AT ELSINORE
After all, it was chance that dictated Gay should go to Elsinore, or
rather the accident of Rensslaer's having cut in just before the
Professor, and obtained a certain rare edition that the latter
greatly coveted. He would cheerfully have started for Kamschatka to
read or borrow it; Elsinore was nearer, and when Gay mentioned the
invitation, he jumped at it, and went.
So one fine morning in May found brother and sister in the train, and
Rensslaer waited for them at the station with a pair of magnificent
Trotting horses, harnessed to a light road wagon of hickory wood and
steel. Inviting Gay to share the very small seat with him, he
pointed out, to the Professor's intense relief, a sober open carriage
for the latter's use.
"Take care, Gay," Frank cried quaveringly after her, as she squeezed
in beside Rensslaer, and the next moment, her host's hands twisted
into the loops of the reins, they were sweeping through the silent
streets, and out on to the open road, the air whistling in their
ears, the dust striking Gay's eyes and cheeks like pellets, the
country almost indistinguishable as they flew past, and the sensation
so thrilling that she surrendered herself to it in complete enjoyment.
Smoothly as a sleigh on snow, rode the frail vehicle of less than a
hundred pounds, and record-makers both, were the powerful steeds that
guided by the imperturbable driver with arms outstretched, swift as
the wind, swept up hill and down dale, only once beaten by a motor
that was afterwards overtaken, and then Rensslaer eased his steeds,
remarking that they had covered five miles in twelve minutes.
By then they were in his park, and the horses went more quietly, so
that Gay had leisure to observe the sylvan beauty of the landscape
surrounding Elsinore, to notice the herds of deer visible in every
direction, and also his Indian fighting cocks, who roamed his fields
in intermittent warfare with the old English game. Somehow Gay felt
that all were sharers in that instinct of friendliness which seemed
to inspire his relations, not only with all his dumb retainers, but
with his fellow-humans as well.
Original in his house as in everything else, Elsinore was an extended
copy of a Russian peasant's cottage. Made of logs, with a great deal
of carving in wood, and a big Russian stove in each room, the
furniture was covered with linen, embroidered in blue and red by
Russian peasants, the tiles of the stoves being incised in dark blue,
red, emerald green, and gold with white, in true peasant style.
Simplicity was evidently his rule of life, but one room was filled to
the ceiling with books, and to this the Professor naturally
gravitated on his arrival. Leaving him perfectly happy among those
rare editions of which at odd times Rensslaer was an inveterate
collector, Gay and her host sauntered through the quaint house,
singularly modest for the far-spreading park surrounding it, but
containing many trophies of his skill, and to her utter astonishment,
in other realms than that of sport.
The cases full of gold and silver medals, of stars and decorations,
interested her very little, nor did Rensslaer trouble to explain that
none of those prizes were for horses, but for a domain in which he
stood alone as champion of the world. But she came to a full stop
before the figure, raised on a pedestal, of a girl with strange
barbaric head-dress above her sweet face, hands folded on breast, and
the drapery a little blown away from the exquisite line of back and
hips, and "Exhibited Allied Artists, 190-" written below.
"That's La Russie," he said. "The colouring and tinting are an exact
reproduction of the actual dress and jewels."
"It's beautiful," said Gay, to whom the colouring mattered nothing
but the idea was everything, and reluctantly she tore herself away to
look at an Indian Chief in all his war paint, and modelled in silver,
on a table hard by.
From the summit of his brow, and outlining his haughty back, his
feathers made a regal silhouette that extended beyond his horse's
tail, and the contrast of his grim impassivity, and icy air of
detachment, with the horse's eagerness as it strained forward was
marvellously rendered, making Gay declare that the horse was a dear,
and that whoever did that, must love horses.
The same remark applied to a model of Ascetics Silver, winner of the
Grand National 1906, his ribs plainly showing, his upward,
proudly-soaring eye, dilated nostrils, and the veins standing out on
his face and body, drawing from her a cry of delight. Beneath was
written, "Exhibited Paris Society Animal Painters," and the name of
the sculptor made the girl jump.
"_You_ did _that?_" she cried incredulously, the colour rushing to
her face.
"And here is my Little Mermaid," said Rensslaer, and Gay knew that
what she saw before her was dear to him.
"What a darling!" she exclaimed, and indeed it was a sweet little
body, with childish, startled eyes, and hands impulsively put up to
her cheeks. One could _see_ the grief and horror in the poor little
thing's face--for of course she was watching her beautiful human
prince being married, and the tears seemed to be just coming.
It was a wonderful piece of work, and threw a new light on
Rensslaer's character. Gay realised vividly how strong the love of
beauty was in him, how great the power that enabled him to create it,
how profoundly some human experience must have wrought in his mind to
produce such results.
She was silent, shy even, as he showed her the picture of his
grandfather, who had written a wonderful book on religion that had
estranged him from his family, and that the Professor was even at
that moment handling reverently in the library.
"And this is my great-great-great-grandfather," said Rensslaer as
they turned from the inspired head, the tremendous intellectual force
of the author, to an obvious Dutchman of quite another type, but just
as remarkable.
"He was a famous Dutch painter--our present name is an ugly
corruption of his. We can't help it," said Rensslaer whimsically,
"we must all follow art in one form or another--" And this was the
man who, by the irony of circumstance, was by the multitude supposed
to regard fast Trotting as the be-all and end-all of life! Gay
blushed to think of his amusement when she at first regarded him in
the same light--it was perhaps to correct this impression that he had
invited her here, but no, he was too modest, too sincere for that.
"I've never wanted to be a man till I knew you," said Gay a little
enviously; "you turn perpetually from one thing to another, and there
can be no dull moment in your existence."
Was there not? Across his brown eyes came a shadow that gave the lie
to her words, and once again Gay wondered what the secret romance of
his life was, this man whose ideals of beauty were of the highest, as
his capacity for interpreting them, a conjunction that is very rare.
They were looking at an extraordinary collection of pistols of which
Rensslaer merely pointed out the exquisite workmanship, and it had
just occurred to her that she had heard somewhere that he was a fine
shot, when a servant came to announce luncheon, and on looking for
the Professor, they found him where they had left him. He had merely
moved entranced from book to book that he had long coveted, and one
rare edition had almost, as Frank confessed, slid into his coat-tail
pocket, so that when Rensslaer asked him to accept it, his joy knew
no bounds.
Yet, after all, Rensslaer's heart was in his horses, not books, as
Gay discovered, when after luncheon, followed by the Italian
greyhound that adored and never willingly left him, they walked
towards the racing track, on the inside of which was turf smooth as a
billiard-table, and surrounding it in the distance, a great belt of
glorious trees.
Gay glanced round eagerly; there was no sign of a horse anywhere, no
stables within sight or hearing, only a peaceful sylvan landscape.
Perfect quiet prevailed as Rensslaer explained to her that his
Trotters were practised, not on the track, but on grass, if they were
to be shown where the ring is of grass, as otherwise a trotter would
be apt to break.
"This grass is kept mown very short, and the turns are purposely not
banked up," said Rensslaer, "as they never are at English horse
shows, and the horses have to get used to it. I shoe my horses with
spikes when showing, so that they shall not slip up, and have strong
wheels made for my speed wagons, as the strain on unbanked-up turns,
is apt to buckle a very light wheel, which is quite safe on turns
that are banked-up.
He then showed her that on the half-mile track there were
quarter-mile posts, and also eighth of a mile posts at the ends of
the "straights"; the track was two "straights," of an eighth, and two
turns of an eighth of a mile at each end.
"A horse's utmost speed for an eighth can thus be tested," said
Rensslaer. "It is never advisable to put a horse at his utmost limit
for more than an eighth."
Excusing himself for a brief minute, Gay next saw him in enormous
goggles, bunched up on a slender sulky weighing about twenty-eight
pounds, swinging round curves behind a Trotter that did half a mile
in about a minute or so, and yet never broke into a gallop, and Gay
realised that not so much in his Trotters themselves, as in the
masterly driving of them, Rensslaer's pleasure consisted. He held
his arms differently--he drove differently to anyone she had seen
before, in its essence his was the same deep joy that Chris found in
the riding at which he excelled.
Her heart warmed to him as she thought of how he had spared her the
humiliation of knowing that Mackrell and she had been playing at a
bad make-believe all the time, that the difference between their
horses and Rensslaer's was, that his had quality, shape, and
soundness--they looked like well-bred chargers, carried themselves
with perfect balance, their hind legs well under them, stopping at a
word without any pulling or fighting, and when the mile was finished,
standing quite still. The sort of horse to which she and Carlton
were accustomed, were mostly unsound old screws which had a fast
record in America many years before, but having broken down, or being
otherwise cheap, had been bought and patched up, then raced in
England.
At first they had horrified Gay, these poor old raw-boned pacers with
bent knees and hobbles, pulling all on one rein, with any amount of
appliances to enable the man who was pulling for dear life to be able
to hold them, or else little rats of Iceland ponies shuffling along,
and only fit to be seen in a coster's barrow.
"And to think," cried Gay, in tragic tones, "that Carlton and I
fancied _ourselves_--our trotters, I mean!"
"Of course," said Rensslaer, "although speed is the first essential,
I will have no horse which is not absolutely sound, has not good
manners, and does not have to wear boots (except as a precaution
against accident when racing), and a light mouth."
Gay nodded. She had for the first time discovered how deceptive the
long, raking stride of a record trotter is, for without appearing to
move fast, he is yet making phenomenal time on the track, as drawing
the light, four-wheeled racing wagon with rubber-tyred bicycle
wheels, he glides smoothly along.
Then one by one, or in pairs, the finest animals in the stables were
shown. Yet with so little effort did horse after horse, team after
team, draw up under the trees in the background, and succeed each
other, that they only blended with the beauty of the landscape, did
not disturb it, and Gay presently gave a great sigh of delight.
"Oh," she said, "it's too much! I'd like the whole world to enjoy
it--it's too good for poor little me!"
"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.
"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.