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.