"Well," said Rensslaer quietly, "it will—later."
It was a lovely day, with zephyr breezes—the great charm of it all was, that there was nothing to suggest the circus or show ring, no crowd, no betting, no shouting hoarse voices to break the peace, only splendid animals full of fire, energy, and work, who were just going at their best for sheer joy in life, joy in their own swiftness, strength and beauty, delighted to run their race with the green sward underfoot, and the blue sky overhead.
Rensslaer had made her free of a new and glorious world—the world of horses, Chris's world. She longed for him to be there also, for though she keenly appreciated the daintiness of these thoroughbreds, their delicate legs and feet, the sheen of their satin coats, their perfection of grace and movement, she yet felt that she was not sufficiently a connoisseur to give to every point its full value, as Chris would so well have known how to do.
"Getting ready for Olympia," said Rensslaer, as a thoroughbred galloper was harnessed in a jogging cart, and accompanied the trotters at a hard gallop, often being put to his utmost stretch to keep up with them, after which Rensslaer showed her several "eighths" in 15 seconds, a two-minute speed for a mile.
"Just fancy if that dare-devil and Chris got together!" whispered Gay when there rode out from beneath the trees a superb horseman, young, cool as a cucumber, who, riding the centre horse, holding the two outside ones, put them at an obstacle that they cleared like birds.
"He has broken every bone in his body," said Rensslaer grimly; "the last time the doctor said it was his back, but he wouldn't admit it—and here he is, you see!"
The boy gave them a taste of his quality when presently his horse twice swerved aside from the jump, an American runabout luggage wagon, but cleared it the third time—and once more Gay thought of Chris, for the two men were alike in not knowing what fear was. The resemblance between the two physically, struck her at once—each was tall, and lean to a fault, each had the same dash and devilry, the same indomitable pluck, each took an "outing" as part of the day's sport, and with the fixed purpose to go on doing and daring, and as by a miracle each had hitherto escaped the clutching hand of death, and flown beyond its reach.
And yet—and yet, as Chris said, could one die better? She recalled Robert Louis Stevenson's query, "And does not life go down with a better grace, foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably straggling to an end in sandy deltas?"
Those two magnificent horsemen, Whyte Melville and Hughie Owen, went out at the sport that they loved, and save for those whom they loved, would they have wished to go any differently?
"I'm very proud of my jumpers," said Rensslaer, who was a keen hunting man, getting in his six days a week during the winter. "That horse"—he pointed one out—"was parted with by his former owner because he could not jump, and since then, he has cleared six feet ten inches high, and once a seven-feet jump. But the Belgians will win the high-jumping competition at Olympia—Belgian officers easily out-jump the world,"—and he related some notable feats of theirs, remarking with great approval that they govern their horses by kindness. "As you do," thought Gay.