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.