[Illustration: Cover art]





  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_


  LONDON
  STANLEY PAUL & CO.
  1 CLIFFORD'S INN, TEMPLE BAR, E.C.




  CONTENTS

  CHAP.

  I. INIGO COURT
  II. A MAN OF SCIENCE
  III. "TROTTING _VERSUS_ RACING"
  IV. "A RACING MAN"
  V. TWO GIRLS
  VI. AT KEMPTON
  VII. THE ESCAPADE
  VIII. GAY TRIUMPHANT
  IX. AT THE "TROTTING NAG"
  X. THE NOTORIOUS GAY
  XI. GAY DISPOSES
  XII. RENSSLAER _PACE_ MACKRELL
  XIII. SANDOWN GRAND MILITARY
  XIV. A BEAUTIFUL CASE
  XV. THE GOLD VASE
  XVI. GAY DISGRACES HERSELF
  XVII. TWO LOVERS
  XVIII. MIN TO THE RESCUE
  XIX. "FIGHTING" GAY
  XX. A TICKLISH MOMENT
  XXI. AUNT LAVINIA
  XXII. KING OF THE ROAD
  XXIII. AT ELSINORE
  XXIV. AN EQUINE PARADISE
  XXV. THE TUG-OF-WAR
  XXVI. CARLTON'S "LITTLE BILL"
  XXVII. A _MODUS VIVENDI_
  XXVIII. THE EPIC OF THE HORSE
  XXIX. LOVE OR STEEPLECHASING?
  XXX. TOO LATE!
  XXXI. A DEBT OF HONOUR
  XXXII. DEAD SEA APPLES
  XXXIII. THE GODS DECIDE




GAY LAWLESS



CHAPTER I

INIGO COURT

"It's the prettiest sport in the world," declared Gay Lawless.  "I
think Mr. Mackrell _just_ got up, don't you, Chris?"

The man looked at his companion amusedly.

"I hope so, but I'm no judge of _this_ game, 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 that
_because_ it'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!  I _must_ speak 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, I _am_ surprised!  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.  _What_ a 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 he
_does_ want 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--"he _will_
show them to me, and he leaves them about in the most impossible
places, and I _do_ get 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.

"I _have_ enjoyed to-day so much," she said, "and I'm regularly
bitten with trotting.  It's _much_ prettier 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, so _that's_ settled.  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.




CHAPTER II

A MAN OF SCIENCE

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 them _hard_--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! I _do_ wish 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!




CHAPTER III

"TROTTING _VERSUS_ RACING."

"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.  "I _never_ change 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.

"_Never_ is a very positive statement," he said, "but I think you are
fairly consistent when you have made up what you are pleased to
_call_ your 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. Hannen _loves_ it--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 something _sotto voce_ about 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' at _this_ game?'  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, _'ad_ to.'"

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' somebody _will_ if 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, "I _did_ buy
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.  All _you_
are 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 not _much_!" 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't_ look 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 of _giving_," 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.




CHAPTER IV

"A RACING MAN"

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 for _my_ money," 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 what _she_ is, 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?  It _was_ bad
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 can _not_," 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, I _must_ talk 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, _I_ call 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 in
_this_ place, 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 butcher _does_ call 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, though _I_ know 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.




CHAPTER V

TWO GIRLS

Gay Lawless looked particularly bewitching the while she entertained
her visitors that afternoon.  She seemed more charming than usual to
both Chris and Carlton Mackrell, while even the Professor, who
usually noticed nothing, patted her approvingly on the head, and
remarked, "You look very well, my dear."

Gay was gifted (for no one can acquire it) with perfect taste in
clothes, and her tea-gown was cut with that attention to detail which
results in simplicity itself.  Although one could be with Gay for
quite a long time, and have the pleasing assurance that she was the
best style in the world, there was always a great difficulty in
remembering exactly what she had worn.

"What had she on?" envious girls used to ask the men who admired her,
and the answer usually was, "I don't know, but it was quite simple,
and _such_ good style."

To-day she appeared to both men more lovable than ever, and Chris
thought what a shame it would be to bury such a bright creature in a
place like Epsom, with no one to amuse or to admire her except
himself.

He took short hold of his fancy before it carried him to further
flights, however, as he dropped into a chair by her side, while, much
to Carlton's disgust, the latter was button-holed by the Professor.

"What's the latest about your Trotters?" inquired Chris, breaking
into a smile that accentuated the crow's-feet round his young eyes.

"Great news," Gay replied with enthusiasm.  "Mr. Mackrell has bought
me a couple he got to hear of, a green Trotter who can go in about
2.18 called 'Silver Streak,' and a pacer with a trial of 2.13¼ named
'Maudie T.'  And isn't it kind of him, he's going to lend me his
trainer--sounds funny to talk of lending a man, doesn't it?--while
the craze lasts, as he calls it.  But you know, Chris, it _isn't_ a
craze, it's a--a--almost a disease now!  I'm racing one at Waterloo
Park next Monday, and oh! I do hope it will win, don't you?" she
asked eagerly.

"With all my heart," Chris replied, with more enthusiasm than he
thought he could work up over Trotting.  "And may I be there to see.
Monday, you said, didn't you?  That will suit me to a T.  I've got
nothing to do till Wednesday at Kempton, so perhaps you'll return the
compliment, and come over to see me bump round on Beeswing?  He did
well in a gallop this morning--better than I expected, in fact."

"Answered the question all right, did he?" Gay asked.  "Does he
represent a betting chance on Wednesday, with the eminent
gentleman-jockey up--and is he _safe_?" she added, turning a little
pale.

"Well, he's about as safe a jumper as an amateur"--he grinned,
"that's what some of the professionals in their scorn for the
'leather-polishers' they call us, could wish to ride, and my head lad
says he has so much in hand that he could stop to scratch himself,
and then win," Chris chuckled.  "Oh! _hang_ Lossie!"

The stifled ejaculation was prompted by the entrance of a remarkably
pretty girl, beautifully dressed in dark blue, who rustled across the
room to Gay, and kissed her perfunctorily.

"_How_ are you?" she inquired, but though her voice was affectionate,
her eyes flitted from Gay to Carlton Mackrell--where they stayed.

"A1, Lossie, thanks.  I needn't ask how _you_ are.  I never saw you
looking better--(or more expensive)", she added to herself with a
sigh, as her cousin shook hands with Carlton and Chris, and begged
Gay to give her a cup of tea.

Frank Lawless ambled forward, and was soon busily juggling with milk
and sugar basin, while Chris wondered what in Heaven was wrong with
the girl, for if she always gave him the same displeasing impression,
he could not possibly deny her beauty.  Tall and dark, with masses of
silky blue-black hair, she had eyes blue as heaven, and straight,
delicate features that emphasised the irregularity of Gay's changing
face, of which the chief charm, perhaps, lay in its expression.

She seemed a bundle of nerves as her slender foot beat a tatoo on the
floor, while her wonderful eyes were never still, yet never rested
long on any single object save Carlton, who was certainly well worth
looking at.

It was Lossie's misfortune to have fallen genuinely in love with him,
not for his money, though she liked that well enough, but himself.
His was the Saxon temperament which veils the keenest pleasure, and
the deepest grief under the same quiet, almost bored exterior, but
she knew that his indifference concealed an ardent, even romantic
temperament, that might be counted upon sooner or later to betray him
into one of those follies so dear to the heart of woman, while
Chris's gay, almost affectionate manner to the women he liked, argued
a much greater warmth of temperament than he really possessed.

She felt completely out of it as the three sat talking horses, and
had leisure to note the eager look on Gay's face as she listened to
what Carlton was saying, also to digest the fact that this Trotting
fad would bring her cousin and Mackrell more together than ever.

"Both your horses are timed to do two minutes thirty seconds," said
Mackrell presently, "and upon that form they will be handicapped on
Monday.  I think--at least, 'Brusher' tells me--that Silver Streak
had improved on that time in private, but he has always been 'just
beaten' lately, so they may put him on a few yards closer mark next
time he runs.  When a horse is entered for a Trotting race, you
know," he explained, "the owner has to supply the handicappers with
his best time for a mile on a track."

"What's to stop a man representing his horse as being able to do two
minutes thirty seconds when he knows he can do it in less?" inquired
Chris, for his experience of the Turf had made him familiar with most
of the dodges for throwing dust in the handicappers' eyes, with a
view to getting dropped a few pounds in the scale.  "You can't get
weight off in the stable," was a dictum he often heard, but never
practised.

"Well, for one thing," Mackrell replied, "the officials generally
like to see a horse do his time before they frame their handicap, to
prevent mistakes, you know," and he laughed.  "For another, if a
horse improves appreciably on his entered time, the 'man in the box,'
as they call him, wants to know something about it, though, of
course, a few seconds faster might be owing to a good track and good
going.  On the other hand, if a horse does not trot up to his time,
they can, if they like, put up their official driver to take him
round as fast as he can make him go.  If the discrepancy is
considerable, the scheming owner will probably find himself suspended
for a few months, or even warned off."

"But," said Chris, who at heart deeply resented Mackrell's
encouraging Gay in her misguided fancy, "when such men as Rensslaer
and Vancouver and that ilk, all hold aloof from the sport as
understood in England, what chance has it of becoming a national
sport?  The trotting tracks here are so bad that it is really kinder
not to enumerate them; most are in connection with public-houses, and
the people who frequent them are the middle class.  Trotting, in
short, is the sport of that and the lower classes, and they trot
cheap horses in consequence."

"Unfortunately," said Mackrell, with a slightly heightened colour,
for he got fearfully chaffed among his own set for his bizarre taste,
"the upper classes take no interest in Trotting in England.  It will
take time to prove to them that a trotter is not necessarily a
butcher's horse, but can vie with a hackney and swell carriage horse,
and is almost as fast as a motor car as well, thus combining the
horse and motor in one animal.  Of course we all know that in America
the trotter is the National horse, as the thoroughbred is the English
one."

Chris was silent.  He thought that Mackrell understood trotting, or
rather mixed trotting and pacing, as practised in England, but knew
nothing of the higher art of trotting, that is to say, real
first-class trotting with horses worth money, and which could go in
2.8 or better--like the famous Rensslaer's, for example.

"Are you _really_ going to keep Trotters, Gay?" Lossie cut in sharply.

"Rather! and I'm going to train at Flytton.  Inigo Court's close by,
you know, and I shall love seeing my horses jog in the morning.
They'll let me do that, I suppose?" she asked Carlton Mackrell, and
pointedly turning her back on Chris.

"Oh, certainly," he replied, after a moment's hesitation, and much to
the disgust of the Professor, who considered that all this horsey
talk was more suitable for stables than a drawing-room.  He did hope
Gay would not become one of those horrid, slangy, racing-women he
abominated; almost unconsciously he exchanged a glance with Lossie,
who flashed back one of sympathy, for jealousy and envy of Gay
corroded her.

All the advantages were with Gay--money, position, freedom--there was
even her great capacity for winning hearts to set against her
cousin's beauty; it wasn't fair, and the unfairest thing of all was
Carlton Mackrell's obvious devotion, and as Lossie sat unnoticed,
while Gay was the magnet that drew the eyes and hearts of both men
present, perhaps the two smartest and best-looking men of their
circle, and one of whom Lossie loved, her gorge rose.

Fortunately Gay was not in love with him, and up to now, at any rate,
Carlton had not picked a quarrel with Lossie for loving him unbidden,
as some men do (regarding it as an unwarrantable encroachment on
their liberty), and when Gay married Chris, whom she loved without
knowing it, then Lossie would cut in, and a beautiful woman at close
quarters is a beautiful woman all the world over.

Failing him, but the girl shuddered at the thought, there was the
Professor ... rich men did not grow on every bush, and her tastes
were expensive.

The mother of Frank and Gay had been wealthy, and their father and
his family comparatively poor, a fact greatly resented by Lossie, who
had a mordant tongue, and was wont to describe the Lawless branch of
the family as "the silk cloak," and hers as "the cotton lining."

It was with angry, embittered heart that later in the afternoon she
turned her steps homewards, bitterly comparing her lot with Gay's,
for Becky Sharp's type is much commoner than is generally
supposed--the type that can be good and happy (at a pinch) on five
thousand a year, but _quite_ good, and _quite_ happy on ten and
upwards, and Lossie was of that type.

She had friends, of course, and admirers, who came to see her, George
Conant much oftener than she wanted him, but a house without plenty
of money, and a man at the head of it, is not half equipped for life
and happiness.  For the tiny establishment in South Street was run,
if not ruled, by Aunt Lavinia (Chris's especial pal), who would
greatly have preferred the more roomy comfort of Connaught Square, in
which the Professor and Gay buried their unfashionable heads.

Both Lossie's parents were dead, and Lavinia had given her sister's
child a home, tackling each day the difficult problem of trying to
love a singularly unloveable girl, though "Anyway, my dear, she's
delightful to look at!" Lavinia would say confidentially to Gay,
after some especially flagrant piece of selfishness on Lossie's part.

Lavinia had a queer religion of her own (but not so queer when you
come to reflect that nowadays real religion is found chiefly in those
who do not profess any), and it was summed up in the love of
humanity, and the law of human kindness.

"Teach folks to love," she used to say; "teach 'em to keep on
loving--the rest will follow.  No soul was ever yet damned that knew
how to love--it's in the loving, not the _being_ loved, that we find
happiness.  Have you ever noticed the courting couples about on
Sundays and holidays, that if the girls are not pretty, they _look_
so?  Love has done the trick--not new clothes, or getting themselves
up, but just _loving_ something that's not themselves."

Lossie had an immense contempt for the "giving out" process of love
as practised by Aunt Lavinia, the more especially when it took the
form of cheques better employed in paying the milliners' bills of her
niece, nor was the Professor more appreciative, for he seldom or
never went to see his father's sister in South Street, though he
welcomed her cordially enough on her rare visits to Connaught Square.
Perhaps it was because (as he had long ago suspected) she reluctantly
recognised him as lazy, self-indulgent, ruined by his too abundant
means, amiable with the tepid amiability of a dog who does not fight,
and by blandishments hopes to be allowed to retain his bone.
Hall-marked he was, with the special form of selfishness that makes
the man completely happy in his bodily environment, and mental
pursuits and hobbies, shun the society of his kind, and to whom it is
a matter of complete indifference that "grass-grown become the paths
to friendship that are never trod."

He usually (in quite unconscious antagonism) ordered twenty pounds
worth of new books when through Lossie he heard of some
preposterously good deed done by Lavinia, but to go and do likewise
simply never occurred to him, nor did it at that time to Gay, who,
without knowing it, was selfish also.

Yet, but for this blessed privilege of youth, where would beautiful,
much-abused youth be?  Gay was young, full of life and spirits, and
would have to suffer a bit herself before she vividly realised the
sufferings of others, even if she responded readily enough to any
demand on her purse, if not her time.  All of this Lavinia perfectly
understood, but much as she loved the girl, Chris, whose mother's
friend she had been was the very light of her eyes.




CHAPTER VI

AT KEMPTON

A bright, frosty morning broke for Kempton's second day, and at
Epsom, Chris Hannen whistled and sang while he cold-tubbed and
dressed, in sheer light-heartedness born of the pleasing conviction
of training and riding another winner before the day was out.
Besides, Gay was coming to witness his triumph, and the prospect of
some hours in her society was enough to make any man happy, he
thought, while her "Never mind, old chap; better luck next time,"
would considerably soften the disappointment if he got beaten.

Having seen his horse started for the station, he himself followed
later on his way to town to pick up Gay.  That young lady was as
cheerful as Chris as she went about the house fixing things up, and
arranging for her brother's comfort during her absence.

"Now don't get into mischief, Heron," she had told him at breakfast.
"I shall be back soon after five, and I'll tell you all about how
Chris gets on.  I _know_ you'll be interested to hear, won't you?"
she added teasingly.

"I hope he will get on--and stop on," the Professor replied, with as
near an approach to a joke as he ever permitted himself.  "I like
Chris Hannen," he went on, regarding his sister over the rim of his
glasses, "and I wish he would give up that dangerous game before it
gives _him_ up You have some influence with him, Gay; can you not
exercise it?"

The light suddenly went out of her face; then she shook her head.

"Every man to his own game, Heron, and Chris is as devoted to
'chasing as you are to science, you dear old fossil!"

"Hum!" was all the Professor vouchsafed to this remark, for to
compare _his_ pursuit with that of Chris was nothing short of an
insult.

When Chris arrived about eleven o'clock he found Gay ready and
waiting for him, dressed in a smart, workman-like tweed coat and
skirt, and with her glasses slung.  A remarkably good-looking and
happy pair they looked as they drove to meet the coach that Effie's
husband, Captain Bulteel, a sporting man--and who among Gay's friends
was not sporting, except Lossie Holden?--was driving down to Kempton
Park races.

A place had been found for Chris, and when they arrived at the
rendezvous in Eaton Square they were received with great warmth, Gay
especially, and were soon on their way.

Effie and Gay talked nineteen to the dozen, and the drive was very
pleasant.  Though not the coaching season, Tom Bulteel was no
believer in his team standing idle during the winter, so drove them
to all the suburban meetings, or to Richmond, and other places, when
there was no racing within reach.  Everyone was in the best of
spirits, and expressed surprise when the coach turned on to the
course--the all-absorbing topic of horses having claimed the party's
attention on the way, it was little wonder that the journey seemed no
sooner to commence than it was over.

Naturally everyone had asked Chris about each and every race on the
card.

"I never give tips," laughed Chris.  "If they come off, people
grumble at the price or something--as though I could help that--and
if they don't, they look aggrieved, and more than half suspect one of
putting them away.  But I'll tell you this much--I'm having my
maximum of a 'pony' on, and I expect to get it back, plus adequate
interest, you know."

Arrived on the course, they made their way to the paddock to find
Beeswing.  He was in his box, and showed no signs of the railway
journey.  The lad opened the door as they approached, touching his
cap to Gay, and regarding her with the unabashed admiration peculiar
to his class.

"All right?" Chris inquired, walking up to the horse and patting him,
an example Gay instantly followed.  "Good.  My bag's in the
dressing-room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir.  I see Captain Conant's traps there too.  'E's come to try
and ride that 'orse of Gunn's, I s'pose."

"Yes, he always rides for that stable," Chris replied, and smiled.
He had a way of summing up people; "drops her h's and calls it
h'arsthma," was his definition of a rich, vulgar old woman he and Gay
detested, and "a pair of spurs and a grin," had as aptly hit off
Captain Conant, who fancied he could ride, and courted public
disaster on every possible occasion.  He was also an ardent but at
present infrequent worshipper at Lossie's shrine, as, greatly to his
disgust, his regiment was now quartered in Ireland.

"Pity Lossie's not here, eh, Gay?" whispered Chris in an aside.
"Let's go and have some lunch--that is, _you_ can have some, while I
will sit and watch you longingly, and dream of my next meat dinner!"

They returned to the coach for lunch, and Chris looked after Gay with
the same care and attention that a trained nurse bestows on a patient
whose will she has reason to think has been made in her favour, and
the girl enjoyed herself thoroughly.

Captain Conant was to ride in the first race, and her remarks on his
ability as a jockey, and his probable fate, would have quite unnerved
the gentleman in question could he have heard them.

"There he goes!" she exclaimed as a man cantered past, "_what_ a
seat!  Did you ever see anything like it?"

Chris smiled.

"It _is_ ugly, isn't it?" he agreed, "but men ride in all shapes, you
know, and it isn't always the best-looking in the saddle that is the
strongest."

"I know that, thank you," Gay replied saucily, "but George Conant
can't ride for nuts, and never will.  I wonder he hasn't broken his
neck long ago.  Of course, he only rides the safest of jumpers, and
even so, it's no odds on his not jumping first.  You yourself told
me, Chris," she added reproachfully, "that he often throws down his
reins at the fences, and catches hold fore and aft, shrieking loudly
if anything ranges alongside!"

Chris exploded.

"Well, yes," he said, "he's certainly not what one would call a bold
horseman.  He likes to have most of the course to himself, and
regards it as a liberty if anyone approaches within two lengths of
him.  He once reported a jockey who had the temerity to shout 'Yah!'
while they were both in the air over a fence, and in consequence of
which remark he lost his balance--he has no grip, you know--and fell
off."

"Frightened Isaac!" cried Gay indignantly.

"Well," continued Chris, "he described the ejaculation as an
intimidating one, and was surprised that the Stewards did not
immediately suspend the perpetrator from riding again.  The next time
the two met in a race, the professional did not confine his
ejaculation to the fences, but kept up a running commentary upon poor
George, while his remarks were rather more pungent than on the
previous occasion.  I have before now helped George back into the
saddle over the 'drop' fences--chiefly by the slack of his breeches,
you know--and he seemed surprised, not to say grateful, that I had
not given him the gentle push that would have dissolved the
precarious partnership between himself and his horse."

"Has he ever won anything?" Gay asked, laughing.

"Oh, yes.  This year he has won two races, one a walk-over for a
National Hunt flat race, and the other when there were three runners.
One was not trying, and ran out after going half-way, while the
jockey of the other was so beat two fences from home, that he lost
his senses, and fell off on the flat.  George did not notice this,
and for the last quarter of a mile rode a desperate finish, mistaking
the jeers of the crowd for appreciation."

"Bet you a pair of gloves he comes undone this time, falls barred,"
Gay said, and Chris closed, knowing it was a bad bet for him, but
welcoming the prospect of buying gloves for Gay, and perhaps being
permitted to button them up.  What felicity!

Gay's glasses were turned to the starting-post.

"He can't get his horse to join the others," she announced.  "He's
speaking to the starter--who looks annoyed, from his attitude.  I do
believe there are tears in his eyes."

"Strong glasses yours, Gay, aren't they?" inquired Mrs. Bulteel
mischievously, but Gay was too busy to heed her.

"They're running," she said the next moment.  "George has got away
all right, and the pace is good.  Something in green--what is it,
Chris?--is alongside him; oh-h!--that was a near thing.  He all but
came unglued, as you call it, at that first fence.  He's got back
again now, and is picking up his reins.  Does he _always_ drop them
when 'in the air'?  Now they're coming to the ditch, and, by the way
he's riding, I think I win my bet here.  Sit back, _sit_ back, man!"
she muttered, as George rose to the fence, and on landing was shot
far up his horse's neck, whence he gradually pushed himself back into
the saddle.

Mrs. Bulteel laughed right out; it was more interesting to watch Gay
than the race.

"Hullo! one's down--blue and white chevrons!" Gay glanced at her card
to see its name.  "It's 'Topaz.'  The jock's up all right, but Topaz
is where he fell--winded, I expect.  Where are the others?" sweeping
the field with her glasses.  "Oh, there they are, and Captain
Conant's still on top."

The horses were running towards them now, and every incident of the
race could be seen without glasses.

"Knight Errant's going best," Chris said.  "By Jove, can't he jump!
Just through the top of the fence where the 'give' is!"

The horses galloped past, and Gay put up her glasses as they rounded
the bend into the back stretch.

"Two more down," she said, "and at the plain fence too!  It's a bit
on the angle, isn't it, Chris?"

He did not reply.  He was watching the three remaining runners
approach the water with a quiet smile.

"You'll win your gloves there if anywhere, Gay," he said.  "George
never did like the water."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the expected
happened.  George's horse galloped strongly up to the guard fence,
dwelt for a second, and then gave a tremendous bound which carried
him clear over the water.  The impetus was evidently too much for his
rider, who abandoned his reins, and incidentally his whip too, at the
very moment his mount took off.

With a shriek of despair (which Gay declared she heard quite
plainly), he described a parabola in the air, and descended in a heap
in the middle of the water.  His horse galloped on with the other
two--it was not the first time his owner had parted company with him
without apparent reason--and he showed his sense of the situation by
lobbing along behind the others, thoroughly enjoying himself.

George remained in the water till he thought they had all gone over.
He had no intention of being jumped on if he could help it, and he
had sense enough to lie where he fell (and he fell pretty often),
knowing that a horse coming behind cannot dodge you, if you are
trying to dodge _him_.  Then Lossie's admirer crawled out, a
dripping, miserable-looking object, and made his way towards the
paddock.

Passing close to the coach, Chris called out to him, "Not hurt, are
you, George?"  The reply was indistinct, though Gay supplied one.

"Hurt?  Of course not!" she said, chuckling; "only badly frightened!
And anyway, I've won my gloves!"

Soon after, Chris went over to change, and Gay was all impatience for
his race to begin.

"You'll see something worth looking at," she informed the others.
"Whenever I see Chris ride I think there's nothing like
Steeplechasing, and whenever I see Mr. Mackrell drive, I think
nothing can touch Trotting.  I really believe I prefer Trotting,
though, for it hasn't the danger of this game, and I don't like to
see anyone I'm fond--anyone I know--run such risks."

"After all," said Effie, "it's a gentleman's sport, and if the dear
boy _will_ break his neck at it, he must.  But as to your Trotting
mania, Gay," hurriedly changing the conversation as Gay whitened,
"frankly, I don't think it's good enough for you, and Carlton ought
to be ashamed of himself for infecting you with his taste for it."

"He didn't," retorted Gay.  "I maintain that a perfect Trotter is
every bit as pretty a sight as a horse racing--and not half so
dangerous."

"Well, well!" said Effie, a shade of anxiety on her small,
weather-beaten face, "take care you don't get drawn in too far, and
talked about--it's unusual, you know, a girl going in for that sort
of thing, and not quite nice.  Pity you can't hand Mackrell over to
Lossie--the Trotting Meetings would be good enough for her--they're
not for you.  Frankly, I think the Professor for once is quite right
_there_."

But Gay was not listening, she was just asking herself whether she
really were fond of Chris, and _how_ fond, when that gentleman
cantered by with a cheerful nod, her opinion of him in the saddle
being amply justified.

His lithe, graceful figure was seen to its best advantage in colours,
while his long legs seemed riveted to his horse's sides--leaning
slightly forward, and standing in his stirrups, he and his mount were
in the most perfect unison, and personified the very poetry of motion.

"He'll take a lot of beating," one of the men on the coach
prophesied.  "He never says much about his horses, but I know he's
very sweet on his chance to-day.  I'm going into the Ring to back
him," he added to Gay.  "Can I do anything for you?"

"Put half-a-sovereign on for me, please," Gay replied, producing the
coin, "and see if you can't get over the odds, whatever they are; say
it's for a lady," she laughed, and the man lingered a moment to look
at her bright face--yes, there was no doubt about it, all the men
liked Gay.

In a few minutes the horses were off.  There were eight runners, and
a lightly-weighted one cut out the work at a strong pace.  They
strung out a bit over the first few fences, with the favourite
Musketeer always nicely placed, and Chris on Beeswing lying handy.

Gay watched the race keenly, describing all the running to Mrs.
Bulteel, who noted that most of her remarks concerned Chris.

"Watch him now," she exhorted.  "Up!  Well over!  That's the way to
ride over fences.  Chris calls it the gentle art of sitting back.  He
says you _can't_ sit back too far."

As the horses passed them she called out, "Well done, Chris!  Well
done!" in girlish delight.  She looked her very best just then, the
cold air heightening her colour, her grey eyes almost black with
excitement and pleasure.

A fall occurred at the fence before the water, but the rest got
safely over, and Musketeer began to improve his position little by
little.  He was ridden by a jockey who had steered two Grand National
winners, and Chris knew too much of the skill of the man to let him
get too far ahead if he could help it, so he too sharpened up a bit.
As they approached the last fence he saw he had only the favourite to
beat, and from the way his own horse was going, he felt he had his
measure.

They rose together, and for a few strides ran side by side, Chris
going easily, while the other was "niggling" with his hands.  Chris
improved his position, calling out "Good-bye, Arthur!" having no
desire to be caught "napping" by such a consummate artist at
finishing as his opponent.  He drew away with a length's lead, and in
a flash out came the whip on the favourite, who responded gamely, and
for a stride or two (or so it seemed to anxious Gay) looked like
catching Chris.

But to even a poor judge of racing it was all over.  Chris had a lot
in hand, and galloped home an easy three-lengths winner, the jockey
on the favourite ceasing to persevere when he saw it was hopeless.
He was a fine horseman, and a merciful man, a combination by no means
common.

"After all," said Gay, with a rapturous sigh, "I'm not sure that I
would not rather see Chris win a race, than take the Gold Vase with
one of my Trotters!"

"Why not do both, my dear?" said Effie dryly, "so long as you don't
take Carlton Mackrell as well."




CHAPTER VII

THE ESCAPADE

Acting on Carlton's advice, Gay did not enter her horses for
Blackpool, Glasgow, Liverpool, Belfast, or Leeds; the Irish Meetings
were of course out of the question with so small a stable, so that
she was practically limited to three Meetings within easy reach of
town.

"It was," as he privately expressed it to himself, "merely a
flirtation with Trotting, not playing the game itself," and he hoped
that like other ill-advised flirtations, it would die a natural
death.  Though he honestly believed that Trotting had a future in
England if properly managed, he had most unwillingly come to the
conclusion that Chris was right, and though it furnished a healthy
amusement for a great number of cheery, happy people, under existing
conditions it was decidedly neither his, nor any young girl's
_milieu_.

No doubts whatever troubled Gay, who was thoroughly enjoying herself,
and two days before the meeting at Waterloo Park, at which Silver
Streak was to carry her colours for the first time in public, she
succeeded in effecting what she had set her heart on, viz., the
driving by herself at exercise of one of her horses.

With her usual incorrigible frankness she unfolded her plan to the
Professor at luncheon, much to his horror and disgust.

"Can you not be content to be a spectator," he asked, "instead of
participating actively in a sport (he pronounced the word with venom)
which Lossie tells me claims as its closest adherents publicans and
tradesmen?  A nice thing it would be to find your butcher or
fishmonger careering round the course beside you, encouraging you
with shouts and cries such as are practised on all race-courses, or
so I am informed, for I have never visited one.  I deeply deplore
this unhappy infatuation, but, as usual, my wishes are ignored," he
concluded huffily.

"Don't be a prig, Heron," said Gay carelessly.  "You can't help being
a muff, I suppose, or Lossie a sneak, but for father's sake--and a
better sportsman never breathed, as you know well enough--_do_ try to
take a little interest in sport, even if you refuse to participate,
as you elegantly express it.  To hear you talk, one would think you
were employed by the Anti-Everything-Healthy-League, and that you had
a special mission to fulfil in saving everybody's soul--at the
expense of his body, of course!  It's enough to make the poor old dad
turn in his grave to hear you go on as you do.  If he were alive,
he'd be the very first to back me up."

She glanced at the clock, and jumped up.

"Time and trains wait for no man," she said.  "Run off to your
laboratory, old chap, but before you go, give me a kiss--and your
blessing."

She stood up on tip-toe to meet the Professor's chaste salute,
imprinted somewhere in the neighbourhood of her ear.

"Expect me when you see me," she said maliciously as she made for the
door, "and don't be surprised if I return in pads.  There's sometimes
an accident at Trotting, you know."

The Professor ambled towards her, shaking his head apprehensively,
but Gay was half-way upstairs.  She had only just time to catch her
train, and would get down to Inigo Court by half-past three, with
time enough to give the horses their work out round the track.

Tugwood had promised to borrow a speed wagon of a different pattern
for her to drive in, for her disregard of public opinion did not go
to the length of perching on a seat the size of a soup plate, with
her legs stuck out on either side of the horse, which was the usual
mode of progression.

On the journey down, she read the _Trotting World_, a journal devoted
to the interests of the sport, and was delighted to find a paragraph
about herself and Trotters in it.

"If a few more people of Miss Lawless' and Mr. Carlton Mackrell's
class and position could be induced to patronise Trotting," she read,
"the sport would soon assume its proper standing, and become, as in
America, a national pastime."

Gay walked briskly along the country road leading to Inigo Court, and
made her way to the stables.  There she found Tugwood in Silver
Streak's box, the horse already harnessed, and ready to be put to the
wagon.

"Horses all right, Tugwood?" Gay asked, pulling on her driving
gloves--thick bus-driver's gloves they were, bought on Carlton
Mackrell's recommendation.

"Never better, miss, thank'ee.  Silver Streak don't want too much
work to-day, with 'is race so near, an' 'e's pretty fit.  I 'ad 'im
out early this mornin', just to work off any stiffness 'e might 'ave
after a good spin against the watch yesterday.  A mile easy at
'arf-speed, at a three-minute gait, is about all 'e wants now."

Gay laughed.

"I hope I shall be able to steady him," she said.  "He does 'take
hold' a bit sometimes, doesn't he?"

"On'y when 'e's racin', miss.  'E don't like to see nothin' in front
of 'im.  I expect you'll be surprised at the pace 'e goes, an' think
'e's runnin' away.  But 'e ain't really, you know," he added
reassuringly; "'is manners is too good to bolt with anybody, let
alone a lady."

He chuckled at his joke as he helped Gay into the wagon, which was a
boat-shaped Benjamin, weighing 46 lbs., the body much like the seat
of an outrigger boat, with rounded ends to break the wind.

She made a very pretty picture as she sat in the wagon, excitement
and the bloom of health showing in her face.  As Tugwood led the
horse on to the track, in accordance with instructions, she slipped
her wrists through the loops in the reins, and planted her feet
firmly against the foot-rests.

"Don't be nervous, miss," Tugwood urged.  "Just keep a nice steady
hold on 'im, an' keep in the middle of the track.  Time enough to
think of cuttin' the corners when you know more about it."

Gay had no intention of cutting the corners, and devoutly hoped that
Silver Streak had none either, as Tugwood stepped to one side.

"Jog him, miss," he said, "and gradually let 'im out."

Gay did as she was told.  Silver Streak "got into his stride" with a
suddenness that was a little disconcerting, ready as she thought she
was for it, and the wagon shot forward, while her arms felt as though
they were being pulled from their sockets.

Shifting her position as soon as she had recovered her balance, she
hung on to the reins like grim death, and steered for the middle of
the track, as Silver Streak was evincing a partiality for the rails
that spelled probable disaster at the bend, unable as she was to
balance him properly.

The horse stretched himself out to his work in grand style, and
before they had rounded the first turn, Gay felt convinced he was
running away.  The pace was tremendous, while the wind whistled past
her ears and made her face smart with its force.  She took a pull at
the horse after the way she had seen drivers do when pulling up after
a "brush," before a race started, but at once felt the uselessness of
it, and was not surprised when Silver Streak pulled back, though his
pull was of considerably greater strength than hers, and resulted in
another temporary loss of balance, this time nearly over the
dash-board.

The horse's hind feet were much too close to be pleasant, and she
earnestly hoped he would not cast a shoe, which, for a certainty,
must fly into her face, or so it seemed.  Along the back stretch she
cast a glance in Tugwood's direction, half expecting to see him
brandishing his arms, or covering his eyes to avoid seeing her
untimely end, but no such view met her gaze.  On the contrary, he was
leaning over the rails in an attitude that betokened an easy mind,
and as she turned her head, he clapped his hands repeatedly, thus
conveying to her the reassuring news that she was doing well.

She negotiated the home-bend nicely, though by this time her arms had
begun to ache in earnest, and her breathing was not so regular and
easy as on foot.  Now her natural fears had subsided, she felt that
she was having the time of her life, and disregarding her trainer's
instructions, actually encouraged Silver Streak to go faster.  This
the horse did, and made the pace a cracker on the second circuit,
though even then he was by no means going his fastest.

Approaching the spot where Tugwood was holding up his hand as a
signal to stop, she took another pull at Silver Streak, but with as
little result as before.  Another pull, but with a like effect--the
horse was evidently enjoying himself, and intended to complete
another circuit.  Gay's horrified look as she sped past, sitting back
as far as she could, and hauling at the reins, brought a smile to
Tugwood's face.

"Finds it ain't quite so easy as it looks," he said to himself,
though with no anxiety, but as the wagon bore towards him again, he
opened the gate leading to the stables, and walked down the track
with outstretched arms to meet it.

Silver Streak saw him, and pricked his ears, at the same time slowing
down till he dropped into a walk almost on the top of his trainer.
Gay heaved a little sigh of relief as they turned off the track.  She
was quite numbed with the cold, and her feet felt like lumps of lead,
while her hands shook violently from the strain, as she disengaged
them from the reins, and jumped to the ground.

"That was ripping!" she said, stamping her feet.

Her voice sounded catchy, which was not to be wondered at after so
much excitement, crammed into such a short time.

"I hope the extra lap won't hurt him, Tugwood?"

"Not a bit of it, miss.  Why, 'e wasn't goin' fast enough to keep
'imself warm at any time.  You didn't do the first mile in much under
three minutes, I'll be bound."

"Well," said Gay, "I've never travelled so fast before in my life,
behind a horse, anyhow.  I wonder what the excitement of a race must
be like?"

A mad idea to dress up as a man, and drive at the next Meeting
flashed across her mind, but she dismissed it as altogether
impracticable.  Besides, it had been done before--in books,
anyway--and Gay was nothing if not original.

"'Ow do you like drivin', miss?" Tugwood inquired, as he led Silver
Streak back to his box.

"It's splendid!" Gay replied enthusiastically, "but it _does_ make
your arms ache, doesn't it?  Mine feel all on fire now."

"Ah, that always 'appens to a beginner," the trainer explained
indulgently.  "You'll get the better o' that after a few more turns,
and learn to take a nice steady hold, just to feel his mouth, instead
of hanging on like grim death.  I suppose you won't drive Maudie
to-night, miss?  It's rather late, an' just on doin'-up time."

"Oh, very well, I won't, then," the girl answered, "but you must not
think I am afraid, you know, because I'm not."

"No fear o' that from one of _your_ stock, miss.  I've heard tell of
your father, an' a better plucked 'un with 'osses never lived.  I'm
always to be found here, miss, so if you'll drop me a line any time
you want a drive, I'll be waitin' for you."

With the promise of a speedy return, Gay took her departure, quite
unaware that there had been an interested spectator of her work on
the track, in the person of Mr. Rensslaer, who by accident was
passing.  He occasionally used the track in private for trying a
horse when too far from his own place, and happening to look over the
hoarding which enclosed the course, had seen Gay driving Silver
Streak in his wagon, of which Tugwood had begged the loan.

The sight had greatly amused him, and as she passed, he ducked his
head, afraid of "scaring" the girl, for he saw at a glance that she
was a complete novice at the game, though he expressed himself
emphatically and aloud on her performance.

"Now, that's what I call real sporting," he exclaimed, standing up in
his wagon to get a better view, though even then his head barely
reached the top of the hoarding.

"Wonder who she is?" he soliloquised.  "I'll go in, and inquire of
Tugwood when she's finished her work out.  Mighty pretty girl,
anyway, though she don't look altogether as if she's enjoying
herself.  That's a nice pure-gaited one she's driving--for England."

At the conclusion of the spin, and after Gay had left the place,
Rensslaer continued his drive, turning in at the park gates, then
made his way round to the stables, where Brusher Tugwood, hearing the
approach of hoofs, left Silver Streak's box, and came out into the
yard to see who it was.

His grim old face relaxed into a respectful smile, and he pulled at
his cap as the new-comer sprang out of his road wagon, looped up his
reins, and adjusted a horse-cloth with the quick dexterity of the
professional.

Tugwood waited for developments, looking inquiringly at the powerful,
straight-hipped horse in the wagon, and Rensslaer was quick to follow
his glance.

"That's old 'Marvel Girl,'" he volunteered, and gave her pedigree;
then immediately, keen enthusiasts both, they fell to talking and
comparing notes of doings on both sides of the Atlantic, Rensslaer
walking Tugwood restlessly up and down, the idea of his original
quest quite vanishing from his mind.

"By the way," he said, suddenly remembering it, as he drew the
"cooler" off his waiting horse and folded it up, "who is that young
lady I saw going round the track a while ago in my wagon?"

"That was my young mistress, Miss Gay Lawless, sir, and very kind it
was of you to humour her with the loan of that wagon; she couldn't
have done what she was so dead set on else.  It was 'er first drive,
though where you see it from, I don't know, sir."

"So that was Miss Lawless, was it?" Rensslaer said thoughtfully.
"I've heard the name only just lately.  There was something in the
_Trotting World_ about her, and some horses she had bought.  It is a
surprise to me to find a lady patronising Trotting."

"Well," said Tugwood, not desiring to typify his mistress as the
example that proved the rule, "I shouldn't wonder if before long we
don't 'ave a duchess trottin' 'orses under our Rules, the same as
they do under the Jockey Club," but his tone lacked conviction.

"I suppose you know Mr. Carlton Mackrell, then," pursued Rensslaer,
who himself did, and foresaw through him an introduction to Gay.

"Know 'im, sir?  I should think I did indeed," the trainer assured
him.  "Why, it was me as introduced Mr. Mackrell to Trottin'," and he
drew himself up proudly.

"Been fairly successful too, hasn't he?" Rensslaer inquired.

"Remarkably so, sir, I'm pleased to say," said Tugwood, bridling,
"though I says it as shouldn't, seein' as 'ow I've 'ad the trainin'
of his 'osses till quite lately.  I left Mr. Mackrell to come to Miss
Lawless, you see, sir, an' I 'ope to be as successful for 'er as I
was for 'im, though of course Miss Gay 'as only just started, so to
speak.  I expect to 'ave a winner for 'er at the next meetin' 'ere,
sir--that 'oss you see goin' roun' just now.  Silver Streak 'is name
is.  Come an' 'ave a look over 'im."

Together they entered the horse's box, where Tugwood proceeded to
recount Silver Streak's performances before he came into his charge.

"A nice horse," commented Rensslaer, "though I should call him too
good-looking.  Quite a picture compared to my mare outside, isn't
he?" indicating with a jerk of his head the rough-and-ready-looking
animal in the wagon.  Certainly Silver Streak was more of the
race-horse stamp than the trotter, and the expert shook his head as
he looked him over from all points.

"Not a record-breaker, I think," he opined, "and what is his best
time?"

"Two-twenty on this track, sir," the trainer said, "though I think I
can improve 'im a lot on that time.  In fact, Miss Gay thinks of
enterin' 'im for the Champion Vase, an' though I won't go so far as
to say he'll win it, some of the others will know they've been racin'
before they're done.  There's some good 'osses with form be'ind 'em
waitin' with a view to that race.  Demonstrator's one of 'em, an' Mr.
Mackrell's Billy Q., wot won at the last meetin' 'ere, is not out of
it by a long way.  From what I know of that 'oss--an' I trained 'im
for all 'is races--'e'll very near win it.  Whatever beats 'im will
win any'ow," he concluded.

"Well, we shall see," replied Rensslaer.  "I must be off now, but
you'll see me again before long.  What did you say Mr. Mackrell's
present address was?"

Tugwood did not remember having mentioned it, but he replied:

"The Bachelors' Club will find 'im, sir, though I shouldn't wonder if
'e don't 'ave to resign there afore long from wot I can see of it,"
he added to himself, but Rensslaer heard him as he climbed into his
wagon and drove off.

Tugwood, left alone, shook his head gloomily.  His late visitor's low
estimate of English horses annoyed him by its assurance; he also
resented the slur Rensslaer cast on the sport by abstaining from it
in England, while practising it in most of the big capitals of
Europe.  A fine sportsman, with one of the finest, if not _the_
finest, stable of Trotters in the world, he was the very man to
elevate and establish the sport firmly here, and it was with a sense
of depression that Tugwood gave Silver Streak his evening feed, and
remained to watch the horse eating it up.




CHAPTER VIII

GAY TRIUMPHANT

In a spirit of pure mischief Gay had invited Lossie Holden to
accompany her and Chris Hannen to see Silver Streak's début, and they
drove the short distance from the station to Waterloo Park in
excellent spirits, Gay all impatience to see her horse trot, and
Chris as interested as he could ever be in anything outside his own
stable.

Lossie was entirely out of sympathy with Gay's natural excitement;
all sporting tastes were low, she considered, and Trotting quite the
lowest of them all.  She could not understand a woman possessing the
healthy, out-door instinct--a girl's first duty, she considered, was
to herself, and her time was much better employed in making herself
as attractive as possible in the eyes of men, than in sharing their
rude pursuits.  Man was woman's lawful spoil, and for her part she
quite understood why the "manly woman" remained a spinster, and by
not attracting, failed in her mission in life.

In this, as in other matters, Lossie's view was too narrow to be
correct, for she could not separate Gay, with her healthy love for
horses, and dogs, and an open-air life, from the muscular,
loud-voiced, corsetless Amazons who are so frequently much better
athletes than men, and well able to protect the lady-like creatures
in breeches they usually marry.

Chris noticed the contrast between the two girls especially that day,
Gay, looking the picture of health, and thoroughly alive in her plain
tweed frock, her workman-like gloves, and stout boots, intent on a
good day's sport, and exulting in the part she was to play, and
Lossie, "dressed to kill," with her bored, petulant air, tilting her
nose (a very pretty nose, too, Chris had to admit), whenever a
fly-load of "mellow" Trotting men galloped past.

Arrived at the course, Chris obtained a race-card that they were busy
discussing, when a hearty voice called out at Gay's elbow:

"How are you, Miss Gay?  Well, I _am_ glad to see you again."

Gay turned to see Min Toplady, and while she took in the opulent
splendours of her attire, with a delighted side-glance she caught the
disgusted look on her cousin's face.

"Dear old Min!" she cried, embracing her old friend heartily, then
with a quick, mischievous glance at Chris, she dragged the somewhat
flustered Min up to where stood Lossie Holden, a supreme figure of
elegant disdain.  "Why, Lossie, surely you've not forgotten Min
Toplady, my dear old nurse," cried Gay.  "All my friends are Min's
friends, aren't they, Chris?"

"Of course," he replied, with difficulty keeping his countenance, so
tickled was he by Lossie's, then raising Min's tightly-gloved hand to
his lips, respectfully kissed it.  "Min and I are old pals, and I
really think she's beginning to quite approve of me at last?" he
added with twinkling eyes.

"Oh, you'll do, Mr. Chris," Min said, laughing, "until you break your
neck with your silly jumping."  She was very quick, and knew that the
young man's instant ranging of himself on her side was due to
Lossie's frigid acknowledgment of her presence.

"Well, Miss Gay," said Min reproachfully, "I've been expecting you to
look me up at the 'Trotting Nag,' Camberwell--I always tell Bob it
was the name of our 'pub' that started us at the Trotting game--but
you'll be more than welcome when you _do_ find time."

Gay promised eagerly that she would come soon, and Carlton Mackrell
appearing at that moment, they split up into groups, he remaining
with Lossie Holden, who regarded with horror the progress of the
others to Min's wagonette, where, with exaggerated gusto, Gay
assisted Chris to partake of sherry and sandwiches.

"She don't alter much," said Min, glancing at the distant Lossie, now
exercising all her fascinations on Carlton, but when Gay with her
usual generosity urged that Lossie did not have much of a time, Min
interrupted her majestically.

"Don't make no excuses for her, Miss Gay; what she always was as a
mite she is now.  I've got her weighed up to an ounce, my dear, and
if she's a _real_ friend of yours, and not a spiteful, jealous cat,
I've made a mistake, and I don't make many among my own sex, if I
_did_ make a bloomer when I took up with my old man--"  And she
beamed upon the enormous and delighted Bob, who had just come up, and
acknowledged the soft impeachment with a prodigious smile.

"There goes the bell for the horses to get on the track for the first
heat; let's go into the enclosure, and watch the 'plugs' go round,"
cried Gay, and off she and Chris went together, Gay running back for
a moment to give Min a "tip."

"Mr. Mackrell thinks my horse will win his heat and the
final--Brusher Tugwood drives, and he knows the horse.  He's very
sweet on his chance.  Mind you back ours, Min dear, and tell your
friends to 'help themselves,' as they say."

The first heat over, Gay and Chris went off to the stables, Carlton
Mackrell and Lossie joining them.  Mackrell studied his card as they
went along.

"You are sure to win your heat," he said, "and the time of your
horse, and the other two heat winners, will tell us what chance you
have in the final, but according to the conditions of the race, I
think it's a good thing for you."

Chris smiled.  He had seen too many "good things" come undone, though
in this case there were no fences in the way, he reflected.

They arrived at the stables in time to watch Brusher Tugwood put the
finishing touches to Silver Streak's toe weights.  The horse looked
splendid, and Gay's brand new colours--blue and white hoops--showed
up brilliantly in the wintry sun.

Gay walked beside her driver while he led the horse to the track
gates.

"This _is_ a good thing, isn't it, Tugwood?" she inquired anxiously.
"I do so want to win the first time out, you know, though I oughtn't
to expect it," she added.

"We shall win all right, miss," Tugwood assured her.  "Do you pop
into the ring and back me as if money--or price--was no object."  He
climbed into his perch, and turned on to the track, where he let
Silver Streak stride along at about half-speed.

By the time Gay and the others had got back to the stand, the second
bell had rung, and the horses were jockeying on their marks for a
start.  Gay had invested, through Carlton Mackrell, a couple of
pounds on her horse for the driver, Tugwood, and the odds of four to
one were obtained.

She would not bet herself.  "I don't approve of regular betting," she
said; "besides, I shall get five pounds if I win this heat, and fifty
pounds, actually fifty golden sovereigns"--she clapped her hands and
laughed as if she had never seen so much money before--"if Silver
Streak wins the final as well!"

Bang went the pistol, and the horses were off.

"You've won it now," Carlton Mackrell said quietly, his eyes showing
his appreciation of the consummate skill of Tugwood in getting off
like lightning, and almost in his stride.

Though they had to go three rounds for the mile and a half, the value
of a good beginning was soon made obvious as Silver Streak swooped
down on the horses in front of him approaching the first bend.  Along
the back stretch he improved to third place, and though the leader
was thirty yards and more to the good there, Carlton Mackrell knew
that Silver Streak's driver was only biding his time, and would win
comfortably, without distressing his horse with a view to the final.

"I do believe he will win!" Gay cried breathlessly, as the horses
passed the stand, the same one leading, while Silver Streak and a
pacing mare called Mrs. Wiggs were racing side by side.

"No doubt of it," Carlton Mackrell assured her.  "Let me congratulate
you."

Gay laughed rather nervously.

"Thank you," she said, "but not yet.  Oh, look, there's
something--Mrs. Wiggs, isn't it?--that's passing Silver Streak now.
Why doesn't Tugwood go after her?"

The apparent catastrophe occurred on the back stretch approaching the
turn.  Chris, looking on, noticed it, and prayed that Mrs. Wiggs
could not sustain the effort.  He saw, too, that the pair had
considerably decreased the leader's advantage.

"It's all right," Carlton Mackrell declared.  "Tugwood will make his
effort--an easy one, too--directly they get into the third lap."

And so it proved.  Mrs. Wiggs' advantage was only temporary, and
directly Tugwood asked Silver Streak to catch the leader, he did so
in decided fashion, and Gay breathed a sigh of joy and relief as
Tugwood put the issue beyond doubt fifty yards from the box, and
jogged in, a two-lengths winner, in 3.36 from scratch.

"Oh!  I'm so glad!" Gay exclaimed, and indeed she looked radiant, and
altogether adorable, as she received from the two men congratulations
so warm that Lossie's silence was quite overlooked.

The beauty was quite out of her element, and took no pains to hide
the fact.  How Gay _could_ mix with such awful people she did not
understand, and she registered a vow that this was the first and last
visit she would pay to Waterloo Park, or any other of the Trotting
Meetings.

It was adding insult to injury, too, for Gay to openly show her
friendship with that vulgar person, Min Toplady.  She looked angrily
in the direction of the carriages, where the "vulgar person's" purple
gown refused to be overlooked, and Min was clearly in _her_ element
as she dispensed hospitality with a lavish hand, while Bob conducted
an earnest conversation with a professional driver.

"What's the matter, Lossie?" Gay inquired suddenly.  "I'm afraid
you're not enjoying yourself."

Chris and Carlton Mackrell exchanged glances, both prepared for the
same reply.

"No, I'm not," she said positively.  "What you can see in this
rabble, and travesty of sport I'm sure _I_ don't know--I mean,"
suddenly remembering, and turning a dazzle of blue eyes and smiles
upon Carlton Mackrell, "from a woman's point of view, of course.  I
quite understand the fascination driving your own horses has for you,
Mr. Mackrell, but I can't admit that it's quite a nice thing for a
girl--"  But she spoke to unheeding ears, for he had divined Gay's
wish that he should take her to the stables, and when he suggested
it, she went with him eagerly.

Leaving Lossie and the unwilling Chris together, they made their way
through the Ring, Mackrell drawing ten pounds from his bookmaker, who
begged him "not to do it again."  Her original stake of two pounds
Gay put in her pocket, tightly clutching the remainder in her little
fist.

They found Tugwood assisting a lad to rub Silver Streak down, and
highly pleased with himself.  He magnificently waved Gay's
outstretched hand containing the eight pounds away.

"Leave it all down, miss, please," he said; "put the lot on our 'oss
for the final.  We shall win outright now, for the best field was
behind me in the first heat.  You understand the market 'ere, sir,
don't you?" he asked Carlton Mackrell, "so don't forget to distribute
the money among the bookies.  A quid 'ere, an' a couple there, you
know, sir, though you won't get such a nice price again.  It's
wonderful 'ow they pinch the price for a heat winner for the final."

Together Gay and Carlton watched the next four heats, Gay taking
particular interest, naturally, in the heats which concerned her
race, and when the horses turned out for the eventful final, Carlton
Mackrell walked down the rails to speak to Tugwood, for he had seen
something in the second heat that he knew would be valuable knowledge
to the driver, and this he told him.  He had barely time to get back
to the stand before the bell rang to announce the start.  But Silver
Streak did not get off so well this time, and for the first circuit
of the course only improved two places.  Passing the stands he was
fourth, the heat winners and two fastest losers being qualified to go
in the final, and Gay's expressive face looked the picture of despair
as the horses sped past to the turn.

"He'll never catch the leaders," she exclaimed; "they're all going
well, faster than they went in their heats, it seems to me.  Whatever
does Tugwood keep looking round at that crimson jacket behind him
for?  I don't see any sense in it; it's those in front he has to
beat, not that one."

Carlton Mackrell laughed.

"He's doing what I told him," he answered.  "The crimson jacket is
the real danger.  Look!"

As if to prove his words, the pacer mentioned suddenly increased his
speed in a great effort to pass Silver Streak.  Tugwood instantly
responded, and a great race for supremacy began between the pair.
The terrific speed they were going at, took them past first one
leader and then another, while from the enthusiasm among the
spectators on the stands, it was apparent that they regarded the race
as a match between Silver Streak and the crimson jacket.

Rounding the home bend into the straight in the last lap, there were
still three in it--the trotter which had led throughout, Silver
Streak, and the pertinacious crimson jacket.  Each driver was doing
all he knew, but Tugwood had the inside position, which he kept with
a bit to spare, thus compelling the other two to go wide at the turn,
and Carlton Mackrell and Chris both appreciated his fine and
legitimate driving.

A great race ensued up the straight, all three horses' names being
shouted in turn, each exhorted by their respective backers to "go on."

Amid a storm of cheers and encouragement the three flashed past the
box, but Carlton Mackrell, from his intimate knowledge, knew that the
one, two, Tugwood had given Silver Streak a few yards short of the
judge, had done the trick, and snatched a bare victory.

Gay was trembling with excitement, while even Lossie sufficiently
forgot herself to stand on tiptoe to watch the number board.

"It's all right," Carlton Mackrell announced.  "He's putting No. 3 in
the frame, and that's yours.  Won by a neck, I should say, all out,
in 3.32½."

Gay heaved a deep sigh, and then they all went on to the track, and,
after Tugwood had dismounted, accompanied Silver Streak in a body to
the stables.

The crowd gave Gay a hearty cheer as she passed the Ring, and this
completed her cup of bliss.  Min Toplady showered congratulations on
her, and was so pleased that she actually smiled at Lossie, hastily
composing her face the moment she realised the mistake.




CHAPTER IX

AT THE "TROTTING NAG"

It was by deliberate intention, not accident, that Lossie found the
Professor alone on the day following Silver Streak's victory, and
conveyed to his mind her own epicurean disgust at the associations to
which Gay's new Trotting mania had exposed her, though jealousy at
the increased opportunities of her cousin for meeting Carlton, was
really at the bottom of her interference.  Lightly, but maliciously,
she ran over the whole scene, the surroundings at Waterloo Park, so
utterly different to those of an ordinary race meeting, and, so far
as she could see, without a gentlewoman present save Gay and herself.
But when, in speaking of the "public-house ladies" present, she
mentioned Min Toplady, the Professor visibly stiffened.

"A most estimable woman," he said, "and nurse to all the younger
members of our family.  She adored Gay, and though we lost sight of
her on her marriage, I don't know anyone from whom my sister would
take better a word in season than Minnie.  I am shocked to hear that
the poor woman has taken to racing--married a sporting publican, I
fear."

Lossie shrugged her graceful shoulders as her appraising glance ran
up and down the Professor's handsome, if unbraced, figure and face,
then round the pictures and appointments of the room in which they
sat.  After all, she might do worse, if--if--but Gay was not going to
have it all her own way with Carlton Mackrell.  Chris Hannen was
_her_ man, and the sooner she realised it the better.

"I have a great mind to go and see Minnie," said Frank nervously,
"and get her to use her influence with Gay--but I don't know her
address--

"Oh," said Lossie, with curling lip, "_I_ can tell you--the "Trotting
Nag," Camberwell, which is precisely the place and neighbourhood
where, from her appearance, you might expect to find her!"

"Now, now," protested the Professor, for unkindness is not so much a
matter of speech as of atmosphere, and he thought it unbecoming that
so lovely a creature as Lossie should be so acrimonious.

And yet he pitied her, without parents, without money, though why she
had not married long ago, and brilliantly, was a puzzle to more
worldly people than the Professor.

"Poor Frank," she said, "I'm afraid you'll find her much more Gay's
ally in the matter than yours.  Why don't you put your foot down
_yourself_, and insist on Gay's giving up this disreputable business?"

The Professor sighed, and Lossie longed to shake him.  Fearing that
she might be tempted to do so, she got up to go, and she was so tall,
and at that moment so beautiful in her contempt, that an unwonted
thrill ran through him.  After all, he was only a man, and not such a
very old one at that, and reading him perfectly, she put up her face
to his, and murmuring, "Dear old Frank!" kissed him with rather more
than cousinly warmth in farewell.

He stood looking at the door through which she had passed with what
Gay called his "gay old dog" air of reminiscence; then his thoughts
reverted to Minnie, and her good influence over Gay when the latter
had been a wilful, charming child, and on the spur of the moment he
decided to go and see her.

It was lucky that Gay was out.  It would never do for her to
intercept him, and inquire where he was going, for he had a wholesome
dread of his sister's discerning eye.

Upon such occasions as he invented "taradiddles" to cover more or
less unlawful excursions abroad, he was invariably bowled out, and
stood disconsolate, and looking justly sheepish at the emphatic
"Rubbish!" with which they were received.

"You're a bad liar, Frank," Gay said one day, "and wouldn't deceive a
child.  But why lie at all?  Besides, your memory isn't good enough."

Now he hailed a hansom, and darting into it as quickly as a rabbit
into its burrow, through the trap-door gave as his destination, the
"Trotting Nag," Camberwell, looking, moreover, so guilty and
self-conscious, that the cabby smiled broadly as he gathered up the
reins, and chirruped to his horse.

"Looks more like the British Museum than a 'pub,'" he said to
himself, "but, Lord, appearances is such liars!"

The Professor squeezed himself into a corner of the cab, and tried to
marshal his ideas and line of attack.  He did not relish his job, as
he had a lively recollection of Min Toplady's temper years ago,
before she was married; he hoped that matrimony had softened her
downrightness considerably, and also that her husband would be there.
He felt he could count on his sympathy, if not on his support,
because men always hang together where a woman is concerned.

Throughout the long drive he talked nervously to himself, and
attracted much attention by his silent rhetoric and expressive
gestures.  His Jehu passed the wink to such other Jehus as
congratulated him on his fare, and having peeped through the roof in
the middle of one of the Professor's most impassioned appeals,
reassured interested curb-loungers by tapping his head significantly,
and turning his eyes heavenwards.

Arrived at the "Trotting Nag," the Professor was most reluctant to
leave the security of the cab, and merely met the cabman's reminder
that he had arrived at his destination, with an "Ah, yes; so I
observe."

Finally collecting the fare from the depths of a waistcoat pocket, he
thrust it hurriedly through the roof, and hastily descended.  Without
looking ahead, he made for the door of the public bar, entering with
a run, and cannoning violently against a navvy coming out, who had
consumed sufficient beer to become severely critical of the manners
of other people.

This individual, having recovered his balance against the door-post,
promptly inquired "where the 'ell the old image was agoin' to?"  But
the Professor had sought the far end of the bar, and was inquiring
nervously, and with many smiles, if Mrs. Toplady could be seen.

A good-looking barmaid regarded him with speculation in her eye, then
remarked:

"I think she is in.  Is it about the gas?"

The Professor assured her it was not, but quite a private matter,
upon which the barmaid withdrew, and a moment later Min Toplady
herself emerged, and gave an exclamation of astonishment.

"Bless my soul!  Why, it's Master Frank!"

The remark attracted some attention in the bar, one of the customers
remarking that the Professor was "a bit old-fashioned" for a kid, as
Min raised the flap of the bar, and escorted her guest through it to
the parlour, where a few privileged friends had the right of entrée.

It was empty now, the harassed Professor was relieved to find, and as
he stood before the fire, and looked anxiously through the door into
the bar, Min's hospitable mind mistook his meaning.

"What will you be pleased to take, Master Frank?" she inquired, and
the Professor looked at her blandly as his fingers flitted lightly
round his face.

"Take?" he repeated.  "Oh, nothing, I thank you.  I seldom indulge,
you know."

"Oh, but you must have something, sir, if only for the good of the
house, as some of the boys say who have had more than is good for
them already, just on closing time," she insisted.

The Professor thought of his errand, and in the exuberant presence of
Min, felt his courage slipping away from him.  Perhaps a little drop
of something might revive him, he thought--a little "jumping powder,"
as those sporting friends of Gay's would call it.

But Min had already disappeared into the bar, and quickly returned,
bearing a small glass.

"Being such a cold day, a drop of milk punch won't do you no harm,
sir," she said, putting the glass down before the Professor.  "It's a
wonderful thing for warming the cockles of your heart, and it always
does my indigestion--to which I'm a martyr--a power of good."

The Professor could trace no direct connection between the cockles of
his heart and Min's indigestion, but nevertheless he took the
proffered drink gratefully, and sipped it with the air of a
connoisseur, while Min sat down, and racked her brains to find a
reason for his visit.

A silence ensued.  The Professor was temporising, but by the time his
glass was empty, he felt a little more able to open the ball.

"I suppose you wonder why I am here?" he suggested, standing on one
leg, and looking more like a heron than ever.  "The truth is, I--er,
wish to speak to you about my sister's--er--infatuation--"

"For Mr. Chris?" exclaimed Min, though all her sympathies were really
with Carlton Mackrell and his Trotting proclivities.  "Well, Master
Frank, a good son makes a good husband all the world over--"

"No, I am glad to say she has so far not committed _that_ folly,"
said the Professor, "at least to my knowledge."

Min snorted.  What did this fossil know about love, indeed, that he
should speak so slightingly of it?  The idea!

"Infatuation for what, then?" she inquired.  "Come, Master Frank, out
with it, and let's hear the worst, though I'm sure it can't be
anything very bad where Miss Gay's concerned."

The Professor looked hopelessly around.  Why did not Mr. Toplady come
in, he wondered?  Men are so much easier to tackle than women, and
Min was always so brusque and business-like.

"My sister's infatuation (there's no other word that meets the case),
is for a form of sport that I am given to understand is patronised by
people who have an even lower moral standard than the followers of
horse-racing.  I refer to Trotting."

Min Toplady bridled visibly, strong supporters as she and her husband
were of the sport he decried, and she began to see how the land lay.

"Well, I'm sure!" she exclaimed.  "You've got no business to speak
like that about what you don't understand.  You'll excuse me, Master
Frank, but you don't know what you're talking about.  Me and my
'usband goes Trotting whenever we can get away, and we don't consider
ourselves as dishonourable and low, as you seem to think Trotting
folk are, not by no manner of means--"  In obedience to a gesture
from her, the barmaid appeared with a second glass of punch, deftly
removed the empty one from behind the Professor's back, and
disappeared.

The Professor turned nervously round, and was agreeably surprised to
find a full glass awaiting his attention.  Surely he had finished the
first?  He supposed not, however, and really, after that tirade, he
felt the need of a little comfort.  He raised the glass, and looked
through it to the window.

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Minnie, far from it.  I fear I
am unfortunate in expressing myself.  I mean that people are talking
about my sister associating herself with a sport"--he hesitated for a
moment as though swallowing a bitter pill--"that as yet has failed to
attract people of her own class."

Had Mrs. Toplady been a snob, here was another remark to form a bone
of contention.

"I s'pose you think it's all my fault, then, sir?" she asked,
watching the Professor delicately sipping his punch.  "I told Miss
Gay at Inigo Court it wasn't quite the thing for her, though I saw no
reason why she shouldn't go in for it if she chose.  Trotting's all
right, take it from me, Master Frank--it's the sayings of a lot of
outsiders who don't know their book" (the Professor blinked, and
regarded his glass fixedly) "that gives it a bad name.  Me and Bob's
been at it a few years now, and we've done a goodish bit of
horseracing in our time too, and always with the half-crown public,
so to speak.  But I give you my word, I'd sooner be among the
Trotting lads than the proper racing crowd."

"Might I inquire why?" said the Professor.

"Well taken all round, they are a sight straighter than most of the
mobs who go racing in silk hats and frock coats, and don't you forget
it, Master Frank.  I've had a good many things sneaked in a
race-course crowd, but I've never had my bag snatched at Trotting,
and never expect to.  There's a freemasonry among them low people"
(the Professor winced and changed his legs) "that won't let 'em
interfere with you, even as a stranger on the track.  There's bad
hats among them, of course, but somehow the fact that a man's coming
Trotting is a guarantee among 'em that he's all right, and unless he
_arsks_ for it, he'll be let alone, even if dressed in bank-notes.
They _may_ be all little men, butchers, fishmongers, and publicans--"

She sniffed audibly, and the Professor squirmed; nevertheless, things
had begun to look more rosy to his view.  That second glass of punch
had produced an elation of feeling which he had been entirely without
on his arrival, and now, as he put down his empty glass with
elaborate precision, and squared his shoulders, there was decision in
his tone, if a momentary loss of balance of his person as he said:

"I am firm in my resolve, nevertheless, to put a stop to my sister's
utter disregard of the conventionalities."

His voice sounded unfamiliar in his own ears; he found extraordinary
difficulty in separating the words that all ran into one another.
Things would be easier, he thought, if only his listener would sit
still, and not rock about in her chair so ridiculously.

"I don't see what you want to interfere for, Master Frank," said Min,
checking a smile, "though for the matter of that, I don't s'pose Miss
Gay attaches much importance to it.  Haven't you ever thought how
lonely her life is?" she broke out, remembering their talk at Inigo
Court.  "She hasn't got very much to amuse her, and--you'll excuse a
bit of plain speaking--I'm afraid you're not much of a comfort to
her.  She don't complain, bless her plucky heart, but it ain't
natural for a young girl like her to be cooped up in London with no
companion of her own age--for Mrs. Bulteel is nearly ten years older,
and 'most always with her husband, and Miss Lossie--well, she don't
count.  'Twould be small blame to her if she took up with
things--_and_ people--a deal worse than Trotting folks."

The Professor resumed an erect position.  This view had never been
brought home to him before; his own selfish life, absorbed in science
to the exclusion of all else, so contented him, that never a thought
had entered his mind about his duty to Gay.  She seemed happy enough
always, he reflected, and because she never asked for anything, he
supposed she had nothing to ask for.

Min saw her advantage, and pursued it.

"It would serve you right if Miss Gay was to marry, and leave you to
look after yourself," she said severely.  "I'm sure it's not for want
of chances.  There's more than one, or two even, young gentlemen as
is head over heels in love with her now, and either of them could
give her more fun and sunshine than she ever had with you, Master
Frank!"

Frank Lawless thought of the girlish glee of the telegram he received
on the day of Silver Streak's victory, "Won my first race--Hooray!"
and how he had not only failed to congratulate her, but lectured her
at dinner.  He looked so crushed and miserable that Min's kind heart
relented; there were tears in his weak blue eyes, though whether
induced by self-reproach, or born of the unaccustomed punch, Min was
not prepared to say.

Now she crossed over to him, and laid a kind, motherly hand on his
shoulder.

"Don't take on about it, Master Frank," she said; "perhaps I've
rubbed it in a bit too strong.  But if my advice is worth anything,
you won't try to deprive the child of the bit of harmless fun her
horses will give her, but thank your lucky stars that she's content
to stay at home, and look after you, instead of gallivanting about
all over the shop, like some folks, trying to get someone to marry
them!"

She sniffed disgustedly, meaning Lossie, whom she suspected, and
rightly, of setting Frank against Gay's new fancy.

"As for what people say, let 'em.  Them as don't like it can lump
it--don't you worry--or worry dear little Miss Gay."

The Professor felt a burning desire to lay his head down on Min's
ample bosom, and weep bitterly; he had not expected to be tackled so
vigorously, though he had known he would not have things all his own
way.

"Buck up, Master Frank," Min encouraged him, "and have another drop
of punch before you go home.  Your heart's in the right place--at
least it always was when I had the looking after the boys and Miss
Gay, and you only want just telling what to do, which is to let well
alone."

The Professor accepted the punch (in a smaller glass this time) and
drained it at a gulp, though it was insidious stuff, he feared, and
treacherous.  Dreading further criticisms of himself, he seized his
hat, and grasping Min's hand, worked it like a pump handle, then
started for the door with a little run, breathing a sigh of relief
when he reached the pavement.  Fortunately, whatever his head might
be, his legs were of cast-iron, and he slipped nimbly enough into a
hansom, just managing to jerk out his address to the cabby, before he
fell fast asleep.

The stopping of the cab woke him, and hurriedly paying the man double
his fare, he admitted himself with his latch-key, and proceeded on
tiptoe to his study to finish his interrupted nap, taking the
precaution to first lock the door.  There was more of wily Brer
Rabbit in the Professor's composition than most people supposed.




CHAPTER X

THE NOTORIOUS GAY

Gay and the Professor were sitting at luncheon, the girl still highly
delighted with her recent success, and laughing as she described
Lossie Holden's disgust at Min Toplady.

"She called her low, Frank, fancy that!  Dear old Min, who was always
so good to us, and never said an unkind word.  You remember her well
enough, don't you?"

The Professor agreed that he did, though he felt that his recent
interview with the lady in question did not justify him in amplifying
his sister's description of her amiability.

He fidgeted nervously with his letters (mostly circulars), then ran
his knife down the wrapper of a newspaper which lay by his plate.

"Why have they sent me this, I wonder?" he said.  He had not long to
wait for an answer to his question, for upon smoothing out the paper,
his attention was instantly attracted to the front page.

The next moment, with a startled exclamation, he hurled the paper
from him, pushed back his chair, and walked to the window, rather to
Gay's astonishment, though he always became "light-headed," as she
called it, when anything but the obviously expected happened.

She snatched the paper up, and the next minute broke into a ripple of
laughter.  What she saw was a full-page illustration of the Trotting
at Waterloo Park, Silver Streak winning, and inset at one corner a
remarkably life-like snapshot of herself, in close conversation with
"Brusher" Tugwood.

Below was some letterpress giving her name, and describing her as a
new recruit to the sport, with one or two personal compliments with
which she could easily have dispensed.  The snapshot was deeply
blue-pencilled round, while in the margin appeared a big note of
interrogation, evidently ironic.

"Isn't it _good_!  How flattering!" she said provokingly, though her
thoughts flew to Chris, and how annoyed he would be.

Her brother did not reply.  His pride--or what did duty for it--was
mortally hurt.  To think that his sister--the sister of Frank
Lawless, F.R.C.S., F.R.S., etc.--should be exploited in a public
print like any opera-bouffe girl--it was too much!

"They'll call you 'the _Trotting_ Girl!'" he squealed.

"Most women waddle," said Gay flippantly, "and if my action is
one-half as good as some Pacers I have seen, I am quite satisfied.
But are you sure it was addressed to you, Frank?" and Gay looked at
the wrapper to try to identify the handwriting, but found no clue
there.

"Some justly indignant friend of yours--or mine--has seen this
rag"--he spoke bitterly, and without turning to face her--"and sent
it on with a commentary that speaks volumes for their opinion of your
taste.  I hope you are pleased with your--notoriety."

"I am," Gay replied emphatically--"delighted, and I hope it will give
a leg-up to a real good sport, though I don't flatter myself that my
connection with it will boom it much.  What is there to be annoyed
about?" she went on.  "Surely there's nothing so very disgraceful in
being snapshotted?  I assure you I didn't pose for the photo."

She thought it absurd that he should take the thing so seriously, and
not in the least see its sporting side, and now looked at the paper
again with a provoking laugh.

"I think you ought to be proud of such a pretty sister," she said
pertly, "instead of standing there grizzling, and trying to belittle
my sporting tendencies.  I'm awfully amused at it.  Perhaps, in the
course of time, I may aspire to the dignity of the Sporting and
Dramatic, who knows?"

The Professor did not reply, though his wrath was abating.  Min's
suggestion that his sister might be driven to seek companionship and
recreation away from him had sunk into his mind, and though he could
not bring himself to encourage, or even tolerate, her deplorable
taste in sport, he was nevertheless wide-awake enough now to the
possibilities of existence without her.

"It can't be helped, I suppose, my dear," he said at last, "but it is
to be regretted.  Were it not for the degrading influences--"

"Don't talk nonsense, Frank!" Gay interrupted.  "You don't call Mr.
Mackrell degraded, do you?"

"Of course not, my dear.  I find him singularly refined for an--er--a
sporting-man."

"Oh! when _will_ you learn the difference between a sportsman and a
sporting-man, Heron?" Gay asked piteously.

The Professor declined to prophesy.

"By the way," she said, "Mr. Mackrell is coming to tea this
afternoon, and has asked permission to bring Mr. Rensslaer with him.
He's the great driver and owner of Trotters, you know--I daresay
you've often seen his name in the papers--they say his stable
contains the pick of the horses of the world--but, of course, you
haven't," she added, laughing.

"This place is becoming quite a sporting rendezvous," said Frank
spitefully.  "I hope, at any rate, you will have the decency to
exclude reporters from your meetings."

Gay stamped her foot.

"Don't be absurd, Frank," she cried with spirit.  "None of my friends
interfere with you, and you needn't shed the gloom of your depressing
countenance on the scene if you don't want to.  I expect Lossie as
well, and I've no doubt she'd much prefer talking science (ahem!)
with you, to listening to us talking horses."

"I appreciate Lossie's attitude towards sport as thoroughly as I
deplore yours," he said with unexpected energy.

"That's all right, then," Gay replied cheerfully.  "You two ought to
make a match of it.  Why don't you?"

The Professor actually blushed, and to cover his confusion, ambled
away towards his laboratory, while Gay puzzled over that blue pencil
mark of interrogation, in vain.

Later in the afternoon, as she sat in the drawing-room awaiting the
arrival of her visitors, she looked very different to the little
tomboy who so lately had driven her horse round the racing track.
Dressed as usual in white, and almost buried in the depths of a
saddle-backed chair drawn up close to the fire, it seemed impossible
to associate her with the keen sportswoman, who openly declared that
she would walk ten miles to see a steeplechase or a trotting race,
and who rode and drove equally well.

Or so, indeed, thought Rensslaer, as he followed Carlton Mackrell
into the room--possibly his expression showed a little of the
surprise he felt, for Gay laughed as they were introduced.

"I suppose the women on your side don't do such outrageous things as
own Trotters, do they?" she said demurely, as Rensslaer shook her
hand heartily.

"I always admire a straight 'sport,' man or woman," he said, looking
into Gay's grey eyes, "and I am proud to meet you."

"Thank you," she replied simply.  "Do sit down, and tell us all about
Trotting in America.  I had no idea until lately that you were so
keen on it over there."

Rensslaer blinked with those brown eyes of his, that looked so kind
above the big, nondescript nose, and brown moustache just streaked
with grey.  He was so used to being taken for an American who had
made a speciality of owning and driving fast Trotters, that he seldom
took the trouble to explain how he had never set foot in the United
States, was born in St. Petersburg, had a French mother, and that to
cultivate Trotters was only one of his many pursuits.

"Well, in America a man takes it as a personal reproach if another
man passes him on the road with a horse," he said.  "Trotting there
is brought to a fine art, and apart from track racing, there is keen
competition in Trotting races, called 'Matinée Races,' that take
place with gentlemen drivers, much as polo is played at the London
Clubs of Hurlingham and Ranelagh.  In fact, it is considered a
distinction to own and drive a fast trotter in America, Austria, and
Russia, instead of a man being rather ashamed of it as in England,
where, if you want something fast and showy, you prefer a hackney."

Carlton shook his head--he honestly thought a trotting horse or pacer
going at full speed a far prettier sight, as did Gay, and they both
said so.

"Ever since the big association agreed to a code of rules a few years
back," went on Rensslaer, "it has become _the_ sport of America.
Yes, it's curious," he went on reflectively, "that England,
considered to be the most horse-loving country in the world, has
never cared for Trotters, that while in Russia the Orloff Trotter is
considered fit for the Emperor to drive, and in the United States,
the President, in England he is always looked on as a butcher's
horse, and quite unfit to be seen in aristocratic society."

"Well," said Carlton, "as I believe about three million pounds worth
of prizes are trotted for each year, it is no wonder the Trotter is
popular in America."

Gay laughed, so did Rensslaer.  When he laughed, he screwed up his
face till his eyes were invisible, and Gay found him deliciously
quaint.

"But they play the game, Miss Lawless," he said.  "In all countries,
except England, there have been ruling bodies over Trotting which
safeguarded the sport, but in England, till lately, everyone could do
as he liked, with what results may be easily imagined.  Consequently
Trotting has got a bad name, and people fight shy of a sport which
does not rank any higher than prize, cock, and dog fighting."

"But we're improving," exclaimed Carlton.  "The last few years very
strong endeavours have been made to purify the sport in England, and
several Trotting Clubs have sprung up which impose heavy penalties
and expulsion on anyone not acting in a strictly honourable manner."

"So I have heard," said Rensslaer drily, "but it will be a hard task,
as so many horses have been imported from America, then raced under
false names in England, and it is often impossible to trace the
original names of such horses.  In short, there will never have been
any classes on this side for real American trotters, until they are
introduced at an International Horse Show here that we hope to
arrange.  In all the so-called trotting races in England, they let
pacers start, and the public doesn't know the difference.  They say
in consequence that the American trotter is no good, that he only
shuffles."

"You are hard on pacers," said Carlton drily.  "Well, a pacer of say
2.15 speed is very much less valuable than a trotter of the same
speed, so it is cheaper to get pacers than trotters, and anyone
having a really fast trotter has the mortification of being beaten by
a cheap second-rate pacer."

"The fastest trotting breed of all is the American, of course?" said
Gay, eager to glean all she could about what interested her so keenly.

"Yes, the Russian Orloff used to be at least some twenty seconds
slower, but now, with an admixture of American blood, they are
getting much faster, and one or two of the longer distance records
have been captured by Russian horses; very soon they will be quite
the equals of Americans, and in Italy and Vienna the native trotter
(which is really bred from imported American Russian crosses), is
getting very fast.  At the present time a trotter to be a first-class
one must be able to trot in 2.8, a really extra good one in 2.3, a
pacer in 2.2 or under, as the pacers going under two minutes are
getting quite usual almost."

"And where do the English trotters--my trotters--come in?" inquired
Gay, rather crestfallen.

Rensslaer smiled.

"As to the English trotter," he said, "there is no such thing.  A
horse is not a trotter unless he can trot a mile in 2 minutes 30
seconds, or faster, and no English horse can do that.  All the horses
racing in England are American horses, or of American parentage."

"Oh, come!" protested Carlton.  "What about hackneys?"

"Of course there are legends of wonderful times made by hackneys in
England early in the last century," said Rensslaer, "but when one
considers the shady nature of trotting in those days, and the rough
way of measuring distances--from such a milestone to such a milestone
(and sometimes a milestone was shifted during the night before a
match)--there is no way of being sure of any records."

"You won't leave us a leg to stand on," sighed Gay.  "I suppose
_you'll_ end by trotting a mile a minute!"

"Well, the average speed of trotters in America increases year by
year.  Ages ago, a professor worked out how long it would be before a
horse trotted in two minutes the mile, but it was trotted several
years before the time he had prophesied, though this was accounted
for by the improvement in sulkies.  You see, the original
high-wheeled sulky with iron tyres weighed sixty or more pounds, and
some eight years ago the ball-bearing, pneumatic-tyred,
bicycle-wheeled sulky was invented, weighing only twenty-three pounds
or less, and this makes a difference of three or four seconds in the
mile, so the two-minute trotter came before his time."

Carlton Mackrell nodded.

"In hers, you mean," he said.  "Lou Dillon.  What were her best
times?"

Rensslaer ticked them off on his fingers.

"In 1903, at Cleveland, a mile in two minutes two and three-quarter
seconds," he said; "the same year at Readville, two minutes dead, and
the best of all, one minute fifty-eight and a half at Memphis.
That's travelling for you, isn't it--though the last time was made
with a pace-maker, and a wind-shield in front.  But that doesn't get
away from the fact that the distance was covered in the time."

"How wonderful!" Gay exclaimed, thinking into what insignificance
paled Silver Streak's performance at Inigo Court against such
lightning speed.

"Dan Patch, too, the champion pacer," said Rensslaer reflectively.
"He paced to a record of one minute fifty-nine and a half, which
stands, though his absolute best was one minute fifty-six and a
quarter with a wind-shield in front.  Star Pointer was another pacer
who did the mile in one fifty-nine and a quarter, with no assistance.
Then the best American tracks are mile tracks, and the English are
all two laps to the mile.  Horses which trot in England cannot equal
the times they made in America, the tracks being at least five
seconds slower--that is to say, a horse which can trot in 2.10 in the
States is not likely to go faster than 2.15 on an English track when
he comes over to England."

Carlton looked at the speaker keenly.

Like most great men, Rensslaer was the essence of modesty, and not
one word had he said about his own stable, of certain famous horses
that he had driven in England faster than their American records,
driven with a superb skill that the public unfortunately seldom had a
chance of appreciating, as he did not exhibit.

"Do record-breaking Trotters cost much?" inquired Gay, thinking of
the modest five hundred that the Professor never ceased to quote as
an instance of mad extravagance.

"As much as twenty-one thousand pounds has been given for a Trotter,
and eight to twelve thousand pounds for a horse for driving on the
road is quite common," said Rensslaer.  "A nine-year-old gelding has
been known to fetch six thousand, and is, of course, of no value
after his remaining few years of soundness are over."

"Oh, how I wish the Professor were here!" cried Gay, and Rensslaer
looked at her inquiringly, then said:

"You see, everywhere but in England, the premier horse-breeding
country of the world, it has become something more than mere
sport--breeding trotters is one of the recognised means of improving
the general utility horse (and especially the army horse) in every
country except Great Britain.  Why, in Russia there are large studs
kept up under Government comptrole, and the same thing in France,
Austria, etc., it being recognised that the trotting horse can do
more work, and keep it up longer, than any other breed of horse."

"And there is no such comptrole here," said Carlton thoughtfully.

"No, it is a pity," said Rensslaer simply.

"Why don't you race here?" exclaimed Gay in her impulsive way, and
Carlton wondered how Rensslaer would reply without deeply offending
her new-born craze for the sport.

"Well," said Rensslaer, "I don't approve of letting pacers compete
with trotters, and also, I don't like the mile-and-a-half handicap
racing from standing post--

"I'm afraid you're proud," said Gay sadly, and at that moment the
door opened to admit Chris, who, true to his creed, gave no sign of
his deep disappointment at not finding Gay alone, though a little
surprised to see who her visitor was.

He, of course, knew Rensslaer well enough by sight and reputation,
but took no particular interest in him, or his famous Elsinore
stable, in which steeplechasers, as apart from jumpers, were
conspicuous by their absence.  Like the rest of the world, he judged
Rensslaer by his Trotting records alone.

When Gay had introduced him to Rensslaer, the latter went on with
what he had to say in the quiet, chatting way that was so pleasant;
he never laid down the law, but was always interesting without trying
to be.

"I must confess," he said, "that I like Class racing in mile heats.
This means that trotters in any given race must belong to that
"class"; for instance the 2.20 class is for horses which have not got
a record faster than 2 minutes 20 seconds for a mile.  The horses
have a flying start, the race is trotted in heats of a mile each,
with twenty minutes' interval between heats, the horse winning three
heats first, getting first prize.  Now, by the English handicap
method, a fast horse has to start behind, and it "breaks his heart,"
and spoils a good horse, to have to try and make up several hundred
yards to catch a little shuffling butcher's pony, who has been given
that start of him.  It is like making a man fight a boy, the man with
his hands tied behind his back so that he cannot defend himself, and
after a few such races a good horse gets sick of the whole thing, and
is spoilt as a race Trotter."

"Oh!" cried Gay, all the more indignantly that at the moment she
caught Chris's eye with a world of meaning in it, "you are trying to
put me off Trotting--and I _won't_ be put off!  After all," she added
naïvely, "I'm glad you are not racing, for I've set my heart on
winning the Gold Vase."

"I hope you may," he said heartily, feeling that every moment he
liked her better.  "But apart from racing, the fact is, your roads
are not made for trotters and pacers, and if you want something
showy, you prefer a hackney.  In short, you run to dogcarts, not road
wagons; you're a sociable people--and in my opinion nothing will ever
establish Trotting as a favourite sport in England."

Chris gave Gay a comical look, and picked up the _Looking-Glass_
(that he had already seen, much to his disgust) which lay on a table
near.

"Someone sent the Professor a copy," said Gay carelessly.  "It had a
note of interrogation against it, and was meant to be rude, I think.
I wonder who it is that takes so much trouble about poor little me?"

The door opened pat on the question, and Lossie Holden came in, a
radiant apparition, but as Rensslaer was introduced, "society," he
said to himself, then glancing at Gay, added "sport" with
appreciative emphasis.

"What are you looking at?" she said coolly, and took the
_Looking-Glass_ from Chris's hand.  "How nice!  You might almost have
posed for it, Gay!"

"Do you think so?" Gay inquired.  "But I didn't, you know."

"Of course not," Lossie agreed.  "As if you _could_!"  But meeting
Chris's eyes, she looked away--he had an excellent idea of who had
sent the _Looking-Glass_ to the Professor, and she knew it.

"Why don't you drive yourself, Miss Lawless?" said Rensslaer quietly.

"Oh, if I only dared!" cried Gay warmly, and clasped her hands
together eagerly.

"Well," said Rensslaer, "in Berlin there was an outcry when a lady
drove for me, but in Vienna it was otherwise--quite a feather in the
lady's cap, in short.  But then everything is done in such a nice way
that it is a pleasure to race there, and the Trotting races are the
most fashionable sport in Vienna."

Chris's face was grave--the thing was getting beyond a joke.  It was
all Mackrell's fault, and bad enough, without Rensslaer coming along
to encourage wilful Gay in defying public opinion at a sport that his
own refusal, and that of Vancouver and others, to take up in England,
had practically declared to be unfit for gentlemen.

"Why not?" repeated Rensslaer, as he rose to go, and at something in
his voice Gay coloured.  Surely it could not be possible that he had
seen her driving Silver Streak round the track at Inigo Court!  But
already she knew him well enough to be sure that he would not peach
on her, and she longed to see him alone, that they might discuss at
their ease his daring suggestion.  Gay earnestly begged of him to
come again soon, but neither Mackrell nor Chris displayed any marked
cordiality on taking leave of him.  Lossie only was gracious, that
being her way with millionaires.

"He seems to regard Trotting as a sort of public-house show," said
Carlton, when the other had departed, and Chris remarking rather
audibly that Rensslaer was not far out, Gay promptly turned her back
on him, and devoted herself to the comforting of her fellow-patron of
the noble sport.

Very shortly, therefore, with a composure that completely hid his
disgust at an exceedingly disagreeable afternoon, instead of the
happy one with dear little Gay that Chris had expected, he made his
farewells, and departed.

Gay, relenting, called out after him:

"Don't forget that the Ffolliott's dance is on Friday!"  But Chris
had by no means forgotten.  In his own mind he had fixed on that
special evening to ask Gay a most particular question, and now that,
as he expressed it, she seemed like going "an awful mucker," with
Mackrell's assistance, it was more than ever important that he should
ask it, and have the right to protect her from herself--and others.




CHAPTER XI

GAY DISPOSES

The Professor, Gay said, was always late.  It was her solemn
conviction that he would be late for his own funeral, so she
considered herself lucky to get to the Ffolliott's dance at all, but
better late than never.

Chris and Carlton Mackrell "ran her to earth," as the former
expressed it, the moment she entered the ballroom, and with other men
clamouring for dances, her programme was soon full.  In vain had
application been made by both Chris and Carlton days in advance;
Gay's rule was firm.

"I never give dances away before I get there," she said.  "I regard
myself as public property on such occasions, and it's a case of
'first come, first served.'  It's very unfair to the men who go to
dances to find a girl's card full before they have a chance, and I
won't do it."

So Chris had got those supper dances, reflected Carlton Mackrell
presently, but she had been liberal also to himself, and he was
leading her away when the Professor suddenly exclaimed:

"What time is supper?"

"Supper!  Why, you've only just got here!  What are you thinking
about?" exclaimed Gay.

"Supper," Frank Lawless answered mildly, with no intention of being
funny.

"You haven't long had your dinner, you greedy old thing," Gay
reminded him as she moved away, "but _do_ put your tie straight!"

She never had any trouble in finding the Professor, however big the
crowd in which he might be.  She had only to look for a tall man
standing on one leg in a doorway, with his white tie under his left
ear, and there he was.

On the rare occasions when he attended a dance, he possessed his soul
in patience till supper-time, when he did ample justice to the good
things provided, after which he sought a secluded corner, and went to
sleep until such time as Gay was ready to depart.

"You haven't asked me for a dance yet, Frank," said a voice in
well-pretended tones of offence behind him, and his meditations--upon
supper--being thus rudely interrupted, he turned to make apologies to
Lossie, who in spite of her beauty and elegance was never surrounded
in a ballroom like Gay.

"Shall we have this one?" she inquired, much to the Professor's
surprise and confusion.  "Come along"--and before he could
remonstrate, she had manœuvred him among the couples waltzing by,
and he was executing his old-fashioned steps, precisely if not
briskly.  After one circuit of the room, accomplished with
difficulty, and much bumping against indignant couples, owing to
erratic steering, the Professor stopped abruptly and made a rush from
the room, dragging Lossie by the arm with him.  He subsided upon a
couch in an exhausted condition, and producing an enormous red silk
handkerchief, mopped his heated brow with it.

"You're only a bit out of practice," she said, pretending not to
notice his little gasps for breath.

"Shall we have the supper ones?" she said.  "I've kept them for you,
and one square in the second half."

"Certainly, certainly," Frank Lawless replied, scratching his
initials on her programme, "but _don't_ be late for supper.
Draughty, dangerous things dances," and he shook his head
disapprovingly.

Chris Hannen, who had long had his suspicions of Miss Lossie's
intentions on the Professor (failing Carlton Mackrell), strolled up,
intent on mischief, and Lossie, pretending to see a friend in the
distance, left the two men together.

"Rather out of training, eh, Professor?" said Chris chaffingly.  "Not
quite clean inside, as they say.  Come down to Epsom for a few days,
and ride a gallop or two; do you a world of good."

The Professor shuddered.

"I have not ridden for some years," he said, "though I was considered
a good horseman as a boy.  Not across country," he explained.  "I
used to ride every day in the park."

"On a fat pony with a leading rein, no doubt," Chris thought to
himself.

"I never jumped anything," the Professor went on earnestly, "but I
could hold my own on the flat--"

"Of your back," Chris supplemented.

"And I never hunted--"

Chris believed him, as he waxed indignant over the cruelty done to
the fox in fox-hunting.

"Why not trail a red herring across the country and let the hounds
follow?" he demanded excitedly.

"If only some fox-hunters could get hold of you," cried Gay, who had
come up behind them, "there wouldn't be a bit of you left!"

Chris chuckled as he led the girl away, but the eminent
gentleman-jockey did not look his old, confident self that evening,
and Gay put her own construction on it, as the band struck up a
lively waltz.

"You're overtrained, old chap," she said, "too fine drawn--wasting
again, I suppose, to ride another glorious winner, or achieve a more
than usually severe purler"; but she did not, as she would once have
done, smile as she said it.

"No," he replied, "I'm not overtrained, and I'm not anticipating
another 'downer' just yet--not at racing anyhow," he added to
himself, his face becoming serious.

After a couple of turns, to Gay's disappointment, for he was a
perfect dancer, Chris steered her towards one of the doors, and led
her down a corridor to a sitting-out place, which looked more
secluded than it was.

Here he deposited the astonished Gay, and sat down beside her.  He
said nothing for a moment or two, and when he spoke, perhaps she had
an inkling of what was coming.

"Gay, dear," he said, "I've got something to say to you, and I don't
know how to begin."

He turned, and looked at her in her pretty white frock, and little
Empire wreath of vivid green leaves, but made no effort to take her
hand or touch her, for he was particularly undemonstrative, and
disliked nothing more than to see a man "mauling" a woman about--a
description he applied to the average man's way of making love.

Gay said nothing.  She longed to be able to help him, and to save him
pain if she could, for now the inkling had become a conviction, and
oh! how she did wish that he wouldn't--  Free from all conceit as she
was, she hated to have to give him the answer she had given so many
other men.

And she was not far out, as Chris's words, very much to the point,
proved.

"Will you marry me, Gay?" he said, very quietly, but with a little
tremor in his clear voice.  "I know it's great cheek asking you, and
I can't do it in the proper way--the way they do in books, I mean,"
he explained.

Although very nervous, Gay could not repress a smile.

"We've known each other a considerable time now, and though, of
course, while my mother was alive, the idea of marriage never
occurred to me, for she made me so happy--" he paused, then blurted
out:

"You must not think that I'm asking you to fill her place, or make up
to me for her loss--no one could ever do that, not even you, dear
little girl."

Gay, with tears in her eyes, in quick sympathy touched his hand--even
if he took this for encouragement, she could not help it.

"I'm very lonely," Chris went on, "but it's because I love you for
your dear self, and think the world and all of you, that I ask you to
marry me.  I'm very awkward at professing, I know, but you
understand, don't you?  You always do."

"Yes, I understand," Gay replied, as she dried her eyes with a tiny
handkerchief.  "Poor, dear old boy, I know--but oh, Chris--"

"Can't you?" he asked earnestly, leaning a little towards her, his
clean-cut face looking thinner and sharper in the dim light.  "We
could be very happy."

"There are so many things in the way," Gay said.  "It isn't because I
don't care for you--you know that.  There's Frank, you see, he's so
helpless even as it is, and without me he'd go all to bits."

"He could live with us," suggested Chris, eager to overcome such a
trifling difficulty as this seemed.

"I don't want to marry anybody for ever so long, Chris.  Can't you
understand that I want to have a good time--be a _girl_ as long as I
can?" she said a little piteously.  "And Trotting is my last, or,
rather, my new love."

"Well, think it over, and start prejudiced in my favour if you can,"
said Chris, striving hard to cover up his wound.

Never show you're hit, was a maxim of his, and he lived up to it now,
though his disappointment was the keenest he had ever known.  It is
always the man whose daring is most determined in the hunting field,
whose nerve is unshaken by all the obstacles to be met with over a
stiff steeplechase course, rising unruffled from a rattling fall, who
is the most gentle in all the occasions of life, and Chris was gentle
now.

"But I've got a chance," he said, with more assurance than he felt;
"while there's life there's hope, you know, and a race is never lost
till it's won--though even then there may be an objection," he added
whimsically.

Carlton Mackrell, who came at that moment to claim her for his dance,
and knew every change in Gay's expression, knew at once that Chris
had just asked her in vain the question that he himself, up to now,
had not done, for the simple reason that she would not let him.

A man loses his head, is completely _bouleversé_, when a woman stalks
him, and ten to one, in sheer nervousness he gives her the desired
opportunity, but with the unwilling woman, every faculty comes into
play to defeat the lover's purpose.  She develops strategic powers of
a high order, is an adept at keeping others round her, in never being
really alone with him, and while it is warming, exciting work for the
girl, it is an intensely irritating experience for the man.  The
brute crashes straight through all obstacles to his end; a chivalrous
gentleman bides his time, as Carlton bided his, and in waiting, loses
his chance more often than not.




CHAPTER XII

RENSSLAER _PACE_ MACKRELL

It was curious how that opportunity never arrived, and Carlton came
to regret very heartily the introduction that had resulted in the
rapid installation of Rensslaer as a friend of Gay's.

Here was a man who had forgotten all that Carlton ever knew about
Trotting, entirely superseding him as mentor to Gay, and enjoying all
those sweets of her society that the lover had promised himself when
she took up the sport, yet he could hardly be said to feel jealous,
for love seemed the last thing likely to occupy Rensslaer's mind, and
women, as women, held not the slightest attraction for him.

The two men had nothing in common, were almost antipathetic even, for
Rensslaer was always doing things, Mackrell only hovering on the
brink; even Chris, enthusiastic, dare-devil, lovable, had a definite
aim and pursued it, but Mackrell unhappily lacked the lash of need,
the spur of ambition, and had been gradually degenerating into an
idle, cynical, self-centred egoist when he met Gay, and to obtain her
became the one object and passion of his life.

Gay, on her part, felt a lively gratitude to him for having
introduced her to Rensslaer; the man was so intensely interesting,
and so completely unconscious of it, that he was a constant surprise
to her, and she never knew a dull moment in his company.  With
animals he was perfectly charming, as Gay quickly discovered, and
when one day she asked him if he thought there would be horses in
Heaven, he replied with perfect simplicity that he was _sure_ of it,
as cats would be there.

Gay had rather demurred to this, as she liked dogs better, but the
Connaught Square cat being slung round his neck at that moment, she
swallowed the idea at a gulp, and was delighted to find that if he
had deeply studied the subject of religion, he yet held a very
definite belief in a future state, though possibly he believed it to
be a more workaday one than she did.  It was to be a world very much
like this one, in which we continue the work we have done here, only
under better conditions, with a knowledge of our past mistakes to
profit by--and such animals as were the friends of man were to be
there; of horses, dogs, and cats he felt certain--especially cats, as
he had already told Gay.

If it was in sport that he excelled, and there Gay was with him heart
and soul, their friendship had its serious side also.  It was,
indeed, through accidentally taking up a book lent to her, that the
Professor afterwards discovered the "Trotting man," as he called him,
to be one of the finest classical scholars in the world, a good
mathematician, and owner of one of the finest libraries of rare
editions extant, and Gay declared she could not get in a word
edgeways when the two men met, and discussed learned scientific
problems.

The great disparity in their age enabled her to say to him, what she
never would have done to either of the younger men, and one day she
confided to him her intense desire to drive herself in a Trotting
match--she knew it was wicked and quite impossible, but she had never
longed for anything so much in her life!

She blushed vehemently as she said it, and Rensslaer smiled--nothing
could be kinder, more humorous, than that smile.

"I've always meant to own up, Miss Gay," he said, "but I saw you that
time you took a trial spin at Inigo Court--and uncommonly well you
did it, too, for a beginner."

"Oh!" cried Gay, and caught her breath, then leaning forward, said
almost in a whisper: "I'm just dying to do it again.  I've been
_possessed_ with the idea ever since you told me a lady drove for you
in Vienna!"

He laughed.

"Why not?" he said again, in that way of his that no one else had,
and which made impossibilities not only possible, but easy.  "I'll
take you down to Inigo any day you like after to-morrow, and you
shall drive one horse, and I drive another--"

Gay sat erect, quivering with eagerness.

"The Professor mustn't know--or Lossie," she said.  "I'll get my
friends at Flytton to ask me down on Wednesday, and tell Frank
so--it's awful being so deceitful, isn't it?" she added deprecatingly.

"You'll be doing no harm," said Rensslaer, getting up to go, for he
was at that time a very busy man--at a Hackney Show one day, in Paris
the next, all his arrangements to make for Olympia.  Yet like most
busy men he was never in a hurry, and such an economist in time, that
he literally made it where lazy people could find none, and also do
those kindnesses that the idle do not.

The Professor rather bristled at the idea of Flytton, but fortunately
Lossie did not call that day, so Gay escaped in good time the
following morning, and on arriving at the course found Rensslaer
there before her, superintending the harnessing by Tugwood of two
horses to two speed wagons.

One horse was "Marvellous" (record 2.8½), the other a young one bred
in Austria, which was being prepared for the Austrian Derby.

Gay was put in behind Marvellous, and after the hand-loops on the
reins were adjusted the right length for her, she was told to jog
once round the wrong way of the track, and then turn and stand at the
starting-post.

She found the mare had a perfect mouth, but kept giving little
twitches with her nose to get her head free, and when the girl
stopped as directed, the American came up, and let down the mare's
check-rein.

"The race you are supposed to be driving, is the usual English mile
and a half handicap heat," he said; "yours is the scratch horse,
consequently you will start from here, and go three times round the
track, the full mile and a half."

Gay nodded.

"My horse," continued Rensslaer, "is reckoned to be the limit horse.
I will start 210 yards in front of you.  Handicapping is supposed to
be with the idea your horse can trot the mile and a half, at the rate
of 2 minutes 30 seconds for the mile, the mile and a half therefore,
in 3 minutes 45 seconds.  Every ten yards means, roughly, one second,
so my horse being put 210 yards in front of you, means that he is
supposed to be 21 seconds slower than yours for a mile and a half,
that is to say, he has to trot at the rate of a mile in 2 minutes 44
seconds, to make a dead heat of it with you."

Gay nodded again comprehendingly, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"You must drive so as to gradually overtake me," went on Rensslaer,
"but not starting too fast, or you would pump your mare, if she could
really only trot a 2.30 gait, and you must not overtake me till you
get into the back stretch the third time.  I have given you a very
fast mare, so as to make you judge speed, and also so as to make it
easier for you to be sure of overtaking me, as I intend to drive
strictly at no faster speed than 2.44 for the mile."

"And fast enough, too," thought Gay, her heart beating a little too
quickly for comfort.

"Carry this watch in your left palm, slipping the strap over your
hand," said Rensslaer, "so that you can see what speed you are going.
Try and drive the quarter miles in 37½ seconds till you come up with
me, which should be, if you drive to this time, thirty yards from the
winning post."

He then hooked up Marvellous' check-rein, and told Gay to walk the
mare back from her starting-post twenty yards, turn back again, and
so on till she saw him at his mark, and then stand still at her mark.

Tugwood stepped into the centre of the grass plot, and held a pistol
in the air.  The moment Marvellous saw his arm raised (she had been
thoroughly schooled to this), she fixed her eyes and ears in his
direction, and commenced to tremble slightly.

As the smoke came from the pistol, before Gay could hear the report,
Marvellous jumped forward with a jerk that nearly threw her out
backwards, and landed on a square trot.  She was so much stretched
out that she seemed two inches lower than when standing, and was
sending the earth in quick hoof-fulls on to Gay's chest.  It was
lucky, the girl thought, her eyes were protected by goggles.

As soon as she had got over her surprise, Gay found she was gaining
very rapidly on her teacher, and close to the first quarter pole.
Glancing hurriedly at her watch, she found, to her horror, that the
quarter was done in 35 seconds, a 2.20 gait, so she said, "Hoo,
girl," and took a steadying pull at the mare, who came back to her at
once, although by the way she shook her head, she did not seem to
like it.

As Gay drove, she thought that, as she had made up 2½ seconds too
much in the first quarter, she should drive the next in 40 seconds to
make the proper average, but when she got to the second quarter mile
she found she had overdone it, and Rensslaer was sailing away a full
half of the track in front of her.

She therefore determined to rely on her own judgment of how fast she
should gain on him, and gave a gentle click to Marvellous, who
instantly lowered her head, and began to strike out, gaining rapidly
on Rensslaer; as she came into the back stretch the third time she
was just behind him.

Round the last turn she drew up to him on the outside, and, in spite
of the much greater distance her mare had to go in turning, held her
place, and passed him just as they came into the straight.  The mare
shot out of herself, and drew so rapidly clear of Rensslaer that Gay
thought she would make a close finish of it, and took back her mare
sharply.  This was a fatal mistake, as Rensslaer shot up alongside,
and before she could set her mare going again, he had won by a head,
in 3.45½.

She looked so taken aback that he controlled a smile as he told her
not to be disappointed, as it would be a good lesson to her, never to
slacken speed enough to let herself be caught in that way, but he
also told her that it was bad tactics to be alongside another horse
at the turns, as it takes so much more out of your horse.

Here ended Gay's first Trotting lesson at the hands of a great
expert, and if she had been too ignorant, too excited even, to
appreciate the marked difference between "Marvellous" and the
Trotters owned by Mackrell and herself, she had yet realised that
this last experience of driving herself was something very different
to that first essay in which Rensslaer had surprised her.  For many a
night after, she would wake up, throbbing with excitement, hoping
that she would find her dream, in which she re-lived those glorious
moments in a real race, a fact.

"Oh! if I only dared!" she thought, but the plain truth was that she
did not dare.  There was the Professor--the world--and--yes--_Chris_
... though she scarcely owned it to herself, Carlton's opinion did
not count.




CHAPTER XIII

SANDOWN GRAND MILITARY

"Heron," cried Gay, waving a letter at him, across the breakfast
table one morning early in March, "I've got an invitation for you!
Effie and Tom Bulteel are taking their coach down to Sandown to-day,
and they want us to go with them.  I heard all about it the other
night," she confided laughingly, "but I knew if I told you of the
treat that was in store, you'd plead an engagement, or shuffle out of
it somehow, and I _do_ so want you to come!  A day in the open will
do you no end of good, and you'll get a ripping lunch (the
Professor's face brightened a little), though you'll have to do
without your afternoon nap, you know, unless you get inside the
coach."

The Professor moved uneasily in his chair.

"Why do you drag me into all these things?" he asked pathetically.
"You know how I detest society, and you promised to leave me in peace
if I went to the dance with you."

"Yes, I know," Gay agreed, "but Effie made quite a point of your
coming to-day; you--you amuse her so, you know."

The Professor did not appear struck with this form of flattery, and
half suspected that it was a plot between Gay and Mrs. Bulteel to
make him appear to throw a mantle of respectability over his sister's
racing divagations.  Yet he had a sneaking desire to see for himself
what there was in racing to make so many empty-headed people happy,
and when he feebly urged that he had got nothing to wear, she knew
that the game was won.

"Oh, yes, you have," she replied promptly, "that pepper and salt suit
of yours--you know, the one you wear on your holidays.  It's quite
respectable--quite sporting-looking, in fact--and you can wear your
'Trilby' hat.  (She exploded inwardly.)  Altogether your rig-out's
splendid, and I shouldn't wonder if people took you for a trainer!"

Frank Lawless looked offended, and made another attempt to escape.

"I shall be entirely out of it," he said.  "There is much to do in
there"--he nodded towards the distant laboratory.  "Can't you make
some excuse for me?"

"No, I can't," the girl answered firmly.  "You're very seldom seen
anywhere with me, you know, Frank, and people must wonder whether my
brother is not a myth.  Once you start, you're sure to enjoy
yourself, and perhaps there'll be a job for you if one of the
soldier-jockeys comes to the ground."

But even the prospect of a "case" did not console the Professor.

"I hope not," he said gravely; "you shouldn't joke about such things,
Gay," and he shook his head reprovingly.

"Truly, I hope it won't be Chris," the girl answered, drumming her
fingers on the table, and looking thoughtful.  "He's riding in the
Gold Cup, you know--a horse he trained himself."

"Well," said the Professor with a deep sigh, "as it appears to be my
duty, I'll come.  I hope they won't talk horses to me, though,"
looking up anxiously.

"If they do, agree with everything they say," Gay instructed him,
"because you don't know enough to contradict, do you?"

"I have my own ideas," he answered complacently, while Gay devoutly
hoped he would give utterance to none of them, or she foresaw a rude
awakening before him.

"We must leave here by eleven for Eaton Square," she said, "so toddle
upstairs in half-an-hour, and change your clothes.  I'll put
everything out for you, including a pair of race-glasses, so you'll
_look_ the part, at any rate, even if you don't feel it."

When the Professor reappeared again, after an absence of an hour, he
looked very nice and archaic, as Gay told him, though by no means
happy.

"I am cold," he announced (and indeed his own skin was always his
first consideration), looking down at his well-worn suit; "these are
summer clothes, you know."

"It's a glorious day," Gay informed him; "but of course you'll want a
top-coat.  It'll be cold driving back, I expect."

When they arrived in Eaton Square, the Professor was hoisted on to
the coach where he held on with both hands, and otherwise delighted
Effie during the drive.  His conversation was of a spasmodic
character, interrupted by backward glances over his shoulder whenever
a corner was turned, and he heaved an audible sigh of relief when the
coach drew up in the enclosure.

Effie surveyed the scene with approval.  Her sympathies were not
particularly with the racing, indeed she only regarded it as a
necessary evil connected with bringing a crowd of people
together--and this was a very smart crowd certainly.

She focussed her glasses on the moving throng in the members'
enclosure, open for this meeting only, to non-subscribers in the way
of soldiers, and their wives and sweethearts, and here and there she
recognised someone she knew.

The Professor was cautioned on all sides to take care of himself, but
Gay took possession of him, and hurried him off to the paddock to
tout the horses for the first race.  There were several walking round
in a circle on the crest of the hill, and while Gay stood as close to
them as she could get, checking the numbers on the lads' arm-badge
with her card, her brother kept at a more than respectful distance.
Presently a lad walking a horse up behind him, nearly frightened him
out of his wits with a business-like "By y'r leave, please," and he
executed a wild leap to safety, to the intense amusement of the
onlookers.

Catching Gay's eye, he scuttled over to her, and tried to get her
away from the charmed circle, prophesying hysterically a kick from
one of the horses.

"Don't be absurd, Frank," she replied, watching with interest each
one as it passed; "horses can't kick when they're walking.  They're
not cows."

The Professor remained unconvinced, however, and was greatly relieved
when Gay moved off in the direction of the weighing-room to see the
numbers and jockeys, but the frame with the mixture of figures and
names conveyed nothing to his mind.

"Halloa!  Chris rides No. 9 in this," Gay exclaimed, "let's see what
it is.  Here we are--Mr. M'Nab's Irish Knight, four-year-old, 10st.
7lb.  I wish we could find Chris; it may be a good thing--what he
calls a 'pinch.'"

At that moment Chris Hannen came out of the weighing-room.  A thick
frieze overcoat, cut to the knee, disclosed a thin kid workman-like
pair of boots, he wore a white scarf round his throat, while his head
was surmounted with a dark blue racing-cap.  He was busy chatting
with the owner of Irish Knight, but as he passed through the gate
into the paddock, his quick eye noticed Gay, while a second
astonished glance discovered the Professor.

He at once left his companion, and came quickly towards them.

"How are you, Gay?" he cried eagerly.  "Morning, Professor!  Lovely
day for jumping, isn't it?  Hope you won't be wanted" (the Professor
shuddered).  "Excuse my apparent rudeness in not taking off my cap,
Gay, but I've been tied into it."

Gay thought, with a pang, how drawn he looked, "but how
workman-like!" a moment after.

"You didn't tell me you had two rides to-day," Gay said, as the three
walked off to look at the horse.

"No," Chris replied, as they turned down the hill on the left to the
saddling-stalls.  "I didn't know myself till just now.  M'Nab
couldn't do the weight himself, so he asked me."

"And is it a jewelled-in-every-hole, compensated-balance 'pinch,'
Chris?" Gay asked, laughing, as she stood by watching the trainer
place the tackle on Irish Knight.

"I'm afraid not, though I've got more than an outside chance.  I
can't advise you to gamble heavily on this occasion, but perhaps a
trifle each way will show a profit.  You ought to get ten to one in
this field."

The horse was led out, and Chris took off his coat, and handed it to
the lad.  His owner, looking very disappointed at not having the ride
himself, saw Chris chucked up, then walked beside him to the
plantation avenue leading to the course.  As they disappeared, with a
wave of the hand from Chris, Gay turned to her brother, and cried
enthusiastically:

"Doesn't Chris look ripping on a horse?  And can't he ride, too,
just!  Let's get on the stand and watch the race, and I _must_ have
half-a-sovereign even, and place on him for luck."

With one of the men on the rails she placed her wager, getting
eight's and even money for a place, then she and the bewildered and
annoyed Professor mounted the stand, to watch the horses go down.
There were nine runners, all soldier-ridden, a well-known amateur who
rode a lot in Ireland being up on the favourite.

They all got safely over the first two fences, and as they galloped
past the enclosure, Gay pointed out Chris's scarlet jacket and blue
cap, lying fourth, to her brother.

Each time the horses jumped, he gave a convulsive little leap into
the air himself, screwing his eyes up painfully, and only half
looking at the fences.

"Terribly dangerous!" he muttered.  "If one of those fellows fell
off, he must be killed."

"Stuff!" was Gay's rejoinder.  "Men who play this game are not so
soft and brittle as you, old boy.  There they are again," pointing to
the left as the horses made the bottom turn.  They were all on their
legs still, and as the Professor fumbled with the glasses, he
devoutly hoped they would remain so.  For a surgeon he was a
remarkably nervous man, though he could operate with skill and
precision, with no thought but for the work in hand.  But he could
not look at an accident, or anticipate one, without infinitely more
suffering--mentally--than the actual victim, and Gay wondered what he
would do if, as sometimes happened, half-a-dozen men were all on the
ground together ... which was precisely what happened, and it did not
need the terrified squeal beside her to inform Gay, that under a
_mêlée_ of men and horses, had disappeared a certain scarlet jacket
and blue cap.

If Gay had ever doubted which it was of the two men laying such close
siege to her, she loved, she had no doubt at all when, through her
glasses, she saw a small patch of colour lying perfectly still, and
in the same moment discovered that the Professor had vanished.

If terror had wrung from him that involuntary squeal, all his
professional instincts--and they were the keenest he possessed--were
instantly aroused by a "case," and he precipitated himself from the
stand with a rapidity that left Gay far behind, and never stopped
running till he had reached Chris.  No other doctor had yet put in an
appearance, and with quick, clever fingers the Professor made a
cursory examination, and issued his orders rapidly and to the point,
here was the cool, astute surgeon, recognised as such and instantly
obeyed, as he superintended Chris's removal.  The list of injuries
when tabulated proved a heavy one.  There was no fracture of the
skull, but severe concussion of the brain, a collar bone and three
ribs broken, also a hip put out, but no internal injuries as far as
could be ascertained.  Epsom was nearer than town, and the Professor
decided to take Chris straight home in an ambulance, and remain the
night with him, afterwards placing him in charge of a local doctor,
if no complications ensued.

This he presently hurriedly explained to Gay, who, though deathly
white, was quite composed; her spirits rose even at the report, for
though Chris had had few worse "outings" than this one, at least he
was alive.

"No doubt Mrs. Bulteel will look after you," added the Professor, as
he rushed away, and Effie did, knowing well enough that if Chris
Hannen had lost his race, and almost his life that day, he had beyond
all question only established more firmly his claim on Gay's heart.




CHAPTER XIV

A BEAUTIFUL CASE

"It was a beautiful case," said the Professor, looking rapturously at
Gay through his glasses, and he fired off a lot of technical terms
that she did not in the least understand, but inwardly shuddered at,
for it was Chris's flesh and bones of which he was speaking, and he
wound up by telling her of the cemetery so conveniently placed for
jockeys under the hill at Epsom.

"When are you going to see him again?" inquired Gay, sitting down to
hide a sudden faintness.

"I have placed him in charge of an excellent man at Epsom," said the
Professor in the superior way in which one doctor speaks of another,
"but I shall overlook him, of course."

"Take me when you go," pleaded Gay.  "I could speak to Chris through
the door, you know, and it might buck him up."

"More slang," said the Professor resignedly.  "And--ah--Epsom Downs
is not _quite_ the place for a young lady, my dear--the air is so
strong and keen, it nearly takes your head off--"  And indeed he
looked more alive than he had done any time these ten years.

"I wonder if his mother knows," she said, and her voice trembled.  We
seldom weep at things we _feel_, it is in the attempt to put them
into words that we break down, and quite unexpectedly a tear rolled
down her cheek.

A tear with Gay was so unprecedented an occurrence, that the
Professor realised the severe nervous strain the girl had passed
through, and that had kept her sleepless during the past night, but
before he could make up his mind to try and comfort her, Gay had
vanished, blaming herself for her lack of pluck.

After all, Chris lived, and that was everything; but oh! she hated
sport--hated anything to do with horses.  She had taken Chris's
steeple-chasing more or less light-heartedly till the accident to
which she had been an eye-witness, she had only _heard_ of the
others--become used to his disappearances while being patched up.
But now she knew, in one lightning flash, that she could not bear to
live with the constant dread before her of his being killed, or
dragging out a maimed existence, and with her usual decision of
character, came to the conclusion that Chris would have to choose
between racing and herself.

She fell to wondering if Mrs. Summers would be offended if she sent
down by the Professor some of her famous strong mock turtle soup, and
she hoped his beef tea would be made properly, one part beef, one
mutton, one veal.  She was still thinking about it when her cousin
walked in, unannounced, of course, as most undesirable things are.

"So Chris is going on all right," said Lossie, thus proving that she
had already looked up the Professor.  "Awful good sort, isn't he?"
she added, in a tone of pretended warmth, for as she wanted Carlton
Mackrell for herself, she never missed a chance of pointing out
Chris's charms to Gay.

Gay nodded, and, in an effort to calm herself, took up a bit of
needlework, and began to plant delicate, intricate stitches.  It was
significant, perhaps, that no one ever saw Lossie with a needle in
her hand, and as she had no maid, how she got mended was a mystery.

"You look awfully bad," said Lossie frankly.  "But if you feel like
that, why not marry Chris Hannen when he gets up, and have done with
it?  Steeplechasing doesn't begin again till the autumn, and you may
as well be his wife as his widow."

Gay paled.  Lossie had brutally enough hit the right nail on the
head.  It was because she could not bear to own Chris, then lose him,
that she must keep him at arm's length--be his comrade rather than
his wife, which was by no means what Chris wanted!

"How is Aunt Lavinia?" she said, abruptly changing the conversation.

"Just as idiotic as ever.  Sent five pounds to Barnardo's Homes
yesterday, and refused to pay my hat bill."

Gay looked disgusted, knowing that the sweet lady's life was one long
struggle to balance Lossie's dressmaking bills and her own private
charities, the result being that she had not a frock or bonnet good
enough to play chaperon in, so that Lossie was dependent on her
friends and Gay to take her about.

"That reminds me," said Gay, "I haven't sent my contribution yet,"
and she rose and went to her writing-table, where she jotted down a
note.

"As to my dressmaker," said Lossie, "she's going to summon me.  It's
all these hateful seasons of the year--as soon as one is straight for
spring, it's summer, then winter in the middle of _that_--and so on.
Why can't we live in a place where the same sort of clothes do all
the year round?"

"That blue frock you wore at the ball must have been very expensive,"
said Gay hesitatingly; "the dear aunt really does her best, you know."

"Oh, it's easy for you to talk," cried Lossie spitefully.  "One-half
of the feminine world is a pincushion, for the other rich and happy
half to stick pins in, and I don't pretend to be like Aunt Lavinia,
who would rather be the pincushion than the pins!"

"I'm sure," said Gay wearily, too unhappy to be indignant, "_I_ never
stuck any pins in you or anybody else."

"Well, no," admitted Lossie, who had an excellent reason for getting
Gay into a good temper, "_you_ don't, but every woman is given two
chances of happiness in life, a rich father, or an adequate
husband--or both--but as a matter of fact, the double event seldom
comes off--indeed, far more women are ruined by their fathers than
their husbands.  _Cherchez la femme_ indeed!  Oh, it's easy enough
for a girl to be gay, to be happy, if she's rich--if men 'don't go
after the money,' they don't refuse to go where the money is!"

Gay coloured.  She knew well enough that her fortune counted for
nothing in the eyes of at least two men towards her--Chris couldn't
and wouldn't give up trying to win her because she had more money
than he had, and Carlton was so rich, that if he ever cast it a
thought, it was merely as private pocket-money with which to buy
chiffons and fal-lals.

"How much will your dressmaker take off her account?" she said, for
she always preferred coming to the point, to beating about the bush,
and she was used to these periodical attacks on her pocket.

"Thirty pounds would do.  Then I could order something for--"

"Don't," said Gay, who had drawn out her cheque-book, and begun to
write.  "Lossie," she said half sadly, as she came forward, and
handed her cousin a slip of pink paper, "why do you bother so much
about the outside of you?  Be rice, be natural, be _kind_; don't talk
scandal--men _hate_ it--"  She paused and blushed; unconsciously she
was trying to teach Lossie those pretty manners and ways of her own
that men cherish so deeply, and to which their homage, so long
forgotten among brusque women, inevitably sprang.

"I can't be a dear little charmer like you, Gay, if you mean that,"
said Lossie, as she put the cheque away, and warmly thanked its
giver, though after all it was no more than her right.  Those who
_had_, ought to share with those who had not, and our Labour Members'
vigorous contention that people who have money, should be forced to
provide for those who have spent theirs, also for those who can't and
won't work, expressed her opinion exactly.

And yet the cheque did not make Lossie as happy as usual.  In sudden
flashes, now and then, she realised her position--saw over.  Beauty
she had, and brains, but up to now, and she was twenty-seven, they
had brought her little good.  She had received no really good offers,
but it never seemed to strike her that her extreme expensiveness in
dress and tastes had a good deal to do with it, and her absorbing
(and patent) passion for Mackrell still more.  To be sure there was
that ridiculous George Conant, at present the favourite nephew and
heir of the enormously rich Mrs. Elkins, but as the old lady made a
new will every three months or so, and he might do something
specially idiotic to annoy her, it would be madness to bet on _that_
chance.

Poor Frank would be safe, and less trouble--anyway, she had no
intention of drifting into that grey life in which one is first with
nobody, or worse still (for Aunt Lavinia's pension died with her),
forming one of that hopeless army of incapables that is always
"looking for something," and helpless, unbraced, expects a
heaven-born post to fit it, not that it should learn to fit itself
for a post.

Lossie sighed impatiently, and glanced across at Gay, who sat,
needlework in hand, in the charming room that was feminine like
herself, and fresh and sweet, with nothing whatever about her to
suggest the Trotting or Race-course, and, as often before, she tried
to analyse the irresistible charm of her cousin.

"A good sort" (from the women), "a _darned_ good sort" (from the
men), was the invariable verdict passed upon her, and even taking up
vulgar Trotting, and doing things men hate their women to do, had not
affected her popularity.  "The first time you see Gay Lawless you'll
hardly think her good-looking, the second you'll fall in love with
her, and the third you'll ask her to marry you!" Lossie had once
heard one man tell another--but as to _beauty_!  It was true that
Gay's eyes had a curious power of refraction, so that shades of
feeling chased each other over them like shadows on a clear pool, and
her skin had the clear transparency that goes with hair that not so
long ago, as Gay confidentially told her men friends, was "carrots,"
though the laugh with which she said it, showing the loveliest little
white teeth in the world, usually inclined the person addressed to a
quite contrary opinion.  But compared with what Lossie found in her
own mirror, Gay had no good looks at all.

"I half expected Mr. Rensslaer," said Gay, glancing at the clock.

"He's not a beauty," said Lossie, with some irrelevance, but he was
no favourite of hers, and, on his part, he had never found reason to
alter his summing up of her on the first occasion they had met.

"His kind face is more distinguished than any man's I know," cried
Gay with spirit.  "I learn more from him in five minutes, than all
the stupid people I've ever known put together!"

"Including Chris?" said Lossie drily.

"Including Chris."

"Then the sooner you make yourself happy with this pattern of all the
perfections, including a few millions, the better," said Lossie, who
did not care who Gay married, so long as it was not Carlton.

Gay laughed.  "Wasn't it Nathaniel Hawthorn who said that 'to have
wealth beyond a certain point, is only to undertake the labour of
living the lives of ten or a thousand men as well as your own?'  And
besides--can't you see, but of course you can't, that a man like that
must have had his own ideal, his own romance, ages before he ever saw
silly little me?  There's a story in his life, and no mean one, I'll
wager."

"Really," said Lossie, "I don't think your lovers are much comfort to
you.  One lets you in for a disreputable sport, another breaks your
heart by half-killing himself, and the third string to your bow isn't
in the very least in love with you!"

At that moment the door opened, and Rensslaer came in.

"So Mr. Hannen is going on all right," he said in a tone of great
pleasure as he shook hands with Gay, and Lossie, with a vague wave of
her hand, disappeared.

"Yes--thank God!"

"Nice boy," said Rensslaer, as he sat down opposite Gay, and she gave
him a few details of Chris's case.  There were dark rings round her
eyes--she looked really ill, and Rensslaer guessed that if Chris's
accident had shaken her into a vivid realisation of her love for him,
it had only the more convinced her that to see his life in almost
daily jeopardy for five months out of the year, would be more than
she could bear, and that this was the real parting of their ways.

"Couldn't you persuade him to give it up?" he said abruptly; it was
not the first time he had startled her by knowing precisely of what
she was thinking.

She shook her head

"You know," she said, "Chris is too tall for a jockey--he _will_
train--and, apart from accidents, all the tall jockeys go out
quickly.  There was Archer--there are many others.  It's sheer
perversity in a man of six feet to want to be a jock--"

Her voice broke, and Rensslaer bent his head, and looked away--it
struck her then that a man's silence is more decent, and worth more
sometimes, than all a woman's sympathy, and talk, and kisses.

"Perhaps this will sicken him of the game," he said presently.

It might have enlightened him as to Gay's chances of happiness to
know how at that very moment Chris, for the most part in bandages,
was using almost his first conscious moments to have held up before
his eyes by an unwilling nurse, his note-book of "fixtures" for the
ensuing week, the while eagerly calculating his chances of being able
to ride before the last day of the month, when steeplechasing ended.

Gay pulled herself together, but when Rensslaer spoke of her horses
and their engagements, and the much-coveted Gold Vase, she felt that
for the time being, at any rate, she hated anything to do with a race
of any kind.

And yet it was no more than two days ago that she had told Carlton
she would break her heart if it did not become hers, and he had by no
means forgotten....

"You must let me drive you down to Waterloo Park," said Rensslaer,
and then told her that on the Gold Vase day, he was for once entering
a horse, and going to drive himself, though not in competition for
the Vase.

Gay hardly heard him.  She wanted to go to the telephone and get the
latest news of Chris.  The Professor, now taking some rest, was to go
down to Epsom later in the day.




CHAPTER XV

THE GOLD VASE

It was not without protest on the part of the Professor that
Rensslaer drove Gay to Waterloo Park for the race for the Gold Vase,
and when, punctually to the minute, the latter appeared in Connaught
Square with the road wagon and pair with which he was subsequently to
win first prize in the "Road Rig Appointment Class" at Olympia, an
animated colloquy was going forward, in which Lossie Holden bore an
animated part.

"You and Frank can come down by train if you like," said Gay
defiantly, as through the window she saw the pair of almost
thoroughbred-looking seal brown mares, no white, with long tails and
manes.  Then, with no more ado, she walked out, and took her place by
Rensslaer's side.

Mamie H. and Nancy Clancy, each with a record "low down in the
teens," were in the habit, whenever their heads were loosed, of going
along at a 2.30 gait, and on the way down to the races they went
together like one horse, without pulling or shying, or being afraid
of motors, passing everything on the road drawn by horses, and making
it lively even for the motors.

They were harnessed a little differently to what they are in the show
ring, as instead of collars, (which are obligatory in a pair horse
"road rig" class) they had breast or "Dutch" collars, such as are
used in Vienna for pair horse racing, with the object of giving
horses more freedom, also the reins were of the Viennese style,
which, instead of coming together at the coupling, have single
hand-pieces, continued double all the way, there being four reins in
the hand instead of two.

Rensslaer explained that the breast collars have terrets only on the
outside, so that the inside reins come back to the pad terrets, and
give a more direct pull on the reins than if the horses wore collars,
and Gay listened with all the eagerness of the novice, who has the
luck to get from an expert "inside" knowledge of which the
public--and even Carlton Mackrell--knew little.

Many murmurs of "There goes Rensslaer!" followed them on the road.
Some of the men wondered who was the uncommonly pretty girl with him,
others, again, recognised her as the somewhat remarkable Gay Lawless.
She wished that the drive might last indefinitely, but all too soon
it was over, the horses averaging sixteen miles an hour all the way
down from Town to the course.

The scene when they arrived was pretty enough, and the attendance
unusually good, as it was known that Rensslaer was driving--an
extraordinary circumstance that had raised the hopes of the Trotting
fraternity sky-high.

The race for the Gold Vase is a handicap in mile and a half heats,
the entries, sixty, being divided into six heats with ten horses in
each heat, with two semi-final heats for the twelve horses who have
been first and second in these preliminary heats, and a final heat
for the first and second horses in these semi-finals.

Gay's and Carlton Mackrell's horses were both at "scratch," but were
drawn to start in different heats, the first heat being with Carlton
Mackrell's horse scratch.

Ten horses were in this heat, the limit horse a raw-boned,
uneven-gaited trotter, ridden by a small boy in shirt sleeves, who,
the moment the pistol went off, bolted with the boy, and tried to
jump the rails, but was brought back, and finished the heat last,
amidst the jeers of the public.

Mackrell's horse trotted very fast and steadily, his toe weights
flashing in the sun, and without a slip or waver, without any urging,
overtook one horse after the other, had them all beaten before the
last turn, and jogged the winner in twenty lengths in front.  Time: 3
minutes 30 seconds.

As Gay's horse had never been able to do a trial for the distance
faster than 3 minutes 36 seconds (all out), she felt very despondent,
much to the delight of Lossie, who had arrived with the ruffled
Professor in tow, and who hoped that Gay would get such a beating
that day as to sicken her of the sport for the remainder of her life.

Rensslaer and Carlton vied with each other in their attention to, and
care of, the downcast Gay, as they watched the next heat, in which
none of their party had horses.  A hobbled pacer was the limit horse,
and bore the name of Birmingham Joe, although he looked a typical
common American, and English horses are not pacers; he won, after a
most desperate finish, by a short head in 3.36.

This horse, therefore, was equal to Gay's in speed, and with a start
of 200 yards over hers, would have a great advantage if he got into
the final, as he would not have to come through his horses, and
although he seemed very stiff and old, such horses often improve in
speed in later heats, if they are kept moving between heats.  Most
likely, said Rensslaer, he had a low record in the States about "the
time of the flood," and might get some of that speed back when he got
warmed up, and worked the stiffness out of his old legs.

Between the second and third heats there was a curious exhibition of
the Guidless trotter, Gold Ring by Wild Brino, Mr. Wilkinson, the
owner, leading the old stallion out with a surcingle, overhead check,
and side reins, like a circus horse, then taking him fifty yards down
the stretch, turned him to face the starter, and walked away, the
horse standing like a statue.

At the report of the pistol he darted off on a strong trot, and not
cutting the grass corners, but keeping fairly on the track, he
trotted the full two laps for the miles in 2.24, mane and tail
flying, finishing with a spurt at his top speed.

As he passed the wire the bell was rung, when he at once pulled up,
turned slowly round, and jogged up to Mr. Wilkinson, who was waiting
for him.

"Isn't that _pretty_?" cried Gay warmly, and forgetting all her
nervous fears as they went over to look at the big chestnut stallion,
with very high action, that won the Richmond (Surrey) Horse Show Pace
and Action Class some years ago.

"I have a good many young trotters by him," said Rensslaer quietly to
Carlton; "he is so exceptionally well-shaped, and has a very low
record."

The third heat was won easily by a pony with a long start, under
saddle, in 3 minutes 42 seconds.  (This pony got beaten in his
semi-final.)

Between the third and fourth heats there was much excitement when
Rensslaer drove Hettie C., the pacer (to establish a record for
pacing mares for England on a half-mile track), in a Faber speed
wagon.  She was a thoroughbred-looking mare, but with rather a big
head, dark chestnut, and he had two men out with galloping
thorough-breds in jogging carts, one of whom stood his horse close to
the outside of the track near the judge's stand, whilst the other
cantered behind Hettie C. as she had a few preliminary brushes the
wrong way of the track to open her pipes.  She came out on a trot,
and only got into her pace when she got beyond a 2.50 gait.

Hettie C. did not wear hobbles, or any of the rigging usually seen on
the third-rate pacers usually imported into England, but only quarter
and shin boots to protect her in case she stepped into an uneven bit
of footing.  She carried the lightest of racing plates, and a rubber
bit and side check, and paced almost as upright as a trotter, with
just a flip to her fetlocks, and knees and hocks stiff.

When she was ready, she came down for her flying start towards
"Uncle," the galloper some four lengths behind her, but Rensslaer
shook his head, and "Uncle" did not drop the flag (for this start was
by flag, as the trial was on American lines), and Rensslaer gradually
stopped the mare, and jogged back on a trot.

The second time the mare was going to his satisfaction, and he nodded
for "Uncle" to drop the flag, and the trial had begun.  The people
had been asked to keep quiet, so as not to upset the mare, and
nothing was heard but the "tapa, tapa" of the pacer's feet, and the
"tip-a-tip, tip-a-tip" of the galloper.

They got to the quarter mile in 32 seconds, the galloper stretching
out faster than a hunting gallop, but losing ground.  Round the turn
his driver hit him, and he did all he knew, closing up the gap, and
getting to the mare's girths, the half being done in 1 minute 3
seconds.  Here the second galloper joined in, and as they came to the
third quarter, the first galloper was done, and dropped back, the
second galloper taking his place alongside the mare.  This quarter
was done rather slower, in 32½ seconds, the time for the three
quarters being 1 minute 35½ seconds, the mare beginning to tire on
the heavy, sandy track.

Both drivers of the gallopers beginning to shout, the mare made a
desperate spurt, and Rensslaer drove her out with the reins, not the
whip, and she finished (with the second galloper head and head with
her) in 31 seconds for the last quarter, making 2 minutes 6 seconds,
far and away the best record for England.  The first galloper
cantered in behind, quite done.

There was great applause at this, the most sensational feature (so
far) of the day, and then came the fourth heat--the heat where Gay's
horse was in at scratch.

Her driver, a very good English one, manœuvred very well for a
start, and got off well, the horse in front of him starting badly, so
that he got clear of him at once, and sailed after the leaders, one
of which, a very small pony with a very long lead, went zigzagging
all over the track, so that every time he tried to pass it, the pony
got in his way.  Finally, however, when the pair of them were in the
lead, it got into a bad break, and galloped under the wire, neck and
neck with Gay's horse (of course being disqualified), the latter
winning the heat in 3 minutes 40 seconds.

Gay's horse could have done the heat faster if he had not been so
interfered with by the pony, but this interference had taken a lot
out of him, and he seemed rather tired after the heat, and cooled out
badly.

The sixth heat was won by two lengths (of course no horse of her
party was in this) in 2.40 by "Our Tom" rather easily, and the winner
therefore looked capable of going faster in the finals (this was the
Trotter in the final heat).

Mackrell's horse was in the first semi-final heat, but not Gay's.
Mackrell got a wonderfully quick start, and got very soon up to the
leader, did not pass him, but kept just behind till they came into
the stretch, and then passed him, and won in a jog by a length in
3.35.

Although he had won by only a length, so as to not expose his horse's
speed too much, he had won so easily, that when the betting on the
final came, he was the favourite at almost any price, as he seemed to
be an absolute certainty.

Now came the second semi-final, Gay's horse at scratch.  He got a
very bad start, being half turned round when Uncle "loosed off," and
he had a hard struggle to get up to the horse in front of him.  As he
did so, he and that horse got up to the one in front of them (who had
made a standstill break), and Gay's horse being in the middle, his
sulky got crushed between the other two, and though he drew in front,
it was seen that his near tyre, the one on the outside of the turn,
had come off.

Gay drew in her breath sharply, but Rensslaer soon reassured her, for
with luck and a clever driver all was not yet lost.

The tyre had got jammed up in the axle fork, and also the wheel,
which could not revolve in consequence, and dragged along the ground,
but by trotting his hardest, the horse still kept gaining on the
leader, although the wooden rim of the wheel got worn through by the
friction on the track.  As the horses came round the final turn,
Gay's horse got level with the leader, and after a desperate drive
won, the wheel just holding till the wire was passed, when
collapsing, the sulky turned over.

As it did so, the driver, seizing hold of the harness with his left
hand just above the crupper, lifted himself forward, and putting his
right hand on to the pad, vaulted on to the horse's back, and stopped
him.

Time: 3 minutes 37 seconds.

When the driver returned to the paddock, he was cheered by the crowd
for his pluck and skill, but Gay's horse was very exhausted, and all
of a shake, as the stuck wheel made a terrible handicap on him in the
race, he had also slightly cut his near hind fetlock with the broken
wire spokes.

The betting, which originally had been on Gay's horse, now, as I said
above, had veered round to Mackrell's; in fact the race was
considered as good as over.

When the time came for harnessing for the final, Rensslaer, who had
been looking after Gay's horse all the time, and found him in a very
bad state, went as a final desperate remedy to the refreshment bar,
bought a bottle of their best champagne, and at the risk of its being
considered doping, he drenched the horse with the liquor.  The effect
in a few minutes was very marked; the horse brightened up, and seemed
almost himself again.

But the trouble was by no means over.  In the bar Rensslaer presently
found, to his horror, that the driver of Gay's horse had been given
drinks to celebrate his plucky driving with the broken wheel, so
often, that the man was already dead-drunk, and of no earthly use to
drive.

Rapidly seeking out Gay, and drawing her aside, Rensslaer briefly
told her the state of affairs, and offered to drive for her, but like
lightning she leaped to the longed-for opportunity, and whispered
that if he would lend her his Faber speed wagon (in which he drove
Hettie C. in her trial pace against time earlier in the day) she
would drive the race herself.

Gay's horse was therefore harnessed to the speed wagon; she took her
place in it, and Rensslaer tucked her well in with a light rug.

But all this took time.  The moment of the start for the final was
long past; in fact a stout young man had been shouting "Get on your
marks," in a voice like a bull for some time, when suddenly Gay
appeared on the track behind her horse, and after a moment's
stupefied silence, a deafening cheer rang out, succeeded by another,
and another.




CHAPTER XVI

GAY DISGRACES HERSELF

There was no time to warm up the horse; she had to trot down fast to
her mark, overshot it some forty yards, and swung her horse round in
a hurry, spurting to get up to her mark, as she saw "Uncle's" back
with upraised pistol.

It was fortunate she did so, as at that moment the pistol went off,
and she was at top speed on to her mark as the pistol was fired,
Mackrell's horse being at a standstill at the same mark (they were
both scratch mark horses, you may remember), she having the outside
position.

Mackrell's horse was into his stride in a moment, however; Gay and
Mac raced side by side after the leaders.  There were, of course,
only four horses in this final, one of the leaders being the old
ex-American hobbled pacer, Birmingham Joe, who had 200 yards' start
of Gay and Mac, the fourth horse being the trotter Our Tom, with 150
yards' start.

Gay's and Mackrell's horses trotted side by side like a pair, rapidly
overtaking the two leaders, but Gay could see out of the corner of
her eye that Mackrell was holding his horse, and could at any time
draw clear of her if he liked.

At the turn he pulled slightly back, and let her take the inside, and
there came an ominous jeer from the spectators when they saw him
giving way, instead of keeping the advantage he had gained.  The
moment, however, they were round the turn, he drew up level again on
the outside, when suddenly his horse made a most disastrous break (a
horse noted for never breaking), and every time Mac tried to catch
him, he went off into a worse break, till finally he cantered in a
long way last, the horse refusing to trot.

Gay, of course, saw nothing of this, she only knew that Mackrell's
horse had suddenly fallen back, and that she was gaining hand over
hand on the trotter Our Tom in front.  She passed him as she went
round the track the second time, and calling on her horse, she saw
him stretch out his neck still further, and lower himself till he
seemed inches lower than his proper height, whilst he began to sway
his head slightly from side to side, as he reached his utmost in each
stroke.

She swept round the last turn but one at such speed that she found
she must keep her eyes fixed on her horse's ears, as the least glance
to the side made her feel giddy, and as if she would lose her
balance, and now she got up with the pacer in the hack stretch, who
was wobbling along in the regular third-rate pacer style, instead of
moving almost as upright as a trotter, as Hettie C. the pacer did
earlier in the day.

A really perfect-gaited pacer has very little roll in its gait, and
if seen from the side could not be distinguished from a trotter
except by an expert, but poor old Birmingham Joe was labouring along
like a channel boat in a south-wester, and his hobbles were singing
from the strain like an æolian harp.  It was this strain, and the
fact that poor old Birmingham Joe's master had _everything_ old
(including the horse), which won Gay the race.

The sulky was an old heavy metal one, made in England years ago, the
hobbles had been patched and mended till little of the original
hobbles remained, and as the two horses came neck and neck (Gay on
the outside) round the last turn, the æolian sound of the hobbles
changed to a sudden rending crash, and old Birmingham Joe turned a
complete somersault, pitching his driver over his head, and landing
on top of him, the hobbles having broken.

Gay jogged in a winner in 3.35, a second faster than her horse had
ever trotted before, and whilst the driver of Birmingham Joe was
carried in on a stretcher with a broken leg, Mackrell finished on a
canter last of all, amidst the yells of his backers, that alternated
with loud cheers for Gay Lawless.

In these cheers neither Lossie nor the Professor joined.  They had
not understood what Rensslaer meant when he had suddenly appeared
beside them, and hurried Gay away.  They had hardly understood what
it meant when after a considerable delay (for they were at some
distance from the stables) they had seen a woman's shape in a Faber,
driving rapidly towards the track, and when in the first round Gay
had swept by close to them, looking extraordinarily pretty and
determined, her little feet planted firmly on the rail before her,
eyes wide with excitement and courage, the Professor had all but
fallen down in a fit, while Lossie rejoiced--even Carlton Mackrell's
affection could hardly survive that.

On all sides kodaks had flashed; indeed in the event, nearly every
illustrated paper made a scandalous feature of a sight common enough
in Vienna.  Min Toplady alone of the women clapped her hands, and
cheered at the top of her voice; but the excitement now over, Gay
herself felt shaky, and more than half inclined to burst into tears.

Even the presentation to her of the Gold Vase was by no means the
ecstacy she had expected.  It was by a desperate effort that she held
her head up, spoke her thanks, smiled, and marched away with
Rensslaer, who tucked the Vase under his arm as if used to such
ridiculous impedimenta, and took her straight to her brother,
followed by the cheers of the lookers-on, in which a nice ear might
detect a certain note of familiarity.  Possibly she detected it, but
was quite unaware that Carlton was about having a very bad quarter of
an hour, called as he had been before the Stewards, for an
explanation of his extraordinary driving.

He declared that his horse lost a toe weight at the first turn, which
caused him to break, and he could not, or would not settle
afterwards, and when the horse was examined, it was seen that the
near toe weight was missing.

While the discussion was still going on, one of the distance judges
brought in the toe weight, and also the screw which held it, but
instead of the screw being broken, or the threads worn, it was seen
that the screw had only a head, and very short shank, and that the
latter showed marks of its having quite recently had the end of the
screw shank filed off, so that there was only a head, and a little
bit of shank.

The blacksmith who was employed at the trotting track said that
Mackrell borrowed a file of him before the final heat, and being
curious as to what he wanted it for, he followed him at a distance,
and saw him filing something behind a tree, after which he went to
screw on his horse's toe weights.

The blacksmith went behind the tree and picked up the half of a screw
(the point end), which he produced, and it corresponded to the screw
which Mac's horse had lost with his toe weight.

Result--expelled from ever driving in the Clubhouse, and outlawed
forever.

Mackrell bowed, and withdrew with perfect _sang-froid_.  He had
pulled off what he intended, and if Gay had been made happy by
getting what she wanted, he did not in the least grudge the price he
had paid.  But when he joined, or rather intercepted, her on the way
to the gates, he found a pale, almost tearful Gay, and one glance at
the Professor's and Lossie's faces convinced him that they had been
baiting her cruelly, in spite of Rensslaer, who cool and
imperturbable as ever, walked beside her.

"Hearty congratulations, Gay!" Mackrell cried, taking her hand.  "It
was the best done, pluckiest thing I ever saw in my life, and the
Gold Vase is yours."

Gay controlled her voice to thank him, but Rensslaer shot a quick
glance at the other's face--he had, of course, seen Mackrell's game
from the first, and was also aware of that summons to the Stewards'
room, to which there could only be one issue.

"I am astonished," said the Professor in quavery tones, "astonished
and shocked at your congratulating my sister on the disgraceful,
unwomanly exhibition she has just made of herself, and for which I am
to blame, in not having put my foot down on this degrading sport from
the first."

"Oh! put it down," said Carlton, who looked very handsome and
determined, "and keep it there if you like.  _I'm_ going to take Gay
home, and the quieter she is kept the better"--he turned on Lossie
Holden a glance beneath which she quailed--"so you can travel back as
you came, with the Professor."

He put Gay as he spoke into a waiting carriage, seated himself beside
her, and drove off, Rensslaer having handed to Gay her coveted trophy.

"I believe," said the Professor, "that the indecency on wheels in
which my unfortunate sister drove was your property, Mr. Rensslaer,
and as she could not possibly have used it without your consent, I
imagine it was at your suggestion she did so."

"You're right there," said Rensslaer encouragingly, "and I'm proud to
know my Faber's been of use to the nicest, pluckiest girl, bar none,
I've seen in England."

"Anyway," cried the Professor, trembling with rage, "I shall make it
my business to see that she has no opportunity of disgracing herself
and me again," and seizing Lossie's arm, he hurried her away.




CHAPTER XVII

TWO LOVERS

If God sends friends, the devil sends collaterals, for the former, in
addition to their superior good qualities, at least have the civility
to knock at your door, the latter walk straight in to torment you at
their pleasure, and Carlton had hardly left the house when Lossie
appeared, furious at the determined way he had carried Gay off, and
more furious still at the rebuke he had administered to herself.

"You've done it now, Gay," she said spitefully.  "Frank's raving
mad--how I got him to town, I don't know."

"Let him rave," said Gay coolly, holding one little foot to the fire.
Her eyes still sparkled, a lovely colour was in her cheeks, on a
table near glittered the coveted Gold Vase, and though her arms ached
horribly from the late strain on them, she cared no more for the ache
than for Lossie's acrimonious reproaches.

"Toes turned out, first position," said Lossie, watching Gay's face
cruelly.  "It was something to be thankful for, I suppose, that your
feet weren't further apart than they were!"

Gay flushed.

She had thought only of bracing her toes hard against the foot-rests,
not at all of how they looked.  _Had_ she looked immodest after all?

"Lucky you had no feathers in your hat," said Lossie with a sneer,
and at that injustice to her invariably neat racing garb, Gay
rebelled indignantly.

"Did you _ever_ see me befeathered on a race-course?" she said
contemptuously, but Lossie shrugged her shoulders.

"It looks as if you'd dressed for the part, and went down with the
full intention of playing it," she said.  "That rug, too, outlining
you like a sheath--_that_ was ready also, strange to say!"

"It was Mr. Rensslaer's," said Gay.  "I suppose it was _my_ fault
that my driver got drunk, and someone had to be found at the last
moment to take his place?"

"Mr. Rensslaer could have taken it, and would have done, if you'd let
him--"  And as this was true, Gay had no answer ready on that point.

"Anyway, I won it," she said, and tossed her pretty head, "that's the
main thing."

"Because Carlton Mackrell let you," said Lossie.  "Didn't you hear
the crowd howling at him when he gave you the inside place?  Or so a
man told me who was watching the race through his glasses.  Hark!"

Through the window came the yell of a newsboy in the street:

"Well-known owner of Trotters expelled for unfair driving at Waterloo
Park to-day!"

Lossie ran out of the room and downstairs, while Gay, her heart
beating wildly, and very pale, felt her triumph turned to sawdust
between her teeth.

Carlton's horse was a far better one than hers ... Rensslaer had told
her so ... he knew how to drive, she did not.

"Here it is," cried Lossie, returning.  Unfolding the sheet at the
latest news, she read aloud a brief paragraph announcing that Mr.
Carlton Mackrell had been expelled from the Clubhouse, and barred
from ever driving again, for tampering with his horse's toe weights
in the race for the Gold Vase, won by Miss Gay Lawless.

And he had not said one word to her of this.  Oh! what had she done?
For a whim, and in pure hot-headedness, she had taken up a sport
suitable for men only, made herself notorious, inflicted pain on her
brother and Chris, and, finally, made a man who loved her submit to
disgrace, and deprivation of his favourite amusement, rather than she
should be disappointed of a silly Gold Vase!  Did Rensslaer know--had
he _seen_ it, and made no sign?

"Poor Mackrell!" she said, then dried her tears, as she would not
have done had he or Chris, or Rensslaer been present.  At that moment
the distracted Professor came into the room, and Gay, with an impulse
of pity, went up, and laid her hand on his arm.

"My driver was drunk, Frank," she said, "and it had to be decided all
in a moment.  It didn't seem to me wrong at all then--and even now
I'm not sure that it was--it's Carlton Mackrell I'm worrying about--"
then went away, and locked herself into her room.

She was very quiet when she got there, poor Gay, sitting on the side
of her bed, with all the triumph of a few hours ago fizzled out.  A
debt of honour came before all others, and this was one of them....
Gay's heart was generous enough to realise that surely Carlton had
never meant her to know, never meant to be found out, but he had
bungled at his tricky work, as honest men will, and he meant her to
have that Gold Vase, and she had got it--for what it was worth.

Suddenly the ugly, the sordid side of this sport she had taken up so
recklessly, showed to Gay.  She seemed to see the man carried away
with his broken leg--yes, there were accidents at Trotting as well as
at Chris's game--and the clamorous desire to win something, money or
a bit of plate, or the success that is notoriety, took on its true
colours--something loud, common, of no value to a woman of taste,
whose true kingdom was her home.

She had all along fought her love for Chris because of the danger,
the unhealthy excitement of his life, and deliberately she had
emulated it, and was now tasting the bitter fruit of disillusionment,
of disgust.  It struck her then, as it has done so many others, that
it is doing the things that we want to do, not those that we ought,
that we mostly come to our ruin.

* * * * * *

Chris Hannen, speeding slowly towards a perfect recovery, had
succeeded in turning out his nurses, and Mrs. Summers, to her great
joy, was now his sole attendant.  Promoted to a sofa, he had opened
eagerly the last evening special to see if Gay had won the Gold Vase,
only to be confronted with a piquante description of her as she had
appeared when seated in the Faber, looking as a man would prefer
almost any other woman than his sweetheart or sister to look, as she
steered her horse to victory.

He winced as he read, and when he came to Carlton Mackrell's summary
expulsion, and the reason, his heart sank, for now Gay would consider
herself bound in honour to reward the man who had not hesitated to
disgrace himself, so that she might possess the toy after which she
had so often hankered in his hearing.

Chris had always hated Gay's going in for Trotting, and yet, was he
himself any better--risking his life for excitement, wringing Gay's
heart?  Why not be a _sportsman_?--ride for pleasure, not gain,
though to be sure it was pleasure, and to spare to him!

"Serves Mackrell jolly well right for being kicked out," he growled,
and did not pity him a bit--but Gay would, and there was the rub.

Rensslaer, too, had behaved badly.  He was a much older man; he was
under no illusions as to the status of the sport in England, yet he
accompanied her to meetings--would probably go on doing so now that
Mackrell was barred from the Trotting course.

Chris's meditations made him so feverish, and brought out such a
hectic flush on his cheeks, that Mrs. Summers was seriously alarmed
when presently she arranged his dinner on the invalid table slung
before him.  But looking shrewdly about for the cause, she caught
sight of the paper on his knee, and though they had never exchanged a
word on the subject, Mrs. Summers knew well enough what place Gay
held in his heart, and that the young lady was racing her horse for
the Gold Vase that day.

"Has Miss Gay won, Mr. Chris?" she inquired, and he nodded, but did
not pursue the subject.  Evidently, he thought, Gay had been carried
away by audacity and high spirits, for of course he did not know of
the driver's mistimed conviviality that had given the girl her
longed-for opportunity.  And now they were baiting her, no doubt,
that spiteful Lossie, and the hysterical Professor, and he not able
to stand by her--she wanted someone badly...

For a minute or two he racked his brains, then suddenly remembered
Min Toplady, and leaving his dinner untouched, he turned to the
telephone within reach, and picking up the book, found to his great
relief her husband's number.

He was lucky enough to get on quickly, and to his "Are you there?" it
was Min's cheery voice that responded.

"Yes--it's Chris Hannen.  I want you to go at once to Miss Gay, she
has had a trying day--no, you needn't say I sent you--only that you
wanted to congratulate her on her success--you will go?
Thanks--yes--she did it splendidly, you say?  Never saw anything
prettier?  Rotten shame about Mr. Mackrell--something must be
done--yes--you're going at once--good--'phone me to-night how she is,
if possible--yes--good-bye."

He replaced the receiver, and returned to his half-cold dinner with
more appetite than he had begun it.  Min Toplady was a doughty
champion, capable of routing Lossie or the Professor with great
slaughter, and Chris grinned to himself as he imagined the
passages-at-arms likely to occur.

Anyway, Gay would not stand alone, and with her own courage, and such
a powerful backer, ought to pull through with honour.

His spirits rose.  Mrs. Summers, coming and going, was delighted to
find him in such good fettle; she thought Miss Gay's success in
winning the Gold Vase had something to do with it, and though
privately a little shocked at the young lady's sporting tastes, she
was glad of anything that did her young master good.

But when she had left him, with his cigarette-case at his elbow, he
got restless again; the quiet room, in which he had lived so much
lately, got on his nerves, and a profound depression stole over him.
He longed for someone to talk with; if he had not been such a
confounded way from town, he would have called up one of his club
friends, and got from him the popular opinion of the day's events at
Waterloo Park.

Most of all, he would have liked to see Carlton Mackrell, and as if
the thought had summoned him, the door quietly opened, and that
gentleman, announced by Mrs. Summers, walked into the room.




CHAPTER XVIII

MIN TO THE RESCUE

"The very man I wanted to see," cried Chris as they shook hands.
"You'll have some dinner?  Mrs. Summers won't keep you waiting long."

Mackrell shook his head.

"I had all I want in town," he said, sitting down opposite Chris.  He
look tired and ill; it is always easier for a dark man to look out of
sorts than a fair one, and in spite of all that he had lately
suffered, Chris had the advantage of the other at that moment.

"It's a rotten game, Trotting," said Carlton abruptly, "and I'm more
than sorry I ever encouraged Miss Gay to go in for it.  But she has
won her Gold Vase, and now I hope she'll chuck the whole thing,
especially"--he smiled--"as I'm chucked."

Chris looked into the fire,

"When you think of the practices that go on at the game," said
Mackrell, "how a man will win a race with a certain horse, then fake
him, change his name, and enter him for another race under a
different name, and that the Stewards spend half their time
investigating 'shady cases,' it's almost an honour to be fired
out--at least, I know Rensslaer would think so."

Chris was still silent, staring into the fire.

"Can't you speak, man?" cried Mackrell irritably.

"You have laid Miss Gay under an obligation," said Chris quietly.
"She is the soul of honour--as you well know--and she will pay it to
the last penny.  She gets her Gold Vase--yes, but you have played to
get what is worth a million gold vases--herself."

Mackrell uttered an exclamation of anger and half rose, but Chris
went on unmoved with what he had to say.

"Has it struck you that we are both rotters--both utterly selfish in
our aims and pursuits--that neither of us is good enough for that
dear little girl--that Rensslaer is a far finer sportsman, and better
all-round man than either of us?  He is doing real good with his
breeding stables, and improvement of the breed of horses--he pursues
a definite aim that the State should be grateful for--that _is_
appreciated by almost every country but England--but what good are
you and I doing?  Miss Gay hates my profession as jockey--its danger,
its excitement, its more or less unhealthy surroundings--yet I
persist in following it, and when I come to grief, inflict pain on
her....  And you, Mackrell, who lightly infect her with your own love
for Trotting, who are mainly responsible for her taking up a rôle
that few men would permit in a sister, are you much better than I am?
You wanted her company, and you got it--and, as usual, it's the woman
who has to pay."

"Damn it, man," burst out Mackrell fiercely, "you make me out a
scoundrel, who offers a farthing doll as a bribe to get possession of
a great treasure, but you're wrong, utterly wrong.  Unless Miss Gay
sends for me, I shall not go near her--"

"And she will send," said Chris grimly.  Too late he now remembered
that Min Toplady was with Carlton's suit heart and soul, and much too
clever not to make ample use to-night of the opportunity given her by
the day's events.

Mackrell looked up, his face suddenly grown old and lined.

"I came to you for bread, and you've given me a stone," he said.
"You make it impossible for me to ask Miss Gay to be my wife--and you
know it."

"I think you did wrong to cheat, so that she might win what was
practically valueless," said Chris quietly.  "I repeat that you had
no right to lay her under such an enormous obligation."

"I did not expect to be bowled out," said Mackrell sullenly.  "Her
dearest wish was to win the Vase--it was my earnest desire that she
should do so--my thoughts went no further than that.  If that
infernal chap hadn't followed me, Miss Gay would have believed she
had won on her horse's merits, for you may be sure I should never
have undeceived her."

Chris silently held out his hand, and Mackrell, after a moment's
hesitation, took it.

"Can nothing be done?" said Chris.  "It's preposterous that you are
to be made an example of like this!  Have you seen Rensslaer?"

"No.  I took Gay back to town--of course she did not know about me.
Heavens!  I expect they're tearing her to pieces at Connaught Square.
It's on her account I'm here--I thought she might have 'phoned to
you--told you how she was."

"No, but I expect to hear presently.  I've sent Min Toplady to her."

"Good old Min!" exclaimed Mackrell.  "I'm sorry for anyone who
attempts to bully Miss Gay in _her_ presence."

Chris laughed.

"Have a drink, old man, and buck up," he said.  "Unless I'm much
mistaken, Miss Gay drove her first and last race to-day, and her
horses will be "scratched" without delay.  It wouldn't trouble me
much if mine were," he added gloomily, "for I have no luck."

The telephone bell rang.

"Yes--yes--are you there?  It's all right, Mr. Chris, Miss Lossie is
gone--I've rated the Professor, and put Miss Gay to bed.  There's
been a lot of fur and feathers flying ... _that_ Miss Lossie.  I
'phoned Mr. Mackrell at his club, but he wasn't there.  Miss Gay
wanted him to call to-morrow morning first thing after breakfast--"

"Here," said Chris, and held out the receiver to Carlton.

"Oh! it's you, Mr. Mackrell, that's all right--yes, I'll 'phone Miss
Gay in the morning that you're coming.  What ... you can't ... you're
going to Paris!  Miss Gay sent her love to Mr. Chris.  Good-night."

* * * * * *

Gay had made no reply to the frequent and irritating knocks on her
door, but soon after eight had struck, a welcome voice issuing from
the keyhole made her jump up, and promptly turn the key.

"My lamb," cried Min Toplady, folding her in a motherly embrace, and
Gay, clinging to her, cried her heart out, and was comforted and made
comfortable, and presently, with the blinds pulled down, a wood fire
lit, and a dinner tray placed before her that the cook had carefully
prepared, Gay was able to laugh at herself, and even enjoy Min's
unconcealed delight at the brilliant style in which she had won her
race that day.

"Never saw you more bewitching," cried Min, "and the dress and
attitude were modest enough, it was only the idea of the thing, that
prudes might call indelicate.  Toplady says all the men were wild
about you, for of course they knew about your driver being squiffy,
and thought it the gamest thing out, your driving yourself.  Of
course," added Min, "your horse wasn't half good enough for you, my
dear, or even as good as Mr. Carlton's--"

"Oh, Min!" cried Gay, "Mr. Mackrell has ruined himself that I might
win that wretched Gold Vase!"

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Min stoutly.  "His toe weights were all
right, and as to what that rascal swore to, there's not a word of
truth in it.  Why, one of that lot would sell his own soul for a
shilling, and tell any lie for sixpence.  Not but what he wanted you
to win, Miss Gay, for he worships every hair of your head, but he was
getting tired of the game, and ain't sorry to quit it.  And, my
lamb," went on Min tenderly, "you've had your bit of fun, and you've
won what you wanted, and if I were you I'd leave it at that, now Mr.
Mackrell won't be here to make things pleasant for you."

"Oh, Min," cried Gay sadly, "you also!  Everyone is against me--even
Mr. Hannen.  He must have seen the papers to-night--what _will_ he
say?"

"It was Mr. Chris who asked me to come up and see you," said Min
reluctantly, for Carlton Mackrell's chances with Gay had never seemed
to her better than now, if he only followed them up quickly.

Tears sprang to Gay's eyes at this evidence of Chris's thought for
her, and an intense longing to see, and speak with him, seized her.
She had begged the Professor to take her on one of his frequent
visits to Epsom, but he had always refused, very unkindly, as Gay
thought.

"Did he think I was in trouble, then?" she said, and blushed.

"He knew Mr. Mackrell's being warned off would upset you, I expect,"
said Min, "also," she added with a sniff, "he may have thought Mr.
Frank and _that_ Miss Lossie would be getting at you, and you wanted
protection."

At that moment a knock came at the door, and a servant appeared with
a message from the Professor, requesting Mrs. Toplady to give him a
few minutes' conversation in his study.  With an ominous flounce, and
toss of the head, but a reassuring squeeze of the hand to Gay, Min
descended, full of fight, to find, as she expected, Lossie lounging
by the fireplace.

"Good-evening, Mr. Frank," said Min beamingly.  "I'm paying you a
return visit, you see.  Hope you got home all right that time?"

The Professor squirmed, and pushed forward a chair, upon which Min
settled her ample person, then, affecting to see Lossie for the first
time, remarked in a tone of lofty rebuke:

"You shouldn't sit moping so near the fire, Miss Holden--it makes
your nose red--for you're no chicken, and it's sinful to spoil your
chances of a husband like that!  Now Miss Gay, with her outdoor life
and sports, will never grow old, or want for lovers, bless her!"

"It's just about these sports that I wanted to speak to you, Min,"
said the Professor with nervous haste.  "The--ah--shocking exhibition
my sister made of herself to-day--"

"Wonderful driving for a beginner--won-der-ful!" said Min admiringly.
"Did you ever hear such cheering?  Trotting 'ud soon look up if you
could get half-a-dozen Miss Gays to drive their own horses."

"I don't believe that out of all England you'd find one other such
immodest girl as my cousin," said Lossie, "or one family that would
permit her to do what she did to-day."

"How could I stop her?" cried the Professor irascibly.  "I nearly had
a fit when she appeared on the track."

"You could have stopped it at the beginning," said Lossie sharply,
"before she had ruined Carlton Mackrell's career, and made of herself
a public scandal."

"It must be a comfort to you, Miss Lossie," said Min silkily, "that
_you_ hadn't enough influence with Mr. Mackrell to make him do
anything wrong.  He just worships Miss Gay, and when he found she had
set her heart on the Gold Vase, why, he took care that she should get
it, like the true lover that he is!"

"This woman has always been a bad influence with Gay," Lossie said
furiously to Frank, "and they make a combination that will be too
strong for you, if you don't look out."

"I came here to talk to Mr. Frank, not you," said Min equably.  "My
motto is, 'let every tub stand on its own bottom,' and if I were you,
I'd try and get some beaux of my own, and not be always grabbing at
Miss Gay's."

"Insolent woman!" cried Lossie, with flashing eyes, but Min merely
nodded in a maddening way, and said:

"You always hated Miss Gay because all the men loved her--what one
man likes, the rest mostly do, and perhaps if you could have got hold
of _one_, Miss Lossie, others might have come along too.  At present
it looks as if you'll have to put up with poor Mr. Frank after all,
for you can't live without plenty of money!"

Having produced her effect, if the Professor's terror-struck face
were to be trusted, Min proceeded to the discussion of the matter
really in hand.

"You want Miss Gay to give up Trotting," she said, addressing Frank
quietly, "and now she hasn't Mr. Mackrell to help her, I think
perhaps she'll be willing.  But if you bully her, Mr. Frank, she'll
go on with it just to defy you, for Miss Gay has got a temper and a
will of her own, for all that she's the sweetest, and best, and
prettiest little lady in the world."

"What do you advise?" said the Professor quaveringly, for Min's
reckless unveiling of Lossie's secret intentions towards himself
(failing anyone else) had half-frightened him out of his senses.

"I advise you to let her alone, Mr. Frank," said Min, "and make that
poke-nose"--she pointed an accusing finger at Lossie--"stop at home,
and not come here meddling and interfering, for if Miss Gay wants
advice, Mr. Rensslaer'll be the one to give it, and settle what's to
be done about her horses.  And now, Mr. Frank, I'll say good-night,
as I'm going to put my lamb to bed, and if you want me at any time,
why, you know where to find me, and any hospitality Toplady and me
can show you, (one eye closed in an almost imperceptible wink) we'll
be proud and happy, I'm sure."

"Good-bye, Min," said Frank hurriedly, as he opened the door for her
to go upstairs, then skipping out with her, closed it behind him--and
ran.

Min stood, shaking with laughter, as in the distance she heard the
laboratory door shut, and the key turned.




CHAPTER XIX

"FIGHTING" GAY

Those who thought they knew their Gay, and that she was humbled,
penitent, and willing to amend her "trotting" ways, speedily found
themselves mistaken on this point, and the first to whom she gave a
taste of her quality was the unhappy Professor, who entered the
breakfast-room next day, gibbering, and extending towards her an
illustrated morning paper.

Gay took it calmly from his hand, but a flush of anger rose to her
cheek as she saw that, whether from spite or ignorance, the artist
had maliciously altered the position of her feet, a pose emphasised
by the devil-may-care look in the pretty, saucy face turned
impudently over her shoulder.

"Somebody who doesn't like me, evidently," said Gay, sitting down at
the head of the table, and commencing to pour out coffee.  "Wonder if
it's anyone Lossie knows?"

"Hardened!  Shameless!" sputtered the Professor, walking to and fro
and wringing his hands.  Gay felt glad Chris was not there, as he
used to get behind the Professor, and wring _his_ in imitation,
convulsing her.

"I insist on it," cried her brother, "that you wire your trainer
instantly to 'scratch'--I believe that is the expression--your horses
for all future meetings, and I will take you abroad till this
shocking scandal is forgotten.  Why, even there, we shan't be safe,
for you will be lampooned on the boulevards--an English lady driving
like a stable-boy--in a man's attitude"--his voice rose to a shriek
as Gay walked to the chafing-dishes on the sideboard, and helped
herself to bacon.

"Shouldn't wonder if I get mentioned as a 'horrible example' from a
pulpit or two," she said placidly, "and probably there will be
several fancy sketches of me driving _really_ like a boy--in one of
those old-fashioned sulkies where you can't even see your horse's
head, and have to guide him by faith and a double squint.  Have some
kidneys, Heron?  They're awfully good."

But the angry Professor waved away the proffered delicacy, and
resumed his wind-mill antics up and down the room, thereby getting on
Gay's nerves.

"Look here, Heron," she said quietly, "it may save trouble if you
will just grasp the fact that my horses will not be withdrawn, that
their engagements _will_ be fulfilled, and that I shall be present at
_all_ the meetings, and if you don't care to chaperon me, I'll find
someone who will."

"Lossie won't!" screamed the Professor, now almost beside himself at
this flat rebellion, "nor Mrs. Bulteel either!  You've never been
able to persuade her to set foot on a Trotting course--even if she
were willing, Tom Bulteel wouldn't let her!"

It was true, and Gay thought it horrid of Effie; then her soft little
face hardened, and she shot her bolt.

"Then I'll go under Min Toplady's protection," she said.  "I can make
her do anything I like--and _she_ shall take me--and jolly good times
we shall have, too!"

"Good God!" cried the Professor, "my sister--my _sister_ going to
Meetings with public-house ladies in public-house traps"--he forgot
that he had once censured Lossie for thus speaking of Gay's old nurse.

Gay nodded emphatically.

"I shall stay at the 'Trotting Nag' altogether, if you're going on as
you are now," she said.  "Lossie can come and keep house for you--no
one could say anything on the score of propriety, you know," she
added, with as much malice as her sweet temper permitted, "for she is
a relation!"

The Professor shuddered.  He had not yet got over the shock Min
Toplady's remarks about Lossie had given him overnight.  What would
become of his specimens, his microscopic work, of _him_, if
pitchforked into matrimony?

Lossie was a deuced pretty woman, of course, but she had a horrid
temper, and original as Gay was, his natural selfishness, and sure
male instinct, told him he was safer with the latter than the former.

"Well, well," he said, and sat down dejectedly.  "A wilful man will
have his way, they say, and now that my feminine little sister has
taken up with a man's life and sports, I suppose she'll, like him,
have _her_ way, no matter who pays."

"Heron!" exclaimed Gay, suddenly contrite, and got up, and went round
to him.  For a moment she did not speak, and it struck her that she
had shed more tears, felt more "sloppy," since she started Trotting,
than in all the years of her life before--yes, and apparently done
more mischief to others.

"Don't you see, Frank, that if I don't face the music, if I seem
ashamed of all this hateful publicity--for it _is_ hateful--I shall
only be a coward, and make things worse?  I don't promise that I'll
give up Trotting, but probably I may--with poor Carlton warned off, I
don't expect to take much pleasure in it again.  And now, Frank"--she
kissed him, and smoothed his hair--"you've got to eat your breakfast,
and forget about all this for the present."

She helped him to kidneys, and rang, for fresh coffee.  Presently,
comforted against his will, Frank stole a glance at Gay, who seemed
deep in thought, and indeed with one lover outlawed from his
favourite sport, and the other absent, prevented for the time being,
from following a dangerous profession that Gay hated, she felt at
that moment very friendless indeed.

If Mr. Rensslaer would only weigh in, and race Trotters himself, she
thought, but he wouldn't, and then she got up, fetched her little
basket of keys, and waving her hand to Heron, set out on her usual
morning tour of housekeeping.

The Professor waited till she had gone, then deliberately kicked the
offending newspaper round the room (all men of science are childish),
and departed, well-pleased with himself, to his study.  Inflating his
pigeon-chest, he said to himself that Gay was a dear little thing, if
misguided--and after all she had _him_ to stand by her.  The escapade
of yesterday would probably do no more than make a nine days' talk,
then blow over, and when she married Chris, as the Professor had
always felt sure she intended to do ultimately, she would be just a
domesticated girl, with all this racing rubbish knocked clean out of
her head.

At eleven o'clock, Rensslaer was announced, and Gay rose eagerly to
meet him, for he might be able to give her news of Carlton, from whom
she had heard nothing, and she put the question without loss of time.

"Well," said Rensslaer, "it struck me as ironic that one of the few
men who had conferred distinction on the sport of Trotting in
England, should be expelled the Club, when so many undesirables
remain to disgrace it, so I looked in at St. James's Place just now
to tell him so."

Gay opened her lips to ask how he looked, then checked herself, but
in reality Carlton was not in the least disgraced.  Everyone knew how
he had lost a race purposely that a pretty girl might win it, but he
_did_ blame himself for encouraging Gay in her fad, and still more
for the weakness that had at all costs determined her girlish wish
for the Gold Vase should be gratified.

He had done her as ill a turn as a man can do the woman he loves, but
he felt justly, that Rensslaer was to blame for the scandal of Gay's
driving herself, that the latter should have dissuaded her, and taken
Brusher's place, and had not hesitated to tell him so when he
appeared.

"We had a talk over his plans for the future," said Rensslaer, "and I
strongly advised him to race his horses in Vienna and Paris, and
offered him every assistance should he decide to do so.  But he
didn't seem keen on it--promised to think it over, and let me know.
Said he was taking a short run abroad for the present--would probably
do a cure at Aix."

A look of keen relief crossed Gay's face, and at that moment a
servant entered with an express letter.  While Gay, asking permission
from Rensslaer, read it, he thought how almost incredible was the
amount of wicked, even dishonest, things that a dear, pretty little
girl, honest as the day, could make a man do, and how ungrateful she
could prove herself for his doing them.

"Will she feel bound to reward him, I wonder?  Will he expect it?" he
thought.

Yet with William Blake, Rensslaer knew that

  "He who bends to himself a joy,
  Does the wingéd life destroy,
  But he who kisses the joy as it flies
  Lives in eternity's sunrise."


"For it's that Hannen boy she loves, and he her.  I've watched her
face--still, as he won't promise not to steeplechase, and she won't
marry him if he doesn't, I don't see what's going to happen."

"You're quite right," she said, "Mr. Mackrell is off to-day, and will
not have time to call here before he starts.  I told my brother this
morning that my horses will keep the engagements for which they are
entered, but after that--"  She hesitated, and looked at him
anxiously.

"After that, Miss Gay," he said gravely, "don't enter them for any
more.  It's not a woman's game--at least, for one so womanly as you
are--and you'll never do any good at it over here."

"Aren't those snapshots and sketches of me horrible?" said Gay in a
whisper.  "I'm looking forward with terror to the illustrated
weeklies."

"It was a plucky idea, pluckily carried out," he said, "though
Mackrell didn't mince his words to me just now--told me I ought to
have prevented you and done the driving myself.  But I don't
think"--he smiled whimsically--"anything short of _force majeure_
would have stopped you."

"Not even the devil," cried Gay, with sparkling eyes.  "I sin with my
eyes wide open, and I'd do it again this very minute."

"Why not?" he said equably.  "As I said before, you must come over
and drive for me in Vienna.  I have won so many prizes there," he
added quaintly, "that they don't like me to compete any more.  Let me
know the dates of any Meetings you have to attend, and no matter how
far away I may be, I'll come back to escort you."

"Thank you," she cried, impulsively holding out both hands, and as he
took them, the door opened, and Effie Bulteel came in.

When he had gone, and he went immediately, Effie flung her arms round
Gay, and gave her a good hug.

"I don't care what Tom says, or how those horrid papers lampoon you,"
she cried, "it was awfully game of you, and I'd have loved to do it
myself!"

"You're a trump!" cried Gay.  "You see, the driver was tight, and I
_longed_ to do it, so when the opportunity came, I was like the
teetotaler who joined the Blue Ribbon Army, because he thought it
must be so delicious to be tempted--and to _fall_--and I fell!"

Effie laughed heartily, then exclaimed:

"Poor Carlton!  But what a fool to be caught like that!  Gay, if ever
you want a thing done properly, get a knave to do it--"

"But I _didn't_ want," cried Gay, "and as to that Gold Vase, it may
be turned into a coal vase for all I care.  He--he is going abroad at
once--he has written to tell me so."

"_Reculer pour mieux sauter_," said Effie significantly.  "Awfully
good form of him, though, to clear out just now, instead of appearing
like a tradesman with his bill made out, waiting for it to be paid,
and a receipt given!  And Chris out of the running, too!  Poor Gay!
You'll have to take the Trotting man after all."

"Only, even if I wished it, he won't take me," said Gay, and laughed
at the epithet--Effie, like others, was still possessed of the
entirely mistaken idea that Trotting was the be-all and end-all of
Rensslaer's life, when in fact it was only one, and that by no means
the greatest, of his hobbies.

"I don't believe in platonics, you know," said Effie drily, "and I
intruded on quite an affecting little tableau just now.  But now,
Gay, what are you going to do?  Tom says, of course, you'll drop
it--the Trotting, I mean--

"I'd die sooner!" cried Gay, with flashing eyes.  "Effie, if you've
come here only to tell me that, then you are no real pal of mine.
The least you can do is to stand by me, you and Tom--I can't attend
the race Meetings alone, or with Lossie, who has been perfectly
hateful to me."

"Ah!" said Effie sympathetically, "she would, you know!"

"And Frank simply won't--besides, I don't want to be regarded as
keeper to a lunatic.  Failing you and Tom, I'll have to attend the
meetings with Rensslaer or Min Toplady--or both!  We don't want our
friends when we are in the right, but to dig us out of holes that our
own folly has let us into--though in spite of everything I'm glad,
_glad_ I drove yesterday!"

"It's true I have some influence over Tom," said Effie thoughtfully.

"Boundless," murmured Gay.

"But I don't think it goes far enough to make him attend, or consent
to my appearing at, a Trotting Meeting.  I believe he's really glad
Carlton's warned off--a sort of being saved from the evil to come,
you know."

"If the man I married, refused to perform an act of Christian charity
for my greatest friend, I'd know the reason why, that's all," said
Gay curtly.

Effie gasped.  This was a new Gay, with whom she did not know how to
reckon--evidently Trotting was spoiling her sweet temper....

"But is it charity?" she said.

"Didn't you say just now how you'd have liked to do what I did?"
cried Gay in a rage, "and now you're jibbing at the consequences!  I
don't--I face them.  And it's just a piece of snobbishness for Tom to
turn up his nose at what is good enough for Rensslaer, and the very
pick of American sportsmen!"

"Yes, everywhere but in England," said Effie absently.

Gay's jibes had hit her hard, and she was wondering if it would be
possible to persuade Tom...

"When is the next Meeting--and where?" she said.

Gay told her, and making a rapid calculation of dates and
engagements, Effie exclaimed:

"There's no racing that day!  Look here, Gay, I'll use every means of
bribery and corruption to get Tom to drive us down--"

"Don't," said Gay coldly.  "Put it on the bare ground of loyalty to a
friend."

"Call it what you like.  And if he does, we'll stick to you like
burrs--anyone who cheapens you, takes on the three--"

"Thank you, Effie," said Gay quietly, but wishing all the same that
her friend had done the right thing, without having the way pointed
out to her so violently.

"Come out," cried Effie briskly--"come out and show yourself.  My
motor's at the door.  Put on your smartest hat and clothes, and your
best 'don't-care-a-damn' smile, and face the music."

Gay did, and by the time they had shopped in Bond Street, traversed
Piccadilly twice, dropped in at Effie's club, and fooled round
generally till lunch-time, then attended an At Home or two, winding
up with tea at Rumpelmeyer's, it was the general opinion of those who
saw her, that the person least ashamed of what she had done the
preceding day, was Miss Gay Lawless.




CHAPTER XX

A TICKLISH MOMENT

Tom Bulteel, red-faced, blue-eyed, taciturn, with Gay beside, and his
wife and Rensslaer behind him, tooled his bays down to the next
Trotting Meeting, and tried to look as pleasant as the character of
the big crowd and unwonted surroundings permitted.  The attendance
was a record one, the front of the track thronged with people, while
the number of conveyances of all kinds, from waggonettes to
nondescript traps, was altogether phenomenal, for it was the
expectation of seeing Miss Lawless drive again, and also the
possibility of Rensslaer doing so, that had brought down a strong
contingent of the press.  A multitude of snapshotters attended her
every look and movement, those, however, who expected an Amazon,
found a pretty, modest little girl, very quietly dressed, under the
powerful ægis of the well-known Captain and Mrs. Bulteel, and the
boisterous half-cheer of greeting from the Ring that broke forth at
sight of her when the coach swept up, was somehow never finished.

Probably if Rensslaer had not been present at her recent new
departure, and displayed such an obvious interest in her, no
particular scandal would have attached to it, and Gay's driving
herself been regarded merely as the bold freak of a free-and-easy
young lady, who went in for a free-and-easy sport, and as such
applauded.  But his close attendance had focussed public attention
upon her, inclining an eager trotting world to the belief that she
had converted him to her views, and that shortly he would bring his
enormous experience, superb driving, and splendid cattle to the
sport, thereby giving it a tremendous leg-up.  But in this also, as
in Gay's case, they were disappointed, for neither then, nor at any
subsequent time, did Rensslaer repeat his performance on the Gold Cup
day.

Min Toplady was there, and greeted Gay with effusion when the latter
went over to speak to her, but nervously, too, for those "snapping
fiends," as she called them, who pursued Gay everywhere, more than
ever brought home to Min the conviction that this Trotting business
was a hideous mistake on the part of so young a girl, and that Gay's
daring escapade had cheapened, and inflicted a distinct loss of
prestige on her.  Thanks, however, to the countenance afforded by
Captain Bulteel and his wife, as they made a tour of the track, she
was everywhere received with a silence that passed for respect,
instead of the familiar badinage that Min dreaded, though if Gay
appeared to notice nothing, she was really having a very bad quarter
of an hour, and longing for it to be over.

Just before the second race, she and Rensslaer strolled quietly down
to the rails to investigate the cause of a long delay, which was
really owing to the drivers all jockeying for a good start, when the
face of a little man in orange, driving a handsome pacer, suddenly
became such a vivid study in emotions of fear, astonishment, and
horror, as made Gay glance quickly at her companion for an
explanation.

"It is only that he thought me in Paris," said Rensslaer drily, "so
is driving my private sulky that I keep here for occasional use," and
Gay's face changed as she thought of that delicious unlawful drive of
hers, when Brusher Tugwood had, unknown to her, borrowed Rensslaer's
wagon, and its owner by accident had seen her, and so a new and
delightful friendship had come into her life.

Anyway, her mania had not been all loss--and then, as much against
his will, owing to false starts, the guilty little man passed, and
repassed them, a fresh expression on his face every time, and all
intensely diverting, Gay laughed more heartily than she had done for
days past.

"What will you do to him?" she inquired, wiping her eyes, when at
last the horses had started, the lightness and grace of Rensslaer's
wagon showing in favourable contrast to the clumsy make of the
English ones, but he only shook his head; she knew well enough he
would do nothing.

They leaned forward, watching the race, and soon it was apparent that
a collision was inevitable, as the man in the orange jacket unfairly
overhauled the leader; the next moment, the wheels of both sulkies
locked, and the driver of the one "fouled," fell heavily on the track.

"Badly hurt, I'm afraid," said Rensslaer, and Gay turned pale as she
saw through her glasses the faces of the crowd that had closed round
the prostrate man.  Almost at the same moment, a cheer rang out, for
the driverless horse decided to race on his own account, pacing past
in grand style, and going much better on his own, than when under
control.  It really was a remarkably pretty sight as he went round
the course four times at the rate of 2.40 a mile, before he caught a
wheel, and was easily stopped.

"There's nothing to beat it, really," exclaimed Gay with some of her
old enthusiasm, for she honestly thought a trotter or pacer going his
fastest, a far greater example of the poetry of motion than a
racehorse.  "But do go and find out if that poor fellow is very much
hurt.  It was a bad day for you when you came out, my little man,"
she remarked to herself as Rensslaer departed--"first to be caught,
then to 'foul' and half-kill your rival"--for soon she saw a sad
little procession winding away, and Rensslaer returned to tell her
that the driver's injuries were very serious, and that he was on his
way to a local hospital.

This damped Gay's spirits.  She thought of Chris, began to think that
she brought bad luck, and even her excellent prospects for the next
race did not cheer her, though in the event her expectations were not
justified.

The start was bad, and Gay's pacer went to a break, losing probably
fifty yards.  Miss Letty brought the field along for the first half
at a merry gait, and Old Joker drew up to her, while Gay's horse was
a long way behind.  In the last quarter of a mile he stepped a
terrific gait, and in spite of so much ground to make up, he looked
to have a chance, but one hundred yards from the finish he went to a
break, and Old Joker gained the verdict.

Winner's gait per mile, 2.20, as Gay saw by the stop-watch on her
wrist that Rensslaer had secured for her (similar to those used by
the judge and starters), which by pressure on a button, registers the
exact number of seconds in which a race is won, also the time taken
by the second horse.

Suddenly, as Gay watched her man place a cooler, with her monogram in
the corner, over the horse and sulky, completely covering both, a
great distaste, disgust even, for her surroundings seized her.  All
the bubbling joy that had attended her new pursuit right up to the
time of winning the Gold Vase, was completely quenched in her, and
Chris's indignant protests against Mackrell's encouraging her in so
unsuitable a pursuit rang in her ears, as she moved about with
Rensslaer, snapshotted here, stared out of countenance there, though
with nothing worse than a tentative remark occasionally addressed to
her by Trotting habitués, who regarded her probably as one of
themselves.

"Better luck next time, miss," smirked one obviously public-house
gentleman, but Rensslaer did not resent the freedom as Mackrell on
her account would have clone.  She had always been quick to note that
he evinced no distaste when claimed in acquaintance by common persons
in the crowd, who seemed to look up to him with almost supernatural
admiration, and once again Gay admired the simplicity of the man, the
entire absence of "side" that distinguished him, in whatever company
he found himself.

Luncheon was taken on the coach, and Gay's second race, in which
Maudie T. was successful, coming on soon after, it was comparatively
early when Tom Bulteel headed his bays for town.

"Thank God that's over!" he thought with a sigh of relief, for
disagreeable as the duty was, at least his presence, and that of his
wife, had effectively saved Gay from overt impertinence, and the
running fire of chaff to which only a coster-lady would have been
equal in reply.




CHAPTER XXI

AUNT LAVINIA

Unhappy about Chris, worried at Carlton's self-expatriation, and
deeply dissatisfied with her sporting experiment, Gay got into the
way of going much oftener to the little South Street house than
usual; she even accompanied Aunt Lavinia on some of her secret
charitable errands, and found her own troubles recede to very
trumpery affairs indeed, in the light of the real tragedy of the poor
that underlies all, especially town life.

She began to question her right to waste money as she did on Trotting
and otherwise, and her ambitions seemed puerile, even common, as
contrasted with those of this dear little lady, who was always sowing
as flowers in the King's garden, the loving thoughts, the helpful
deeds, that unlike earthly flowers, would never fade.  And as Lavinia
was growing old, and time was short, she sowed as hard as she could,
and unhappy, selfish people looking at her, always busy, always
happy, wondered what her secret was--Lossie would never learn it, but
Gay perhaps got some inkling in those visits to the poor, where her
bright face and warm heart served her well.

It came as a great surprise to her to find that Chris, who in an
unobtrusive way helped his less fortunate brothers of the pigskin far
more than he could afford, assisted many poor people through Aunt
Lavinia, and while she knew that racing men are proverbially
generous, not to say princely, in their charities, she was greatly
pleased at this new light on his character.

"Chris has the loveliest disposition, and the tenderest heart in the
world, my dear--it's as big as an ox's," said Lavinia one day, when
she and Gay were returning from a visit where they had poured
sympathy into a bereaved creature's bleeding heart, and incidentally
food and firing into her larder and cellar.  "Carlton Mackrell
hasn't--and it's such a pity, as he's so rich, and could help so
much--but that's how it always is in this world, and always will be."

Gay turned her head aside to hide a blush of pleasure, for praise of
Chris was very sweet to her--indeed, he was so constantly in her
thoughts, that the merest shake brought his name to her lips.

"He's always doing something kind to somebody--except me," she said.
"He knows it breaks my heart for him to ride, and he will do it."

"Poor boy," said Aunt Lavinia, and sighed, "he can't help it.  That
passion for horses is in the blood of his family.  You can spill it
if you like, but you can't get it out."

"But it's rough on other people," cried Gay.  "Chris gets all the
fun, and those who love him the sorrow."

"So you _do_ love him, Gay?" said Aunt Lavinia, who for all her
goodness had on occasion a most unsaintly twinkle in her eye, as at
that moment.

"Auntie, _who_ would love a man who keeps your heart in your mouth,
and always--always in a drivelling state of terror that he'll be
brought home to you in pieces, just alive in the biggest piece?  I
have a feeling that the mere thought that _I expect_ him to have an
accident every time, will bring about one!  I'd rather be an old maid
(I should never make a delightful one like you) and dry-nurse Heron
for the rest of my life, than live in such a purgatory of hopes and
fears."

"Well, Gay," said Aunt Lavinia, "he would die in the way he liked,
wouldn't he?  And real love consists, not in making others do what we
like, but in wanting them to be happy, so long as it is in no
disgraceful way, let us suffer what we may.  I hate racing, as you
know--but then I don't like your Trotting at all either, my
dear"--and shook her head, Gay was on the wrong tack, but only going
through the mill would set her on the right one.

Gay sighed.  She had long ago found that Trotting, like marriage,
"takes a lot of kidding," and the less she enjoyed it, the more she
"kidded," but not to herself, being by now very sick of the fad that
she had so light-heartedly taken up.

The horses themselves, the actual racing part, still appealed to her;
she thought their action the prettiest possible sight, and never lost
her pleasure in seeing them go--loved a close finish--it was the
surroundings that disgusted her.

"Anyway, my fad is not dangerous to life--like Chris's," she said,
then suddenly remembered the ugly fall she had witnessed from the
tiny perch on Rensslaer's borrowed sulky, and the life-long injury to
the back that ensued.

"Are you not both a little selfish, my dear?" said Lavinia.  "Laddie,
(her pet-name for Chris) won't give up his racing, nor you your
trotting--but there is more reason in his asking the sacrifice from
you, than your demanding it from him.  His mother did not."

"Oh!" cried Gay passionately, "knowing what it must have cost her,
how could he do it?"

"I believe there is a special Heaven to which good sons go," said
Lavinia, softly putting the question by.  "I don't say good
mothers--that's natural--but to be a perfect son, and yet to be a man
at all points--a man of the world even--like Chris--that's rare--rare
and most beautiful."

Then Lavinia confided to Gay with a blush that the only reason she
ever regretted not having married--and at times she regretted it
intensely--was because she wanted a son--a son like Chris.

"You and his mother were great friends," said Gay very gently.

"Yes--if either of them could have any real friend but each other.
They made the most delightful pair.  Whenever you met them--and they
were never apart except when he was racing--they were having no end
of a good time, and cutting jokes together--what one said, the other
thought, and it was always amusing.  I remember her talking one day
to Chris about something she would do 'when she was old and
respectable,' and he said, 'you'll never be old, and you'll never be
respectable,' and they both roared--it was a treat to see them
together."

"He will never think any other woman fit to tie her shoe-string,"
said Gay.

"Oh," cried Lavinia, "she was by no means perfect!  'Chris loves me
for what I might have been--not for what I am,' she said to me one
day.  But cheer up, Gay, the dear boy will put on weight, and settle
down quietly, and ride to hounds like any other country gentleman,
once you are married."

But Gay could not see Chris jogging to hounds on a weight-carrier,
and she worried a good deal in a quiet way.  The world said there was
nothing like taking up a man's pursuits to rub the bloom off a girl's
face, and being so famous--or notorious--had by no means improved her.

Something of her snap and freshness had departed, and Min Toplady,
who occasionally saw her at Meetings, observed with much concern that
her young lady had grown thinner, quieter, that the radiant girl who
had gone to Inigo Court with Chris, to applaud Carlton Mackrell when
he won, had vanished, seemingly never to return.  Min wished that
gentleman would come home, persuade Gay to marry him, and settle down
in the country as a sporting squire, with her for the Lady Bountiful
that Nature had plainly cut her out to be.  Of course Mr. Chris was a
dangerous rival, but neither rich like the other, nor desirable as a
husband, from the habit he had of risking his neck whenever he got a
chance.  And Min did not think Miss Gay would elect to live with her
heart in her mouth for at least six months out of every year, so that
the betting was at least even on Carlton Mackrell.  Of course, _that_
Miss Lossie was always waiting to cut in, and get the latter for
herself, but, as Min vulgarly expressed it in her own mind, he wasn't
taking any.

Fortunately the Professor did not worry Gay, for as if to make up for
wasted time, and terrified of meeting Lossie, he had disappeared
among his microscopes and tubes, and burrowed there.  He seemed, as
Gay expressed it, to be chewing the cud of ticklish experiments that
wouldn't come off, and when he went down to see Chris, he did not
offer to take her, nor did she propose to accompany him, for even
while her heart yearned over the boy, she felt for him a curious
anger, realising all that his love of steeplechasing cost her.

He also was having by no means a rosy time, either in body or mind,
for by careful editing, she was made to furnish spicy tit-bits to the
newspapers, and he raged at the accident that had put him out of the
running in more ways than one, just when Gay had never so badly
wanted all her friends.

Brusher Tugwood's disgust at Carlton Mackrell's expulsion had been
deep and bitter.  He always persisted in it that private spite was at
the bottom of the affair, that his master had been too successful in
beating the public-house pacers, and he also resented Gay's lukewarm
interest in the sport she had taken up so keenly, and blamed her for
not interesting Rensslaer in it to some practical purpose.

But now, to all lovers of horses, a new topic had arisen.  There had
begun to loom up in the public view, a forthcoming International
Horse Show at Olympia, that was to eclipse anything of the kind ever
before seen in England.

At first women took but a languid interest in it, and if anyone had
predicted that all London would literally besiege the historic hall
to catch a glimpse of the wonderful arena, and the brilliant equine
contests conducted therein, he would have been laughed out of court.
But when a whisper flew round that it was to be _the_ big social
event of the season, that the King and Queen were going, and it would
be a place for one's very smartest frock and hat, also that at least
six millionaires had entered the pick of their studs, and over two
thousand entries were already made, public attention awoke;
everywhere horses, and the sumptuous surroundings they were to have,
became the principal topic of conversation.

It seemed that although Great Britain had all the time been the
premier horse-breeding country of the world, it was only now that
Englishmen in general had awakened to the fact--strange in a
horse-breeding nation, that had for one and a half centuries, prided
itself upon its devotion to, and its pre-eminence in, this
all-important matter!

It was a surprise to Gay to find that Rensslaer took so much interest
in it, for she knew him to be a rather severe critic of horse shows
in general (he excepted shows such as Richmond, etc.), his criticisms
being based on firm foundations, but she quickly discovered how
completely his heart was in it, when he discussed animatedly with her
the scope of the idea.

"You see," he said, "in England hitherto a horse show has been
designed solely for horsey people--for those who desire to buy and
sell; the scene is gloomy, and in consequence the spectators consist
almost entirely of men, only the horsiest women attending them."

"_I_ know," said Gay, making a little face, for she had attended one
with enthusiastic Chris--to her sorrow.

"The curious thing is," went on Rensslaer, "that though horse shows
undoubtedly originated in England, starting with classes for young
breeding stock at the agricultural shows as early as 1840, the
development of this idea is undoubtedly due to a book--Mr. Samuel
Sidney's 'Book of the Horse.'  From that time the movement spread in
Europe, America, and the Colonies, and the International view was
taken up by foreign supporters of horse shows, who held them in
Paris, Berlin, Brussels, The Hague, Chicago, and New York."

"Especially New York," said Gay.  "Is it true that the Madison Square
Gardens Horse Show sets the American fashion for the year?"

"Yes--the public goes to view the show, but the show that it views is
in the boxes, not the ring.  The horses?  Oh! there are some very
fine horses shown, and the papers devote a quarter of a column or so
to describing them.  But it's a good thing all the same."

"It's time we 'bucked up,' for England was dropping behind a bit,"
said Gay confidentially.  "But what can you expect with Free Trade,
and the present Government?"

Rensslaer laughed.

"She won't be behind this time.  No such show will ever have been
held in England.  The great point is, that the thing has been so
conceived that the most unintelligent mind on horsey affairs may be
thoroughly interested.  In those details where every other horse show
usually bores, because of tedious routine, this one will appeal to
the expert, and non-expert, and if you'll contrast jumps made of real
turf, with the way other shows are done, with bare boards and dirty
hurdles as the enclosure of the ring, you'll see the improvement.
Then the natural disappointment among foreign visitors that there are
no English gentlemen of the same class to ride against, is being
met--no grooms will be seen in the ring, and a great effort is being
made to get English officers themselves to ride."

"Of course it is a move in the right direction that gentlemen in
appropriate costume should ride the jumpers, and not dirty
stable-boys in hobnailed boots," said Gay, thinking of how Chris
would have _loved_ to ride, and how delightful he would have looked.

"It's astonishing how much better a gentleman sits, and in how much
better form he rides," said Rensslaer, "so that the moment he
commences riding, you can tell he is one."

Gay nodded; she had often remarked it.

"We hope to have picked out the best features of every International
Horse Show," said Rensslaer.  "The system of having appointment
classes, will spare the public the ugly sight of seeing horses driven
in quite inappropriate carriages, such as a fat hackney in an
American speed wagon, and so on, thus a great impetus will be given
to the carriage trade.  Then there will be the ladies' 'George the
Fourth' phaeton class, a low two-horse carriage with a seat for a
servant behind, which is the proper carriage for ladies driving,
instead of a high dogcart, or any two-wheeled carriage, which is only
fit for a publican's wife out on a bank holiday."

"Or a Trotting Meeting," said Gay slyly.

He laughed.

"There is no doubt," he said, "that the show will do good, not only
by welding the forces of breeders, exhibitors, and dealers together,
but also by encouraging the breeding of the best type of the English
horse, and thus help to remove one of the most serious objections to
automobilism--the fear that it will result in the ultimate extinction
of the horse.  It will be the finest display of horse-flesh and of
horsemanship that has ever been seen on so gigantic a scale in
England, or perhaps even in the world."

"I hope we are all right!" exclaimed Gay, jealous for her
mother-country.

"Well," said Rensslaer, "though the competition of America and the
Continent will be strong, and meet with a certain amount of success,
I think the English exhibitors will hold their own, and from whatever
country the winners come, it is always the English strain that wins,
though the fact is possibly more obvious to the foreigner than to
ourselves.  I want you and the Professor to come to Elsinore one day,
and see what I am sending--"

But Gay declared this to be impossible; her brother had completely
withdrawn into his scientific shell, and to dislodge him was
impossible.  Besides, Rensslaer had delayed so long in inviting them,
a little to her surprise, that now she felt in no particular hurry to
go, and he did not press the point.  It was only later that she
discovered in his apparent inhospitality, but another instance of
Rensslaer's fine tact, how it was not until he knew her to be finally
disgusted with Trotting as a sport, that he showed her the real
thing, the game as it should be played, such Trotters as she had
never dreamed of.

It would be hard to say why Rensslaer, in whose life women had no
place, (though he had his own romance hidden away, as Gay had always
suspected), took so much interest in the girl, gave her so much
precious time, when in his many-sided life, and the multiplicity and
engrossing interest of his hobbies, he had none to spare for his old
friends, much less for society, which he despised.

But he liked her sporting spirit when first he saw her at Inigo
Court, pitied her for the disillusion that her Trotting passion was
bound to bring her, admired her pluck when things went wrong, found
her true-hearted, honest and kind, therefore after his own heart.

Yet when he went presently away, he somewhat sadly thought of the
careless, happy girl, enthusing about her Trotters, whom he had found
on his first visit.  Unconsciously he murmured to himself:

  "Give her back her youth again,
  Let her be as she was then!
  Let her wave her little hand
  With its gesture of command...."


Yes, even the lightest bruise on youth, splendid, unbroken,
unconscious even in its selfishness, was a pity.




CHAPTER XXII

KING OF THE ROAD

Lossie, waiting in the tiny blue dining-room in South Street for Gay
to fetch her, glanced round at the blue walls, the old copper prints,
the bits of old Nankin, at the flowers on the table, blue also, and
looking in the glass at those bluer flowers in her own head, felt a
sudden nostalgia, a longing to have Carlton Mackrell beside her in
her own _milieu_.  It is what a woman in love always wants, and
everyday her pain at the deprivation of Carlton's society became
sharper, for there is no greater spendthrift in love than the selfish
woman who has the full intention, _bien entendu_, of getting her own
back, in one form or another.

Turning to the window, she saw Gay drive up, and cheerily wave her
whip to her--that was the disgusting thing about Gay, that whether
really happy, or only pretending, she always pluckily tried to live
up to her name, thought Lossie, as she went out, pretending to
herself that she was a mere cat's-paw, to be used or ignored by Gay
as occasion served, but really glad of the opportunity of displaying
her lovely clothes.

"Aunt Lavinia's slumming," said Lossie, in reply to the other's
query, as she climbed to her perch.  "Why don't you start a motor?"
she grumbled.  "This Ralli car is so selfish--you can't give your
friends any sort of a time with it, or take them any distance.
Nowadays one must either motor or be motored--and I prefer to do the
motoring myself."

"Thank you," replied Gay with spirit, "I'm like Roosevelt--when
someone asked him the other day when he was going to buy a motor-car,
he said not while there were horses!  I think it's just splendid,"
she added warmly, "for the Americans to come over here, and revive
our rapidly waning interest in horses, and if some of our English
millionaires spent their money in the same way, then so much the
better would it be for horses, and for us!  The horse is our friend
even more than the dog, and I'd like to see him kept for enjoyment,
not degraded to rough street work--_that's_ where the motor-car
should come in!"

Lossie did not trouble to argue the point, she was better occupied in
watching the effect of her beauty on the passers-by, and certainly
the despised Ralli was very smartly turned out, as usual.  The
occasion, too, was pleasant, for they were on their way to see Mr.
Vanderbilt's coach start from the Berkeley Hotel on its trial trip to
Brighton, hence Gay's delight at the fillip given to coaching.

"You don't seem to have troubled much about your Trotters lately,"
said Lossie presently as they turned into Berkeley Square.  "Yet here
is poor Carlton hounded out of England, treated like any low welsher,
because you fancied a wretched Gold Vase!  I wonder you dare show
your face at the Meetings as you do!"

"I shouldn't," said Gay with spirit, "if I had a face as sour as
yours is at this moment!  Really, Lossie, when I look at you, I feel
thankful I wasn't born a beauty--it makes you leave everything
else--manners, good temper, such lots of nice things, to chance, and
the odds are forty to one!"

"Oh, we can't _all_ be a dear, artless little thing, truckling to
men's brutal prejudices--one reason you are so popular with them is,
because you pretend you don't want women to have the vote!" cried
Lossie.

"Nor do I!" cried Gay warmly.  "I consider an excited, shrieking
crowd of sober women clamouring for their rights, more indecent than
a crowd of men drunk who _don't_ clamour, and when it comes to
slapping policemen's faces, padlocking themselves to railings, and
rolling in gutters, it makes me ashamed of wearing a petticoat!"

"Brains never were your strong point, Gay," said Lossie comfortably,
and Gay emphatically thanked Heaven they were _not_.

"The most rabid shrieker of them all would become mild as milk, if
her own little baby were put in her arms, and she had her own man to
love her," declared Gay.  "And as there aren't enough men to go
round, why don't the women emigrate, and fulfil themselves somewhere
else?"

"All women are not so primitive as you are," said Lossie, sneering,
unaware that it was the capacity to _feel_ love as well as evoke it,
that made much of Gay's charm; at the back of all her follies was a
heart of gold, while a cherry stone represented Lossie's own assets
in that particular, save where Carlton was concerned.

But there was no time for further argument, for they found themselves
jammed in the midst of a crowd delighted at the recrudescence of the
horse, with his grace, beauty, speed, and spirit, just as ten years
ago a similar crowd had assembled to see start for the same
destination, that marvel of power and ingenuity which was expected to
displace him--the motor-car.

The glorious days of the "Old Times" coach seemed to be revived when,
drawn by four beautiful greys, their manes braided with red and white
ribbons, their heads decked with red and white camelias, a
clean-shaven, eager-faced young man, with keen dark eyes, the correct
blackness of whose attire was broken by his large red and white
buttonhole, brought his coach up with a flourish, and followed by
shouts and cheers and many cries of "Good luck," shortly sent it on
its way.

Smarter than ever in his tightly-fitting coat, showing the
neatly-folded four-in-hand tie, and segment of scarlet gold-buttoned
waistcoat, Godden sprang from the leaders' heads, and climbing to his
place, blew a cheery blast upon his coach-horn.  And then began the
American's triumph, for he could not have driven a hundred yards
before he found the reward of his enterprise in the way the people,
whether on foot or awheel, recognised, and gave way to him as king of
the road.

Immediately the way was clear, and at a spanking trot, the coach went
bowling along, every horse-drawn or motor-driven vehicle, effacing
itself in honour of the fine team.  The crowd's eyes sparkled with
pleasure and welcome at the sight, policemen saluted, women fluttered
their handkerchiefs, men cheered, the while Godden cheerfully
chirruped a return of their welcome and good wishes, but of all the
people in the streets, those to whom the sight of the splendid horses
gave the most joy, were the cabbies, who took off their hats to a
man, and waved them with ecstatic delight, shouting themselves
hoarse, and nearly falling off their boxes in the process.

It was a royal progress from start to finish--from the time the
greys, that had not turned a hair, were changed, and four browns
substituted, to the mixed team of two chestnut wheelers, black near
leader, and grey on the off lead, that in turn gave way to one of
perfectly matched black-browns.  At every stage there was a big
crowd, till at Brighton it ended in an extraordinary demonstration of
enthusiasm, and through dense, cheering masses that only left a
narrow lane for the coach's passage, the Metropole was reached.

Blocked in the crowd, Gay inclined an eager ear to the cheers that
ran down Piccadilly.  She would have loved to go all the way ... her
thoughts swerved sharply to racing, which was dangerous, wicked
even--did not the poor horses often break their hearts, either dying
on the course, or quietly after the race in their stables?

And Trotting was apparently disgraceful (in England), but to drive a
coach with such horses as she had just seen--why, that would be at
once heavenly and _right_, thought Gay, as she listened to the
echoes, and tried to imagine herself handling the ribbons of the
Vanderbilt coach.

She longed for someone congenial to talk with, and as if in answer to
her wish, Rensslaer, ducking under the horses' heads, suddenly
appeared at her elbow, and Gay's enthusiasm boiled over.

"Even if it _is_ only a passing excitement for a man to whose great
wealth the newest crazes and the most costly distractions are mere
commonplaces," she said, "anyway its a more noble one than any of the
other American millionaires have thought of, and Mr. Vanderbilt
deserves all the credit as a true sportsman that is already his, or
I'm much mistaken."

Rensslaer smiled.

"Aren't you rather hard on millionaires," he said, "almost as hard as
your favourite Roosevelt, who has a healthy hatred for the
multi-millionaire,--says he is worse than a demagogue?  He quotes
some chap who declares that the multi's face has grown hard, while
his body has grown soft, that his son is a fool, and his daughter a
foreign princess, and his nominal pleasures at the best those of
tasteless and extravagant luxury, but whose real delight, and real
life-work, are the accumulation and use of power in the most sordid,
and least elevating form!"

"Out of breath, aren't you?" said Gay.  "Well, thank Heaven you're
not a multi"--not knowing that Rensslaer _was_--"at least he would
admit that you are doing good work with this wonderful Horse Show."

"By the way, I heard from Mr. Mackrell yesterday," said Rensslaer.
"He is coming over for it."

Gay, looking between her horse's ears, waiting for the uplifted hand
of the constable to fall, and release the traffic, turned pale.
There are some debts of honour more binding than the friend's I.O.U.
that is never presented, and Gay felt that Carlton's was one of
them--a queer prophetic instinct told her that this Horse Show was to
be the turning point of her life.

"I was glad to find Mr. Hannen so much better when I went to see him
yesterday," went on Rensslaer.  "He told me he hoped to be well
enough to call on you next week"--here he ducked, and disappeared as
the policeman's hand fell, but Lossie, whose ears were quick, was in
the seventh heaven of delight.

Carlton was coming back; Chris, whose absence and misfortune had
melted Gay's heart, thinned her body, and almost quenched her bloom,
was appearing once more on the scene--everything promised well.




CHAPTER XXIII

AT ELSINORE

After all, it was chance that dictated Gay should go to Elsinore, or
rather the accident of Rensslaer's having cut in just before the
Professor, and obtained a certain rare edition that the latter
greatly coveted.  He would cheerfully have started for Kamschatka to
read or borrow it; Elsinore was nearer, and when Gay mentioned the
invitation, he jumped at it, and went.

So one fine morning in May found brother and sister in the train, and
Rensslaer waited for them at the station with a pair of magnificent
Trotting horses, harnessed to a light road wagon of hickory wood and
steel.  Inviting Gay to share the very small seat with him, he
pointed out, to the Professor's intense relief, a sober open carriage
for the latter's use.

"Take care, Gay," Frank cried quaveringly after her, as she squeezed
in beside Rensslaer, and the next moment, her host's hands twisted
into the loops of the reins, they were sweeping through the silent
streets, and out on to the open road, the air whistling in their
ears, the dust striking Gay's eyes and cheeks like pellets, the
country almost indistinguishable as they flew past, and the sensation
so thrilling that she surrendered herself to it in complete enjoyment.

Smoothly as a sleigh on snow, rode the frail vehicle of less than a
hundred pounds, and record-makers both, were the powerful steeds that
guided by the imperturbable driver with arms outstretched, swift as
the wind, swept up hill and down dale, only once beaten by a motor
that was afterwards overtaken, and then Rensslaer eased his steeds,
remarking that they had covered five miles in twelve minutes.

By then they were in his park, and the horses went more quietly, so
that Gay had leisure to observe the sylvan beauty of the landscape
surrounding Elsinore, to notice the herds of deer visible in every
direction, and also his Indian fighting cocks, who roamed his fields
in intermittent warfare with the old English game.  Somehow Gay felt
that all were sharers in that instinct of friendliness which seemed
to inspire his relations, not only with all his dumb retainers, but
with his fellow-humans as well.

Original in his house as in everything else, Elsinore was an extended
copy of a Russian peasant's cottage.  Made of logs, with a great deal
of carving in wood, and a big Russian stove in each room, the
furniture was covered with linen, embroidered in blue and red by
Russian peasants, the tiles of the stoves being incised in dark blue,
red, emerald green, and gold with white, in true peasant style.

Simplicity was evidently his rule of life, but one room was filled to
the ceiling with books, and to this the Professor naturally
gravitated on his arrival.  Leaving him perfectly happy among those
rare editions of which at odd times Rensslaer was an inveterate
collector, Gay and her host sauntered through the quaint house,
singularly modest for the far-spreading park surrounding it, but
containing many trophies of his skill, and to her utter astonishment,
in other realms than that of sport.

The cases full of gold and silver medals, of stars and decorations,
interested her very little, nor did Rensslaer trouble to explain that
none of those prizes were for horses, but for a domain in which he
stood alone as champion of the world.  But she came to a full stop
before the figure, raised on a pedestal, of a girl with strange
barbaric head-dress above her sweet face, hands folded on breast, and
the drapery a little blown away from the exquisite line of back and
hips, and "Exhibited Allied Artists, 190-" written below.

"That's La Russie," he said.  "The colouring and tinting are an exact
reproduction of the actual dress and jewels."

"It's beautiful," said Gay, to whom the colouring mattered nothing
but the idea was everything, and reluctantly she tore herself away to
look at an Indian Chief in all his war paint, and modelled in silver,
on a table hard by.

From the summit of his brow, and outlining his haughty back, his
feathers made a regal silhouette that extended beyond his horse's
tail, and the contrast of his grim impassivity, and icy air of
detachment, with the horse's eagerness as it strained forward was
marvellously rendered, making Gay declare that the horse was a dear,
and that whoever did that, must love horses.

The same remark applied to a model of Ascetics Silver, winner of the
Grand National 1906, his ribs plainly showing, his upward,
proudly-soaring eye, dilated nostrils, and the veins standing out on
his face and body, drawing from her a cry of delight.  Beneath was
written, "Exhibited Paris Society Animal Painters," and the name of
the sculptor made the girl jump.

"_You_ did _that?_" she cried incredulously, the colour rushing to
her face.

"And here is my Little Mermaid," said Rensslaer, and Gay knew that
what she saw before her was dear to him.

"What a darling!" she exclaimed, and indeed it was a sweet little
body, with childish, startled eyes, and hands impulsively put up to
her cheeks.  One could _see_ the grief and horror in the poor little
thing's face--for of course she was watching her beautiful human
prince being married, and the tears seemed to be just coming.

It was a wonderful piece of work, and threw a new light on
Rensslaer's character.  Gay realised vividly how strong the love of
beauty was in him, how great the power that enabled him to create it,
how profoundly some human experience must have wrought in his mind to
produce such results.

She was silent, shy even, as he showed her the picture of his
grandfather, who had written a wonderful book on religion that had
estranged him from his family, and that the Professor was even at
that moment handling reverently in the library.

"And this is my great-great-great-grandfather," said Rensslaer as
they turned from the inspired head, the tremendous intellectual force
of the author, to an obvious Dutchman of quite another type, but just
as remarkable.

"He was a famous Dutch painter--our present name is an ugly
corruption of his.  We can't help it," said Rensslaer whimsically,
"we must all follow art in one form or another--"  And this was the
man who, by the irony of circumstance, was by the multitude supposed
to regard fast Trotting as the be-all and end-all of life!  Gay
blushed to think of his amusement when she at first regarded him in
the same light--it was perhaps to correct this impression that he had
invited her here, but no, he was too modest, too sincere for that.

"I've never wanted to be a man till I knew you," said Gay a little
enviously; "you turn perpetually from one thing to another, and there
can be no dull moment in your existence."

Was there not?  Across his brown eyes came a shadow that gave the lie
to her words, and once again Gay wondered what the secret romance of
his life was, this man whose ideals of beauty were of the highest, as
his capacity for interpreting them, a conjunction that is very rare.

They were looking at an extraordinary collection of pistols of which
Rensslaer merely pointed out the exquisite workmanship, and it had
just occurred to her that she had heard somewhere that he was a fine
shot, when a servant came to announce luncheon, and on looking for
the Professor, they found him where they had left him.  He had merely
moved entranced from book to book that he had long coveted, and one
rare edition had almost, as Frank confessed, slid into his coat-tail
pocket, so that when Rensslaer asked him to accept it, his joy knew
no bounds.

Yet, after all, Rensslaer's heart was in his horses, not books, as
Gay discovered, when after luncheon, followed by the Italian
greyhound that adored and never willingly left him, they walked
towards the racing track, on the inside of which was turf smooth as a
billiard-table, and surrounding it in the distance, a great belt of
glorious trees.

Gay glanced round eagerly; there was no sign of a horse anywhere, no
stables within sight or hearing, only a peaceful sylvan landscape.
Perfect quiet prevailed as Rensslaer explained to her that his
Trotters were practised, not on the track, but on grass, if they were
to be shown where the ring is of grass, as otherwise a trotter would
be apt to break.

"This grass is kept mown very short, and the turns are purposely not
banked up," said Rensslaer, "as they never are at English horse
shows, and the horses have to get used to it.  I shoe my horses with
spikes when showing, so that they shall not slip up, and have strong
wheels made for my speed wagons, as the strain on unbanked-up turns,
is apt to buckle a very light wheel, which is quite safe on turns
that are banked-up.

He then showed her that on the half-mile track there were
quarter-mile posts, and also eighth of a mile posts at the ends of
the "straights"; the track was two "straights," of an eighth, and two
turns of an eighth of a mile at each end.

"A horse's utmost speed for an eighth can thus be tested," said
Rensslaer.  "It is never advisable to put a horse at his utmost limit
for more than an eighth."

Excusing himself for a brief minute, Gay next saw him in enormous
goggles, bunched up on a slender sulky weighing about twenty-eight
pounds, swinging round curves behind a Trotter that did half a mile
in about a minute or so, and yet never broke into a gallop, and Gay
realised that not so much in his Trotters themselves, as in the
masterly driving of them, Rensslaer's pleasure consisted.  He held
his arms differently--he drove differently to anyone she had seen
before, in its essence his was the same deep joy that Chris found in
the riding at which he excelled.

Her heart warmed to him as she thought of how he had spared her the
humiliation of knowing that Mackrell and she had been playing at a
bad make-believe all the time, that the difference between their
horses and Rensslaer's was, that his had quality, shape, and
soundness--they looked like well-bred chargers, carried themselves
with perfect balance, their hind legs well under them, stopping at a
word without any pulling or fighting, and when the mile was finished,
standing quite still.  The sort of horse to which she and Carlton
were accustomed, were mostly unsound old screws which had a fast
record in America many years before, but having broken down, or being
otherwise cheap, had been bought and patched up, then raced in
England.

At first they had horrified Gay, these poor old raw-boned pacers with
bent knees and hobbles, pulling all on one rein, with any amount of
appliances to enable the man who was pulling for dear life to be able
to hold them, or else little rats of Iceland ponies shuffling along,
and only fit to be seen in a coster's barrow.

"And to think," cried Gay, in tragic tones, "that Carlton and I
fancied _ourselves_--our trotters, I mean!"

"Of course," said Rensslaer, "although speed is the first essential,
I will have no horse which is not absolutely sound, has not good
manners, and does not have to wear boots (except as a precaution
against accident when racing), and a light mouth."

Gay nodded.  She had for the first time discovered how deceptive the
long, raking stride of a record trotter is, for without appearing to
move fast, he is yet making phenomenal time on the track, as drawing
the light, four-wheeled racing wagon with rubber-tyred bicycle
wheels, he glides smoothly along.

Then one by one, or in pairs, the finest animals in the stables were
shown.  Yet with so little effort did horse after horse, team after
team, draw up under the trees in the background, and succeed each
other, that they only blended with the beauty of the landscape, did
not disturb it, and Gay presently gave a great sigh of delight.

"Oh," she said, "it's too much!  I'd like the whole world to enjoy
it--it's too good for poor little me!"

"Well," said Rensslaer quietly, "it will--later."

It was a lovely day, with zephyr breezes--the great charm of it all
was, that there was nothing to suggest the circus or show ring, no
crowd, no betting, no shouting hoarse voices to break the peace, only
splendid animals full of fire, energy, and work, who were just going
at their best for sheer joy in life, joy in their own swiftness,
strength and beauty, delighted to run their race with the green sward
underfoot, and the blue sky overhead.

Rensslaer had made her free of a new and glorious world--the world of
horses, Chris's world.  She longed for him to be there also, for
though she keenly appreciated the daintiness of these thoroughbreds,
their delicate legs and feet, the sheen of their satin coats, their
perfection of grace and movement, she yet felt that she was not
sufficiently a connoisseur to give to every point its full value, as
Chris would so well have known how to do.

"Getting ready for Olympia," said Rensslaer, as a thoroughbred
galloper was harnessed in a jogging cart, and accompanied the
trotters at a hard gallop, often being put to his utmost stretch to
keep up with them, after which Rensslaer showed her several "eighths"
in 15 seconds, a two-minute speed for a mile.

"Just fancy if that dare-devil and Chris got together!" whispered Gay
when there rode out from beneath the trees a superb horseman, young,
cool as a cucumber, who, riding the centre horse, holding the two
outside ones, put them at an obstacle that they cleared like birds.

"He has broken every bone in his body," said Rensslaer grimly; "the
last time the doctor said it was his back, but he wouldn't admit
it--and here he is, you see!"

The boy gave them a taste of his quality when presently his horse
twice swerved aside from the jump, an American runabout luggage
wagon, but cleared it the third time--and once more Gay thought of
Chris, for the two men were alike in not knowing what fear was.  The
resemblance between the two physically, struck her at once--each was
tall, and lean to a fault, each had the same dash and devilry, the
same indomitable pluck, each took an "outing" as part of the day's
sport, and with the fixed purpose to go on doing and daring, and as
by a miracle each had hitherto escaped the clutching hand of death,
and flown beyond its reach.

And yet--and yet, as Chris said, could one die better?  She recalled
Robert Louis Stevenson's query, "_And does not life go down with a
better grace, foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably
straggling to an end in sandy deltas?_"

Those two magnificent horsemen, Whyte Melville and Hughie Owen, went
out at the sport that they loved, and save for those whom they loved,
would they have wished to go any differently?

"I'm very proud of my jumpers," said Rensslaer, who was a keen
hunting man, getting in his six days a week during the winter.  "That
horse"--he pointed one out--"was parted with by his former owner
because he could not jump, and since then, he has cleared six feet
ten inches high, and once a seven-feet jump.  But the Belgians will
win the high-jumping competition at Olympia--Belgian officers easily
out-jump the world,"--and he related some notable feats of theirs,
remarking with great approval that they govern their horses by
kindness.  "As you do," thought Gay.

"That," said Rensslaer, as the handsome rider of a beautiful roan
gelding made his horse dance, and paw, and prance with extraordinary
perfection, in all the tricks of the _Haute École_, "is the best show
rider in Europe."

And so the "private view" went on, it was all quite effortless, and
apparently so unpremeditated, then presently, as she and Rensslaer
quietly chatted, Gay felt the peace accentuated, and glanced around.
They had the wide, lovely park to themselves; the distant trees,
beneath which had emerged the pick of the world's equine beauty,
threw long shadows on the sward only, and Rensslaer, glancing at his
watch, remarked that the Professor would think they were lost.

"Poor fellow!  What he has missed!" said Gay, while Frank, wrapped in
ecstasy, was oblivious of time and place, of everything but having
the run of a treasure-house to which eternity itself could not enable
him to do full justice.

Rensslaer showed her the polo ground, and part of the steeplechase
course, two miles long, then proposed a visit to the stables that
were so completely invisible from the park or house.  But now he
turned sharply to the side of the latter, and by a steep, winding
path concealed among trees, they emerged on the great quadrangle.




CHAPTER XXIV

AN EQUINE PARADISE

In striking contrast to the simplicity of Rensslaer's house was the
vastness of these outdoor belongings, where was celebrated the cult,
the worship, the very apotheosis of the horse, and yet the atmosphere
was one of rest; the sunlight slanted through the green boughs that
overhung the wall, the water sparkled in the centre, there were no
signs of hurry, and but few visible of the small army that served the
beauties in their stalls and loose boxes.  There must be magnificent
organisation here, thought Gay, as she noted the noiseless, perfect
machinery--when a man was wanted, he sprang up, when not wanted, was
not to be seen, and without raising his voice, Rensslaer's orders
were implicitly obeyed--even for the "show" arranged that afternoon
he had merely dropped a few words to his stud groom, and the thing
had gone by itself.

As she moved from horse to horse, each with his famous name on the
wall above, and below, a print of one equally famous, and in the
centre, a superb medallion in marble of a famous trotter going at
full speed, Gay admired the way they just turned their heads to look
quietly at her, like the true aristocrats that they were.  But
Rensslaer was another matter--they knew him even better than he knew
them, and manifested the most lively pleasure when he called each by
name.

"Look out!" he exclaimed, as Gay approached a veteran of twenty-one
years old, who was only retired for old age, after racing till he was
nine, getting a record at 2.15, and then being driven constantly hard
on the road till two years ago.  "He won't let anyone but me go near
him," explained his owner, "he bites everyone else.  Each of these
horses has worn out five or six of the English carriage horses that
did not have nearly so hard a life"--and he explained that the
American horse can do the work of two hackneys, his legs being as
hard as iron.

Amongst the old pensioners, (as their master had never sold a horse
that had done him good service) he showed Joe W., a horse seventeen
hands two inches high, who was nineteen years old.  He had driven him
on the road twelve years, had raced, and only now retired him because
he was getting old, though his legs were still perfectly sound and he
had never been lame, except once from an overreach in a race.  He had
not been coddled, but whenever he was driven on the road, was pelted
along at twenty miles an hour, however hard that road might be.

Only the pick of the horses were stabled there--about sixty were at a
place too far off for Gay to visit, and she got bewildered when she
found that the stable sheltered scores of horses collected from all
points of the compass--English hackneys, American, Russian, and
Austrian trotters, polo ponies, hunters, exhibition leaping horses,
and harness ponies, but Rensslaer did not go in much for
steeplechasing, and for what was done, the boy who had ridden just
now, was responsible.

Gay sighed.  What a little heaven to Chris, and what would not he and
that other boy do--a pair of dare-devils--if pitted against each
other!  She dreaded, while she longed for him to know such bliss, and
herein lay her inconsistency--that she herself loved horses, was
happiest near them, yet would put a limit to Chris's far greater
passion, as if it were to be measured by rule of thumb!

It was in this spirit that she asked Rensslaer to get him down later,
but on no account to let him and the other boy meet, and Rensslaer
laughed, and promised.  He had already decided on making Chris a
certain offer, and had great hopes that he might accept it.

Resuming their progress, he explained to Gay that his horses did one
thing only--the trotters only trotted, the jumpers only jumped, and
the horses went through special courses of medicine, and special
courses of food on a strict system.  To train a horse so that he
shall be both heavy and fit, requires a refinement of training to
which only the Americans have attained, and at Elsinore the most
elaborate system of discipline was carried out, but in a kindly
spirit, and the horse prepared for the life he had to lead.  He took
her off to the breeding paddocks, that had a lot of both American
ex-champion trotting and "Pace and Action" mares, and also prize
hackney mares, all with foals by trotters and hackneys, his idea
being to breed, besides racing trotters, for racing on the Continent,
show horses which should have more speed and quality than the
hackney, whilst retaining their action, and to this end he crossed
the American trotter with the hackney.

"If my attempts to improve the English hackney by giving him some of
the pace and action of the fast trotting horse should be crowned with
success, I shall be satisfied," he told Gay, and he pointed out a
foal that looked like a thoroughbred, and moved like a trotter with
hackney action.  In fact, most of these cross-bred foals looked the
ideal carriage horse--good whole colours, great quality, long necks,
very high action, great speed, and perfect manners, and there was
never any difficulty in breaking them.  Then came an inspection of
the racing sulkies, which had an extra low seat so as to come round
the turns better; then there were the long-shaft sulkies for a horse
who has high action, and makes the ordinary sulky bob up and down,
the jogging carts for exercising in, and the four-wheeled,
single-seated racing wagons, called speed wagons, used by gentlemen
driving in the States for Matinée or Amateur Trotting races.  This
obviates the necessity of spreading the legs apart on each side of
the horse, and for some horses this does not diminish their speed, in
fact they can go faster in a wagon than in a sulky, in spite of the
extra weight, as it runs smoother, and does not hamper them.

Rensslaer next took Gay to the outdoor training school, which is
specially designed for the education of jumpers, on the inner side of
which was a platform from which the attendants controlled them, and
she watched them run loose on the track, jumping heavy tree trunks,
fences, and other obstacles, and if they failed in their riderless
freedom to clear them, they gained experience in the tumble that
ensued, which served them well later.

She was shown how a horse is made familiar with the trials and the
terrors of the road, and is taught to understand them.  A machine
that makes a noise like a score of motors all going at once,
convinces the animal that the hateful thing means no danger to him,
and quick to take a hint as his nature is, he approaches with
confidence and freedom the tasks he has to face in his curriculum,
and is soon well-equipped to face the emergencies of his career.

Then followed an extraordinary exhibition of skill in which Rensslaer
was evidently keenly interested, that consisted in the lassoing of a
supposed vicious horse by long reins held in the hands of the _Haute
École_ rider, so that he is brought first to one knee, and then
another, and rendered helpless, and the lesson taught him that force
is of no avail against brains and cunning.

Gay sighed when at last they left the great quadrangle, steeped in
the peace of the evening hour, and visited the yard where choice
Belgian griffons and Pomeranians yelped in ecstatic chorus when
Rensslaer approached their kennels--yet much as Gay loved dogs, she
could not admire them like the beauties she had just left.  Moreover,
it was growing late, and they entered the house.

When she had dug out the Professor, still dead to the world, and
asking nothing better than to remain dead, they had tea, and departed.

"Really a most remarkable individual, my dear," said the Professor,
for a man who could do all the varied things his host could, and yet
have the brains and taste to collect such books as the Professor had
been gloating over, was not to be met above once in a lifetime.  "In
_his_ case, success is not due to his wealth."

"In spite of it, you mean!" cried Gay.  "If it's easier for a camel
to go through the eye of a needle, than a rich man to enter the
kingdom of heaven, it's a million times more difficult for him to
live his own life, act up to his ideals, and fulfil the genius that
is in him.  The world won't _let_ him as a rule."

"And to think that such a man as that should keep _Trotters_!" said
the Professor, who, if he thought at all of what Gay had been doing
that glorious June afternoon, concluded that she had enthused over
something a trifle better than the weedy specimens he had seen at
Waterloo Park.

But Gay sat very still, thinking.  She had found herself admitted to
a paradise hitherto undreamed of; it was as if, seeking a single
diamond, she had found a Golconda, and something of Chris's passion
for horses had been breathed into her ... they were so much, much
more beautiful than humans, more clever even in some respects ...
with one-half of her soul she worshipped, with the other half feared
them, as the real rivals to her happiness.




CHAPTER XXV

THE TUG-OF-WAR

Chris looked very white and thin, but just as smart as ever, and
completely unsubdued in spirit and intention, when he called in
Connaught Square one afternoon late in May, and found Gay in.

She looks prettier than ever, he thought, if less rounded than of
yore, and if he had expressed sorrow at causing her so much pain,
Gay's tender heart would instantly have melted, but for all his
delight at seeing her, his evident determination to treat his
accident as a trifle not worth talking about, put her back up to
begin with.  And when he unblushingly asked her to condole with him
on the number of good things he had missed, and roundly abused the
Professor and his understudy, for refusing him permission to ride
with an arm strapped to his side, Gay's patience gave way utterly,
and the first little rift within the lute made itself known.

Poor Chris felt that coldness in the air, but had not the key to the
puzzle, and he could not make Gay out.  Instead of the jolly little
girl, eager to hear all about his stable, to discuss his horses, his
hopes and future chances, to buck him up as she had so often done
when things went wrong, she did not seem to have a word to throw to
him except about trivial matters that didn't in the least interest
him--or her, formerly.

How could he tell that those moments in which she saw his colours
closed in by a mêlée of struggling horses and men, had changed her
from a careless, happy-go-lucky girl, who laughed at accidents, had
scarcely flung a fear even to death, to a thoughtful woman whose
outlook on life would never again be quite the same?  In a word, what
he did before had not mattered, but now that she knew she loved him,
it _did_, yet this solution never occurred to him, nor was there
anything in her manner to suggest it--quite the reverse, in fact.

He asked her a few questions about her horses, and what they had done
lately, as the papers did not always chronicle their doings, and she
told him of their failures and successes, quite without enthusiasm,
and Chris came to the conclusion that experience and Rensslaer
combined, had put her off Trotting.  And if she did not tell him that
her horses were entered for no more fixtures after the end of June,
and that her brief connection with Trotting would altogether cease on
her return from abroad, Chris saw, clearly enough, that she took no
more interest in the sport into which she had so light-heartedly
plunged, than she did in his.

If hitherto Gay's life had been regulated by a warm heart, high
spirits, and quick wits, he knew that it was so no longer, and
resented the change in her.  Sunbeams might not fulfil any recognised
place in the scheme of creation, but they were delightful all the
same, and he had been quite satisfied with her as she was.  If he had
only known it, she loved him at that moment more than ever, realising
now she was with him, how completely he had spoiled her for everyone
else, that he was the one companion of whom she never tired, never
could tire.

"Frank and I are going abroad early in July," she said presently, and
Chris's face lengthened.  Steeplechasing was over for the year, and
until he began to train his horses at the end of August, there was
only the flat racing he despised, very seldom took the trouble to
look at--and now Gay, on whose precious company he had counted, was
going away in a little more than a month.

"I shan't be riding again till autumn, worse luck," he said.  "And
I'm too late for Olympia."

Gay looked at him, half-angry, half-reluctantly admiring--here he
was, a mere gaunt shadow of himself, after the worst outing he had
ever had, with only one longing--to court another!

Chris was very sensitive, and his hatred of talking about himself was
only equalled by his horror of being a bore.  So although the change
in her manner hurt him more than either he or she knew, he abruptly
changed the subject.

"You'll let me escort you to your meetings now, with Lossie, of
course," he added grudgingly.  "Tom Bulteel will be jolly glad to be
off duty, I expect."

"And Effie too," said Gay candidly.  "She did detest coming with me
so, but they both played up splendidly, even if Tom's temper has been
perfectly horrid."

"And where is this wonderful Gold Vase?" said Chris, looking at the
centre of the carpet as if he expected to see it installed there as
tutelary god.

"Oh, I hate it!" cried poor Gay, with tears in her voice.  "It's
covered over with a piece of sackcloth--I mean silk--in my den.  It
was won by a fraud--paid for with Carlton's good name--the great
mistake was his thinking I'd value anything bought at such a cost."

"He never expected that brute to follow him up and see the
toe-weights trick," said Chris consolingly.  "Honest men can't play
the rogue, and that's about all there is to it.  Heard from him
lately?"

"He is doing a cure at Aix--for the sake of the scenery, you know!"
she laughed.  "I have had some cheerful, gossiping letters from him,"
and Chris nodded carelessly, as at a matter of no interest to either.
Mackrell had played the fool, and must take the consequences.

Then there was a horrid pause--a pause between these two who usually
chattered like magpies when they got together!

"I made a scrap-book out of the snapshots and sketches of you," said
Chris, rather gravely.  "By a moderate computation there are
somewhere about thirty, and I divided them into groups--the
decent"--he hesitated--"the--not nice--and the positively libellous."

Gay coloured warmly.  If her escapade had brought her a _succès de
scandal_, caused her to be surrounded wherever she went in public,
and make acquaintances faster than she wanted, she knew well enough
the subtle difference in men's manners towards her, since she had
courted publicity.

"It wasn't such a very awful thing to do, really," she said, with a
rebellious toss of her red-brown head.  "It was only those spiteful
wretches made it _look_ bad."

"I'd rather see a picture of you as you look now," said Chris
quietly, and Gay blushed again, the gentlest of reproofs always hit
her hard.

"You see, Chris," she said earnestly, "I had always _longed_ to drive
myself--I had had two trial spins in private--and when I saw my
driver was tight at the critical moment, of course I ought to have
asked Mr. Rensslaer to take his place, but the temptation was too
irresistible, and, of course, I fell."

"So, apparently, did one of the competitors," said Chris; "broke an
arm or leg, didn't he?  So, you see, Trotting people can have
accidents as well as jockeys."

Gay reluctantly admitted the fact.

"Of course," she said, "such a fall may be anything from a scratched
face up to being killed--one of Mr. Rensslaer's drivers had just such
a fall, not from hobbles, but from the track being badly made, and
the man did not hurt himself a bit, but he has known a man killed by
it.  Still, you may say that of every sport.  Take hunting--"

"Oh, Lord," cried Chris, "don't compare our national pastime with
Trotting, please!"

But Gay affected not to hear.  "I can quite understand a man being
fond of riding, or even of 'riding jolly,'" she said severely.  "Our
forefathers did--and on considerably more jumping powder than in
these almost Spartan days--and it must be a lovely feeling that
everything is plain sailing, that neither you nor your horse are
capable of making a mistake--in that heavenly state of mind you do
remarkable things over and over again that you never could do in cold
blood--but that is quite a different thing to steeplechasing!"

"Quite," agreed Chris in a tone that made Gay turn away indignantly,
thinking of Carlton, and what he had not hesitated to do for her.
Yes, Chris was certainly doing his best to throw her into his absent
rival's arms, while on the other hand he was cut to the heart by her
reception of him, so utterly different to the one for which during
long weeks of pain he had longed.

Unconsciously, he had looked for a little of that "mothering" that
the best kind of woman knows how to give the man she loves, when in
trouble, but Chris's pride was more than equal to his tenderness of
heart, and he gave no sign of his wound.

"Mr. Rensslaer has asked us over to his place at Vienna--he is going
to let me drive one of his Trotters for him.  After all," cried Gay,
becoming only the more rebellious under Chris's grave looks--Chris
the gay-hearted, whom she had confidently reckoned on to think her
right whatever she did--"why should a thing that is right in Vienna,
be wrong in England?"

"In Rome," murmured Chris vaguely, "you must do as the 'Rum-uns' do."

"Oh," cried Gay impatiently, "we know that vice and virtue are
matters of climate and colour, that what is right in the east, is
wrong in the west, and it's the same with Trotting--if I am satirised
in England, I shall make up for it in the encouragement and respect I
shall get abroad!"

She jumped up, and fetched some large photographs that represented an
attractive girl driving one of Rensslaer's trotters, and Chris
mentally compared this modest presentment of a modest woman, in an
elegant conveyance, with the fiendish cleverness of a sketch
representing Gay perched upon a shining skeleton wagon, with a
charming leg stretched along a shaft on either side of it.

"You're too good for it, Gay," he said, "either there or here.
Rensslaer is right--there is no future for Trotting under present
conditions in England."

Gay shrugged her shoulders, and abruptly, contemptuously even,
changed the subject.

"I am looking forward tremendously to Olympia," she said, "aren't
you?"

"I suppose the jumping will be all right.  I hear the fences are to
be very much higher than any seen before in other shows in England,
that gentlemen are to ride instead of stable-boys, is good."

There was a note in his voice that made Gay sigh impatiently, and
turn her head away; here was the ruling idea, strong in death, or
what was very near it.

"Rensslaer must have his hands full," said Chris.  "Awfully decent
chap--he has looked me up several times."  He did not say that he had
encouraged him, as bringing news of Gay.

"Oh, he's delightful," said she as tea appeared, and she began to
pour it out.  "His naïveté, his tremendous natural ability, whether
he's revolver-shooting, or writing a play, or modelling, or driving
Trotters, or judging horses, or nursing a cat, or taking a lot of
trouble about a silly girl like me and my stupid fancies, there's no
one like him!"

But Chris was not jealous, though some men might have misunderstood
Gay's intense admiration of Rensslaer's genius and many-sidedness,
and the pleasure his friendship had clearly brought into her life.

"You know the papers have engaged you to him?" he said, and thought
of an extremely uncomplimentary snapshot of Rensslaer, crouched low
on his seat, and made ferocious by his huge goggles, published in the
papers side by side with Gay.

"Why?" she said incredulously.  "Do you suppose that a man like that
would care for a silly little ignoramus like me?"

"Men hate brains," said Chris grumpily, and his temper was not
improved by being told that it was only _boys_ who did.

"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, he _loves_ his 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 they
_are_--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 seem _common_ to
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 I _do_ feel a
burning desire to see the rich enjoy less, and the poor and
unfortunate _suffer_ less, 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 not _she_ who 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 the _impasse_ to 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 of _himself_ before 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.




CHAPTER XXVI

CARLTON'S "LITTLE BILL"

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 those _dolce far niente_
drives 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 the _point d'appui_ between
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 are _à 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 provokingly
_well_--"  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.




CHAPTER XXVII

A _MODUS VIVENDI_

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
with _his_ money.  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 is _work_, 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 how _lean_!"--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 done _anything_
for 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.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE EPIC OF THE HORSE

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 charming _coup
d'œil_ presented, 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, "he _can_ drive!" 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 decided _that_ was 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
the _Haute 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--_not_ horses trained to the _Haute
École_ either--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 picturesque _mise en scène_ for 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.




CHAPTER XXIX

LOVE OR STEEPLECHASING?

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....




CHAPTER XXX

TOO LATE!

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:

  England, 16 cups & championships, 91 1st prizes.
  U. States 2  "           "        14      "
  France   --  "           "         1      "
  Belgium  --  "           "         1      "
  Holland   1  "           "        --      "
  Canada   --  "           "         2      "


"And everyone thought the Belgian champions were going to sweep the
board!" cried Gay.  "After all, the foreigner by no means had it all
his own way, for of the three champion cups awarded, two were secured
by a Kentish man, the third going to America."

"It was a good show," said Rensslaer, looking very pleased, as well
he might, but, though Gay did not know it, more on her account than
his own; it was not to rejoice over his own triumphs, but to share
_her_ happiness that he had called thus early.  But as she gave no
sign, he offered no congratulations, and they chatted about the Show
for awhile, agreeing that the keenest competitions, both from the
international aspect, and that of individual merit, were undoubtedly
the high jump, and the four-in-hands, and he told her that they hoped
to persuade the Italians to come over to the next Horse Show, adding
that they were the finest riders in the world.

Gay nodded.

"Captain Bulteel says that never before have so many high-class
animals been on show in this or any other country.  You must be
awfully proud, Mr. Rensslaer.  You were certainly one of the most
popular of the exhibitors, and your successes were cheered to the
echo."

"I will venture to offer you the pick of my horses for your wedding
present," he said, and Gay coloured brilliantly; how on earth could
he know already of her engagement?

"I am very glad," he said warmly, and got up and went over to her,
kissing her little hand so beautifully that she felt sure he _had_
often done it before.

"He is the best fellow in the world," said Rensslaer.  "I never saw
two people more exactly suited to each other.  His giving up what is
really a passion with him, is a proof not only of his great love for
you, but a moral victory, revealing the real strength of his
character."

"Oh, he never really cared for it," said Gay in some surprise, "and
you see he had to give it up, whether he liked it or not."

Rensslaer was silent, a little chilled and disappointed.  Surely this
was not the Gay that he thought he knew....

"I think you will like the house," he said.  "It is very quaint and
old--some distance from Elsinore, but within the park--"

Gay looked at him, astonished.

"Has he spoken to you already about a new country place?" she said.
"Carlton has several, you know, but no house in town.

"_Carlton?_"

"Why, who else are we talking about?" exclaimed Gay in astonishment,
but she had gone rather pale.

"Of Chris Hannen, of course."

"Why of course?"

Gay's brows were raised; some of the hot anger that burned in her
against Chris overnight, burned still.

"Because you love him," said Rensslaer quietly.

"Love him?  Love a man who doesn't even see me if a horse is
around--who is deaf, dumb as a stock-fish, blind to everything save
an animal that can jump?"

Unconsciously Gay had put up two distracted hands to her face in the
precise attitude of Rensslaer's "Little Mermaid," but it was
indignation, not grief, that distorted her features.

"What has the boy done?" inquired Rensslaer in astonishment.

"Done?  All the passion that is _in_ him goes into horses--and where
do _I_ come in?  Better a thousand times Carlton Mackrell's devotion!
Oh, he wasn't afraid to sacrifice himself for my pleasure!  There's a
grain of romance in him somewhere, to do what he did--and Chris
without a qualm, sacrifices _me_."

"But does he?" said Rensslaer, getting up from his chair, and
walking, more perturbed than Gay had ever seen him, about the room.

"_Does_ he?" said Gay witheringly.  "Oh, it was bad enough right
through the Show--there was thunder in the air all along--but things
came to a head last night with the high jump competition."  She
paused to smile ruefully as the suitability of her comparison struck
her.  "He forgot my very existence--didn't even _hear_ when I spoke
to him!"

Rensslaer shook his head, tried to get in a word edgeways, but
failed; Gay was wound up, and meant to go on.

"Oh, I can speak to you!" she cried passionately.  "You will
understand, as some men can't, how last night in a sudden revulsion
of feeling, I turned from selfish Chris to devoted Carlton, who was
looking at me, thinking of me only, as always--he had never presented
his little bill--well, I would honour it to the full, even before it
was presented.  If Chris had looked at me then ... but he did not.
When I got up, and we went out to the stables, it was all over
really, and outside one of those preposterous chiffon stalls Carlton
asked me, and I said--'Yes.'"

"It's all right," said Rensslaer consolingly, "only you said 'Yes' to
the wrong man.  Now, if you had waited a little longer--"

"A little longer!  Hasn't this Horse Show been going on for a week,
and has Chris Hannen had one thought, one word, when jumping was on,
for me?"

"He was charming to you whenever I saw you," said Rensslaer.  "You
seemed completely happy together, and admirably well suited, as
always."

"So we are--were, I mean," said Gay.

"And I think St. Swithin's, with congenial work among my horses,
would have suited Mr. Hannen very well," said Rensslaer quietly.  "No
steeplechasing, of course--that was in the bond--but plenty of
legitimate riding."

"I don't understand," faltered Gay, but all the same she was
beginning to do so, to realise what her mad fit of temper had cost
her.

"He couldn't help being interested in the jumping right through--he
has never seen anything like it before--and he rides magnificently
himself--I believe could have done anything the others did.
Naturally he didn't want to miss a single point of horsemanship, or
any foreign wrinkle--and can you blame him?  He was watching others
do what he knew he would never have the chance to do--what he longed
intensely to do only he loved you more."

"More?" said Gay faintly, and into the young face that he had first
seen so careless and happy, came a look of misery that pierced
Rensslaer's tender heart.

"Yes.  I offered him a thousand a year, and a house at Elsinore, on
condition he gave up steeplechasing, and he came to me last night
after the Show, and said he accepted my offer, and was coming this
morning to tell you, and ask you to marry him.  You had left, or I
feel sure he would have asked you then."

"Oh, poor Chris!" breathed the girl, her arms falling to her sides,
her grey eyes looking straight before her.

"No--poor Mackrell," said Rensslaer quietly, "for you will be doing
him a great wrong if you marry him, loving the other man as you do.
And I don't wonder"--he smiled--"for Chris Hannen is the nicest boy I
ever knew.  Tell Mackrell it's all a mistake, and as a man of honour
he must at once release you."

"I never break my word," said Gay.  "A pretty rotten sportswoman I
should be if I did.  If Chris came straight to me on leaving
Elsinore, and talked of nothing but your shooting, without saying a
word of the splendid chance you had given him, he deserves to suffer
for such criminal carelessness as regards his own welfare, and my
happiness--"

"He will," said Rensslaer drily--"so will you, for I'm afraid the
aimless sort of existence Mackrell lives, won't appeal to you at all,
unless you live abroad, and he goes in seriously for Trotting."

"As if I would leave Frank like that!" cried Gay indignantly.  "Of
course it will be a long engagement--years and years!"

Rensslaer smiled.  In that case Chris, who was no laggard in anything
he undertook, might be trusted to readjust the position, but that
there would be a stiff tussle over the girl there was no manner of
doubt.

She looked worth any man's love in the short skirt, striped cambric
shirt, and mannish tie that she affected of mornings, her eyes full
of battle, and her heart of trouble.  Then she made a great effort,
and pulled herself together.

"I am very selfish," she said, "and have not half congratulated you
on all your successes.  It was very very wonderful, of course, but
I'd rather have that afternoon at Elsinore over again--the peace, the
loveliness--I was thinking of it the whole time at Olympia."

"It is waiting for you," said Rensslaer quietly, "and as often as you
like, when you come to live at St. Swithin's Court--"

Gay turned aside, to hide the tears that rushed to her eyes at the
thought of all she had thrown away, and at that moment the door
opened to admit Lossie, who was deathly pale, waiting with
ill-disguised impatience for Rensslaer to make his farewells, and
depart.  Left together, the two girls faced each other, but it was
Lossie who spoke first.

"It isn't true?"

"What is not true?"

"That Carlton asked you last night, that you said 'Yes'--Oh!  I saw
it in his eyes--in yours--"

"It is true."

"Oh, my God!" cried Lossie, and beat her hands together.  "You are
doing a great wrong to yourself and Chris--ruining your own life, and
breaking two men's hearts--you and Carlton are utterly unsuited to
each other--and all for a bit of temper--because Chris paid more
attention to the horses at the Show, than he did to you!"

"Well, it's done," said Gay, voice and eyes dull, "and it can't be
undone."

"But it can!  Do you suppose Carlton will take what has been flung to
him in a moment of pique--like a bone to a dog?  Doesn't he deserve
to be loved just as much--and more--than Chris does?  Oh! he could
love a million times better--you have never troubled to sound the
depths of his heart--and you are committing a cruel wrong--a crime
even--if you go to him, knowing that you love Chris!"

"Come to my den," said Gay sharply.  "Carlton may be here at any
moment, and must not find us quarrelling over him," and she led the
way, followed hastily by a woman who had lost all regard for
appearances, and who in her godless selfishness recognised no rights
but those of her passions.

"It is not a matter for your decision or mine," said Gay, when the
door was shut, "but for Carlton.  If he holds me to my promise, I
shall keep it."

"But you'll tell him that you love Chris?" cried Lossie eagerly.

Gay shook her head.  She was very angry with Chris, and his playing
the laggard that morning, was the finishing stroke to his utter
inconsiderateness and folly.  She deeply resented his having spoken
to Rensslaer first, accepting his offer, and thereby taking it for
granted that she was ready to fall into his arms--Gay forgot that she
had given him no chance of doing so, as she had left the building
before the performance was over.

With a sudden womanly comprehension, born of her own pain, she turned
to her cousin, no radiant apparition as of yesterday, but trembling,
haggard, dishevelled almost in her excitement and agony, yet more
beautiful than ever in that abandonment.

"I wish he loved you, Lossie," cried Gay breathlessly.  "I do wish it
with all my heart, and it is quite true what you say--that you are
much better suited to him than I am."

"Give me the chance," cried Lossie, clasping her hands together in
desperate entreaty.  "He can't know how I love, how I _adore_ him; if
he did, and that just as I love him, you love Chris, he couldn't help
loving _me_."

"But I don't love Chris like that," protested Gay, shrinking a little
from this woman whose eyes, lips, voice were passion incarnate;
instinctively she knew that a man prefers to find most of the
vehemence himself....

A servant knocked at the door, and announced that Mr. Mackrell was in
the drawing-room, and the impulse, swift as a bird's homing flight,
that took Lossie half-way across the room to go to him, startled
Gay--just so would she have sped to Chris had all been well between
them--and had not love his rights; was not Rensslaer only but now
insisting on them?

"Lossie," she said, "if you can convince Carlton that your love will
make him happier than my"--she hesitated--"affection can, go to him
now."

But Lossie, turning even whiter, trembled, and shook her head.

"I daren't," she said in a whisper, "it must come from you.  He would
never forgive me--only if you were Chris's wife, I might have a
chance....  Oh, Gay, I've been a beast to you often, but you've had
all the luck, and I've had none"--she was like a passionate child
clamouring for the toy that she coveted, thought her cousin, it was a
bright, expensive toy that Gay did not want herself, she only wanted
her dear old rag doll, for so she at that moment absurdly designated
Chris.

"Carlton must decide," she said, and went with lagging steps to the
drawing-room, where her lover very quickly _did_, for he stepped up
close, held her fast, and kissed her--kissed her like a man who had
long starved for that moment, and could not take enough.

As she tore herself away, she could have wept to think that the first
kiss of her lips was not for Chris, and the contrast of Carlton,
supremely handsome and happy, with the girl she had just left,
revolted her.  Her voice was strange as she said,

"Will you go to my den?  I will follow you there immediately," and
turned aside that he might not see her face.

He coloured with disappointment and surprise, but of course there
would be greater privacy there...  Without a word he went.

As the door closed him in with Lossie, Chris came flying up the
stairs, taking three steps at a time, a young god in his swiftness,
strength and joy, bringing all the best gifts that life and love can
bring to the beloved woman--too late.




CHAPTER XXXI

A DEBT OF HONOUR

It was not until Chris had caught Gay in those long, muscular arms of
his, and lifted her clean off her feet, only to find her fiercely
fighting his kisses, that he realised how completely his feelings had
run away with him, how he had taken everything for granted, and he
begged her forgiveness as he set her gently on the ground.

"Had a bother in the stable--one of my horses gone clean off his
head," he said in his boyish way, "or I should have been here with
the morning milk.  I've got grand news, darling, Rensslaer has given
me a berth and house at Elsinore--I'm giving up steeplechasing, and
we're going to be happy ever after!"

"Are we?" she said; it did not sound like Gay's voice at all, and she
was rubbing her lips with a tiny pocket-handkerchief as if she were
trying to rub something out.

"What is the matter?" said Chris, suddenly sobered.

"Oh, nothing," cried Gay, reckless in her pain, "only that so far as
I am concerned, you are welcome to go on steeplechasing for
ever--it's no concern of mine."

"Dear little girl," said Chris remorsefully, "I did neglect you
shamefully last night, but that wonderful jumping--you see those
jumps represented all the most ingenious obstacles invented by
Continental riders, and naturally it's intensely interesting to a man
who 'chases--even if he doesn't do it like them, over trick fences.
And then the riding," he burst out reminiscently, "such riding as you
don't get in a century of good riders, at any rate, all assembled at
the same time and place."

"Oh, spare me!" cried Gay, so angrily that his face fell, and she
felt a brute as she saw how she had wiped all the brightness out of
it.

"Anyway," he said pluckily, "we shall get plenty of hunting,
Rensslaer says, and a stiff run is almost as good as a steeplechase.
He has a horse that will carry you beautifully."

"I shan't be there," cried Gay, and stamped her foot.  "How dare you
take it for granted that I shall go where I have not even been asked?"

"Well," said Chris wrathfully, "didn't I ask you at the Ffolliott's
dance--didn't I ask you again in this very room after my accident?"

"No, you didn't," said Gay.  "It was _I_ who said I'd give up
Trotting, if you would racing, and you wouldn't!"

"But it was a perfectly understood thing," said Chris, "that if I
dropped steeplechasing, you would marry me, and I have--and what more
do you want?"

"Nothing," said Gay point-plank.  "While you've been
shilly-shallying, I've been making other plans--that's all."

"You have certainly been a little wretch to me," said Chris gravely,
"and really, Gay, you must try to control your temper better, if we
are going to hit it when we're married."

Gay gasped and sat down; so did Chris, though he kissed her first
before she knew it--how fearfully quick he was in everything--but
Carlton could be quick too....  She put her handkerchief away; she
did not want to rub out that last kiss....

"My dear little girl," said Chris, and his young face, very near
hers, was so handsome, and true, and tender, that she looked away
from it, while a dreadful ache came into her heart, "I am doing for
you what I would not for my mother, God bless her, and all we've got
to think about now, is to be happy--"  He alone knew at what immense
cost to himself he had gained at last the victory, took it for
granted that Gay would appreciate, and reward it accordingly.

"It's too late," she said miserably.  "I am bound twice over to
Carlton--once by a debt of honour--once by my word--"

"You are nothing of the sort," said Chris, who was far from realising
the situation.  "Mackrell played up well certainly about the Vase,
but his motives were interested, and he'd be a rotter if he regarded
you as being in his debt.  I don't wish the poor chap any harm, but
I'm afraid he'll have to put up with Lossie, unless she changes her
mind."

"He--he is with Lossie just now," said Gay nervously, "but he may be
here at any moment--"

"Not if he accepts her," said Chris, chuckling, "for I imagine
there's something in the wind."

"Wouldn't you like to run down and see the Professor?" she cried
eagerly.  "He's always so delighted to see you!"

"I'm quite happy where I am," said Chris, smiling broadly.  What a
shy little thing she was, and what ridiculous ideas she got into her
head; it was a relief to find she could be silly after all!  "You are
looking very pretty this morning," and he looked her over admiringly.
Gay blushed--somehow she never _did_ look nice without wishing for
Chris to be there, and see how nice she looked.

"I hear St. Swithin's Court is charming," he said--"the place where
we're going to live, you know--and the work Rensslaer's giving me
will suit me down to the ground.  Just fancy _living_ in the midst of
that paradise of horses!  And he's giving me a thousand a
year--rippin', ain't it?" and he kissed Gay again before she could
stop him.

"Now, can't we be married early next month, go abroad for a bit, and
be home in good time for the shooting?  Morning, Mackrell!" as that
gentleman came in, and Gay half rose, her heart beating wildly....
With a sick sense of despair, after one glance at his face, she knew
that Lossie had failed.

"We were just talking about St. Swithin's, the little place that goes
with the berth Rensslaer has given me," said Chris.  "If the birds
are all right, we'll be very pleased if you'll make one of the guns
on the First--won't we, Gay?"

There was a queer silence for a moment, then Carlton said quietly:

"I'm afraid there's some mistake.  Gay is engaged to me for the
First--and for many other Firsts, I hope."

Chris's glance flashed from one to the other, even in that moment he
lived up to his motto, "Never show when you're hit," but his jaws
gritted together, as, with an upward jerk of his bright head, he said:

"A very serious mistake, as Miss Lawless is engaged to me."

Both men were standing, and at what Gay saw on their faces, she rose
also, and stood between them.

"I am engaged to Carlton Mackrell," she said to Chris.  "Will you
please go away now?"

After one long look between her eyes, without a word Chris went, his
proud young face impassive as Rensslaer's Indian; yet Gay felt as if
there had been murder done, when the door closed, and involuntarily
she stretched out her arms towards it.

"Oh, my God!" she whispered.  "Come back, for I love you, Chris ... I
_love_ you."

Carlton heard--but this scene was a mere anti-climax to the one he
had just gone through, and as he had held to his purpose in that one,
so was he resolute to hold to it in this, where so much more was at
stake....

Even if she loved Chris Hannen, what then?  Gay must be protected
against herself--made happy in spite of herself--a man always thinks
he can make a woman that, in spite of all observation and experience
to the contrary....  All these weeks of his absence, Chris had had
his chance, and lost it.  That the boy liked Gay well enough, Carlton
knew, but _not so much as horses_.  His behaviour throughout the
Horse Show had proved that--and even if Rensslaer had given him a
berth in his stables, where did Gay come in?  The more superb the
horses, the greater Chris's facilities for breaking his neck; anyway,
there would be no comfort or peace of mind for the girl, and it was
pure selfishness on Chris's part to want her to sacrifice herself to
him.

In the few moments that Gay's fate trembled in the balance, she stole
a glance at him, and saw his face pale, ravaged by the ordeal through
which he had just passed, by this even fiercer one with scarce a
breath between.

"You promised me, Gay," he said quietly, and she bowed her head,
slipped to the door, and left him to the full bitterness of his
triumph.

But when she had locked herself into her den, she glanced round the
room as if the drama, lately enacted there, still palpitated, living
in the air....  To a manly man there can be no hour more painful,
than when his rights are invaded, and the impossibility demanded of
him of a love where no love is; but it was of Lossie's passion and
humiliation that Gay was thinking, of the uselessness of it, not
Carlton's pain ... and then Chris's haggard, white, proud young face
as it had looked just now, came--and stayed.




CHAPTER XXXII

DEAD SEA APPLES

It was late October, and Chris was riding harder than ever, and on
the principle, as he told himself grimly, of "lucky in horses,
unlucky in love," was having success after success, not only as a
jockey, but a trainer, and bid fair to have a good stable of his own
before long.

Gay had gone abroad with indecent suddenness immediately after her
engagement, dragging the Professor with her, and forbidding Carlton
to accompany them, because "she wanted a little time with Frank,
since she was so soon to leave him."  Yet, when at last she came
back, after three months' absence, and then only because her brother
insisted on it, Carlton was never able to get a moment alone with
her, try as he might.

The devices she had used to stave off his proposal she used with
fourfold skill to avoid being alone with him, she who had detested
society, surrounded herself at all hours with it; even when she had
to choose the decorations for the house he had taken in Norfolk
Street, she took Effie Bulteel with her; the jewels he gave her, she
never wore.

She treated her new tie as a purely nominal one, appeared careless
and fancy-free; but she meant to go through with her bargain all the
same, and a date in December had been actually fixed for the wedding,
when the Professor with his usual inconvenience, fell ill.

Gay always declared that the trouble began with his discovery of a
wonderful new microbe, that after due blazonment in the medical
press, turned out to be something quite different to what it
pretended to be, and, as she expressed it, sat up on its squirmy
tail, making insulting faces at its non-discoverer.  Frank took the
matter so much to heart as to be at first hesitatingly ailing, then
with considerably less hesitation, and as it entailed no effort,
really ill for some time.

Nature was exacting her toll for his unhealthy, sedentary life, with
its late hours, and lack of exercise, and all the tenderness for
which Gay in those days had no other outlet, expended itself on him.
She was a most devoted nurse, but to Carlton it almost looked as if,
like the little boys and old Sam Weller's coach, the Professor had
done it "a-purpose," when he lingered so unconscionably long a time
over his convalescence, and the beautiful house in Norfolk Street
still lacked a mistress.

It would be a cold, practical mistress, who never gave its master a
kiss, or word of love, or welcome, and who as wife might reasonably
be expected to be still more the "woman with no nonsense about her,"
that Gay evidently nowadays aspired to be.

Some men like brilliant women, hard and bright, others prefer hearts
warm and tender.  Carlton was one of these last, for, as Lossie had
divined, there was a great capacity for romantic love in the man.
Sometimes when most starved for sympathy, for appreciation where he
had the right to expect it, he remembered the hot flood of devotion,
of passion, that Lossie had poured out on him, and shivered in the
isolation to which Gay from the first had banished, and rigorously
kept him.

The heart makes its own decisions--Gay's had made hers in that
passionate cry, "Come back, for I love you, Chris," and Carlton had
thought that he knew better than her heart what was good for her, and
reaped his reward in an automaton that talked, and smiled, and
conducted itself with perfect grace and decorum, but that was not Gay.

It was the other Gay he wanted--the girl so full of life, and charm,
and sparkle--the girl who could give brave kisses, and love with the
thoroughness she put into everything that she did, the delicious
comrade, the trusty counsellor, the dear household fairy who had the
knack of creating a home wherever she might be, and that he had not
hitherto found.

Well, he would not find it now--"for without hearts, there is no
home"--and his town and country houses would be well ordered by a
capable house-mistress, cold and uninterested, when the Professor,
who seemed to be in no hurry, set her free to assume her duties as
wife.

Oddly enough, Lossie seemed the happiest of the three, and having
made her supreme appeal to Carlton, had apparently forgotten all
about it.  She met him without embarrassment, was friendly without
effort--sometimes he rubbed his eyes, and thought he must have
dreamed that vivid scene with her in Gay's den; yet he found himself
thinking of it more often as time went on, and sometimes searched her
intensely blue eyes for even a trace of the memory of it.  But he
found none--if Lossie, indeed, were playing a game, she played it
magnificently well.

She neither sought nor avoided him, was quite pleasant, but
profoundly indifferent, when they met at Connaught Square or
elsewhere, and, most damning proof of all that she had ceased to
value his opinion, permitted herself slight lapses in manner, and
carelessnesses in dress before him.  She even yawned occasionally in
his face, treating him, as he said angrily to himself, like some
damned old woman rather than the man whom she most wished to
please--but did she?

He came to the conclusion that her outbreak had been a fit of nerves,
combined with an interested desire to share his very handsome
fortune, and that having failed, she thought no more about him, but
decided to turn her attention elsewhere, the opportunity for doing so
occurring very shortly after his own engagement.

For the unexpected had happened.  Mrs. Elkins was being dressed by
her maid to go to her lawyers, there to sign a fresh will she had
made, by which she left everything to her favourite of the moment,
and away from George Conant, who had annoyed her, when in the mirror,
the woman saw the old lady's face contorted, terrible, with the most
ghastly look of fear in her eyes, and though she struggled and fought
dumbly for hours, she never spoke again.

George flew to Lossie the moment he was certain of what he had to
offer her, and she accepted him on the spot, to his intense joy,
while Gay so warmly encouraged the pair at her house, that Carlton
one day complained bitterly of the ubiquity of that "grinning idiot,"
George Conant, who certainly since his accession to fortune, was more
than ever like a Cheshire cat.

"He is an excellent match," said Gay coldly, "and what is better, he
adores Lossie--I don't see why they should not be very happy.  She
will be the prettiest woman in his regiment, and have no end of a
good time."

Could this be Gay speaking--Gay who at one time had been all heart
and no head, who was now all head and no heart?

"I should have thought," he said, "that love might have some voice in
the matter.  No woman, surely, could love George Conant--

"Oh," said Gay bitterly, "when a girl can't marry the man she loves,
she may just as well marry the man who loves her"--and Carlton winced.

He knew that he had taken a mean advantage of Gay, and was deeply
humiliated, not only in his honour, but his pride, for by way of
being a vain man, the simultaneous and utter indifference of both
girls, hit him hard.  Lossie had only wanted him for his fortune,
going to extremest lengths to obtain it--Gay had wanted neither him
nor his money, and accepted him only in a fit of passionate anger
against Chris, of which she had instantly repented.  Yet there was a
tenacity of purpose, as of love, about the man, that forbade his
throwing up the game.

As at every turn Lossie and Captain Conant seemed to cross his path,
the one all beauty and (affected) happiness, the other all grin and
possessiveness, a sombre rage, with more of heartache in it than he
imagined, seized him.  For many a man only misses a slighted love
when, barred from his own hearth-fires, he turns in his extremity to
it, only to find cold ashes, and Carlton in those days felt very
chilly and lonely indeed.

Aunt Lavinia had been anything but well lately.  One day, speaking to
Gay of the Professor, who, like most doctors, was very nervous about
himself, she said:

"Ah, my dear, when we are young, we only _fear_ we have complaints,
when we are old, we hope so."

Gay looked at her, startled.

"Do you find life such a grind, auntie?" she said, rather
falteringly, knowing whose fault it was that "Laddie" was riding more
recklessly than ever, and how Lavinia suffered over it, for he was
the dearest thing in the whole world to her, as perhaps _now_ she was
the dearest thing to him.

"Well, my dear," said Lavinia quaintly, "life goes on with ups and
downs, with long oases of worry, stagnation, and brief thrills of
pleasure, until one day, we suddenly awaken to find people packing up
in all directions--some have gone without our noting it, or saying
farewell, others are in too great a hurry to think of us.  Then in a
panic, we decide to call together our friends of long ago, to come
and make merry with us, and half the invitations come back to us,
with 'gone away' scrawled across them.  Then we rub our eyes, and
realise that our going away time is near also, and henceforth we
don't trouble much about the affairs of life, only how to get
ourselves off decently, and in order."

Gay stooped and kissed the sweet little face, but was far from
understanding _then_.

Rensslaer had been away during the autumn, hunting at Spa, then he
had been shooting grizzlies in one place, and lions in another, but
with late November, he was back again, and the first thing he did was
to persuade Gay and the fairly convalescent Professor, to come and
stay with him at Elsinore, where Frank spent his whole time in the
library, save when dragged out for a drive.

Gay was abroad all day, either hunting with Rensslaer, or about those
stables of whose inmates she never wearied, and once she found her
way alone to St. Swithin's Court, going soft-footed over the house
that was to have been hers--hers and Chris's....

It was very quaint, and old, and beautiful, and she peopled it with
happy folk, and happy voices, not all grown up.  Standing in the
empty rooms, with doors hanging melancholy on their hinges, she saw
it a nest of warmth, and love, and laughter, heard the cheery voice,
the ringing tread that made the sweetest music in all the world to
her--felt with a passion of longing, Chris's arm round her shoulder,
and his hard, lean young face pressed close to hers....

She came to herself with a start, and there rushed over her the
memory of a big house in town, all swept and garnished, waiting for
her to walk in, and take possession....  She covered her eyes with
her hands as if to shut out the face of the man who would share it
with her....  strange that what held all Heaven to Lossie, should be
so hateful to herself ... for both would have regarded the world well
lost for the man they loved, yet the world, not that particular man,
was to be their portion.

The girls were better friends now than they had ever been, greatly to
the delight of Lavinia (who held a brief for unsatisfactory people),
for generous Gay had come to understand Lossie better now, discovered
how much worse her bark was than her bite.

Selfish she undoubtedly was, and in some things unprincipled, but,
like many other idle, clever women, who have no hobby to occupy their
time, no great love, no real work to sweeten their lives, she had
turned her unused energies into mischief, talked scandal, done
spiteful things, mainly for want of something better to do.

Certainly she had many things to embitter her that Gay had not, for
by her own recent experiences, Gay knew that suffering of a certain
kind does not ennoble, on the contrary, it tends to deteriorate the
character, and ruin the temper.  With the ease of mind that wealth
brings, Lossie might develop into a very different woman--and
yet--and yet--now and again would come to Gay flashes of insight, in
which she seemed to see poor blundering George Conant, a mere
hopeless pawn in the game that Lossie was playing with such
consummate audacity and skill.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE GODS DECIDE

Rensslaer never spoke of Chris, but one night, when Carlton had gone
back to town after spending the day at Elsinore, he said:

"Mr. Mackrell seems to dislike Captain Conant very much."

"Yes."

"Then he had better cut out Captain Conant, and marry Miss Lossie
himself," said Rensslaer quietly.

Gay laughed.

These two always understand one another, almost as well, Gay thought,
only differently, as she and Chris did.  And Gay knew his story now,
shyly suggested rather than told, a story of self-denial, of
self-abnegation for the sake of one loved only too truly and well.

"They are admirably well suited to each other," said Rensslaer.  "She
adores _him_, and your coldness, and his male dislike of Captain
Conant, are impelling him naturally towards her--a little push, and
the thing is done."

Then they both laughed again, and Gay's spirits rose enormously.

"I will ask them down without Captain Conant," said Rensslaer, and he
did, and somehow he and Gay managed to lose them in the park, and as
it was some miles in length, and Carlton especially absent-minded
that afternoon, this was not difficult.

"Gay looks ill," Carlton said abruptly, revealing the direction his
thoughts had taken, when they turned to find their companions
vanished.

"Of course," said Lossie, and shrugged her shoulders.

"Why of course?"

He spoke sharply, with an intense feeling of humiliation.  Lossie,
turning to look at him, thought a little cruelly of _her_ bitter
hour; it was his turn now.

"Can't you see that she is utterly wretched," she said, "and thinks
it her fault that Chris Hannen is trying to kill himself harder than
ever?"

"It's the behaviour of a moral coward," said Carlton sternly; "but he
was never half good enough for her."

"Oh," said Lossie, "it isn't what is good enough for us, but what we
_want_, that matters!"

He turned to look at her--eyes, lips, hair, every bit of her, warm
with--what?  And he was cold, so cold, bleeding in his pride and
self-esteem, it was Gay he wanted, but she had gone far to freeze out
all the love that was in him....

"And is it George Conant you want so badly?" he said quietly, but
with a sensation of stealing warmth in his veins to which they were
of late unaccustomed.

"I am going to marry him," she said contemptuously, "and there will
be five miserable people more in the world, including Chris!"

"Why should you be miserable?" he said, but his voice was not very
steady, and his eyes were trying to force hers to meet them.  "I'm
sure Conant will not be."

"It is not _his_ happiness or mine, that counts with you, but only
Gay's," said Lossie, quietly.

He did not deny it, and a pang ran through the girl.  He would never
love anyone but Gay; still, did that matter?  Lossie had enough love
for both--through suffering she had come to know that the fulness of
joy is in loving, not in being loved.

Involuntarily both had stopped, and in the wintry afternoon, with
skeleton trees all about them, they were looking in each other's
faces--in that moment Carlton saw his way clear, saw the road that
led to Gay's happiness, if not his own--and took it.

* * * * * * *

Lossie had never looked so lovely in her life, or Carlton so manly,
if frightfully pale, than when, after an hour's absence, they came
in, and Gay got Lossie up into her bedroom, shut the door, and turned
round to remark:

"_Poor_ Conant!"

That she did not say "Poor Carlton!" was part of the tragedy of the
whole thing--for him.

"Oh, Gay," cried Lossie, "I didn't ask him this time"--she blushed
warmly--"but I've been doing pretty much the same thing in a
different way."

"Poor Conant!" said Gay again.  "As Chris would say, he'll be all
top-boots and no grin!"

"Oh, he is young--he will get over it," said Lossie.  "I never
pretended to care for him, and as to suffering, haven't _I_ gone
through enough?"

"And pray," said Gay, who felt a great desire to turn head over heels
a great many times in rapid succession, just as she had done when she
was a child, "when is Carlton going to tell me that he has--has"--she
pretended to weep--"jilted me?"

For a moment Lossie turned away; already she was a better woman as
she said:

"Gay, he knew that you loved Chris too much for there to be the
smallest scrap of love in your heart left over for _him_.  He said
that life without love was like the sky without sun--that he had been
a selfish brute to think he could make you happier than Chris could."

"He's quite right," said Gay, who had recovered all her good looks in
a moment, and with them the old charm and _gaieté de cœur_ that
had so distinguished her, "and if you'll get Mr. Rensslaer to show
you his sculpture and medals presently, and leave Carlton and me
together, I'll just tell him that he's a dear--and that I love him."

Gay never told Chris, nor Carlton Lossie, what was said during that
brief interview in the Elsinore drawing-room; but Gay, to her shame,
realised then, how consistently Carlton had played the game of love,
how if he had been greedy once, he had sacrificed himself twice over
for her, and tears fell from her eyes that night, before she dropped
into the first dreamless slumber she had known for months.

The Professor was delighted that her home with him was to remain her
home still, and everyone was happy except George Conant and Chris.
The latter knew nothing of the change of partners, and went slogging
away at his failures and successes, seemingly quite unable to break
his neck, though he took every opportunity of trying to do so.  Even
when he _did_ hear the news, he made no comment, lowered his proud
shield of reserve to no man or woman either.  It was no affair of
his, when Gay had "chucked" him; she had done it for once and all,
and he did not go near her.

There was not an ounce of vice in Chris, but she had sent him further
on the road to the devil than anyone but himself, and perhaps Mrs.
Summers knew, and the devoted old woman waxed more bitter against Gay
day by day.  It did not require the removal of certain photographs
from his rooms, to indicate who was responsible for the change in him.

"As if, knowing how he misses his mother, she oughtn't to stand by
him through everything," said Mrs. Summers indignantly to herself,
and tried hard to make it up to her dear Mr. Chris in extra
attention.  But it did not seem to do him much good; he was beginning
to think that there was a curse upon him, and that is a fatal thing
for a man, making him sometimes reckless, sometimes bad, but seldom
mentally, morally, or physically better.

But he turned up at Mackrell's wedding in December, and if each man
surprised in the other's eyes, a look that told how to both there
might be many women, but only one Gay, and Chris suspected a supreme
renunciation in Carlton's taking Lossie as the only way to Gay's
happiness, he had no idea of screwing himself up a second time to the
sacrifice of all he held most dear.

Gay made a delightful bridesmaid, and Chris was the smartest, most
sought after man there.  He had always the air, the gay address, the
charm of one of Charles Lever's adventurous heroes, belonged more to
past times than present ones, and Gay, defiantly flirting on her own
account, was appalled to see how easily and naturally he could flirt
also--with one very lovely young married woman in particular, who had
long tried to annex him.  If he took a savage delight in paying Gay
back in her own coin, inflicting a little of the pain on her that she
had inflicted on him, was it not very natural--though not natural to
Chris?

The most lovable nature is the easiest ruined, the most unmalleable,
when it has once turned against what it loves.  Whether it were that
having made his one grand renunciation in vain, Chris felt himself
incapable of rising again to such heights of self-sacrifice, or that
the capacity to love, as he had once loved, was forever scourged out
of him by Gay's failure to him at a supreme moment, the fact remained
that he could not, and never meant to forgive her.  She had belonged
to Carlton first; it was Carlton who had had the first kiss from her
soft young lips, and many others.  Chris could not know that all the
kissing had been on one side only, and very little of that--the
tactics Gay had practised when she desired to ward off Carlton's
proposals, were equally successful in preventing his enjoying the
privileges of an accepted suitor.

The world, looking on at the meeting between Chris and Gay, said that
between two stools she had fallen to the ground, that she had been a
fool to be cut out by her cousin, and what was worse, it pitied
her....

She had made a complete failure of Trotting, (her horses were sold,
and the sport was quite given up), of matrimony, of everything, said
that same world, but Min Toplady rejoiced to see the light come back
to her darling's eyes, the spring to her step, and the merry ring to
her laugh, to know her prettier, happier than she had been for months
past, her perpetual anxiety about Chris's precious neck
notwithstanding.

Rensslaer too was satisfied.  St. Swithin's still waited, the post he
had offered Chris was open still--so was Gay's heart, and all would
come right in time....

But months ran by, and it did not.

The Professor was still made exquisitely comfortable by his sister,
and pursued the selfish tenor of his way.  Lossie reigned, _quite_
good, and _quite_ happy, the triumphantly lovely mistress of the
house in Norfolk Street, and divers other places, and Carlton, if not
happy, was at least resigned, and very proud of her.

Rensslaer pursued his various hobbies with his usual quiet
persistence, George Conant had started a racing stable, and was
squandering the Elkins' thousands at a great rate, but all that Gay
ever heard of Chris now, was gleaned from the papers.  He had been
devoted to Lavinia, as usual, when they met at the wedding, but had
not since been near her, and she thought his keeping away a good
sign, and a proof that he was ashamed of his own stiff-neckedness.
But Gay knew that by her failure in courage at a critical moment of
her life she had lost him, and that he would give her no second
chance.

Oh, what was honour, what was duty, compared with love, when love had
called her with Chris's voice as it had done that morning?  There
must be some coward blot in her, some bad strain of blood that
prevented her being true to herself ... in pluck, in love, in loyalty
alike, she had failed ... she had only to say to Carlton, "It is all
a mistake; I accepted you in a fit of pique--under a
misunderstanding," but she had humiliated Chris alike as a man and a
lover in the presence of his rival, and a man of the most sensitive
pride, he could not forgive her.

He had not turned his back on her when she committed her mad
escapade, got herself talked about; angry as he was with her, he had
not shown it, only remonstrated quietly with her, and in vain.  He
had put up with all her tempers without a murmur; his lovely
disposition had never once been at fault, or broken down under the
strain.  Finally, he had been prepared to give up for her sake the
profession he so deeply loved, and she had thrown his renunciation
back in his face; if he met with a fatal accident, she alone would be
responsible for it.

She held her head as high as ever, and only Carlton and Lavinia
guessed what she suffered, but with the end of the steeplechase
season, relief came, and she drew a free breath.  For six months at
least, Chris would be safe, and as in the nature of things, he was
bound to be oftener in town, it was inevitable that sooner or later
they must meet.

And at last they did.  One day they passed each other close in
Piccadilly, Gay driving herself, and Chris in a hansom with the Mrs.
Guest who had been at Lossie's wedding.  They produced a flashing
impression of youth, gaiety, and good looks, and so completely
wrapped up in each other were they, that they did not even see Gay,
who drove on with the furies in her heart.

So _that_ was the reason that he could not forgive her, because
another woman had taken her place in his heart...  Jealousy,
overpowering, terrible, racked poor Gay from then onwards--never had
she loved Chris so much, never was it more impossible by look or word
to try to call him back to her.

It was equally certain that Chris was resolute not to put himself
within reach of such calling.  In proportion to a man's love for a
woman, is her power to influence him for good or evil, and Chris owed
her a secret grudge for inflicting on him an injury that had done him
no more good, morally, than Carlton's rejection of Lossie's love had
once done her.  The Mrs. Guest episode brought him little pleasure,
and was not precisely of his own seeking--considerably to his
surprise, too, his present existence did not satisfy him as it had
done, and at odd times he thought of that other life which he could
so pleasantly have lived at St. Swithin's.

He felt a brute to keep away from Lavinia, but in the frame of mind
he then was, knew himself to be no fit company for her.  Yet in the
event, just as her life had been one long occasion of making
opportunities for others, so by her death were the two hopelessly
alienated people she loved best in the world, to be at last brought
together.

In June came the cruel, mercifully brief illness that had threatened
her so long, and Gay was constantly at hand to help her bear it, but
it was to Chris she clung, who on his part plainly dreaded to be
parted from her, realising too late, how lonely he would be, when the
one woman who had so good an influence over him was gone.  Had he
been her own, the son that Lavinia had coveted, he could not have
been more to her than he was, displaying qualities that made Gay
admire and love him more with every hour.  Watchful and devoted, the
full tenderness and manliness of his nature were revealed with a
fulness that only made the more marked his attitude towards Gay, to
whom he remained cold, courteous, and completely indifferent always.

Once it half broke her heart to hear him, when he thought her absent,
give Lavinia a message for his mother.  Gay loved the simplicity of
belief that never doubted the old friends would meet, suspected
Chris's longing--who knows?--to be going himself to the one he so
loved, and had never ceased to want.

"It will please her better that I can tell her you are very happy,
Laddie," said Lavinia, who by a light invisible, saw what he did not.
"And, you know, after all there is only one thing that matters, one
first, last word--Love"--but he did not seem to hear her; there was a
hard little kernel of bitterness in his heart against Gay, that
nothing seemed able to remove.

* * * * * * *

Chris was standing in the sunny blue dining-room, staring straight
before him, seeing nothing, when a slight sound at hand made him
wheel suddenly, it was only a tired girl, weeping with bowed head on
her hands ... how many nights and days had she been watching, and now
needed to watch no more....

Something in his heart gave way, and with it all his fierce pride and
unforgivingness towards her, as he uttered her name, she looked up...

Haggard they were, and sad and worn, as their eyes drew them
together, with little of comeliness in their young faces, till love
broke through, and flooded them with beauty ... perhaps it was of the
message to his mother that Gay was thinking, as timidly she framed
his face in her hands, and softly, as if she feared to bruise his
lips, kissed him.



THE END



Miller, Son, & Compy., Ltd., Finsbury Circus Buildings, London, E.C.