I.
On the previous evening, Pierre had arranged with Lucy the
plan of a long winding ride, among the hills which stretched
around to the southward from the wide plains of Saddle-Meadows.
Though the vehicle was a sexagenarian, the animals that
drew it, were but six-year colts. The old phaeton had outlasted
several generations of its drawers.
Pierre rolled beneath the village elms in billowy style, and
soon drew up before the white cottage door. Flinging his reins
upon the ground he entered the house.
The two colts were his particular and confidential friends;
born on the same land with him, and fed with the same corn,
which, in the form of Indian-cakes, Pierre himself was often
wont to eat for breakfast. The same fountain that by one branch
supplied the stables with water, by another supplied Pierre's
pitcher. They were a sort of family cousins to Pierre, those
horses; and they were splendid young cousins; very showy in
their redundant manes and mighty paces, but not at all vain or
arrogant. They acknowledged Pierre as the undoubted head
of the house of Glendinning. They well knew that they were
but an inferior and subordinate branch of the Glendinnings,
bound in perpetual feudal fealty to its headmost representative.
Therefore, these young cousins never permitted themselves to
run from Pierre; they were impatient in their paces, but very
patient in the halt. They were full of good-humor too, and
kind as kittens.
“Bless me, how can you let them stand all alone that way,
Pierre,” cried Lucy, as she and Pierre stepped forth from the
cottage door, Pierre laden with shawls, parasol, reticule, and a
small hamper.
“Wait a bit,” cried Pierre, dropping his load; “I will show
you what my colts are.”
So saying, he spoke to them mildly, and went close up to
them, and patted them. The colts neighed; the nigh colt
neighing a little jealously, as if Pierre had not patted impartially.
Then, with a low, long, almost inaudible whistle, Pierre got
between the colts, among the harness. Whereat Lucy started,
and uttered a faint cry, but Pierre told her to keep perfectly
quiet, for there was not the least danger in the world. And
Lucy did keep quiet; for somehow, though she always started
when Pierre seemed in the slightest jeopardy, yet at bottom
she rather cherished a notion that Pierre bore a charmed life,
and by no earthly possibility could die from her, or experience
any harm, when she was within a thousand leagues.
Pierre, still between the horses, now stepped upon the pole
of the phaeton; then stepping down, indefinitely disappeared,
or became partially obscured among the living colonnade of the
horses' eight slender and glossy legs. He entered the colonnade
one way, and after a variety of meanderings, came out another
way; during all of which equestrian performance, the two
colts kept gayly neighing, and good-humoredly moving their
heads perpendicularly up and down; and sometimes turning
them sideways toward Lucy; as much as to say—We understand
young master; we understand him, Miss; never fear,
pretty lady: why, bless your delicious little heart, we played
with Pierre before you ever did.
“Are you afraid of their running away now, Lucy?” said
Pierre, returning to her.
“Not much, Pierre; the superb fellows! Why, Pierre, they
have made an officer of you—look!” and she pointed to two
foam-flakes epauletting his shoulders. “Bravissimo again! I
called you my recruit, when you left my window this morning,
and here you are promoted.”
“Very prettily conceited, Lucy. But see, you don't admire
their coats; they wear nothing but the finest Genoa
velvet, Lucy. See! did you ever see such well-groomed
horses?”
“Never!”
“Then what say you to have them for my groomsmen,
Lucy? Glorious groomsmen they would make, I declare.
They should have a hundred ells of white favors all over their
manes and tails; and when they drew us to church, they
would be still all the time scattering white favors from their
mouths, just as they did here on me. Upon my soul, they
shall be my groomsmen, Lucy. Stately stags! playful dogs!
heroes, Lucy. We shall have no marriage bells; they shall
neigh for us, Lucy; we shall be wedded to the martial sound
of Job's trumpeters, Lucy. Hark! they are neighing now to
think of it.”
“Neighing at your lyrics, Pierre. Come, let us be off.
Here, the shawl, the parasol, the basket: what are you looking
at them so for?”
“I was thinking, Lucy, of the sad state I am in. Not six
months ago, I saw a poor affianced fellow, an old comrade of
mine, trudging along with his Lucy Tartan, a hillock of bundles
under either arm; and I said to myself—There goes a sumpter,
now; poor devil, he's a lover. And now look at me!
Well, life's a burden, they say; why not be burdened cheerily?
But look ye, Lucy, I am going to enter a formal declaration
and protest before matters go further with us. When we are
married, I am not to carry any bundles, unless in cases of real
need; and what is more, when there are any of your young
lady acquaintances in sight, I am not to be unnecessarily
called upon to back up, and load for their particular edification.”
“Now I am really vexed with you, Pierre; that is the first
ill-natured innuendo I ever heard from you. Are there any of
my young lady acquaintances in sight now, I should like to
know?”
“Six of them, right over the way,” said Pierre; “but they
keep behind the curtains. I never trust your solitary village
streets, Lucy. Sharp-shooters behind every clap-board, Lucy.”
“Pray, then, dear Pierre, do let us be off!”
