XVIA DARK HORSE
WhenMajor Mahon died, he left his affairs in such desperate confusion that even a hardened Irish agent, well accustomed to family disasters and unexpected disclosures, was dumbfounded. Kil-Mahon property was mortgaged beyond recovery; the gay, hospitable, hard-riding Major had lived extravagantly and spent precisely as if his capital were a yearly income, and his income pocket-money—and after his funeral came the deluge.
The deluge, indeed! His pretty daughter, who was just twenty-one, found herself homeless, for theancestral mansion now belonged to creditors; there was an auction, and the family goods and heirlooms were scattered to the four winds. Her brother Tom, who was serving in India—the supposed heir to a fine fortune, and living up to the belief—was compelled to leave his regiment, and promptly return to Ireland.
Tom Mahon was a manly, good-looking young fellow of six and twenty, with typical dark blue eyes and black hair, a capital polo player, a popular officer, but never likely to ignite either the Thames or the Liffey.
Fortunately Tom was practical; he sold off his guns and ponies, paid his debts, and, when he arrived, exerted himself to the utmost to pull things together. He decided not to emigrate to Canada and take Helena with him, as their relatives so eagerly suggested (relatives who lived in England, and were aghast at the downfall of the Mahons of Kil-Mahon), but to gather what he could from the wreck, and make a home for himself and sister. They could manage on little, and were not proud. There remained an insignificant scrap of the estate (possibly overlooked) and here at least was a roof for the outcasts, for the English Mahons had with one accord washed their hands of this crazy, reckless couple. Kil-Mahon was sold to an Irish-American, who had returned to his native country with an immense hoard of dollars; but Clontra, situated on the wrong side of the same county, a good-sized ivy-covered house with its rows of small windows facing north (that ancient and surprising fashion), still belonged to the Mahons. A flower garden, a small lawn, and a thick hedge separated it from a not much frequented highroad; in a field across the way were the remains of Castle O’Mahon—cradle of the race. At the back of the house was a matted, tangled garden, a large range oftumble-down outhouses, a few fields of fairly good pasture beyond, and, encircling house and fields, about four hundred acres of worthless bog—not the usual black bog, full of water-holes, and turf stacks, but “short grass” bog, dotted with clumps of furze bushes, and rushes, affording a certain amount of grazing for geese and donkeys.
Tom and Helena had lived two years at Clontra and effected wonders; the venerable garden was restored and prosperous; the outhouses had been patched up, the dull rooms gaily papered and made to look homely with a few odds and ends of wreckage and Helena’s clever fingers. In the yard were milch cows, and poultry; in the house several dogs and three family servants: old Pat, a handy man and groom, young Pat, gardener and herd, and Kate, the maid-of-all work—a dark little woman of forty-five, born and brought up on Kil-Mahon, a truly devout adherent of the Mahon race, a hard worker and “vocheen,” her particular and unintentionally blasphemous declaration on all occasions being, “Sure, ’tis all the will of God!”
The cows, poultry, and garden kept the place—so to speak—going, but the life was an extraordinary change to the two Mahons. Handsome Tom, as sub. in a smart regiment, with his polo ponies, dogcart—and perhaps a certain amount of side—was now working hard to earn his bread. Helena, the admired, petted, slightly arbitrary daughter of a house whose popular, genial head was an important factor in Society, was his efficient and industrious partner.
Here the brother and sister were moored in a sort of social backwater, and more or less forgotten. It is so easy to drop out of the swim! Tom, in rough tweeds and gaiters, rose at dawn to buy and sell cattle and calves at neighbouring fairs, or superintend the gardening and the small farm—and now andthen, in the season, was offered a day’s hunting or shooting by old friends.
Helena managed the dairy and poultry, sold her butter and eggs and vegetables; she had a good market at Newbridge and the Curragh. Between the young cattle, and these items, the pair paid their way, and contrived to make both ends meet. Helena’s equipage was a donkey-cart or else shanks’ mare, Tom rode a rickety bicycle, and they were invariably spoken of as “those poor young Mahons.” All the same, they were by no means unhappy, and enjoyed excellent health and spirits, were fully employed from breakfast to supper, and had no time to meditate on their fallen fortunes. They were young and independent, they both loved animals, flowers, sport, and their own country.
“There is the baker’s cart, Tom!” said his sister, rising from her exertions in weeding a flower-bed in the front garden. “Isn’t it wicked to drive that poor horse!—he is dead lame in his near-fore.”
“Lame, I should think so!” assented Tom, as he looked over the hedge at a heavy red bread-cart, in whose shafts a powerful black horse hobbled painfully.
“Hullo!” he shouted. The man pulled up, though the Mahons were not customers. Kate wastheirbaker.
“I say, that horse of yours is very lame! Has he a stone in his hoof?” and he went to the gate.
“No, yer honour,” replied the driver, “it’s his corns, and they do be cruel. We’ve had him to the farrier—and he can do nothing whatever.”
“It’s a pity,” said Tom, casting his eye over the animal, an upstanding, raking black who seemed in a sweat, not so much from overwork as pain; his condition was poor, and his great wild eyes wore a look of intense suffering.
“Aye, he’s a powerful fine horse,” continued his driver, “and a bread-cart comes strange to him, I’m thinking; you would not believe, your honour, how cruel heavy these carts does be—and it’s not alone the road, but the long gentry’s avenues of maybe a mile extra we does have to travel. I declare, though, this poor animal is willing, and has a grand sperrit—but what with the corns and the cart, his heart is about bruk!”
“He looks a well-bred one too,” remarked Tom.
“Oh, he’s that, or he’d be dead a couple of months back. I believe Broughal got him at an auction, cheap, along with a bad name. Well, well, he’s nearly done, and I must be going. Good-day to yer honour,” and he lumbered on.
Helena had been an attentive listener to this conversation and her heart was melted with pity. She was keenly sensitive to the sorrows of dumb animals, and the lame horse, his long rounds, distressed and haunted her thoughts. Unconsciously she came to watch for his passing in the fierce heat of a summer afternoon and to listen despite herself for the distant approaching cart and the accompanying “Clip, clop,stop, clip, clop,stop” of the poor brute that so painfully dragged it. The baker was not very punctual; sometimes it was twelve, sometimes two o’clock when he went by, but Helena was invariably there to see, and to offer the black a bit of bread or a lump of sugar. She was so sorry for him and he seemed so grateful for her sympathy. In short, the lame black horse had become an obsession and settled upon Miss Mahon’s nerves: at night she sometimes had a little private cry when she thought of him, and his existence of hopeless misery.
At last he was released, and she was relieved. For three days the baker’s cart went by drawn by a mealybay; evidently the big black had been granted a well-earned rest.
One morning quite early Miss Mahon happened to be in the garden cutting roses, and saw—yes—the black horse passing! On this occasion he was ridden; a man had thrown a sack over his back and sat astride in an easy attitude, pipe in mouth. Alas! the black was lamer than ever! Helena waved to the rider to halt, which he did—Irish-like, only too glad of an interruption to his errand.
“Is that the horse that used to draw the bread-cart?” she asked.
“Faix it is so, me lady.”
“And where is he going?”
“Only to Rathcourt, and ’tis his last journey.”
She stared interrogatively.
“The Kennels, you know. Mr. Broughal has sold him for twenty-five shillings, and glad to be shut of him too! He’s been dead lame the whole summer, and having all the bread rounds hours behind-hand, and giving great complaints, and torment; so here he goes!” and he gave the rope reins a slap.
“No, no, just wait,” she said, opening the gate and coming into the road. She laid her hands upon the animal’s neck. He turned; evidently he was once accustomed to being caressed by a lady. His large intelligent eyes spoke volumes of suffering and misery.
“Do you think Mr. Broughal would letmehave him for thirty shillings?” she asked.
“Sure, and why not? Isn’t five shillings five shillings?” was the confident reply.
“Then get off, and lead him in, if you please.”
“What’s all this, Helena?” asked her brother, who now appeared with the dogs at his heels.
“Oh, Tom, it’s the bread-cart horse! I’ve justboughthim,” she answered, looking very pale and determined.
“What?” he exclaimed, gazing at her open-mouthed.
“Listen,” drawing him to one side. “He was sold for twenty-five shillings, and going to the Kennels.”
“His betters have gone the same road, poor old boy. I’m sorry.”
“I’m giving thirty shillings. I have it in my own private purse—egg money, you know.”
“Yes,” and he laughed, and nodded.
“And you, Tom—won’t you give him a run on the bog till winter—let him have his shoes off, and hischance? If he is still a cripple you can shoot him—if not you shall ride him; you said yourself he was the plan of a well-bred hunter.”
“All right, Sis, but if we are to buy and keep every old garron that passes the gate, we shall be in the poor-house sooner than ever.”
“Never mind, you love horses, and we’ve nothing but old Dolly and Sarah for the carts; the baker is a gentleman, and if he recovers, who knows but you may ride him to hounds!”
“Ha! ha! I think I see myself on that bag of bones!”
“You may—and now I’ll fetch you the money. Just wait; doyoubuy; give the man the thirty shillings, and a bottle of porter, and get a receipt.”
And she flew upstairs and returned with a dirty one-pound note, and ten shillings in silver. The bargain was concluded and duly “wet” by a pint of stout, and the man, before he walked off with the sack on his back, said:
“Well—good luck to yer honour! If that black horse ever comes round—mind, I’m not saying hewill—ye will find ye have got grand value for yerthirty shillings; for me own part, I’m glad I’m not taking the poor baste to the hounds; and faix, even if I did, there’s little on him—he just wore himself out between being so anxious to do his best, and them corns that were killing him.”
There was a popular forge at a cross-road half a mile away from Clontra, and there Tom himself led the new purchase to have his shoes removed that same afternoon.
Old Jimmy was a good judge of horses, a gossip and a well-known character.
“’Tis Broughal’s ould bread horse!” he exclaimed. “May I never—well, ’tis a charity to take the shoes off. Faix, I know what it is—I’ve bad corns meself, and I’ll soon give him aise. A great horse!” he said, standing back and surveying the tall, emaciated animal—whose ribs were easily counted. “He’s terrible well-bred too—Broughal got him at a sale for nothing at all—but as sure as I’m a sinner, he’s a Harkaway. Will ye look at the head on him? What are ye going to do with him—is it cart, or plough?”
“He’s to have a run on the bog,” replied Tom. “He belongs to Miss Helena.”
“The Lord love her! she’s a saint! It nearly bruk me own heart to see the poor fellow limping by under two ton of a load, all this frightful hot summer. Miss Helena will get it back—and with grand interest.”
But this was not Kate’s (the cook’s) opinion, who when she heard that her mistress had bought a great spectre of a lame black horse, was very sorrowful.
“Thirty shillings, Miss Helena! The money for your new hat for the garden-party. You can’t go in the ould wan, and goodness knows what chances you’ve thrown behind ye! Well,” piously raising her hands and eyes, “sure, ’tis all the will of God.”
Tom and Helena had a busy, prosperous season. Helena’s market at Newbridge and the Camp was such that she was obliged to send three carts a week with butter, eggs, vegetables, and flowers, and buy another donkey. Tom, too, had his hands full; the tide had turned, and they were both so much occupied with important matters that they entirely forgot the black horse who was enjoying a run on the bog. Tom had an old friend stationed at Newbridge, an officer in the Lancers, who made his way over to call, and though the distance was twelve Irish miles, for a reason best known to himself he returned repeatedly. One Sunday after lunch the Mahons and their guest walked down to the bog; it was the end of September, and there was an idea that it might hold a few packs of grouse. As they advanced over the springy turf, along a beaten track, then over a wobbly stick across a bog-hole, they descried, far away among the gorse and geese, a remarkably fine upstanding black horse. His attitude implied dignified expectancy, as he gazed in their direction.
“Hullo!” cried Tom. “Why, Helena—look at your purchase. I declare I scarcely know him!”
“All the better for his two months’ holiday—oh, I say!” as the black suddenly wheeled about, took a wide ditch in an easy stride, and galloped off with streaming tail.
“Not much the matter with that fellow—and can’t he jump!” exclaimed Captain Forde. “Your property, Miss Mahon?”
“Yes, and, do you know, I’d almost forgotten him.”
“I advise you not to do that—he looks like a chaser.”
“A chaser!” she repeated with a laugh. “I bought him out of a bread-cart ten weeks ago. I pitied him so much because he had so many miles togo every day, and he was so terribly lame. They were sending him to the Kennels. His price was thirty shillings—and Tom gave him a run here.”
“Good gracious! You are not serious? This is one of your Irish jokes.”
“I say, Helena, we’ll have him up and look at him,” said Tom; “Tony shall vet. him; he is great on horses.”
“All right—we will send down old Pat with a head-stall, and interview the Baker after tea.”
The Baker, seduced by the sight of a bucket, looking wild, rough, and happy, was duly brought up, examined, trotted to and fro—and passed.
“Have him in, and ride him about quietly, Tom,” urged his adviser, “you are such a nice light weight. He looks a hunter all over—and something more; but time will tell.”
“Then you think he was a bargain?” said Helena.
“I’m sure of it,” he answered with emphasis, “sound—up to weight—rising seven—and uncommonly good-looking. Look here, Miss Mahon, if you are inclined to sell I’ll give you sixty pounds for him just as he stands—without his shoes.”
“Sixty pounds! No, no, I don’t want to sell him or rob you,” she answered, “and he will be something for Tom to ride—he hates a bike—and the black looks such a gentleman.”
“He is, I’ll bet. I suppose you don’t know his pedigree?”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t trace that beyond the bread-cart.”
“I shall always take an interest in your horse, Miss Mahon, and Tom, my advice to you is, bring him in at once.”
“Come over and see how he turns out.”
“I’m sure the poor Baker will be sorry we happened to notice him to-day,” said Helena, “and took himaway from the nice short grass and bog—and his two dear donkeys.”
Within a week the Baker was carefully shod by old Jimmy, and put into regular work. He proved a delightful mount, and seemed thoroughly to appreciate being ridden, especially on the turf, and popped over fences with an agility that spoke of practice.
“I declare, Sis,” said her brother after a rousing gallop round the fields, “you are a witch. This horse is a treasure and worth a pot of money. I shall school him a little, hunt him, and if he turns out well, will enter him for some of the big races at Leopardstown and Punchestown—and we will keep himdark—back him—and make our fortunes.”
Jimmy Horrigan, the blacksmith, was also a sincere admirer of the Baker, and on Sundays would come up to the stable, lean on the half-door, pipe in mouth, and talk him over with old Pat.
“He is a great plan of a horse, and I was watching him being schooled, and begor! I never ask to see a better lepper, bold and quick and safe as the Rock of Cashel. Faix, he would make a big bid for the Grand National.” Seeing young Mahon approach, he said, “Come here to me now, Mr. Tom, till I tell ye something.”
“What is it, Jimmy?”
“Ye have a fortune here in the black horse.”
“I know that.”
“But ye don’t know everything,” waxing confidential and speaking behind his hand. “Lately it has been put in me way to open yer eyes. Ye mind Mr. Grady who died a couple of years back and the grand auction of his horses—pedigree mares, foals, and chasers? This horse here,” nodding over the half-door, “was in that sale—and sold by mistake.”
“How do you make that out?”
“It was a big business—two days—and the last day, when it was getting darkish, a groom who had taken drink mixed two lots, Sarsfield and his half-brother—the dog-cart horse. Some poor divil bought him for Sarsfield, who had a great character though untried, and paid a long price and got properly stuck, and afterwards made a terrible rebellion with the auctioneer, who faced it down that itwasSarsfield he had. Howsomever the real Sarsfield was gone, and could never be traced, though he had a funny little mark on his hoof. I’ve made out he was sold to a Dublin jarvey for twenty-five sovereigns, being real smart looking, but he made matches of the car, and put the fear of death on the driver, who passed him to a canal boatman, and bedad! he kickedhiminto the water. I can’t rightly tell you where he went to next, but, after a long while, Broughal the baker bought him for a matter of five pound; he was in low condition, and, says he, he won’t rise his heels in the bread-cart, and the long and the short of it is that I’m thinking you have the lost Sarsfield snug here in a loose box. The other day I noticed the print on him, and bedad, ye’ve a rare bargain for yer thirty shilling. The Grady stable had terrible high hopes of him, though he was delicate and kep’ back; and all you and Miss Helena has got to do now is to sit tight, and go in and win.”
The Baker was hunted all the winter, and it would be hard to say which—he or Tom Mahon—enjoyed the season the more heartily. He was entered for several events, was put into hard training and galloped upon that most elastic of turf, the Curragh of Kildare. Subsequently he won, as a complete outsider, a big race at Punchestown, others at Lincoln and Liverpool, and within twelve months, in bets and stakes, ten thousand pounds for his grateful owners: in short, he restored their fortunes.
The Baker is now a pensioner, the Mahons having refused to part with him, even for a tempting price. He spends his summer on the bog in company with a donkey, his old companion; in winter, he occasionally appears at Meets, and goes admirably in a short run—just to show the younger performers how the thing should be done! On such occasions he is pointed out to strangers as that celebrated chaser, the Baker; but the story of the baker’s cart, and his reputed price of thirty shillings, is looked upon as an amusing fiction.
Printed in Great Britain by Ebenezer Baylis & Son, Trinity Works, Worcester.