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.