The Project Gutenberg eBook ofGay LawlessThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Gay LawlessAuthor: Helen MathersPhil ReevesRelease date: December 29, 2022 [eBook #69655]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Papua New Guinea: Stanley Paul & Co, 1908Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GAY LAWLESS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Gay LawlessAuthor: Helen MathersPhil ReevesRelease date: December 29, 2022 [eBook #69655]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Papua New Guinea: Stanley Paul & Co, 1908Credits: Al Haines
Title: Gay Lawless
Author: Helen MathersPhil Reeves
Author: Helen Mathers
Phil Reeves
Release date: December 29, 2022 [eBook #69655]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: Papua New Guinea: Stanley Paul & Co, 1908
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GAY LAWLESS ***
BY
HELEN MATHERS
Author of"Comin' thro' the Rye," "Pigskin and Petticoat," "Bam Wildfire,""Griff of Griffithscourt," "Love, the Thief," etc.
AND
PHIL REEVES
FOURTH EDITION
LONDONSTANLEY PAUL & CO.1 CLIFFORD'S INN, TEMPLE BAR, E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I.INIGO COURTII.A MAN OF SCIENCEIII."TROTTINGVERSUSRACING"IV."A RACING MAN"V.TWO GIRLSVI.AT KEMPTONVII.THE ESCAPADEVIII.GAY TRIUMPHANTIX.AT THE "TROTTING NAG"X.THE NOTORIOUS GAYXI.GAY DISPOSESXII.RENSSLAERPACEMACKRELLXIII.SANDOWN GRAND MILITARYXIV.A BEAUTIFUL CASEXV.THE GOLD VASEXVI.GAY DISGRACES HERSELFXVII.TWO LOVERSXVIII.MIN TO THE RESCUEXIX."FIGHTING" GAYXX.A TICKLISH MOMENTXXI.AUNT LAVINIAXXII.KING OF THE ROADXXIII.AT ELSINOREXXIV.AN EQUINE PARADISEXXV.THE TUG-OF-WARXXVI.CARLTON'S "LITTLE BILL"XXVII.AMODUS VIVENDIXXVIII.THE EPIC OF THE HORSEXXIX.LOVE OR STEEPLECHASING?XXX.TOO LATE!XXXI.A DEBT OF HONOURXXXII.DEAD SEA APPLESXXXIII.THE GODS DECIDE
GAY LAWLESS
"It's the prettiest sport in the world," declared Gay Lawless. "I think Mr. Mackrelljustgot up, don't you, Chris?"
The man looked at his companion amusedly.
"I hope so, but I'm no judge ofthisgame, you know." There was a shade of contempt in his voice.
Gay's eyes were fixed on the number board, and she clapped her hands when No. 6 was hoisted.
"He's won all right," she said; "he is having his horse cooled out." Then she had time to remember the sneer in Chris's voice.
"Of course I know you're mad on steeple-chasing," she said, tilting her nose in the air, "but you needn't be bigoted; it's not the only sport, and anyhow you can't deny that Mr. Mackrell can drive; almost as well as you can ride," she concluded generously.
Chris bowed.
"Carlton Mackrell is a brilliant whip," he agreed, though he made a mental note that it was about the only thing Mackrell could do. "Let's go and congratulate him."
They left the members' enclosure, and made their way by the side of the track to the stables, where they found Carlton Mackrell talking to one of his swipes. He came to meet them, and his dark face showed the pleasure he felt at Gay Lawless' congratulations.
"Thank you," he said, "I expected to win my heat. Did you back my horse?"
"Of course," cried the girl. "Evidently others besides you expected Billy Q. to win, for everyone was backing him. Although I got in early, I had to lay five to two on, to five shillings," she laughed. "It doesn't take very much money to paralyse the market, does it?"
Carlton Mackrell shook his head.
"No," he said, "the sight of gold creates a panic, and an owner does not dare back his horse personally, unless he's prepared to lay odds on what very often is not an even money chance. The ring think the business is inspired, you know," he laughed, "and begin to pinch the price at once. However, as I don't bet, it doesn't affect me, though I like my friends to help themselves whenever I run anything."
He turned to Chris Hannen, who was attentively studying a big bay horse with the eye of a connoisseur. "You don't often come trotting, do you?" he asked.
The two men had known each other for years, but the fact that they both admired Gay Lawless had not strengthened their friendship very considerably. Still both were sportsmen, and, appreciated each other's talents in their respective branches with a genuineness not met with outside sporting circles.
"No," Chris replied, glancing at Gay from the corner of a twinkling eye, "in fact, this is my first appearance on a track."
"And your last, I should imagine. You don't look supremely happy," and Mackrell laughed.
"That's a poor compliment to me, Mr. Mackrell," Gay said mischievously; "you forget Mr. Hannen is on escort duty. It's quite by chance he is here, but, as you know, I'm stopping at Flytton for a few days, and Mr. Hannen walked over from Epsom—'wasting' he calls it."
She looked reproachfully at Chris. "There's one advantage about trotting, anyhow—you haven't to be perpetually worrying about your weight, or live on lemons, and tea, and gin!" She made a little face. "You must carry 10 stones 10 lbs. in a sulky, mustn't you—that's the minimum?"
"Yes, quite right," Mackrell assented, "that enables most men to drive themselves, though a lot employ professionals. I can't see any fun in the game, unless one drives one's own horses. Let's go back, and watch the next heat. It's a handicap, you know, one for what the horse owners call "pigs," he explained. Then his face grew serious. "It's a pity some good men don't take up trotting; there's no prettier sport (unconsciously echoing Gay's opinion), and its very much maligned because people don't understand it, and think thatbecauseit's trotting, it must necessarily be all crooked. I don't think there's much more finessing at it than in horse-racing, if the truth were known, do you, Hannen?"
"I daresay not," Chris replied guardedly, "though a lot of nonsense is talked about racing, and the rascality of the turf, by people who have never been near a racecourse, and who judge racing-men as a body from the isolated cases in the papers, in which an absconding bank-clerk pleads betting as an excuse for defalcation!"
"Too true," said Gay, "and—why, there's my dear old nurse in that dogcart! Imustspeak to her—you two go on," and she made her way quickly to the trap, which contained a jolly, good-natured-looking woman, whose get-up betokened an almost too great prosperity.
Gay's grey eyes sparkled with fun and pleasure as she came alongside, keeping just out of the line of her old nurse's view.
"Min!" she cried
The occupant of the dogcart turned in her seat so suddenly, as to seriously disturb the balance of the shafts on the rail.
"Miss Gay!" she cried. "Well, Iamsurprised! Fancy meeting you here!" In a moment she was out of the cart, and had folded Gay to her ample bosom, while laughter and tears chased each other alternately across her comely face. Gay, for her part, was every bit as delighted to see her old nurse again, and quite oblivious of the scene about them, they climbed into the dogcart and sat, holding each other's hands, and chattering as only two women can. A great deal of what they talked about was of interest to nobody but themselves, but the horses racing past recalled Gay to the work in hand.
"Isn't it exciting, Min?" she cried, focussing her glasses as they sped past the stands, and round the bend to the back stretch. "I think it's ripping, and far more fun than galloping.Whata smash there'd be if one of these sulkies—isn't that what they call the spider-looking thing they sit in?—ran into each other!"
But Min did not reply. Her eyes were riveted on the cluster of horses drawing round the corner into the home-stretch.
"I think we've won this," she exclaimed. Then becoming excited she began to bounce about in her seat.
"Go on, Bob!" she cried. "Set him alight! Oh, don't look round, it's all your own!"
Suddenly, fifty yards from the judges' stand, one of the back-markers came with a rattle wide on the outside, the driver urging his horse with the reins, and uttering weird cries which his charge apparently understood, for he put in all his knew, though, alas! he failed to "keep down," as they call it, and made a tangled break. Meantime Bob was going the shortest way home, sitting slightly forward, with his legs straight out in front of him like the rest.
A roar from the ring proclaimed the expected victory of yet another favourite. Min sank back in her seat, and her eyes shone with pride as she said:
"Bob just got there, miss; didn't he drive splendid?"
"Rather!" agreed Gay cordially. "But who's Bob?"
"Why, Bob's my man, Miss Gay, of course! Who else should he be?"
"Is he your husband?" Gay asked, laughing. "I knew you were married, dear Min, but I didn't know your husband's name. Do introduce me."
"Of course I will, miss, and feel honoured," Min replied proudly.
Soon after, she waved to her husband as he walked back along the course; he handed over his horse and sulky to a lad walking with him, and ducking under the rails, made his way to his wife, Min fairly beamed with pride as she said:
"Well done, Bob! What was the time?"
Bob gave it, hugely gratified, though glancing curiously at Gay, as she sat smiling bewitchingly down on him.
"This is me husband, miss," Min said affectionately. "Mr. Bob Toplady, Miss Lawless."
Gay held out her hand to the big, jolly man.
"How do you do?" she said. "I am so pleased you won that heat, and I'm so glad, too, to see dear Min again."
"Thank you, miss," said Bob, rapidly recovering his equanimity under Gay's unaffected enthusiasm. "I thought I was caught just close home, but when I saw the other break, I knew it was all my own. Not that his breaking was enough to disqualify him, you know, miss," he explained; "he didn't do enough for that, but because I've raced with that horse before, and I knew he was a bad breaker."
Gay listened with all her ears, though Bob's arguments did not seem conclusive. Still, she thought, there's plenty of time to learn, and she would remember that, and ask Carlton Mackrell.
"How interesting!" she said. "Did you win a lot of money?"
Min laughed.
"Not a lot to you, Miss Gay," she said, "but enough to buy me a new hat, and a bit over. It's only a heat, you understand, miss," she went on to explain, "and worth five pounds to the winner. But the final is forty pounds, and I think we shall just about win to-day, shan't we, Bob?"
"I hope so, my dear," he replied, "but the pacer that took the first heat is a bit useful, and I know they're backing him outright. A hobbled pacer has a great advantage over a trotter, especially on this uneven track."
"I must really be off now," announced Gay, turning to embrace Min once more. "I'll certainly come and see you, and your husband must tell me some more about trotting. I have a great mind to buy some horses myself, and run them—though I suppose they wouldn't let me drive, would they?" disappointedly.
"Lor, Miss Gay, what a sportsman you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Toplady. "Good-bye, and be sure to let me know when I can have my little bit on yours."
"My horses will invariably be 'out,'" Gay answered, with a mischievous attempt at dignity. "As Mr. Hannen would say, they will always be 'at it.' Good-bye!"
Gay made her way to where Chris was leaning over the rails, and with sparkling eyes confided to him that she was greatly enjoying herself. When she added that she thought of going in for the game herself, Chris gave a long, reflective whistle.
"I expected it," was all he said. Perhaps his thoughts flashed to Carlton Mackrell, and of how much more Gay would be thrown into his society for the future, and he remained silent till they regained the members' enclosure.
"What will your brother say?" he asked.
"Frank? Oh, he won't be consulted! I don't suppose he'd mind, though, so long as I am about the place to look after him. And hedoeswant such a lot of looking after too, Chris; you've no idea, he's just like a child, and simply lost away from his books and specimens. Oh! those dreadful specimens"—she shuddered—"hewillshow them to me, and he leaves them about in the most impossible places, and Idoget such shocks sometimes!"
"He's a clear old chap," said Chris, "and not so very old after all, is he? He can't be, taking a line through you, you know," lapsing into racing metaphor.
"He's years older than his real age, if you can understand what I mean," Gay laughed, "and I'm no chicken, you know, Chris—twenty-two next birthday!"
"You'll never grow old," he replied. "I've known you some years now, and you haven't changed a bit."
"Not for the better, anyhow, so Frank says," the girl answered.
"Frank's no judge," said Chris sharply, with more feeling in his voice than he usually showed, but Gay didn't seem to notice.
"Here comes Mr. Mackrell," she said, as a sulky swept past, going round the track for a warm up, before the second bell rang for the drivers to get on their marks.
Chris looked on without any interest.
"Take 'em out of those beetle-traps, and put a few fences across the course, then you might see something worth looking at," was his private opinion of trotting, yet the pacer's speed is founded on the camel's, and weedy and lanky as he is, no one who has seen either a trotter or a pacer fully extended in a race, especially if he has watched it coming straight at him, will deny that he is hardly less beautiful when in motion, than miserable-looking when he stands inactive.
A few minutes later, the second bell rang, and the drivers proceeded to their respective marks, some in receipt of a start, others giving one. Carlton Mackrell was on the back mark; the horse he was driving was amongst the fastest milers in England, and his form was fully exposed, with the result that he never improved appreciably on his handicap, as he was always trying, and frequently too close to the winner (often thrown in on previous "judicious form") to be re-handicapped.
The aim of all the drivers was to poach a start, and they turned, and came up to their marks with the pace up, so that at the sound of the "off" bell their horses were in their stride. The flag-man opposite each, raised his flag the moment the horse he was watching was on his mark, and lowered it when he had overstepped it.
After five or six attempts, "Uncle," the starter, with his finger on the trigger of his revolver, saw that all the flags were raised at the same time, and in a second, bang! and they were off. Gay's eyes were fixed on Carlton Mackrell.
"He's well away," she announced eagerly.
There were few better hands at getting off smartly than Mackrell, and he was always fairly going as he reached his distance, timing to a nicety the manœuvrings of his rivals in front.
"That's the one advantage of being 'scratch,'" he always said, "you can see what the others are doing."
In the first round he caught four of the leaders, though one, a hobbled pacer under saddle, ridden by a small boy, with a start of fifty yards, was apparently keeping it. Going round the back stretch the second time, Carlton Mackrell set his horse going, and began to go after the leader. Approaching the straight, shouts of "Billy Q." and "Sam Sly" rent the air, while the two horses were home-locked together.
Those who knew Carlton Mackrell's style of driving, however, and how he liked to come with a rush on the post, slipped down off the stand and backed him. Twenty yards from the post—too late, it appeared to Gay, who was exhorting him under her breath to "go on"—he made his effort. It was all over in a few strides, and Billy Q. had won.
Gay walked to the gate of the enclosure, followed by Chris, and waited while Carlton Mackrell got down. In a few minutes the flag was hung out of the judge's box and the "all right" shouted to the ring. Emerging from the stable, he handed his rugged-up winner to an attendant, and slipping on his overcoat, he walked along the track, his eyes on the ground, thinking, not of his recent triumph, but of Gay Lawless. By nature a most undemonstrative man, he rarely showed visibly any emotion, either on the course or in private, but his colour rose as he thought what a good sort Gay was, what a pal she'd make to the right man. But who was the right man? Had he arrived yet, and if so, was he personified in Chris Hannen, or had he, Carlton Mackrell, any chance? He started, as close at hand Gay's soft, clear voice exclaimed:
"Well done again, Mr. Mackrell! You drew it rather fine, though, didn't you? I thought you wouldn't quite get there, and I was so excited."
Carlton stopped, his features breaking into one of those rare smiles that transformed his dark, handsome face.
"I always like to make a race of it, you know," he replied. "You see, I know my horses so well; nobody drives them but me, even in their work, and my wrist-watch"—he held his arm up—"tells me exactly how fast I am going, and if my horse keeps to his home time for the quarter and half miles, I know I shall be thereabouts at the finish."
Gay's eyes sparkled.
"Ihaveenjoyed to-day so much," she said, "and I'm regularly bitten with trotting. It'smuchprettier to watch than racing—even over fences"—she glanced saucily at Chris—"and, Mr. Mackrell, I'll let you into a secret—I mean to buy some horses, and go in for the game! Will you help me choose them, or let me know when anything good comes into the market?"
Mackrell looked earnestly at the girl's eager face, then he glanced quickly at Chris. That gentleman's face expressed no opinion, presenting the stoic indifference that characterised equally his riding of a winner, or another disappointment.
"This is hardly a lady's game, you know," Mackrell protested, "and, fond as I am of it, I could not recommend you to take it up seriously. The surroundings are not quite of the same class as Ascot or Goodwood, you know, and you would be an isolated instance."
"Wear your plainest clothes, no ornaments, and bring no money with you," had been Carlton's significant instructions when Gay had expressed a wish to attend a trotting meeting—and who could possibly have expected that horses, everything, would appear to her under a rose-hued glamour that assuredly they did not possess? Gay did not notice the component elements of the crowd, as Chris did—the weather was dazzling, the sun cozened, illumined the scene, and with a lover on either side of her to make things pleasant, the novelty of everything intoxicated her. Trotting showed to her in most attractive guise, and very differently to how it did later.
"I don't care," she said wilfully, "I'm fond of it, and I mean to do it, sothat'ssettled. If you give me the benefit of your experiences"—she turned to Carlton—"I shall be grateful, and I won't be more of a nuisance than I can help."
Carlton Mackrell bowed.
"You could never be a nuisance," he said gravely, "and my advice is always at your command."
Almost immediately after he left them, and full of her delightful project, escorted by Chris Hannen, Gay Lawless left the pretty little racecourse.
Professor Lawless was a scientist, and, as is common among professors and scientists, very eccentric. A Bachelor of Medicine, he had practised as much or as little as pleased him, and devoted most of his time to the materialisation of experiments that, if perfected, would make his fortune.
Not that it was with this end in view that he laboured, for his means were considerable, and it was his custom to give his services and advice to patients gratis in the majority of cases, although his sister Gay was no advocate of this practice.
"Why don't you put up a notice with "Free Hospital" on it over the door, and have done with the farce of refusing to take fees from people who can well afford them?" she used to ask indignantly. "You forget that it cost a heap of money during the five years you were learning the little you now know"—she laughed, for he was really a walking encyclopædia of learning—"and do you intend to get none of it back?"
Her brother would beam at her through the glasses that were eternally slipping off his nose.
"You are too commercial, Gay," he said. "None of us are infallible, and it would pain me to think that I had taken money for what might, after all, have been a mistaken diagnosis. I have ample means for my wants—which are simple—and I disapprove strongly of the tactics employed by some medical men in accepting fees for ailments which are often imaginary, and more often curable by fresh air and exercise than drugs and knives."
"Oh, you're hopeless," Gay rejoined, and there the argument ended for the time being, much to the Professor's satisfaction.
A remarkably handsome and intellectual-looking man, tall, but with a slight stoop, and with far-away, clear blue eyes that narrowed habitually whenever he looked at anything, possibly through years of close microscopic work, Frank Lawless had a personality (if an untidy one, as Gay said) that compelled people to ask, "Who is that man?"
He seldom left his laboratory and books, though occasionally Gay prevailed upon him to accompany her to some function or other, when he donned a dress-suit of archaic pattern, and, after spoiling a dozen ties, and wandering miserably in and out of his sister's room to ask if "this will do?" waited patiently in the hall, with an obsolete opera-hat held gingerly in one hand, the while he read from a scientific treatise held close to his eyes in the other.
A habit of standing first on one leg, and then on the other, had earned him the nickname of "Heron," and it was thus disrespectfully, but affectionately, that his sister usually addressed him. A man of unbounded possibilities, but indifferent achievements, only a total lack of ambition and enterprise prevented his rolling the ball still at his feet, but, as it was, he had never improved on the fame that came to him when quite a young man.
"The first man in England on his subject," was what his colleagues said of him, "but doesn't seem to push his opportunities; nice fellow, too!" while Frank Lawless himself, after a merciless tirade from Gay, would remark:
"My dear, I have used my brains to the best of my ability. My name is not unknown, and there are some eminent men who seek my opinion still, and value it. I do not wish to become a public character—to be obscure is to be happy—why not leave me to the work I love? I do not remember an instance in which I have interfered with you, though I must confess that some of your exploits—notably hunting, a practice I detest—have caused me some anxiety. Live and let live, my child," and waving a hand that clasped a test-tube, the Professor would flee to the safety of the laboratory, to which haven Gay never intruded, the smells were too awful, she said.
Since the death of their parents, Gay had taken up her abode with her brother in London. The girl was really very fond of him, and though they had few tastes in common, she thought it her duty, as well as her pleasure, to look after him, and, as she expressed it, "dress and wash him up generally."
The arrangement answered admirably. Gay was free as air to go where she liked, and do what she pleased, while the Professor followed his own pursuits, and took a secret delight in being well taken care of, without having to suffer the infliction of a wife.
In fact, so secure did he feel under existing circumstances, that the prospect of their interruption sometimes occurred to him with an unpleasant shock, and the possibility of his sister marrying appalled him. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that she seemed in no hurry, and no one could accuse him of attempting to cross bridges before he met them; his character was rather the reverse, in fact, his impulse being to walk round any obstacle that presented itself, or if this proved impossible, to confront it sideways, and wait till either it removed itself, or someone—usually Gay—came to the rescue.
This disinclination to show a bold front to however trivial a difficulty, was the twin trait to his lack of ambition, and his attitude was pathetic when a worldly problem faced him, for he could no more reprimand or dismiss a worthless servant, than he could in cold blood destroy one of his cherished specimens.
"She does her best, poor thing!" It was thus he one day mildly excused an obstreperous and drunken cook, who had "held up" the whole household. "It must be very trying to stand over a fire all day, you know, and, er—she's only a little excited, is she?"
"She's drunk," Gay said emphatically. "She went for Sanders with the rolling-pin just now. I want you to see her, and tell her that if she's not out of the house, bag and baggage, in an hour, you'll send for the police."
This was, of course, a joke, but Gay spoke so seriously, and appeared so much in earnest, that the Professor felt in immediate danger of participating in a scene, and looked all the fright he felt.
"Of course, my dear, if you think a man's—and a firm man's (the Professor looked more like a jelly just then)—intervention is desirable, I will speak to the cook, and if necessary (he squared his champagne shoulders, and Gay almost laughed as she fancied she heard something crack) I will show her the door."
He looked supplicatingly at Gay, and sidled towards the nearest exit himself.
"If you want me," he continued hurriedly, "I shall be in my laboratory; I am in the middle of a very delicate experiment," and with the last words, his coat-tails vanished round the corner. Gay smiled as she heard the laboratory door hastily closed, and the key turned.
"Old funk!" she said elegantly. "Afraid of his own shadow! I do believe he'd rather be run over than hold up his hand, for fear of hurting the motor-man's feelings!"
Then she laughed, and proceeded downstairs to tackle the cook herself.
The breakfast-room in Connaught Square was a pleasant apartment, and on the morning after the Trotting Meeting, when Frank had finished breakfast, and taken up his customary morning attitude before the fire, Gay leaned her elbows on the table, framed her pretty, fresh face in the hollow of her hands, and opened the ball.
"Frank, dear," she said, "I have something to tell you."
The Professor passed his hand lightly over his face, touching it in three places. He always did this when his attention was required, and many people thought he was crossing himself, and unjustly suspected him of ritualistic tendencies.
"Yes, my dear?" he inquired. "Nothing unpleasant, I hope?" Turning to the glass he looked apprehensively at his sister's reflection, and was discomfited when she caught him.
"Quite the reverse," she said. "It's this: I'm going to buy and race some Trotting horses!"
And now, thought she, for a homily on sport and the evils of the turf! But she was disappointed.
"Why specify the horse with a superfluous adjective?" he inquired. "All horses trot, don't they? It is their natural pace—or one of them. Try to be accurate, my dear girl."
Gay laughed pityingly.
"Trotting horses are a distinct breed, old boy," she said, "and they trot against each other for prizes;trot, you understand, or pace—there are square-gaited horses—those that trot like a cab-horse, only faster, you know—and pacers, which move both legs on the same side in unison. Like this, you know"—she got up from her chair, and tried to illustrate her meaning by walking across the room, moving the right arm and right leg together, repeating the performance on the left side.
Frank Lawless looked on with suddenly awakened scientific interest.
"I was under the impression that only giraffes moved in that way," he said. "Surely horses cannot go very fast with an action like that?"
"Fast enough to do a mile in one minute fifty-five seconds or less, anyway," Gay replied. "It is such a pretty sight to watch, they wear such funny boots sometimes, and hobbles and sheepskins, and—and—things," she finished lamely for want of more knowledge regarding pacers' equipment.
"Ah, yes, quite so," Frank Lawless agreed, "but—er—racing, you know. My experience of it has been limited, I confess, (the Professor's knowledge of racing was confined to two or three occasional turfites who came to him professionally), but I am given to understand that its followers are, to say the least of it, unscrupulous. I am not a prig, Gay, but I have seen life in my time"—he looked at himself knowingly in the glass, while Gay laughed inwardly—"and I flatter myself I am a man of the world, therefore I fear I cannot give my consent to your proposal."
The last remark was uttered with all the timidity of an assumed authority, and as he spoke, he lapsed into the one-legged attitude which had earned him his nickname.
"My proposal, as you call it, is a foregone conclusion, dear Heron," Gay answered smartly, "and with all sisterly respect for you, I would remark that I invariably make up my mind—both our minds sometimes—beforehand, and acquaint you with the result after. Carlton Mackrell has promised me his assistance and advice, and as soon as I can get hold of a few good horses, I mean to start. The Trotting season's young yet—perhaps later on, as a special treat, I'll take you to see a race."
"Mr. Mackrell?" he said irritably. "Well, well, a rich idler is bound to take up some fad, I suppose—but why be a sporting man, without two ideas in your head? An interesting animal, no doubt, of the same type as your friend, Chris Hannen, but—
"Oh," cried Gay with spirit, for she resented the sneer, "it's these 'interesting animals,' as you are pleased to call them, from the lofty heights of ineffectual science, who do the work of the world, the work that counts. It is the sportsmen of England who know how to rise to an emergency, and overcome it, old boy—these very same brainless men whom you so contemptuously patronise, by their pluck and determination, form the very bulwark of England when fighting has to be done!"
"But I fail to see any object in sport," reiterated her brother obstinately, "especially horse-racing and—er—Trotting matches. Where does it lead to, and what good purpose does it serve?"
"It improves the breed of a noble animal, and teaches the men who ride it self-reliance and resource," Gay flashed back, "to say nothing of making themhard—a soft man is every decent woman's abomination!"
The Professor shifted his feet uneasily, and glanced at his watch; it was his invariable rule to run away when getting the worst of an argument. He had no power to hinder Gay from making ducks and drakes of her two thousand a year, and he sighed as he reflected that she was already more than a little original in some of her ideas and speech; but he also knew that the charm of the girl overshadowed all else, and that whatever she said or did, seldom drew forth a more severe censure than "Oh, that's Gay Lawless all over, you know," from anyone whose opinion mattered.
Gay, in fact, possessed a soul which she described as "superior to public opinion or example—good or bad, especially good," and so long as what she said and did harmed no one, and she performed such duties as her station required of her, she felt answerable to none.
When he had left the room with his usual silent shuffle, the girl, quite unconscious of the pretty picture she made, talked confidentially to her reflection in the glass.
"Awful pity dear old Frank isn't more of an outdoor man," she said aloud, then her face grew serious as she remembered the fate of her four other brothers, all killed in the open, two fighting, and two in search of adventure.
"He's the only one of us all without the sporting instinct, and what's worse, is bigoted against every kind of sport for others. He can't help his nature, I suppose; but oh! Idowish he could understand all that the sight of the country, and growing things, and horses mean to me!"
Unconsciously Gay for a long time had felt the want of a sympathetic companion, or, as she would have expressed it, a pal, for, fond as she was of her brother, he was not an ideal listener when she lived over again a great run to hounds, or described a spirited game of polo at Hurlingham.
He always accorded her that polite inattention which checks confidences, and freezes enthusiasm, and Lossie Holden, Gay's cousin and enforced intimate, loathed sport in every shape and form, while Effie Bulteel, a sportswoman after Gay's own heart, was too constantly her husband's companion to have much time for anyone else. Thus, on the principle that we are nearly always furthest from those we love, Gay did not see half so much of her friend as she wished, while having to endure far more of her cousin Lossie's company than she either desired or deserved.
Dismissing the subject with a shrug of her shoulders, the girl started to attend to those household duties in which she was an adept, and retired below stairs to plan out the day's food, more especially the dinner. Then she did the flowers, of which there was always a profusion in the house, for Gay was a real lover of Nature, and to watch the different gradations of colour in the spring was a constant delight to her, though when leaf and flower came to their full growth and perfection, all rushing out on the top of each other, she lost interest in, and quaintly denounced them, as "vulgar."
Suddenly it occurred to her that she and Frank had not given one of their cosy little dinners for some time—why not have one soon, asking Carlton Mackrell and Chris Hannen, with the inevitable Lossie to make up the party? The Professor did not count, and in any case Gay would have found it difficult to find another girl—all those she knew were either too fast or too slow for her taste, and it must be confessed that while she bore her own sex no ill-will, she infinitely preferred the society of men.
"You can never tell a woman all your secrets as you can a man," she used to say, and Lossie was fond of quoting this remark, and telling everyone that Gay hated women—the deduction being that from close personal observation of her own character, she found all her sisters as hateful as herself.
Yet Gay looked no "cat" as she ran to her writing-table; in these days when the streets are filled with fine athletic woman, but the dear little girl, with her smile, her blush, her little foot and hand, her gracious ways, her thanks for some small service rendered, appears to have vanished from the haunts of men, one such girl at least, as more than one man knew, was to be found at a certain house in Connaught Square.
When she had penned the three invitations, she fell to thinking, then presently destroyed two out of the three she had written.
"Carlton Mackrell shall come alone, and convert Frank," she said aloud; "besides, he and Chris would be sure to fall out over the rival merits of racing and trotting"; but she sighed as she rang for the letter to be posted.
For Chris was such rattling good company, he would describe things in a manner that brought tears of laughter into the eyes of his listeners, such readiness, such a knack of creating sunshine wherever he went, Gay never found in anyone else—it was a mere coincidence, of course, that he found no other company in the world so delightful as Gay's!
"Are you still of the same mind about Trotting?" Carlton Mackrell asked Gay as they sat at the dainty, rose-lit table of the dining-room in Connaught Square a few nights later.
"Why, of course!" Gay said reproachfully. "Ineverchange my mind once it's made up, do I, dear?" and she appealed to her brother.
The Professor looked at her with his soup spoon poised between his plate and his mouth.
"Neveris a very positive statement," he said, "but I think you are fairly consistent when you have made up what you are pleased tocallyour mind, Gay."
Carlton Mackrell glanced at the girl, then at her brother, and smiled.
What a contrast these two were, to be sure! Gay, so full of life, and fun, and spirits, bent on finding and enjoying all the good things of the world, without a care, apparently, and her brother, a prematurely aged, dry-as-dust specimen, with no ambition whatever beyond his musty books, and test-tubes, and things, and with a precision of thought and speech that must surely get on Gay's nerves terribly!
Doubtless the man had his good points, but it was an axiom of Carlton's, that unless a person's virtues struck one at once, life was too short to waste in trying to discover them. As a practical man about town—and there is no finer school for the observation of character than cosmopolitan society—he had learnt to "size-up," as he expressed it, a man on sight, and only on rare occasions had to acknowledge to a mistake.
"I wonder how you came to take up Trotting, Mr. Mackrell? It's much safer, don't you think, than 'chasing?'" said Gay, as she helped herself from a dish handed by a particularly pretty parlour-maid. "Mr. Hannenlovesit—but gets more hard knocks than ha'pence. After a more than usually crushing 'downer,' in which his head suffered most, he was warned last year by an eminent specialist that another tap on the same spot would probably prove fatal—" She paused abruptly as the Professor nodded.
It would be hard to explain how his nod expressed the opinion that another such fatality would be well deserved, but it did, and Gay's eyes flashed whole volumes of indignation that did not escape Carlton—he loved a woman of spirit.
"I don't think I ever told you of my first real introduction to Trotting, and how it came about?" he said, breaking a rather strained silence, and Gay shook her head, while the Professor, with some ostentation, devoted himself to his dinner.
"I found myself at Southend, the place where the mud is, you know, and having nothing to do one afternoon—did you speak, sir?" as his host muttered somethingsotto voceabout Satan and idle hands, and Carlton at once decided to inflict on the spoil-sport Professor, the punishment of hearing the whole story to the bitter end. He was rewarded by a delighted gleam in Gay's eye, as he imperturbably proceeded.
"I heard some Trotting races were on, and thought I'd go and see them. While watching the toilet of a horse about to run—or trot, a horsey-looking individual spoke to me, and though I had never set eyes on him before, he appeared to know me perfectly."
The Professor coughed. If ever a cough said "birds of a feather," his did then, but Carlton ignored it.
"'Good-day, Mr. Mackrell,' said the unknown, pulling his cap, 'and what might you be doin' atthisgame?' I liked the look of the old chap, somehow—he was fairly long in the tooth, I must tell you—so I explained that having nothing to do, I had come to see the Trotting. 'I think,' said my unknown, 'as I can do you a bit o' good 'ere this afternoon. There's a 'orse goin' to be sold after the second race to-day—owner's taken the merry rat-tat, you see, sir—an' if you can get 'im for anything below seventy quid,buy'im. I've been Trottin' an' drivin' 'em a good many years now, an' I know all about this 'orse. 'E's sound in wind an' limb, an' money wouldn't buy 'im if it wasn't a case of couldn't 'elp it,'adto.'"
Gay laughed, highly amused. "Well?" she said, while the Professor, with the air of a god in the clouds, who leans over to observe the absurd antics of the human ants below, resignedly helped himself to more salad.
"Of course," Carlton continued, "I recognised 'the tale' when I heard it, and naturally supposed my new-found friend had an axe to grind, but his next remark disabused my mind."
"'I shan't get nothin' out o' the deal, guv'nor,' he said. 'You'll pay yer brass straight over to the auctioneer, an' I don't suppose 'e'll give me anything if you buy the 'orse, any more than if anyone else did—an' somebodywillif you don't watch it, though there ain't much money 'ere to-day,' looking at the crowd disparagingly. 'This 'orse is in the last race, the open, with thirty-five quid to the winner, an' 'e can win it too, off the mark 'e's got to-day.'
"Well, to cut a long story short," Mackrell went on, dexterously combining enjoyment of a good dinner with his recital, "Ididbuy the horse for sixty-five guineas, and there I was, landed with probably a bad bargain—though I liked the make and shape of him, mind you, but with no earthly idea what to do with him."
"Marry in haste, repent at leisure," said the Professor. "I mean——" But Carlton did not stop to inquire what the Professor meant, only Gay realised that the "conversion" she had hoped for was far away.
"Well, my unknown again came to the rescue.
"'Borrow a sulky off of the man you bought 'im from,' he advised. ''E'll lend it yer, for 'e's a sport—that's why 'e's taken the knock, I shouldn't wonder,' he added reflectively. Sure enough, the late owner of my purchase lent me his sulky, and he and my friend harnessed the horse to it for me when his race came on. Imagine my astonishment when the horsey-looking man put a whip into my hand, and said, 'Up you git, sir, an' drive the old boiler yourself. Allyouare to do is to sit where you are, an' leave 'is 'ead alone. 'E'll do the rest, an' you'll win as far as from 'ere to London.'"
"Which was notmuch!" flashed Gay mirthfully.
"I expressed considerable doubt as to the success of this plan, you may be sure," Mackrell went on, "but the man would take no denial, and before I knew where I was, I had received the promise of a driver's licence from the Committee, and permission to begin then and there, and was on my mark, bewildered with the counsellings of my mentor.
"'This 'orse 'as forgotten more about Trottin' than you'll ever know, guv'nor,' he said. 'Just sit still, and leave the rest to 'im. And look 'ere, you're goin' to back 'im, of course?' I handed over a five pound note, and my man darted off to the Ring with it, returning before we were off. 'I've got Sevens'es to your bit,' he told me. 'Don'tlook at me—get as near yer mark as you can, and keep on the move.'"
"But you had time to jump off!" cried the Professor, his voice rising to a squeal of excitement.
"At that moment the bell rang," went on Carlton, "and my horse shot forward, and got into his stride at once, followed by shouts to me of, 'Don't pull 'im about, for Gawd's sake! Give 'im 'is 'ead!'"
Carlton stopped to laugh.
"It was not a case ofgiving," he said, "the horse took it—and my arms as well, all but. However, I did as I was told, and we won pretty easily by a length, though I was indeed a 'passenger' on that trip! Directly after the race, my friend rejoined me.
"'Well done!' he said, 'though I thought you was goin' to fall out round that last bend.' He patted the horse affectionately. 'Wot did I tell yer?' he asked. ''Ere's yer money—forty quid. Now see what yer can buy this sulky for,' and he dragged me over to the owner of it. Enquiry elicited the fact that five pounds would buy it. My mentor whispered in my ear, 'Offer to toss 'im eighty or nothin',' he said; 'yer luck's in to-day, guv'nor, an' 'e's a sportsman.' I proposed this plan, and it was accepted. I won, and so found myself the possessor of a good Trotting horse, the winner of a race, plus thirty-five pounds in bets, and the owner of a sulky—nearly new—and all for a fiver!"
"How ripping!" exclaimed Gay, "and how lucky!"
"Most remarkable," the Professor concurred dryly. "It was your monetary good fortune, then, that decided you to make a hobby of Trotting?"
Carlton looked the Professor over as if he were some disagreeable specimen.
"Chiefly, I think, because I saw an opportunity of following the advice of Miss Gay, who had advised me to take up a hobby."
Gay nodded eagerly.
"Shortly after, I bought some more horses, and have had no reason to regret it—they have won a good few races, and just about paid their way. I've got my eye on the chief Trotting Prize—Champion Vase they call it"—he turned to Gay—"this year, and I think I shall go very close for it."
"How I should love to win that!" Gay cried eagerly. "Do you think I could buy anything good enough to have a chance too?"
"You're flying at high game for a beginner," laughed Mackrell, "but if you're really in earnest"—Gay nodded emphatically—"I'll keep my eyes open, and let you know if I hear of anything. You will have to give a stiffish price for a 'green' or unexposed horse with a record of 2.20 trotting or 2.10 pacing, probably about four or five hundred pounds."
The Professor gave a startled, hurried glance at his sister. He regarded all money spent on anything but comfort, and books, which ranked certainly before necessaries with him, as thrown into the gutter.
His and Gay's modest stable arrangements were limited when in town—for she only hunted in the country—to a handsome mare that she drove in a smart Ralli car, and which attracted no particular attention save as being driven by a pretty girl, except when the Professor accompanied her.
Then, clutching in an unsportsmanlike way at the reins, shutting his eyes at dangerous crossings, and screaming out impossible directions to which Gay turned a deaf ear, his antics convulsed all beholders, and made her blush for shame.
"Of course," she said, not surprised by any means at the price Mackrell mentioned, "I know good horses cost money, and that I can't win anything with bad ones. By the way, what happened to your friend who made you buy your first horse?"
"I took him home with me," Carlton Mackrell replied, "and installed him as my trainer. His name is Tugwood, and I found out that he had had great experience of training and driving Trotters; twenty-five years of it, in fact, both in America and here. He is still with me, and drives when I am unable to do so myself, which is not often, happily. Of course you will want a trainer—"
"Can you find me one?"
"I think so"; but he did not tell her that he meant to transfer "Brusher" Tugwood to her as the most trustworthy man he knew, and in whose hands her horses would be treated as carefully and as jealously as were his own.
"It's awfully interesting," said Gay with a sigh. "How I wish I were a man, to be able to go about, and get some of these experiences. Nearly all amusing, aren't they?"
"Mostly," Carlton Mackrell replied, crumbling his bread thoughtfully, "though a few are sad, and many sordid."
He went away that night, knowing that he should have kicked himself for a sweep in encouraging Gay in her new passion, for the scales had already fallen from his eyes as regarded Trotting, but, doting on the girl as he did, her wish was law to him, while the prospect of getting her to himself while Chris was racing elsewhere, was too great a temptation to resist.
And after all, why should she not have her fling? She could afford it, and the time she put in with the noxious Professor must be dull enough in all conscience.
When at last, excited and happy, Gay betook herself to bed, she dreamed of new records created by her horses, and saw her sideboard covered with cups, king over which reigned the Blue Riband of Trotting, the Champion Gold Vase.
Right on the top of Epsom Downs, and "far from the madding crowd," as he expressed it, was Chris Hannen's training stable.
A pretty red-and-white house, gabled, with old-fashioned diamond-paned windows, it stood at the top of a lawn (on which in the summer Chris played sundry hard sets of tennis to keep himself fit), surrounded by trees which served as a protection from the prevailing winds in the winter.
So keen and pure, indeed, was the air on the Downs, that when he took the house, Chris renamed it "The Breezes," and as a training centre the position was ideal. Immediately outside the front gate were the Downs to gallop over, while behind the house was a spacious schooling-ground, with fac-similes of all the fences to be met with on a race-course.
They were always kept stiffly built-up, too, for it was a sound maxim of Chris's never to allow his horses to get slovenly in their jumping, through being practised over weak fences. He knew from experience that horses so indulged were very apt to "chance" their fences in public, and races were not won under such conditions. Therefore every attention was paid to his schooling-ground, and the percentage of winners turned out from the little stable was wonderful considering the strength of it, and bore testimony to the painstaking way in which they were prepared.
Chris owed much of his success to a knowledge of the art of placing his horses where they could perform to the best advantage. He sometimes had a difficulty in persuading the owner of a bad horse that he would never win the Grand National with it, and on one or two occasions, having done his best with hopeless cases, their owners had removed them to another trainer, only to discover the truth of Chris's judgment, and the folly of incurring further expense in vain attempts to win races.
Chris regarded an increase in his horses with satisfaction, and a decrease with equanimity. He was not dependent upon training horses for a living, for he had a private income of a few hundreds a year, and after a couple of years in the Army had gone in for it more as a hobby to which he was devoted, than anything else. He generally had three or four horses of his own at Epsom, and an equal number of his friends', but never more than ten or twelve in his stables at most, as he was of opinion that a man could not do justice to a greater number, studying each individually, and becoming acquainted with their peculiarities, often very useful knowledge when riding them in public.
It was regarded as a privilege to have a horse or two with Chris, for an owner always felt assured that they could not be in more competent hands, and the amateur's independent position precluded the possibility of a horse being run to suit the stable rather than the owner.
Chris's popularity with both sexes was general, and occasionally he had a horse belonging to a sporting member of the fair sex. He found it hard sometimes to convince the latter that her horse was not within some stones of the Sandown Grand Annual Steeplechase form, and he was strong in his refusal to encourage useless waste of money in travelling expenses. He had incurred the momentary displeasure of a lady with sporting ambitions by informing her that, after many experiments, he was forced to the conclusion that her horse could not win a saddle and bridle at a country fair, if a decent proportion of the other runners were trying, but no one was ever angry with Chris for long. His imperturbable good temper and quaint humour invariably came to the rescue, and his opinion on the merits or otherwise of a horse was consistently borne out.
"I am unlikely to entertain an angel unawares," he once said to a disappointed owner, "and it is my custom to give every horse more than one chance. But, on the other hand, it is not my practice to keep horses belonging to other people in my stable when I know they are worthless. I do not keep 'stumers' myself for longer than I can help, though I'm pleased to say I do not often buy them either, so why should I delude other people into doing so? Your horse, my dear sir, would be better employed in some less ambitious sphere than a race-course, and, without wishing to hurt your feelings—and they are very sore, I know, when the brutal truth is driven home by a sympathetic but conscientious outsider—I would suggest that you cut your losses, and send him up to Tattersall's as a light-weight hunter for a galloping country like Leicestershire. There are many ten-stone hunting men who love a bit of blood to chase a fox upon, and your horse is at least sound."
On this particular day the morning's work was over, and Chris and his head lad, (who was universally and impartially known as Scotty, though the presumption was that he had been christened something else originally) were standing in the box of a horse, looking on while he was being dressed down, and discussing the results of a trial from which he had lately emerged triumphantly.
"It makes the 'andicap Steeple at Kempton look pretty good for 'im, sir," the head lad was saying; "'e showed up well the first time we tried 'im, an' there can be no mistake this time either, with old Evergreen in the gallop. 'E's a wonderful good trial 'oss, an' I never expected the young 'un to give 'im weight and a clever beatin'.'"
Chris agreed.
"I'm very pleased with him," he said; "the further he went, the better he seemed to like it. Of course, we shall be meeting something at Kempton—especially if Muscateer runs—but whatever beats us will win, I think."
"It's good enough formymoney," Scotty announced, "an' if you take my advice you'll 'elp yourself properly w'en they begin bettin'."
Chris laughed as they left the box, and walked into another.
"I believe you make it a point of honour to back anything that runs from here," he said.
"Not exactly so bad as that, sir," the head lad demurred, "but any'ow it's paid well up to now."
"Yes, we've been pretty lucky," said Chris.
"Luckier than you was the first time I saw you, sir," said the head lad significantly. "You was on yer back in the h'ambulance at Sandown Pawk, and you wasn't 'arf 'outed,' neither. I was down at the fence where you 'came it'—I always goes out into the course when they're 'lepping,' you know, sir," he explained. "I like to see what they're a-doin' of round the far side, an' when the Stewards is at lunch, or 'arf-way back to London before the last race is run. I see your 'orse fall—old Blow'ard it was, sir—"
Chris nodded.
"And when 'e went down, my last bob went with 'im, but I didn't bear you no malice, sir, an' I was the first man to get to you. I've done a bit o' riding in my time, an' I know all about 'ow it feels to get knocked out, though, thank Gawd, I never got such a 'biff' over the 'ead as that 'orse what was follerin' 'anded yer!"
Chris laughed, and passed his hand carefully over a chestnut mare, which turned a vicious eye upon him.
"Gently, gel, gently," walking up to her head. "Pity she's so bad-tempered, isn't it, Scotty?"
"Turnin' sour, that's whatsheis, though when she does take it into 'er 'ead to try, she wants some catching, an' no error. It's them sort as gets innocent men warned off," Scotty concluded bitterly, having a lively recollection of an interview with the Stewards in connection with the running of the mare, "though 'Eaving was witness," as he told the Stewards, "that all parties were innocent enough, except the jady mare."
Chris chuckled at the memory.
"Haven't forgotten your 'carpeting' yet, then, Scotty? Itwasbad luck. I expected them to send for me too, as the trainer. I think I should have asked one of 'em to ride the mare a few times, to see how in and out she runs. I've got her in a Selling Hurdle at Wye next week, and win or lose, she's to be sold—can't afford to keep such a dangerous customer as that, can we, Scotty?"
"We cannot," the other agreed with feeling. "A 'orse like that would break the Bank of England, an' then win a nice race direc'ly you sold 'er."
The two strolled round all the boxes—Chris had eight horses in his charge now—and when he had seen them all done up, went in to breakfast, attended by his dogs, as usual.
No matter in what part of the house he might be, or how long absent, his faithful escort of three awaited him, eager, loving, full of warm welcome, and if the fox-terrier, "Copper," were sometimes jealous of his son "Penny's" accomplished tricks, and Chris had occasionally to smack them both into good behaviour, "Cypka," the bull-pup, gave him no trouble whatever, acting, indeed, as foster-mother to the other two, and occasional peacemaker.
Chris's eye fell on a letter from Gay Lawless among his correspondence, and his face brightened as he opened it.
"Dear Chris," he read, "I shall be very glad to see you any day for tea and a chat. I've got the Trotting mania badly, and though I know it isn't much in your line, Imusttalk to somebody about it, and dear old Frank is so difficult to interest on any subject except science. If you're not racing anywhere, do come in to tea to-morrow afternoon. Lossie's coming, and I also expect Mr. Mackrell, who thinks he has found a couple of useful Trotters for me. I am so anxious to begin.—Yours sincerely,
"GAY LAWLESS."
Chris Hannen digested the news with mixed feelings. "Gay's mad on Trotting," he thought, "and it's no sort of game for her. Carlton Mackrell has no business to help her, though, to do him justice, after what he said the other day, I can't accuse him of aiding and abetting exactly. He is deadly in earnest about Gay, and he'll have opportunities enough now, confound him!"
Yet Chris smiled as he folded her letter up, and put it into his pocket—the breastpocket. "All's fair in love and—racing, I suppose, whether it's jumping or Trotting."
Mrs. Summers, Chris's housekeeper, came in at that moment, and interrupted his thoughts, which were somewhat interfering with his breakfast. She had occupied to Chris the same position as Min Toplady did to Gay, but in appearance was a direct contrast, for tall, angular, and determined-looking, she inspired awe in all save her familiars, who were few.
Her young master was the very apple of her eye, and she strove to supply the dreadful want in his life caused by the loss of his mother. Just she and two others knew how terribly he felt that loss, for his mind was an open book to her, and undemonstrative and practical as he invariably was, he sometimes dropped a remark that showed his thoughts were never far away from his sorrow.
"She was my pal," he said once to Gay, "the only real pal I ever had. I don't think we had any secrets from each other—certainly no guilty ones, thank God—and now she's gone, I realise bitterly how much more I might have done to make her happy. She was easily pleased, bless her, for all she wanted was to be with me, but she never intruded, and I remember so well how she used to propose something she thought would please me, and say: 'If you don't mind, lovie?' as though she thought that perhaps she bored me sometimes." Only Gay, and Mrs. Summers and Aunt Lavinia knew the tremendous depth of feeling, the capacity for suffering, that lay under Chris Hannen's easy-going, bantering ways, and if the housekeeper used all her tact and kindliness to make up to him, if ever so little, something of what he had lost, Gay Lawless, who had the clearest possible insight into people's characters, never made the mistake of volunteering any sympathy.
She knew Chris hated it, as she did, and appreciated his silent pluck as much as he did the reserves of courage that had not yet been called up in herself.
"Good-morning, Master Chris," said Mrs. Summers (he was always Master Chris to her, never having grown up in her eyes), but her face assumed a stern expression as she regarded the only half-finished breakfast.
"No food again this morning? I hope you're not up to them wastin' tricks again? Wastin' your life,Icall it," with a disgusted sniff.
Chris looked up with a smile.
"Good-morning, Summers," he said. "I hope I see you well? No, I am not wasting just at present, though there's just a pound or two to come off before Kempton next week. We shall have another glorious winner (Chris characterised all winners as glorious) then. Which is it to be this time, a new bonnet or a dress-length?"
"Gloves this time, Master Chris, and thank you," Mrs. Summers replied, "though there ain't much chance of showing off any finery inthisplace, I'm sure."
"How often has the butcher called this week, Summers?" Chris asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
Mrs. Summers tossed her head. The butcher was rather a sore point with her, his name having been coupled with hers by "those impudent bits of boys," as she designated the stable lads.
"If I hear one of them brats discussing me and my affairs, I'll box his ears for him soundly," she threatened, "so there!"
"Quite right, Summers, don't you stand it," Chris agreed. "By the way, I'm going up to town to-day, so don't bother about any dinner for me."
He walked towards the door, then paused on the threshold to fire a parting shot. He loved "chipping" people, as he called it, but he would have cut off his right hand rather than wilfully hurt anyone's feelings.
"If the butcherdoescall to-day by any chance, Summers, there are no orders, you know," he said with a grave face, then raced off into his study before the enraged but complacent housekeeper could reply.
"What a boy it is!" she said to herself as she cleared away, "always laughin' and having a joke about something, bless his heart! I'm sure I'd rather see him like that a thousand times, than sitting so quiet as he does sometimes, looking straight in front of him at nothing like, thoughIknow well enough what he sees, and who he's thinking about, poor, lonely boy. I wonder if he'll ever marry that Miss Gay Lawless, whose photograph he looks at so often? If only she'll make him half as happy as he deserves to be," she concluded, as she left the room with her tray.
Curiously enough, that was the very question that Chris was asking himself, as he stood in his study gazing at Gay's photograph, though it was not of his own happiness he was thinking at that moment, but of hers—for that was Chris's way.