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.