"He wants you to go down to Elsinore," said Gay. "Oh, Chris, the peace of that great quadrangle—the luxury of those stables that yet compass the most perfect simplicity of service to those beautiful creatures—you'll be like a boy in a sweet-shop, running about from one joy to another and loth to leave any. To run through his hundred or so of horses, will take you approximately, I should say, a year of undulterated bliss!"
"I don't know that his stable will interest me so much," objected Chris. "You see, he doesn't go in for steeplechasing—it's driving he's great at."
"Why, heloveshis horses," cried Gay indignantly. "It's his humanising influence in the stable—loving the dear beasts, not for what they do, and the money to be made out of them, but for what theyare—that's so lovely."
Chris sighed. To love horses, and live among the world's pick of them as Rensslaer did, was a lot that the most fortunate man alive might envy.
"Chris?"
"Yes?"
"Aunt Lavinia has been a great comfort to me while you were laid up." Chris smiled—it was a sign of grace in her that she had need of comforting.
"I didn't know till she told me—how—how charitable you are. No wonder you're always hard up, when you give away most of your winnings in helping poor, wretched people!"
Chris coloured.
"I don't," he said. "Aunt Lavinia has been pulling your leg."
"Has it ever struck you that I am very selfish?" inquired Gay anxiously.
"Often—about not making me happy. And it would be so easy, and so—er—so pleasant," said Chris, with the lines that meant mischief wrinkling his young eyes.
"You know," said Gay hastily, "somehow my ambitions seemcommonto me when I look at that dear little lady, who lives entirely for others, and I question my right to waste money as I do on Trotting and otherwise. Oh, I'm not a Socialist"—
"I should hope not," said Chris significantly. "It just means that you make another man work for you while you idle, and then curse him because he does not make enough to give you luxuries."
"Oh, I'm idle enough," said Gay remorsefully, "but Idofeel a burning desire to see the rich enjoy less, and the poor and unfortunatesufferless, and I know perfectly well that I ought to sell my horses—
"They wouldn't fetch much," said Chris, chuckling unkindly. "But there's nothing I'd enjoy more than putting 'em up at Tattersall's—if they're good enough for Tat's."
Gay turned very white, and a flash like steel came into her grey eyes—few people had ever seen it, but it meant mischief.
"And I to see you put up yours," she said quietly. "When you drop racing, Chris, you may talk to me about Trotting—not before."
Chris too had turned very pale, he understood now. He was to tear out what was in the very blood and fibre of him—what had been in countless generations of his hard-riding, sporting forefathers...
"You ask me for my very life itself," he said heavily. "Even my mother never asked me that impossibility. She placed my deep happiness in riding before her own peace of mind always."
Yes, his mother had known how to love him better than that.... He must possess great qualities to love, and be so beloved by his mother, that their love went on, unbroken even by death. After all, Gay asked herself, was it notshewho was selfish, not he?
Had Chris but looked at her in that moment of insight, of revelation, each might have been spared much sorrow, but he was staring straight before him, his face set and stern at theimpasseto which he and Gay had come—he thought he knew now the real reason why she had refused him at the Ffolliott's dance.
At that pregnant moment the door opened slowly, and a timid face came round the corner, like a rabbit peering from a burrow; since Min Toplady's visit, the Professor always looked first to see if Lossie were there, before entering.
"Are you alone, my dear? Ah, only Chris, I see," and the Professor came forward, and shook his 'case's' hand warmly. If only the boy could be weaned from steeplechasing, there was no one he would like better for a brother-in-law, though of course it must be a long—a very long engagement.
"I wish," he said presently to Chris in his tactless way, "that you would persuade Gay to listen to reason, and give up Trotting."
"He had better get the whip-hand ofhimselfbefore he tries to manage others," cried Gay; then looking at Chris, white, wasted, invincible in his weakness, her heart was pierced with cruel pain. He looked like slipping through, without the help of any more accidents, and what would life be worth to her without him?
As she moved to the window, and stood looking out, she lived again those awful moments at Sandown, yet when she came back to the two men, her face told nothing, for if Chris had pluck, she had grit, and the latter wears best in the long run.
"Each to its own, Heron," she said—"you to your books and microscope, Chris to his racers, and I to my Trotters; there isn't a pin to choose between the selfishness of any one or us!"
And Chris, when presently he said good-bye, thought grimly that she was about right.
It was characteristic of Carlton Mackrell that he should turn up unexpectedly in the Park one afternoon, looking his usual unruffled self, and greet the little party sitting under a tree, as if he had only parted from them a few hours earlier.
No thought of the presentation of his "little bill" cooled the warmth of Gay's welcome; Lossie paid him the tribute of nearly fainting from excess of joy, while Chris, who knew his only real rival with Gay to be his own passion for steeplechasing, was cordiality itself.
It was one of the few sunny afternoons in a summer that was the very abomination of desolation, and Carlton, who looked very brown and well, was clearly glad to be back in the world—his world, that never enthused, or got excited, or asked questions, but took everything for granted in its own delightful way. He liked its indifference to the non-essentials of social intercourse, its tranquility and spacious forgiving humours, its freedom from conventions, and disdain for little things—yes, with all its charms and vices, English society alone had the art of life. Even Rensslaer, who was a cosmopolitan in his tastes and habits, had once admitted to Carlton that he had made his home in England because, as he frankly confessed, London had his heart.
"When I am here, I always feel that I am at the centre of things—right at the heart of all there's happening," he said. "You don't feel this in any other city in the world—but London is the whole world itself, squeezed into a few square miles."
Gay, if she were nervous, did not suffer it to appear, but chaffed Carlton mercilessly about his rheumatism, inquiring if he had found its cure at the Aix gaming tables, and in thosedolce far nientedrives on the old Roman roads that she herself adored.
He laughed, looking very happy, and very handsome—indeed the quartette were in such high spirits, and of such conspicuous good looks, as to attract an unusual amount of attention, Gay heard one woman murmur in passing them, "three angels—and an Immortal," the latter with a glance at Chris that sent a pang to her heart.
Carlton was genuinely shocked at Chris's looks (for which Gay was almost as much responsible as his accident), but delighted to find that there was no understanding between the two. Daily during his stay abroad he had expected to hear the news of their engagement, and if nothing had happened in all these weeks, well, the presumption was, that nothing would.
It wanted a good week to the Horse Show; town was at its very best, and Gay, who was always restless now, gave her whole mind to frivolity, greatly to Lossie's delight. The four young people filled the days, and the greater part of their nights, with amusements of every kind, so that, as the Professor declared, Gay only used her house to sleep in, seldom to feed.
With two of the party happy, for Lossie was in triumphant beauty, and quite satisfied at the way things were going, and the other two playing up brilliantly, they made the gayest possible quartette, and more than once, either as host or guest, Rensslaer joined them, to Gay's manifest pleasure.
It was not surprising that Carlton quite wrongly attributed Gay's welcome change of front about trotting, to Rensslaer's influence, for although that sport was the one tabooed subject with them all, he knew from Tugwood, who had insisted on keeping him well posted, that she seldom took the trouble to see her horses run now.
But he was equally correct in thinking that her friendship with Rensslaer had developed a side of her character that up to now, no one had been aware of, and with some mortification realised, that neither he nor Chris had allowed for the spirituality that is in every woman worthy of the name, and that Rensslaer so fully recognised.
While just as original, Gay had wider sympathies, read more, thought more, and that she had a very genuine and even warm affection for Rensslaer, no one could doubt who saw them together. She displayed an eager pleasure when they met, that neither of the two younger men by any means evoked—it happened, therefore, that Carlton came to entirely misunderstand the position, be as certain that the man was in love with Gay (for a lover always thinks the whole world is in league to want what he wants), as he suspected Gay, out of sheer perversity, to fancy herself in love with Rensslaer.
With men of Carlton Mackrell's type and position, brains are never admitted, or if possessed, they are sedulously hidden—it would be bad form, make uncomfortable other men to use them, and he had never seriously considered their value till now, when he saw the mental hold that Rensslaer had taken on her. But the more complex a man is, the better he likes a woman to be purely normal, and like Chris, Carlton by no means approved of the change in Gay.
He thought of the sweet perfume of the wild hawthorn, of how the cultivated, double variety, beautiful in shape and colour though it may be, has none, and he missed the wildness and spontaneity, yes, and the wilfulness that he loved in Gay, and longed to have it back again.
It was curious with what jealous iteration in conversation between Carlton and Lossie, Rensslaer's name cropped up, and that the man should display such incredible blindness to the real position of affairs between Gay and Chris, appealed to Lossie's sense of humour. She only bided her time to undeceive him, and the opportunity came at Ranelagh on the Saturday preceding the opening of the Horse Show, when somehow the two couples had got separated, as often happened. It was a significant fact which seemed altogether to escape Carlton, that uneasy as Gay and Chris seemed to be when together, it was impossible to keep them apart.
Sitting under the trees, Carlton and Lossie talked trifles till, as was inevitable, Rensslaer's (to Carlton) abhorred personality intruded, and the reason of his influence over Gay was debated.
"I can't see his charm," said Carlton, who, like many other very handsome men, quite unconsciously exaggerated the power of good looks over women.
"He's got a mind," said Lossie significantly, "and that lasts longest in the long run."
"So has Gay," said Carlton, "and that is thepoint d'appuibetween them. She could never put up with poor Hannen, who has but one idea in his head—horses."
"He has one other," she said quietly—"Gay. And Gay has only one—Chris."
A red flush showed under Carlton's dark skin, and he looked at Lossie sharply, suspecting her of playing her own game, but if there is one thing more than another that confounds a man, it is the purity of the outline of a woman's cheek, as opposed to the deep artifice and dissimulation of her soul.
"They areà tort et à travers!" he exclaimed. "It's only because there is no steeplechasing on, and Hannen is at a loose end, that he sticks it."
"She would marry him to-morrow if he would give up racing," said Lossie, "and he won't. Neither will give way—and there's the rub. And she's a fool," she added softly, "for a woman who loves, loves to submit."
"Gay won't," said Carlton, as he returned Lossie's gaze full. Good Heavens! how lovely she was, with her forget-me-not eyes, and silky masses of blue-black hair, framed in a wonderful hat and gown of royal purplish-blue chiffon, that would have killed most women. He wondered that Rensslaer had passed her by for Gay; for himself, of course, it was different—he knew Gay's good qualities so well, her disposition inside out.
"Gay has a will of her own," he said.
"And a heart," said Lossie significantly, "that runs away with her head. You see, Chris looks so ill, and you so—so provokinglywell—" Her gaze lingered on his face warmly like a caress, and indeed he was very good to look at. "There's something awfully maternal about Gay—not to say 'sloppy'—wanting to help everyone, like silly Aunt Lavinia, you know. It makes you so cheap," she addedly rashly, and saw her mistake when Carlton, who liked Lavinia—as who did not?—frowned, and suggested that they should join the others.
They found them silently looking on at a game of polo—if there were a horse anywhere near, Chris gravitated naturally towards it—and for a while they discussed the players and the cattle.
"But Mr. Hannen will see better at Elsinore to-morrow," Gay said to Carlton a little nervously. Each day, each hour seemed to bring nearer to her the presentation of that "little bill," and there was a dangerous spark in his eye that foretold trouble in the near future. Indeed, as they stood quietly chatting about the wonders of Elsinore, Carlton suddenly realised that Lossie had told him the truth, and with a mad, hot rush of jealousy, that for the moment blinded him to all sense of honour, he inly swore that he would obtain Gay at all hazards, her love for Chris notwithstanding, using the steeplechase difficulty as a means of accomplishing his desires.
Lossie, reading him like a book, felt her heart sink. Yet, after all, would it not be better when he had put his fate to the touch, and realised once for all that Gay was not for him? He would take it badly—very badly. He would go away again, but some day he would come back—and even if he knew that she loved him, Lossie had not committed the one sin that to a man is unpardonable, the sin of boring him.
Chris returned from Elsinore decidedly quiet, not to say subdued in manner. Gay thought it was because in the enchanted world of horses he had entered there, the steeplechaser found his true level, was only one of many, not the be-all and end-all of existence; she also concluded that Rensslaer had kept the dare-devil young rider, who had given Gay a taste of his jumping capacity, out of sight, as indeed he had. Oddly enough, Chris seemed more struck with Rensslaer's personality and marvellous shooting, than anything else, and waxed eloquent when he reported to Gay at dinner that night, all he had seen and done during the day.
"He's a fine chap," said Chris, "and a good sportsman—does some good withhismoney. By Jove! you should just see him shoot on horseback! He's out of his element, an anachronism, in the garb of civilisation, but in his shirt and breeches, he's an athlete, and a model of skill and strength, while his mare is a marvel. I followed at a distance on a pony, and to see him drop a stag with a right and left, is a caution."
He happened as he spoke to catch the eye of the Professor, who stiffened visibly.
"Dangerous things, firearms," he said. "I never have anything to do with them myself, and as to shooting on horseback, I told you once before, at the Ffolliott's dance, I think—that while a good horseman in my youth, ahem! my riding days are now over."
The Ffolliott's dance ... the hectic of excitement sank in Chris's hollow cheeks ... how long ago it seemed ... and a dear little girl faltering out that she wanted time ... crying her youth ... when all the while she had made up her mind not to marry him because he loved horses too well; yet how adorable she had been, how different from the little shrew who was looking angrily at him at that moment!
Yet poor Gay thought she had some reason for complaint. Was his talk never to be of anything but sport in one form or another? Rensslaer the artist, appealed to her much more than Rensslaer the champion shot ... and then her thoughts went off with apparent, but not real, inconsequence to Carlton Mackrell, whose aimless, pleasant life had always annoyed her, but who had yet proved himself capable of a romantic action for which few would have given him credit, as few would themselves have committed it.
Upstairs, after dinner, it was no better.
There was the fresh, bright room with its heaps of flowers, just the same as ever; there was Gay, prettier than ever, but no longer the bright mortal whom one of her friends had christened "radium," so continually did she carry sunshine about with her. There was little enough warmth in the eyes that met Chris's, and how was he to know that it was only by a violent effort she curbed the longing to put out her hand, and touch the sunny head so near her own?
He too was changed. Formerly nothing had been a trouble, and nobody was a bore; he simply lived to please those he loved, and of these Gay was chiefest, but ill-health probably, and heartache certainly, were ruining his temper and his disposition for the time being. He thought Gay very hard on him, and she thought him hard on himself—as did Aunt Lavinia.
Presently Chris sprang up, feeling that he could bear it no longer, and pleading that he was tired with his long day at Elsinore, he left early for Epsom, with more to think of than Gay guessed, and dispirited to a degree she had no idea of, or perhaps she would have bid him good-bye more kindly.
As he thought of the once cheery little comrade who in former days had been wont to accompany him downstairs, the chilly aloofness of her struck Chris to the heart, though what of Gay, who was already in her own room, weeping passionately, when the slam of the hall-door came?
"If his mother could see me," she thought, and almost looked round for invisible whips.
In the train Chris recalled his quiet chat with Rensslaer before leaving Elsinore, the latter having thrown out a word of inquiry as to his future plans, and Chris had lightly sketched his autumn programme—a sufficiently full one.
Rensslaer had listened with attention, then said:
"There's no money to be made at racing as you practice it—the surroundings are not healthy, either morally or physically—there is too much excitement, too much bodily waste. It may wreck your manhood in the long run—you weigh a couple of stone less than you ought—and"—Rensslaer hesitated—"it's not fair to Miss Gay."
"It's my very life, sir," cried Chris warmly.
"In short," said Rensslaer, and smiled, "Bagehot knew what he was talking about, when he said that the 'natural impulse of the English people is to resist authority.' What you want is discipline."
Chris uttered an exclamation, and his eyes flashed, for as he took no liberty with others, so he allowed none to be taken with him, but Rensslaer took no notice.
"I am old enough to be your father," he said; "let me for once speak to you as one. The fault of your character is not so much want of purpose, as the need of one worthy of you—bend those talents which I know you to possess to some definite object, and embark without further delay on some worthy career. What you want iswork, which is the salt of existence; the pleasure you take in horses should be for moments of relaxation—a refreshing pause to make your step all the quicker, your mind all the more braced for the serious business of life."
"I shouldn't call the job of schooling and making horses exactly a sinecure," said Chris coldly. "I have work enough and to spare, and it is the work that I love."
Rensslaer shook his head.
"It is because you love it so well that it's play, and it leads nowhere—except over broken hearts," he added in a lower tone, and Chris winced. "Did you see what that German who has lived for thirty years in England says about the deterioration in English character? He speaks of that increasing section of our people, whose guiding principle in life gives the lie to that strenuous rule of sturdy self-denial, and initiative, on which our Empire was founded, and by which alone it can be preserved."
"I suppose no one will deny that there's plenty of self-denial in my profession," said Chris drily.
"As I said before, you do it for your own pleasure," said Rensslaer gravely, "and to others' sorrow. Whether you merely kill, or only mangle yourself, it's self-indulgence pure and simple. Discipline, self-sacrifice for the State's sake, are the qualities that the modern Englishman needs to cultivate. But I'm afraid that selfishness, and an inordinate love of pleasure, with a corresponding contempt for, and hatred of all that savours of restraint, are the prevailing characteristics of the heirs to the most Imperial inheritance that history has ever known."
"And by the State," said Chris quietly, but inwardly furious at having to import Gay's name into the discussion, "I presume you mean Miss Lawless—to whom I am not doing my duty?"
"Yes. Be my land-agent," said Rensslaer abruptly. "There will be a lot of hard work about it, and you'll have to learn the business, but on the other hand, you can have the pick of my stable for riding and driving in the ordinary way—no 'schooling,' which is just as dangerous as steeplechasing, but as much hunting as you choose. If you would think a thousand a year sufficient—and there is a really charming house on the estate that I feel sure Miss Gay would like—"
"You take it for granted Miss Gay would care too," said Chris, the thunder-cloud leaving his brow. "Thank you, sir. It's most awfully good of you—and I know more on Miss Lawless's account than mine—but it's an offer I can't possibly accept."
Yet if Gay were not positively brutal to him nowadays (or so poor Chris expressed it) he would have felt more remorse at throwing away her happiness, and, his passion for horses notwithstanding, what his better self told him was his happiness also.
Deeply disappointed as his host was, he said no more, and that Chris was so enthusiastic about him to Gay, showed that they had parted the best of friends. Indeed, the boy's sunny good humour, the incorrigible pluck and charm of him, the blending of heart and breeding, and taste, of all those qualities, in short, that go to make in the real sense of the word, a gentleman, had long ago endeared him to Rensslaer, as to all others.
But the spirit of perversity that had seized Chris when he last dined at Connaught Square throve apace, and he made no effort to dislodge it; whatever he did, or did not do, he could not please Gay. He had deliberately talked shooting to her, that he might keep his tongue off the raptures of admiration into which Rensslaer's stable had plunged him, and that was wrong—like everything else.
Well, if she wanted a lady-like fool, who took no risks, to play round with—for thus he rudely designated Carlton—she had better take him, and the sooner the better. Chris's usual good manners were going by the board under the strain of mingled ill-health, and mental irritation combined, and altogether he was in a very bad way indeed, when on the day before the Horse Show, he went to see Aunt Lavinia, whom he had somewhat neglected since his recovery.
"Dear boy!" she exclaimed in delight as she got up from her writing-table, "how nice you look, and howlean!"—for she could not abide fat on a man—and she kissed him fondly.
Chris's bright hair, his smile, and general smartness stood him in excellent stead on all occasions when he wished to hide his real feelings, but Lavinia knew him very well, and after some talk, and the transference of a small cheque to her for her poor, the little lady roundly taxed him with having something on his mind.
"Too much money," said Chris, and chuckled. "Are you going to Olympia? We have all been buying tickets on our own—Rensslaer, Mackrell, Bulteel, and myself—and it seems to me, between us all, we can live there the whole week if we like, with intervals for food and sleep."
"It's out of my line, Laddie," she said, "even if it did not mean a new frock—which would make me miserable. But it will be a pretty sight. Is it because you are not riding, you have the hump?" she added, looking at him shrewdly.
"Of course I should like it," said Chris, "but there are lots of other fellows who will do it better, of course."
"It seems to be a rule of life," she said, "that one can only be happy at the cost of others' unhappiness—and your disappointment probably means that Gay is happy."
"I think it would take a lot to make her that nowadays," he said drily. "But isn't it a pretty rotten world when such a state of things prevails, that we are afraid to even admit that we are happy—and rub a piece of wood to give our admission the lie?"
"There are so many ways of happiness," she said, "but practically only one of misery. There's self-control, Laddie"—she hesitated, and glanced at the boy's handsome head, a little bent already in anticipation of rebuke—"what is life, after all, but discipline?"
Chris thought that Rensslaer, as well as Gay, must have been getting at her, and turned restive—there seemed no comfort for him anywhere.
"Why don't you say all this to Mackrell? He deserves it quite as much as I do. He never does anything but what he likes; he doesn't even break his bones."
"Ah, my boy," she said sadly, "it is only these we love, that we take trouble about, and there's sterner, deeper stuff in you than poor Carlton; besides, Gay loves you, not him."
Chris walked to the window, and stood for a while, looking out.
"Dear Laddie," said Lavinia softly, "you are fighting for prizes that when obtained are utterly valueless, for victories more fatal than the most inglorious defeats, and all because you have not the strength of mind to break away, to assert your will-power. Nothing in this world can remain stationary—if you are not improving, you are going back—and don't you suppose that she knows it? For there is no death," she added softly; "she is living, but not here—is listening to us at this moment, for all we know."
"She always hated my riding," he said, and in those painful, heart-searching moments, realised that often the real influence of an unselfish life does not begin till it is over.
Lavinia said not one word, only looked at him with the dear blue eyes in which life, its sins, its virtues, its passions had been transmuted into a pure and utterly comprehending humanity, and at something in his face, not so much unyielding as unconquerable, because quite beyond his control, she sighed deeply. She had seen the struggle so often, and it had always ended in the one way.
There rang in her ears Gay's cry the day before,
"Oh! why is it that we love best those who have never doneanythingfor us—have even cost us much sorrow—and are cruel and ungrateful to those who have sacrificed themselves for us—as Carlton has for me?"
Lavinia knew that Gay was in a dangerous mood, and in a moment of impulse and anger against Chris's selfishness, might wreck her own, and two men's lives. She had a temper, and a will of her own, and a generous heart also, that could not fail to appreciate a delicacy that with Carlton was as great as his devotion. Yet Chris did not look the sort of lover that any girl would turn her back on, when he kissed Lavinia and departed.
"When the Horse Show is over," he said to himself, with a sense of relief at the postponement of the struggle, then he would fight out the burning question of which he could best live without—steeplechasing or Gay.
Rensslaer had taken half-a-dozen tickets for the Royal day, and any special shows that he thought would appeal to Gay. Tom Bulteel had liberally provided for the Harness classes, Carlton had concentrated on the Trotting, Chris on the jumping, which came last in the evening, so that the united tickets practically covered everything worth seeing at Olympia.
The little party, Gay, Effie, and Tom Bulteel (save when the latter were at Epsom), Lossie, Chris, and Carlton, took the Show easily, like a picnic, saw most of the good things, and missed those not so good, though when the jumping was on, Chris remained glued to his seat, deaf, blind, and oblivious to all around him, save what was passing in the arena.
The Professor had been invited, but declined—to the immense relief of everybody, as his squeals might have astounded the neighbours during the high jumping. Gay found it delightful not to have to be told after squeezing in (as happened to many other of her friends), that their cards admitted them to the building only, and seats must be booked inside, of which there were none to be booked.
The stables amused her immensely. She thought it must have astonished the cart horses to find themselves ensconced between draperies of crimson and gold, others in a delicate shade of pearly blue, with huge baskets of flowers floating over their heads, or in bowers of hothouse blooms, and upholstered in green and white—the whole scheme changed to a royal blue on the day of the King's visit. The woodwork of Rensslaer's boxes was plainly but handsomely covered in cloth, while each horse's name and its record appeared over its stall in an ornamental gilt frame.
Several of the Continental army officers in their bright uniforms strolled between the arena and the stables, chatting and keeping an eye on their splendid mounts, and Gay noted approvingly that these men seemed to be the personal friends of their horses. The tall, clean-limbed animals, although they treated the stablemen with contempt, pricked up their ears, and thrust their proudly-poised heads over the stall doors, every time one of the well-known uniforms came near.
It was a quaint sight to see the women in their delicate summer gowns walking past the stalls over the dusty asphalt floors, and peering into the horse-boxes, for an extraordinary number of women were present, every one of whom had apparently put on her costliest clothes for the occasion.
The fact that the Epsom Meeting was not over, appeared to have no effect on the attendance, for faces well-known in the world of sport were to be seen—it was an "indoor Ascot"—Ascot Cup Day so far as the dresses were concerned, mingled with the paddock on Derby Day, with its multiplicity of languages—Ascot with magnificent horses, and instead of racing on the flat, jumping, trotting, and tandem driving.
The gowns showed fairly well in the Ambassadors and other boxes, but Lossie justly complained that it was like a too dense wood, where you can't admire the foliage for the trees, and that every woman requires a special clearing to herself to be shown off properly, which she certainly had not here.
Yet Lossie herself easily made her presence felt in the immediate vicinity, and drew many an envious glance on her exquisite harmony in blue, and bluer eyes, though Gay's frock of white worked muslin, with a great cluster of crimson roses at her girlish breast, appealed to both Carlton and Chris far more.
But as usual in the quartette made by the young people, it was to Lossie that Carlton fell, and very content and lovely the girl looked as she sat beside him, while on his part, he did not find it difficult to make himself pleasant to her, even if Gay apparently had forgotten her quarrel with Chris, laughed, and was happy. The two criticised everything, and discussed with zest the charmingcoup d'Å“ilpresented, which was vivid, and full of interest, life and colour.
Overhead, the rays of the sun streamed through the glass roof, and were caught by the festoons and panels, ornamented with the flags and heraldry that emphasised the international nature of the show; roses in long, drooping curves connected the chief parts of the ornamentation, so that there was not one bare, unsightly piece of woodwork in all the vast building to offend the eye, and beneath, the Belgian landscape gardeners had worked marvels, creating a veritable fairyland of delight.
May trees in full blossom, a fresh green lawn, flower-beds, shrubs, everything possible to banish the show-ring, if scarcely to suggest the paddock or hunting-field, had been done, and beyond a ring banked with marguerites and scarlet geraniums, rose row upon row, English, French, Belgian, and American women, tiny splashes of colour that mostly represented the hopes and fears, impending pride or disappointment in the horsemen who competed for their countries' honour.
The pink hunting-coats or uniforms of the riders, the picturesque dress of the attendants, and the sleek, shining horses, all blended into a picture perfectly harmonious in tone, while the black coats of the little group of tall, well-bred men in the arena who acted as judges, somehow struck a note of distinction in the midst of the uniforms, and the gay kaleidoscopic surroundings.
Horse shows in England are apt to be too leisurely entertainments—this was too rapid for many spectators, for the expedition with which everything was carried out in the ring, was a revelation in expert management. Seeing that in one jumping class there were a hundred and twenty entries, it was clear that only by the full-tilt methods of the old tournament, could the events be carried through in time, so when one competition was over, a blast on the coach-horn, and, hey presto! the great doors at the end of the hall flew open, and in swept the next competitors, and jumping or other apparatus vanished as if by magic. There was a neatness and despatch about the whole affair that made the show go as quickly as a well-arranged theatrical performance, though the noise caused by the joint efforts of Lord Lonsdale's band, and the liveried youth in the ring occasionally provoked some amusement.
The vivacity of the scene was undeniable, but Gay, like many others, experienced the greatest difficulty in identifying any particular competition when two or more classes were in the ring, and when afterwards she tried to remember the right sequence of the things that most delighted her, she was not able to, so rapidly had they succeeded each other. She remembered vividly Rensslaer's beautiful little Peter and Mary, under eleven hands, and to her one of the prettiest sights was when a tiny Shetland pony only seventeen inches high, took a prize in a class with big horses, quality, not quantity, winning, the attendant having to kneel down to pin the rosette on the tiny creature.
The tandem teams that moved like clockwork delighted her, and she shared Chris's admiration for the Stansfield Cottin Battak ponies, that bred in Sumatra, with handsome heads set on high-crested necks, full of spirit, and simply balls of muscle, had all the fire and beauty conferred by the Arab strain, together with the hardness and endurance of the Battak breed, the description "miniature Arabs, with more bone than their ancestors" fitting them exactly.
She loved the magnificent team of Suffolk Punches that appeared precisely as they do in the field, in harness adopted from all time by Suffolk agriculturists, drawing an old-fashioned Suffolk wagon, while the fact that they were led by men in smock frocks instead of being driven, and thus perfectly in character, and representative of "Old England," appealed strongly to the public, who cheered them to the echo.
With perfect simplicity the Suffolk farm hands demonstrated how heavy horses harnessed in twos, may be made to wheel in mazy figures by just talking to them. In true old country style, the man walking beside the leading animal, shouted in broad Suffolk his commands to him, "t'other waa," and "th' iver waa" (my way), the man walking beside the third horse repeating the commands, and at every order, round came the four in perfect style, not a hand on their harness to steady or lead them, wheeling their great wagon in wonderful evolutions, amid thunders of applause that would not be silenced.
From the horse-lover's point of view, the horses for mail and other phaetons was a noteworthy event, and closely watched by Tom Bulteel.
A most stirring competition of the nation was seen in the pairs. Mr. Vanderbilt entered three teams; Rensslaer drove his own horses, and the French appointments, for which 50 per cent. of the marks are given, were extremely smart. Such a show of pairs, or anything like it, had never been collected in any ring; indeed, said the experts, never had so perfect a class been brought together, and the work of the judges was herculean. The excitement was intense as the twenty-two were reduced to a select eight, including two of Rensslaer's, two of Mr. Vanderbilt's, and one of Mr. Bates'.
Lossie ever after viewed Rensslaer with more respect as the owner of the superb pair of carriage horses, named after a couple of popular sporting peers, that never appeared without creating a furore of admiration—she would above all things have liked them for her own, and Carlton to sit with her behind them.
He on his part viewed them with indifference, but gave unstinted praise to the class for American Trotters with records of 2.30 or better; fleet as Atlanta, slenderly beautiful as greyhounds, they were a revelation to him of what a horse could look and be, and he and Gay laughed heartily as they compared them with the quadrupeds that in all seriousness they had called Trotters, and he understood better now Rensslaer's prejudice against the sport as practised in England.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Chris, "hecandrive!" as Rensslaer, for some time last of the competitors, crept up to the front, Storm Cloud beating them by the way he went round the very small turns at top speed, passing Sensation, and thus forcing the other to a break, and afterwards, when he had won, being driven round at full speed with his checker-rein, and over-draw bit taken off, so as to show what manners he had.
This was the same horse that displayed great speed in a pair in the parade before the King, being the only pair capable of taking their turns fast.
Yes, Gay decidedthatwas her favourite day, when the sweetest and loveliest lady in all the land, sat with the King in the Royal box, and frankly showed her love for horses by the delight she evinced in their performances, and the frequent applause she gave them, laughing as heartily as Gay did, at the humours of the donkeys in the coster's show.
As if in answer to Tom Bulteel's pertinent remark that the saddle classes could not be satisfactorily judged, unless the judges took a turn in the saddle, one of them, himself a consummate horseman, rode the chargers in turn to judge of their capacities, and the public applauded loudly when he mounted Rensslaer's bay roan gelding, a charger so perfectly trained in the pretty action and deportment of theHaute École, that it performed a step-dance with all the precision possible in a creature with four legs.
Gay declared that horses, like children, have an inborn tendency to dance to the sound of music—nothorses trained to theHaute Écoleeither—and that in their grace and tapering limbs, they made her think of some exquisite exponents of the ballet, as compared with the unwieldy bodies and heavy legs of ordinary clumsy human beings.
It interested Gay to watch these men, the keenest judges of horse-flesh, and riding and driving in the world, who chatted quietly, nodded appreciatively now and then, criticised, admired, condemned, evincing no concern when a frightened horse scattered them to right and left. She was greatly amused at a big, striding bay horse named "Teetotaler" that, though built on galloping lines, proved himself inferior to "Whisky," who made short work of his opponent in the 15 stone class; then there was a Belgian horse named "Timber-topper" that thoroughly lived up to his name.
Tom Bulteel found much to admire in the horse and gig class, a purely American affair, that being rather a novelty in this country, was greatly approved, but laughed heartily when, in a four-in-hand class, the coachman had to have assistance to turn his leaders in the ring. He naturally took keen interest in the park teams, which, supported by the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs, by private individuals and professionals, ensured the judging being watched with the closest attention. Then there were Mr. Vanderbilt's famous team of greys, which he drove himself, though it was only by a shade that he wrested the prize from the well-known browns of the Old Brighton Coach—an English turn-out that gradually absorbed most of the audience's attention, and whose driver, though he lost the blue rosette, was greeted with loud and prolonged applause.
"Where is your motor-car now?" cried Gay triumphantly to Lossie. "Talk of a chauffeur indeed—as if his finest, most daring and sustained feat, could rival the sympathetic dexterity shown a hundred times here by English and American whips!"
"Just as no rivalry between mechanical contrivances can hold a candle to the struggle among the field of beautiful high-bred horses, sweeping over the turf towards the winning-post," said Chris, "for in the mechanical contrivance, the driver is the only sentient element, in horse-racing there is both horse and jockey to reckon with, and the animal enters into the spirit of the contest just as keenly as his rider."
Inconsistent Gay frowned, and turned her head away, devoting herself to Tom Bulteel, who did not want her. He was intently watching the class for a quick change of four-in-hands, marks being given for the speed and swiftness with which the harnessing and unharnessing was managed, as well as for the eight horses and the horsemanship, and some extraordinarily smart work was being done, which he fully appreciated.
Effie, watching the game, sighed, for Gay's spirits and temper varied with every succeeding hour, the "class" witnessed, being the barometer by which her emotions were set. When there was only driving, and Chris's attention entirely given to her, she sparkled, and was happy; when jumping was on, and he became absolutely engrossed in his favourite passion, leaning forward, his soul in his eyes, and his eyes where his body panted to be, Gay existed no more for him than that vast circle of spectators of which he formed a part, and her brightness was eclipsed. Then Carlton scored—he had not watched Gay and her attitude towards Chris during the progress of the Show for nothing, and each day saw his hopes rise higher, Lossie's fell.
To Effie, who was a shrewd observer, this was something more than a great Horse Show, it was the picturesquemise en scènefor the playing out of the comedy (or tragedy) of four lives, and of which she, and unhappy Lossie clearly foresaw the end.... Chris and wilful Gay were throwing away their happiness with both hands, and much as she loved them both, she was powerless to prevent it.
Chris's enjoyment reached perhaps its culminating point in the round-the-course jumping competition, that took the place of the high jump—a real good, stiff and varied steeplechase. He noted keenly the solidity of the obstacles—post and rails, park-palings, high park gates, and push-over gate, a Suffolk "squeeze," with a barrier of high hedges and thorns; a bank, both abrupt and sloping; a Leicestershire bullfinch, and the novelty of the Continental triple bar, consisting of three high bamboo bars on movable trestles.
These could be arranged at any required distance from one another, which meant that the horses had to clear a good 20 feet. Then there was the celebrated sheep-pen jump, in which the rider had to leap into the pen, and out on the other side, the finish and most difficult feat being the bank, which was a turfed embankment of five feet high, the horse having to leap, not over it, but on top of it, and descend the slope on the other side.
The bringing in of the fences was in itself stirring. White-wigged postilions of the old style, rode in pairs of grey horses harnessed to capacious wagons, and in a few minutes all was complete.
Decidedly the drama of the exhibition was the jumping, while the riding of the foreign cavalry officers, who had not before been seen in England, was one of the sensations, for there are no finer horsemen in the world, unless from among the Cossacks and the cowboys, and their talents are especially distinguished in taking the banks and big, stiff fences at full speed.
Through the heavy wooden and iron doors there trotted in one by one, French, Belgian, American, and Spanish horsemen, who were to teach the English how to high-jump, over forty coming to the post, their brilliant uniforms adding the last touch of colour to the scene.
The first horse touched the triple bar, but otherwise did a perfect course, though at the five feet bank which finishes the latter, he slid along the platform prone, and on all fours, and, like many of the English horses, could scarcely recover his legs.
It was a remarkable sight to see the string of horses take the gates, bars, bushes, and fences in the glare of thousands of electric lights; the row of wooden posts was an ugly jump always. The terrible triple-bar, most risky of all the Continental jumps, now introduced to English horsemen for the first time, was constantly crashing down, amid half-sustained shrieks from the women in the audience, as the riders were thrown, or jerked on the necks of their steeds, and it was here that all the British officers came to grief, though they took their fences with the abandon and dash of a quick burst in the shires. Indeed their riding was remarkably clever and plucky, considering that they had never before been through such a performance, and were all riding green horses. The latter broke into a gallop as they approached the sloping bank, with a deep and abrupt fall on the far side, swinging sharply to the left, and took at tremendous speed the circle of jumps, each distinct from the rest, then finished down the middle, taking this time, not the slope, but the wall of the bank, and so disappeared through the gates into the stables.
All the other obstacles fell when the horse collided with them, but, as one of the competitors remarked, "There's no give in that bank," and it was here that nearly all of the mishaps occurred. A Lifeguardsman went at the bank as if he were charging an army, but the horse sprang short, and his rider was shot high over his head. He turned a complete somersault, and fell on his back on the top of the bank; the horse followed, and appeared to jump on the prostrate rider. Ring attendants and judges ran towards him, but the lieutenant picked himself up smartly—he had not released his hold of the reins—and mounting the hunter on the top of the bank, rode it down the slope, and out of the arena, amid enthusiastic plaudits for his pluck.
England was not alone in the matter of mishaps. One of the 2nd Chausseurs à Cheval, of the Belgian Army, although a splendid steeplechase rider, also fell at the bank. He went round the course at a smart gallop, and cleared everything without registering a touch. His beautiful bay gelding went at the bank at full speed, but appeared to make no attempt to rise at it—the animal's chest struck the vertical side of the embankment, his rider shot into the air, and he too fell on his back. The lieutenant landed on top of the bank, and the horse remained below.
A mettlesome bay mare from Belgium, ridden by an officer who wore the gorgeous uniform of the 2nd Belgian Lancers, refused the first obstacle, and ran round it; refused the second, and dashed among the judges, scattering them right and left. After five minutes' display of temper all over the arena, she was ordered out, and eventually, with some persuasion, went, having jumped nothing but the judges' table.
Many of the horses had never jumped inside a building before, and used to the open showyard, were made nervous, almost frantic, by the colours, the music, the people, and the general strangeness of the surroundings, intensified by the glare of the electric light, and the unfortunate illumination of the trees. So greatly were the nerves of some of the best-known leapers affected, that often the judges and messenger boys were sent scurrying when a nervous horse refused his jump, and careered at full speed round the ring.
So for an hour, in quick succession, followed each other the best horses and horsemen of Europe—some conspicuous for a close, immovable, jockey-like seat, the English hunters for dash, and the Belgians for coolness and neatness. The difference in the way the men of foreign nationalities sat their horses, keenly interested Chris, for they did so, if not as gracefully, at least more effectively than the average English rider in a jumping competition. Some of them began, continued, and finished the course crisply, and at high speed, with an unmoved seat, even when heavy men. He noted that the foreigner rides with long stirrups, and more by balance than the Englishman, though there was one exception, his stirrups were as short as a jockey's, his knees crooked high, and pressed very tight—so steady and sympathetic a seat Chris had seldom seen.
No one could help admiring the Belgian officer's riding, how he never touches his horse's mouth, but sits as if he were part of the horse, even if it jumped a little slowly, or "stickily," as we should say. More than once, delightful instances of the kindness of these officers to their horses were given. When a fence was refused, no rough words were used, or resentment shown—a pat of the neck, an encouraging whisper, and the horse tried again, succeeded, and seemed even happier in his success than his gentle master.
One of the most interesting figures in the jumping competitions, the champion jump rider of Belgium, appeared in a finely-fitting uniform, with black coat, and blue riding breeches. A lithe figure with the moustachios of the Continental officer, he had a perfect seat, and took the jumps, and rode his horse at top speed at the high jump instead of at a canter, as is usually thought necessary for high jumping. Chris was also keen to observe how the horses threw up their heels with a curious sharp jerk, or wriggle, when in the act of topping an obstacle, the result of their being trained to clear bars which are slightly raised as they take their leap.
After all, thought Gay, it was very like steeplechasing, with the sinister ambulance and perfect medical arrangements in the background ... that was why it interested Chris to the exclusion of herself.... She watched his face closely, as the reckless boy she had seen at Elsinore, time after time appeared, and after more than one crushing fall, limped from the arena, only to reappear, indomitable as ever, and going at the stiffest obstacles with an unconcern that Chris himself could not have beaten. Both rode for the sheer zest and love of it, both counted accidents as mere incidents that did not seriously interfere with their pleasure; yes—they would have made a pair of dare-devils to ride against each other, and there was keen envy in Chris's eyes as he watched the other.
The only round without a mistake was to the credit of Belgium and Holland, and though a famous Dorset yeoman rode the fastest, and one of the most faultless courses on a superb horse, undoubtedly the honours were with the foreigners. They must have got quite a wrong impression of our hunters ridden by officers, for whether it were that the horses were unaccustomed to the scene, or that the riders felt awkward, and communicated their nervousness to their horses, they gave a very different account of themselves to what they would do any day in a cross-country run.
"Just fancy that out of us all, there is only one Englishman who can compete with our visitors!" exclaimed Gay ruefully to Rensslaer, who had joined them towards the close of the steeplechase competition.
"And what can you expect?" he said quietly. "A young horse-owner in this country either hunts or plays polo, or both, but he never troubles himself with showing horses, except occasionally at the semi-private shows of Ranelagh and Hurlingham. You see, the English no longer regard horsemanship as a national sport—the foreigners do; we are all wrong in that respect."
"There's far more of the circus than of legitimate sport about the sort of thing we have just seen," said Tom Bulteel; "in short, it doesn't appeal to the hunting man at all. Who wants the high jump, or the wide jump for horses? English jumping is practically confined to the hunting field, and the steeplechase course, and all the best hunters, if well ridden, can be taught to cross all reasonable country, while the 'chasers' are schooled to jump what is known as the regulation course."
"Hear, hear!" cried Effie, and Tom went on warmly.
"This high jumping is a trick—and the horses who do it, mustn't on any account be hunted, or they lose the knack of flinging themselves over a high bar—and personally I prefer a clever hunter. In fact, the so-called champion hunter class is a misnomer, and putting the qualified hunter classes in the evening is a huge mistake. Of course a hunter ought to be able to jump these fences, as far as height or width are concerned, but it's no part of a hunter's business to jump over white fences under the glare of electric light."
"All the same," said Rensslaer, "I confess that I should like to see the Army devoting itself to the art, as the Italian Army does, and it would be to the good if private and public schools provided ponies, and taught the young idea how to ride, as well as how to shoot. A troop of boy rough-riders would be a lively accompaniment to the corps of sharp-shooters multiplying under Lord Roberts' organisation. The Army here, in buying horses, demands from the farmer horses already highly trained, which is obviously impossible. How different the behaviour of the Italians and the Belgians! The horses they ride are almost exclusively Irish. The dealers resident in Ireland are continually shipping young Irish horses, which go straight to the colonels of the several regiments, who get them trained; the officers buy and train their private horses in a similar way, and regard the education of a horse as one of, if not quite, the best of sports."
"Anyway," grunted Tom Bulteel, "if England has something to learn from Continental rivals in methods of training, we may find consolation in the fact that it is from British equine flesh, bone, and blood that competitors abroad have been able to produce the splendid animals that are winning the judges' encomiums to-day. Their clean action in harness, and over the sticks betrays their British origin, whatever may be the nationality of their owners."
"Bravo, Tom!" cried Effie, and slipped her little hand in his.
"And so I repeat," said Torn sturdily, "that it is not fair to judge us in a place ringing with noisy demonstrations, that are dead against a high-class hunter giving his best form. The foreign or American show hunter is used to such conditions, and the consequence is, that many a moderate horse gets forward simply on account of his jumping abilities. Far too much importance is attached to what is after all trick jumping, and, as I said before, it is by no means necessary in a hunter."
And so with ups and downs, principally downs with Gay—and her face as she sat ignored at Chris's side told more than she knew—the time passed, and the last and "championship" night of the great show arrived.
It was a scene of extraordinary brilliancy, and even more than the rest of the spectators, Chris was wrought to the highest pitch of excitement during the high-jumping contest at the close of the evening, when gradually twenty-two horses were fined down to two—the one ridden by the Dorset yeoman, the other by Belgium's champion jump rider, who had acquitted himself so grandly throughout.
When Lord Lonsdale offered a prize to whichever could clear 7 feet, and the Belgian's horse came along like lightning, and with a mighty spring into the air, cleared the obstacle with an inch or two to spare, Chris felt the blood course like warm milk through his veins—in fancy he rose to the jump, and the ecstacy, the oneness of horse and man in those moments, were his.
The Englishman put his horse at the bar, failing at the first attempt, but succeeding at the second, going over beautifully. They both cleared 6 feet 9 inches, but neither succeeded at 7 feet, and were declared tied, the prize being divided, and the two horses parading round the ring amid a scene of the greatest enthusiasm. Suddenly Chris turned—in that moment of expansion, he wanted Gay to share it with him, but she was not there. She and the others had slipped away without his noticing; no doubt they had all gone down to the stables, and he rose eagerly to follow them.
He wanted to congratulate Rensslaer on his triumphs, to tell him that he accepted his offer of St. Swithin's, and if he got no opportunity of speaking to her to-night, next morning he would call on dear little Gay and tell her that his love for her had triumphed. If she had only known it, Chris was proving his right to the title of hero, for this was his real farewell to the sport he so intensely loved—if he had seemed to neglect Gay, when she knew the reason, she would forgive him....
Rensslaer appeared immediately after breakfast next morning in Connaught Square, and Gay, warmly congratulating him on his victories, heard that the result of the great show worked out in cups, championships, and prizes in the following order: