"That," said Rensslaer, as the handsome rider of a beautiful roan gelding made his horse dance, and paw, and prance with extraordinary perfection, in all the tricks of the Haute École, "is the best show rider in Europe."
And so the "private view" went on, it was all quite effortless, and apparently so unpremeditated, then presently, as she and Rensslaer quietly chatted, Gay felt the peace accentuated, and glanced around. They had the wide, lovely park to themselves; the distant trees, beneath which had emerged the pick of the world's equine beauty, threw long shadows on the sward only, and Rensslaer, glancing at his watch, remarked that the Professor would think they were lost.
"Poor fellow! What he has missed!" said Gay, while Frank, wrapped in ecstasy, was oblivious of time and place, of everything but having the run of a treasure-house to which eternity itself could not enable him to do full justice.
Rensslaer showed her the polo ground, and part of the steeplechase course, two miles long, then proposed a visit to the stables that were so completely invisible from the park or house. But now he turned sharply to the side of the latter, and by a steep, winding path concealed among trees, they emerged on the great quadrangle.
CHAPTER XXIV
AN EQUINE PARADISE
In striking contrast to the simplicity of Rensslaer's house was the vastness of these outdoor belongings, where was celebrated the cult, the worship, the very apotheosis of the horse, and yet the atmosphere was one of rest; the sunlight slanted through the green boughs that overhung the wall, the water sparkled in the centre, there were no signs of hurry, and but few visible of the small army that served the beauties in their stalls and loose boxes. There must be magnificent organisation here, thought Gay, as she noted the noiseless, perfect machinery—when a man was wanted, he sprang up, when not wanted, was not to be seen, and without raising his voice, Rensslaer's orders were implicitly obeyed—even for the "show" arranged that afternoon he had merely dropped a few words to his stud groom, and the thing had gone by itself.
As she moved from horse to horse, each with his famous name on the wall above, and below, a print of one equally famous, and in the centre, a superb medallion in marble of a famous trotter going at full speed, Gay admired the way they just turned their heads to look quietly at her, like the true aristocrats that they were. But Rensslaer was another matter—they knew him even better than he knew them, and manifested the most lively pleasure when he called each by name.
"Look out!" he exclaimed, as Gay approached a veteran of twenty-one years old, who was only retired for old age, after racing till he was nine, getting a record at 2.15, and then being driven constantly hard on the road till two years ago. "He won't let anyone but me go near him," explained his owner, "he bites everyone else. Each of these horses has worn out five or six of the English carriage horses that did not have nearly so hard a life"—and he explained that the American horse can do the work of two hackneys, his legs being as hard as iron.
Amongst the old pensioners, (as their master had never sold a horse that had done him good service) he showed Joe W., a horse seventeen hands two inches high, who was nineteen years old. He had driven him on the road twelve years, had raced, and only now retired him because he was getting old, though his legs were still perfectly sound and he had never been lame, except once from an overreach in a race. He had not been coddled, but whenever he was driven on the road, was pelted along at twenty miles an hour, however hard that road might be.