II

The "horse-sense," which gave Professor Scattergood his reputation in

the stables, was always accompanied by a well-marked physical

sensation--to wit, a continuous tingling at the back of the head,

seemingly located at an exact spot in the cortex of the brain. So long

as the back of his head was tingling, every horse was completely at

Scattergood's mercy; he could do with it whatever he willed. But I have

it on his own authority that at the moment he cast eyes on his new mare

the sensation suddenly ceased and his horse-sense deserted him.

Accordingly, the first time he took her out he mounted with trepidation,

and fear possessed his soul that she would run away with him. Though

nothing very serious followed, the fear was not entirely groundless. His

daily ride, which usually occupied exactly two hours and five minutes,

was accomplished on this occasion in one hour and twenty, and for a week

afterwards the Professor's man rubbed liniment into his back three times

a day. On the second occasion he had the ill luck to encounter the local

Hunt in full career, a thing he would have minded not the least under

ordinary circumstances, but extremely disconcerting at a moment when his

horse-sense happened to be in abeyance. Before he had time to take in

the situation, Meg joined the rushing tide, and for the next forty

minutes the field was led by the first Systematic Theologian in Europe,

who had given himself up for lost and was preparing for death. And

killed he probably would have been but for two things: the first was the

fine qualities of his mount, and the second was a literary reminiscence

which enabled him to retain his presence of mind. Even in these

desperate circumstances, the Professor's habit of talking to himself

remained in force. A friend of mine who was riding close behind him told

me that he distinctly heard Scattergood repeating the lines of the

_Odyssey_ which tell how Ulysses, on the point of suffocation in the

depths of the sea, kept his wits about him and made a spring for his

raft the instant he rose to the surface. Again and again, as the

Professor raced across the open, did he repeat those lines to himself;

and whenever a dangerous fence or ditch came in sight he would break off

in the middle of the Greek and cry aloud in English, "Now, John

Scattergood, prepare for death and sit well back"--resuming the Greek

the moment he was safely landed on the other side, and thus proving once

more that the blood of the Ironsides still ran in his veins.

Said a farmer to me one day:

"Who's that gentleman as has just gone up the lane on the chestnut

mare?"

"That," said I, "is Professor Scattergood--one of our greatest men."

"H'm," said the farmer; "I reckon he's a clergyman--to judge by his

clothes."

"He is."

"Well, he's a queer 'un for a clergyman, danged if he isn't. He's allus

talking aloud to himself. And what do you think I hear him say when he

come through last Thursday? 'John Scattergood,' says he, 'you were a

damned fool. Yes, there's no other word for it, John; you were a

_damned_ fool!'"

"That," I said, "is language which no clergyman ought to use, not even

when he is talking to himself. But perhaps the words were not his own.

They may have been used about him by some other person--possibly by his

wife, who, people say, is a bit of a Tartar. In that case he would be

just repeating them to himself, by way of refreshing his memory."

The farmer laughed at this explanation. "I see you're a gentleman with

a kind 'eart," said he. "But a man with a swearin' wife don't ride about

the country lanes refreshin' his memory in that way. He knows his missus

will do all the refreshin' he wants when he gets 'ome. No, you'll never

persuade _me_ as them words weren't the gentleman's own. From the way he

said 'em you could see as they tasted good. Why, he said 'em just like

this----"

And the farmer repeated the objectionable language, with a voice and

manner that entirely disposed of my charitable theory. He then added:

"Clergyman or no clergyman, I'll say one thing for him--he rides a good

'oss. I'll bet you five to one as that chestnut mare cost him a hundred

and twenty guineas, if she cost him a penny."

From the tone in which the farmer said this I gathered that a gentleman

whose 'oss cost him a hundred and twenty guineas was entitled to use any

language he liked; and that my explanation, therefore, even if true, was

superfluous.

What did the Professor mean by apostrophising himself in the strong

language overheard by the farmer? The exegesis of the passage, it must

be confessed, is obscure, and, not unnaturally, there is a division of

opinion among the higher critics. Some, of whom I am one, argue that the

words refer to a long-past error of judgment in the Professor's life;

more precisely, to the loss of Ethelberta. Others maintain that this

theory is far-fetched and fanciful. The Professor, they say, was plainly

cursing himself for the purchase of Meg. For, is there not reason to

believe that at the very moment when the obnoxious words were uttered he

was again in trouble with the mare, and therefore in a state of mind

likely to issue in the employment of this very expression?

Now, although I have always held the first of these two theories, I must

hasten to concede the last point in the argument of the other side. It

is a fact that at the very moment when the Professor cursed himself for

a fool he was again in trouble with Meg. On previous occasions her

faults had been those of excess; but to-day she was erring by defect:

instead of going too fast she was going too slow, and occasionally

refusing to go at all. She would neither canter nor trot; it was with

difficulty that she could be induced to walk, and then only at a

snail's-pace; apparently she wanted to fly. In consequence of which the

Professor's daily ride promised to occupy at least three hours, thereby

causing him to be twenty-five minutes late for his afternoon lecture.

Meg's behaviour that day had been irritating to the last degree. She

began by insisting on the wrong side of the road, and before Professor

Scattergood could emerge from the traffic of the town he had been

threatened with legal proceedings by two policemen and cursed by several

drivers of wheeled vehicles. Arrived in the open country, Meg spent her

time in examining the fields on either side of the road, in the hope

apparently of again discovering the Hunt; she would dart down every lane

and through every open gate, and now and then would stop dead and gaze

at the scenery in the most provoking manner. Coming to a blacksmith's

shop with which she was acquainted, a desire for new shoes possessed her

feminine soul, and, suddenly whisking round through the door of the

shoeing shed, she knocked off the Professor's hat and almost decapitated

him against the lintel. The Professor had not recovered from the shock

of this incident when a black Berkshire pig that was being driven to

market came in sight round a turn of the road. Meg, as became a highbred

horse, positively refused to pass the unclean thing, or even to come

within twenty yards of it. She snorted and pranced, reared and curveted,

and was about to make a bolt for home when the pig-driver, who had

considerately driven his charge into a field where it was out of sight,

seized Meg's bridle and led her beyond the dangerous pass.

"Meg, Meg," said the professor, as soon as they were alone and order had

been restored--"Meg, Meg, this will never do. You and I will have to

part company. I don't mind your _looking_ like Ethelberta, but I can't

allow you to _act_ as she did. To be sure, Ethelberta broke my heart

thirty-five years ago. But that is no reason why I should suffer _you_

to break my neck to-day. We'll go home, Meg, and I'll take an early

opportunity of breaking off the engagement, just as I broke it off with

Ethelberta--though, between you and me, Meg, I was a damned fool for

doing it."

Professor Scattergood spoke these words in a low, soft, musical voice;

the voice he always used when talking to horses or to himself about

Ethelberta. Even the obnoxious adjective was pronounced by the Professor

with that tenderness of intonation which only a horse or a woman can

fully understand. And here I must explain that this particular tone came

to him naturally in these two connections only. In all others his voice

was high-pitched, hard, and a trifle forced. Years of lecturing on

Systematic Theology had considerably damaged his vocal apparatus. He had

developed a throat-clutch; he had a distressing habit of ending all his

sentences on the rising inflection; and whenever he was the least

excited in argument he had a tendency to scream. It was in this voice

that he addressed his class. But whenever he happened to be talking to

horses, or to himself about Ethelberta--and you might catch him doing so

almost any time when he was alone,--you would hear something akin to

music, and would reflect what a pity it was that Professor Scattergood

had never learned to sing.

It was, I say, in this low, soft, musical voice that he addressed his

mare, perhaps with some exceptional sadness, on the day when, sorely

tried by her bad behaviour, he had come to the conclusion that the

engagement must be broken off. And now I must once more risk my

reputation for veracity; and if the pinch comes and I have to defend

myself from the charge of lying, I shall appeal for confirmation to my

old friend the ostler, who knows a great deal about 'osses, and believes

my story through and through. What happened was this.

The moment Professor Scattergood began to address his mare in the tones

aforesaid, she stood stock-still, with ears reversed in the direction

from which the sounds were coming. When he had finished, a gentle quiver

passed through her body. Then, suddenly lowering her head, she turned it

round with a quick movement towards the off stirrup, and slightly bit

the toe of Professor Scattergood's boot. This done, she recovered her

former attitude of attention, and again reversed her ears as though

awaiting a response. Taking in the meaning of her act with a swift

instinct which he never allowed to mar his treatment of Systematic

Theology, the professor said one word--"Ethelberta"; and the word had

hardly passed his lips when something began to tingle at the back of his

head. Instantly the mare broke into the gentlest and evenest canter that

ever delighted a horseman of sixty years; carried him through the

remainder of his ride without a single hitch, shy, or other

misdemeanour, and brought him to his own doorstep in exactly two hours

and five minutes from the time he had left it. Thenceforward, until the

last day of his life, he never had the slightest trouble with his mare.

That is the story which the ostler believes through and through.

Next day the Professor said to this man:

"Tom, I'm going to change the name of my mare."

"You can't do that, sir. You'll never get her to answer to a new name."

"I mean to try, anyhow. Here"--and he slipped half a sovereign into the

man's hand. "You make this mare answer to the name of _Ethelberta_, and

I'll give you as much more when it's done."

"Beg your pardon, sir," said the man, slipping the coin into his

pocket--"Beg your pardon, sir, but there never was a 'oss with a name

like that. It's not a 'oss's name at all, sir."

"Never mind that. Do as I tell you, and you won't regret it.

Ethelberta--don't forget."

The groom touched his hat. Professor Scattergood left the stables, and

presently the groom and his chief pal were rolling in laughter on a heap

of straw.

A fortnight later the groom said:

"The mare answers wonderful well to that new name, sir. Stopped her

kicking and biting altogether, sir. Why, the day before we give it her,

she tore the shirt off my back and bit a hole in my breeches as big as a

mangel-wurzel."

"I'll pay for both of them," said Professor Scattergood.

"Thank 'ee, sir. But since we give her the new name she's not even made

as though she _wanted_ to bite anybody. And as for kicking, why, you

might take tea with your mother-in-law right under her heels and she

wouldn't knock a saucer over. I nivver see such a thing in all my life,

and don't expect nivver to see such another! _Wonderful's_ what I calls

it! Though, since I've come to think of it, there _was_ once a 'oss

named Ethelberta as won the Buddle Stakes. Our foreman says as he

remembers the year it won. Maybe as you had a bit yourself, sir, on that

'oss--though beg your pardon for saying so."

"Yes," said the Professor, "I backed Ethelberta for all I was worth,

and won ten times as much. Only, some fellow stole the winnings out of

my--my inner pocket just before I got home. It was thirty-five years

ago."

"So it was a bit o' bad luck after all, sir?"

"It was," said Scattergood, "extremely bad luck."

"Did they ever catch the man, sir?"

"They did. They caught him within a year after the theft."

"I expect they give it 'im 'ot, sir?"

"Yes. He got a life-sentence, the same as mi--the same as that man got

who was convicted the other day."

At this lame conclusion the groom looked puzzled, and Scattergood had to

extricate himself. "You see, Tom," he went on, "the value of what I lost

was enormous."

"It must have been a tidy haul to get the thief a sentence like that,"

said Tom. "But maybe he give you a tap on the head into the bargain,

sir."

"He put a knife into me," said Scattergood, "and the wound aches to this

day."

For some reason he felt an unwonted pleasure in pursuing this

conversation with the sympathetic groom, and inwardly resolved that he

would give him a handsome tip.

"Put a _knife_ into you, did he?" cried Tom. "Why, that's just like what

happened to _me_ when I was coachman to his Lordship. We was livin' in

Ireland, and it was the days of the Land League. Me and his Lordship had

been to Ballymunny Races, and his Lordship had got his pockets stuffed

full o' money as he'd won, and I don't say I hadn't won a bit myself,

seein' as I allus backed the same 'osses as he did. Well, we had about

fifteen miles to drive in the dark, and before we starts his Lordship

says to me, 'Tom, my lad,' he says, 'go round the town and buy me the

most grievous big stick you can find in the place.' 'What's that for, my

Lord?' I says, for me and his Lordship was a'most like brothers. 'Tom,'

he says, 'I've been losin' my 'orse-sense all day, and whenever that

happens I knows there's trouble a-brewin'.' So I goes and buys him a

stick, and a beauty it were, too, made o' bog oak, and that 'eavy that

I couldn't 'elp feelin' sorry for the wife o' the man as was goin' to

get it on the top of 'is 'ead. 'All right, Tom,' says his Lordship as he

jumps on the car; 'and give the reins a turn round the palm o' your

'and.' So off we starts, and we 'adn't gone more than four miles when

three men springs out on us just like shadows. 'Look out, my Lord,' I

shouts; 'there's three on 'em!' His Lordship, as was sitting just behind

me, he hits out splendid, and I could 'ear his big stick going crack,

crack on their 'eads. 'Well done, my Lord!' I shouts. '_Hit_ 'em, my

Lord!' I says; 'give it 'em 'ome-brewed!' 'It's hittin' 'em that I'm

after,' says he. 'I've made one on 'em comfortable. Tom, you're a great

boy for choosin' a stick; but what's become o' that big fellow?' 'He's

on the near side, creepin' under the car,' I says; 'look out for that

one, my Lord; he's got a knife!' And I was just givin' the reins another

turn round the palm o' my 'and when I feels summat sharp under my right

shoulder-blade, and I begins catchin' my breath. The last as I remember

was seein' his Lordship bendin' over me, like as if he'd been my own

mother. 'Tom, my own darlin',' he says, 'if the black villains have

killed you, it's a sorrowin' man I'll be for the rest of my days. But

I've given that big one a sleepin'-draught as he won't wake up till the

Angel Gabriel knocks at his bedroom door.'--I'd got it proper, I can

tell you! Touched the lung, too, that it did; and whenever I catches a

bit o' cold and begins coughin', it's that painful that I can't----'"

"Ay, ay," said Scattergood. "Well, here's something that's good for an

old wound--though," he muttered to himself, as he rode away, "it never

made much difference to mine." He had given the man a sovereign.

As the Professor walked his horse down the yard, Tom said to his pal,

"'E must ha' bin a warm 'un in his young days. Good-'earted, too. But

why the old bloke should call his 'oss Ethelberta, seeing he lost his

money after all, licks me 'oller."

"Just look at the pair on 'em!" said the pal. "Why, to see that mare

walkin' down the yard, you might think as she was a little gel goin' to

Sunday-school. But you'll never persuade _me_ as she isn't foxin'.

She'll do a down on him yet, you mark my word! She's as tricky as a

woman. I can see it in her eye."

"Ha!" said Tom, "that reminds me of something his Lordship once said to

me. It 'appened at the Dublin 'Orse Show, as his Lordship was one o' the

judges, with me by to 'elp 'im. There was a roan mare just brought into

the ring, and his Lordship says to me, lookin' 'ard at the mare all the

time, 'Tom, my boy,' he says, 'did you ever 'ave a sweetheart?' 'Yes, my

Lord,' I says, 'several.' 'Are they livin' or dead?' says he. 'I never

killed none on 'em, my Lord,' I says; 'that's all _I_ knows about it.'

'Treat 'em 'andsome, my boy, treat 'em 'andsome,' says he in the

solemnest voice you ever 'eard; 'it's desperate bad luck on a man as has

to do wi' 'osses when a' angry sweetheart dies on him. And look 'ere,

Tom,' he says in a whisper, 'from the way the back o' my 'ead's

a-tinglin', _it's a' angry sweetheart as we're judgin' now_.--Pass her

down,' he says to the groom as were leadin' the mare, 'pass her down.

Divil a prize shall that one have! She's a dangerous bad 'oss."