I'd value anything bought at such a cost."
"He never expected that brute to follow him up and see the toe-weights trick," said Chris consolingly. "Honest men can't play the rogue, and that's about all there is to it. Heard from him lately?"
"He is doing a cure at Aix—for the sake of the scenery, you know!" she laughed. "I have had some cheerful, gossiping letters from him," and Chris nodded carelessly, as at a matter of no interest to either. Mackrell had played the fool, and must take the consequences.
Then there was a horrid pause—a pause between these two who usually chattered like magpies when they got together!
"I made a scrap-book out of the snapshots and sketches of you," said Chris, rather gravely. "By a moderate computation there are somewhere about thirty, and I divided them into groups—the decent"—he hesitated—"the—not nice—and the positively libellous."
Gay coloured warmly. If her escapade had brought her asuccès de scandal, caused her to be surrounded wherever she went in public, and make acquaintances faster than she wanted, she knew well enough the subtle difference in men's manners towards her, since she had courted publicity.
"It wasn't such a very awful thing to do, really," she said, with a rebellious toss of her red-brown head. "It was only those spiteful wretches made itlookbad."
"I'd rather see a picture of you as you look now," said Chris quietly, and Gay blushed again, the gentlest of reproofs always hit her hard.
"You see, Chris," she said earnestly, "I had alwayslongedto drive myself—I had had two trial spins in private—and when I saw my driver was tight at the critical moment, of course I ought to have asked Mr. Rensslaer to take his place, but the temptation was too irresistible, and, of course, I fell."
"So, apparently, did one of the competitors," said Chris; "broke an arm or leg, didn't he? So, you see, Trotting people can have accidents as well as jockeys."
Gay reluctantly admitted the fact.
"Of course," she said, "such a fall may be anything from a scratched face up to being killed—one of Mr. Rensslaer's drivers had just such a fall, not from hobbles, but from the track being badly made, and the man did not hurt himself a bit, but he has known a man killed by it. Still, you may say that of every sport. Take hunting—"
"Oh, Lord," cried Chris, "don't compare our national pastime with Trotting, please!"
But Gay affected not to hear. "I can quite understand a man being fond of riding, or even of 'riding jolly,'" she said severely. "Our forefathers did—and on considerably more jumping powder than in these almost Spartan days—and it must be a lovely feeling that everything is plain sailing, that neither you nor your horse are capable of making a mistake—in that heavenly state of mind you do remarkable things over and over again that you never could do in cold blood—but that is quite a different thing to steeplechasing!"
"Quite," agreed Chris in a tone that made Gay turn away indignantly, thinking of Carlton, and what he had not hesitated to do for her. Yes, Chris was certainly doing his best to throw her into his absent rival's arms, while on the other hand he was cut to the heart by her reception of him, so utterly different to the one for which during long weeks of pain he had longed.
Unconsciously, he had looked for a little of that "mothering" that the best kind of woman knows how to give the man she loves, when in trouble, but Chris's pride was more than equal to his tenderness of heart, and he gave no sign of his wound.
"Mr. Rensslaer has asked us over to his place at Vienna—he is going to let me drive one of his Trotters for him. After all," cried Gay, becoming only the more rebellious under Chris's grave looks—Chris the gay-hearted, whom she had confidently reckoned on to think her right whatever she did—"why should a thing that is right in Vienna, be wrong in England?"
"In Rome," murmured Chris vaguely, "you must do as the 'Rum-uns' do."
"Oh," cried Gay impatiently, "we know that vice and virtue are matters of climate and colour, that what is right in the east, is wrong in the west, and it's the same with Trotting—if I am satirised in England, I shall make up for it in the encouragement and respect I shall get abroad!"
She jumped up, and fetched some large photographs that represented an attractive girl driving one of Rensslaer's trotters, and Chris mentally compared this modest presentment of a modest woman, in an elegant conveyance, with the fiendish cleverness of a sketch representing Gay perched upon a shining skeleton wagon, with a charming leg stretched along a shaft on either side of it.
"You're too good for it, Gay," he said, "either there or here. Rensslaer is right—there is no future for Trotting under present conditions in England."
Gay shrugged her shoulders, and abruptly, contemptuously even, changed the subject.
"I am looking forward tremendously to Olympia," she said, "aren't you?"
"I suppose the jumping will be all right. I hear the fences are to be very much higher than any seen before in other shows in England, that gentlemen are to ride instead of stable-boys, is good."
There was a note in his voice that made Gay sigh impatiently, and turn her head away; here was the ruling idea, strong in death, or what was very near it.
"Rensslaer must have his hands full," said Chris. "Awfully decent chap—he has looked me up several times." He did not say that he had encouraged him, as bringing news of Gay.
"Oh, he's delightful," said she as tea appeared, and she began to pour it out. "His naïveté, his tremendous natural ability, whether he's revolver-shooting, or writing a play, or modelling, or driving Trotters, or judging horses, or nursing a cat, or taking a lot of trouble about a silly girl like me and my stupid fancies, there's no one like him!"
But Chris was not jealous, though some men might have misunderstood Gay's intense admiration of Rensslaer's genius and many-sidedness, and the pleasure his friendship had clearly brought into her life.
"You know the papers have engaged you to him?" he said, and thought of an extremely uncomplimentary snapshot of Rensslaer, crouched low on his seat, and made ferocious by his huge goggles, published in the papers side by side with Gay.
"Why?" she said incredulously. "Do you suppose that a man like that would care for a silly little ignoramus like me?"
"Men hate brains," said Chris grumpily, and his temper was not improved by being told that it was onlyboyswho did.