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.