“A new horse—to ride?”
“Yes. Hang it—I must get some riding. I had to handle Arab horses for years. But we’ll try this one in the gig first.”
Merle was still standing with her arms round his neck, and now she pressed her warm rich lips to his, close and closer. It was at such moments that she loved him—when he stood trembling with a joy unexpected, that took him unawares. She too trembled, with a blissful thrill through soul and body; for once and at last it was she who gave.
“Ah!” he breathed at last, pale with emotion. “I—I’d be glad to die like that.”
A little later they stood on the balcony looking over the courtyard, when a bearded farm-hand came up with a big light-maned chestnut horse prancing in a halter. The beast stood still in the middle of the yard, flung up its head, and neighed, and the horses in the stable neighed in answer.
“Oh, what a beauty!” exclaimed Merle, clapping her hands.
“Put him into the gig,” called Peer to the stable-boy who had come out to take the horse.
The man touched his cap. “Horse has never been driven before, sir, I was to say.”
“Everything must have a beginning,” said Peer.
Merle glanced at him. But they were both dressed to go out when the chestnut came dancing up before the door with the gig. The white hoofs pawed impatiently, the head was high in the air, and the eyes flashed fire—he wasn’t used to having shafts pressing on his sides and wheels rumbling just behind him. Peer lit a cigar.