CHAPTER IX. A KENTUCKY STOCK FARM.
Cheerless winter days were gone. Spring had grown bountiful at last, though long; like a miser
“Had kept much wealth of bloom,
Had hoarded half her treasures up in winter’s tomb.”
But her penitence was wrought in raindrops ringed with fragile gold—the tears that April sheds. Now vernal grace was complete; the only thing to do was to go out in it, to rejoice in its depth of color, in its hours of flooded life, its passion pulse of growth.
“Ashland,” that peerless Southern home, was set well in a forest lawn. The great, old-fashioned, deep-red brick house, with its broad verandas, outlined by long rows of fluted columns, ending with wing rooms, was half ivy-covered. A man came out upon the steps and looked across his goodly acres. Day-beams had melted the sheet of silvery dew. A south wind was asweep through fields of wheat, a shadow-haunted cloth of bearded gold, and blades of blue grass were all wind-tangled too. How the wind wallowed, and shook, with a petulant air, and a shiver as if in pain. The man looked away to the eastward, to where even rows of stalls lined his race-course—a kite-shaped track.
A darkey boy came up with a saddled mare, and the master took the reins, put foot in the stirrup and mounted to the saddle. He was a large, finely built man, fresh in the forties; kindness and determination filled the dark eyes, and the broad forehead was not unvisited by care. The hand that buckled the bridle was fat, smooth and white, very much given to hand-shaking and benedictions. As he was about to ride away, the jingling pole-chains of a vehicle arrested his attention. Looking around the curve, he saw a carriage coming up—a smartly dressed man stepped out, who asked:
“Have I the honor—is this Major McDowell?”
“That is my name, sir; and yours?”
“Frost—Willard Frost,” returned the other, cordially extending his hand.
The Major said, warmly:
“Glad to know you, Mr. Frost; will you come in?” and the Major got down from his horse.
“Thanks. I came with the view of buying a racer. Had you started away?”
“Only down to the stables; you will come right over with me,” he proposed.
“Very good. To go over a stock farm has been a pleasure I have held in reserve until a proper opportunity presented itself. Shall I ride or walk?”
“Dismiss the carriage and be my guest for the day, I will have you a horse brought to ride.”
“Oh, thank you, awfully,” returned the profuse stranger. And he indicated his acceptance by carrying out the host’s suggestion.
“Call for me in time for the east-bound evening train,” he said, to the driver.
Pretty soon the Major had the horse brought, and they rode down to the stables.
“I think, Mr. Frost, I have heard your name before.”
The other felt himself swelling. “I shouldn’t wonder; I am a dauber of portraits, from New York, and you I have heard quite a deal of, through young Milburn.”
“Robert Milburn! Why bless the boy, I am quite interested in his career; he, too, had aspirations in that line. How did he turn out?” asked the Major, with considerable interest.
“Well, he is an industrious worker, and may yet do some clever work, if drink doesn’t throw him.”
“Drink!” exclaimed the other, “I can scarcely believe it. He impressed me as a sober youth, full of the stuff that goes to make a man. What a pity; I suppose it was evil associations.”
“A pretty girl is at the bottom of it, I understand. You know, ‘whom nature makes most fair she scarce makes true.’”
The Major re-adjusted his hat, and breathed deeply.
“Ah! well, I don’t believe in laying everything on women. Maybe it was something else. Has he had no other annoyance, vexations or sorrow?”
“Yes, he lost his mother in mid-winter, but I saw but little change in him; true, he alluded to it in a casual way,” remarked Frost, lightly.
“But such deep grief seeks little sympathy of companions; it lies with a sensitive nature, bound within the narrowest circles of the heart; they only who hold the key to its innermost recesses can speak consolation. From what I know of Robert Milburn this grief must have gone hard with him.”
Here they came upon the track where the trainer was examining a new sulky.
“Bring out ‘Bridal Bells,’ Mr. Noble. I want to show the gentleman some of our standard-breds.”
The trainer’s lean face lighted with native pride. With little shrill neighs “Bridal Bells” came prancing afield; she seemed impatient to dash headlong through the morning’s electric chill. Pride was not prouder than the arch of her chest.
“What a beauty, what a poem!” Frost’s enthusiasm seemed an inspiration to the Major.
“She is marvellously well favored, sir; comes from the ‘Beautiful Bells’ family, that is, without a doubt, one of the richest and most remarkable known. If you want a good racer she is your chance. Racing blood speaks in the sharp, thin crest, the quick, intelligent ear, the fine flatbone and clean line of limb.”
Frost looked in her mouth, put on a grave face, as though he understood “horseology.”
The Major gave her age, record, pedigree and price so fast that the other found it difficult to keep looking wise and listen at the same time.
The trainer then brought out another, a brown horse with tan muzzle and flanks.
“Here, sir, is ‘Baron Wilkes’; thus far he has proven an extremely worthy son of a great sire, the peerless ‘George Wilkes.’ He was bred in unsurpassed lines, is 15½ hands high, and at two years old took a record of 2:34¼.”
“Ah! he is a handsome individual; look what admirable legs and feet,” exclaimed the guest.
“And a race horse all over. But here comes my ideal,” he added, with pride, as across the sward pranced a solid bay without any white; black markings extending above his knees and hocks. A horse of finish and symmetrical build, well-balanced and adjusted in every member. The one prevailing make-up was power—power in every line and muscle. Forehead exceedingly broad and full, and a windpipe flaring, trumpet like, at the throttle.
“Now I will show you a record-breaker,” the while he patted him affectionately.
“This is ‘Kremlin,’ unquestionably the fastest trotter, except illustrious ‘Alix.’ Under ordinary exercise his disposition is very gentle, there being an independent air of quiet nonchalance that is peculiarly his own. Harnessing or unharnessing of colts, or the proximity of mares, doesn’t disturb his serene composure. But roused into action his mental energies seem to glow at white heat. He is all life, a veritable equine incarnation of force, energy, determination—a horse that ‘would meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the gong,’ and, I might add, beat them out at the wire. His gait, as may be judged from his speed, is the poetry of motion; no waste action, but elastic, quick, true. He is a natural trotting machine. His body is propelled straight as an air line, and his legs move with the precision of perfect mechanism.”
“What shoe does he carry?” asked the New Yorker.
“Ten ounces in front, five behind.”
“He is certainly a good animal, I should like to own him; but, all around, I believe I prefer ‘Bridal Bells.’ To own one good racer is a pleasure. I take moderate, not excessive, interest in races,” explained Frost.
“It is rather an expensive luxury, if you only view it from the standpoint of pleasure and pride.”
“Oh, when we can afford these things, it is all very well, I have always been extravagant, self-indulgent,” and he took out his pocket book.
“I must have her,” counting out a big roll of bills and laying them in the Major’s hand. “There is your price for my queen.” And “Bridal Bells” had a new master.