"A CRUEL PARTING"
The phaeton-horses went off like wildfire, Dick driving as if he was
drunk. Omnibus-cads looked after him with undisguised admiration,
and hansom cabmen, catching the enthusiasm of pace, found themselves
actually wishing they were gentlemen's servants, to have their beer
found, and sit behind such steppers as those!
The white foam stood on flank and shoulder when the pair were pulled
up at Rose and Brilliant's door.
Dick bustled in with so agitated an air that an experienced shopman
instantly lifted the glass from a tray containing the usual assortment
of wedding-rings.
"I'm come about some diamonds," panted the customer, casting a wistful
glance towards these implements of coercion the while. "A set of
diamonds--very valuable--left here by a lady--a young lady--I want
them back again."
He looked about him helplessly; nevertheless, the shopman, himself a
married man, became at once less commiserating, and more confidential.
"Diamonds!" he repeated. "Let me see--yes, sir--quite so--I think I
recollect. Perhaps you'll step in and speak to our principal. Mind
your hat, if you please, sir--yes, sir--this way, sir."
So saying, he ushered Mr. Stanmore through glass doors into a neat
little room at the back, where sat a bald, smiling personage in sober
attire, something between that of a provincial master of hounds and a
low-church clergyman, whose cool composure, as it struck Dick at the
time, afforded a ludicrous contrast to his own fuss and agitation.
"_My_ name is Rose, sir," said the placid man. "Pray take a seat."
Nobody can "take a seat" under feelings of strong excitement. Dick
grasped the proffered chair by the back.
"Mr. Rose," he began, "what I have to say to you goes no farther."
"O dear, no!--certainly not--Mr. Stanmore, I believe? I hope I see you
well, sir. This is my _private_ room, you understand, sir. Whatever
affairs we transact here are _in_ private. How can I accommodate you,
Mr. Stanmore?" Dick looked so eager, the placid man was persuaded he
must want money.
"There's a young lady," said Dick, plunging at his subject, "who left
her diamonds here last week--quite a young lady--very handsome. Did
she give you her name?"
Mr. Rose smiled and shook his head benevolently. "If any jewels of
value were left with _us_, you may be sure we satisfied ourselves of
the party's name and address. Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Stanmore.
Can you favour me with the date?"
"Yes, I can," answered Dick, "and the name too. It's no use humbugging
about it. Miss Bruce was the lady's name. There! Now she wants her
jewels back again. She's changed her mind."
Mr. Rose took a ledger off the table, and ran his finger down its
columns. "Quite correct, sir," said he, stopping at a particular
entry. "You are acquainted with the circumstances, of course."
Dick nodded, esteeming it little breach of confidence to look as if he
knew all about it.
"There is no difficulty whatever," continued the bland Mr. Rose.
"Happy to oblige Miss Bruce. Happy to oblige _you_. We shall charge a
small sum for commission. Nothing more--O dear, no! Have them cleaned
up? Certainly, sir; and you may depend on their being sent home in
time. At your convenience, Mr. Stanmore. No hurry, sir. You can write
me your cheque for the amount. Perhaps I'd better draw out a little
memorandum. We shall make a mere nominal charge for cleaning."
Dick glanced over the memorandum, including its nominal charge for
cleaning, which, perhaps from ignorance, did not strike him as being
extraordinarily low. He was somewhat startled at the sum total, but
when this gentleman made up his mind, it was not easy to turn him from
an object in view.
The steppers, hardly cool, were hurried straight off to his bankers',
to be driven, after their owner's interview with one of the partners,
back again to the great emporium of their kind at Tattersall's.
A woman who wants to make a sacrifice parts with her jewels, a man
sells his horses. Honour to each, for each offers up what is nearest
and dearest to the heart.
Dick Stanmore lived no more within his income than other people. To
get back these diamonds he would have to raise a considerable sum.
There was nothing else to be done. The hunters must go: nay, the whole
stud, phaeton-horses, hacks, and all. Yet Dick marched into the office
to secure stalls for an early date, with a bright eye and a smiling
face. He was proving, to _himself_, at least, how well he loved her.
The first person he met in the yard was Lord Bearwarden. That
nobleman, though knowing him but slightly, had rather a liking for
Stanmore, cemented by a certain good run they once saw in company,
when each approved of the other's straightforward riding and unusual
forbearance towards hounds.
"There's a nice horse in the boxes," said my lord; "looks very like
your sort, Stanmore, and they say he'll go cheap, though he's quite
sound."
"Thanks," answered Dick. "But I'm all the other way. Been taking
stalls. Going to sell."
"Draft?" asked his lordship, who did not waste words.
"All of them," replied the other. "Even the hacks, saddlery, clothing,
in short, the whole plant, and without reserve--going to give it
up--at any rate for a time."
"Sorry for that," replied Bearwarden, adding, courteously, "Can I
offer you a lift? I'm going your way. Indeed, I'm going to call at
your mother's. Shall I find the ladies at home?"
"A little later you will," said honest, unsuspecting Dick, who had not
yet learned the lesson that teaches it is not worth while to trust or
mistrust any of the sex. "They'll be charmed to give you some tea. I'm
off to Croydon to look over my poor screws before they're sold, and
break it to my groom."
"That's a right good fellow," thought Lord Bearwarden, "and not a bad
connection if I was fool enough to marry the dark girl, after all." So
he called out to Dick, who had one foot on the step of his phaeton--
"I say, Stanmore, come and dine with us on the 11th; we've got two or
three hunting fellows, and we can go on together afterwards to your
mother's ball."
"All right," said Stanmore, and bowled away in the direction of
Croydon at the rate of fourteen miles an hour. If the horses were
to be sold, people might just as well be made aware of the class of
animal he kept. Though the sacrifice involved was considerable, it
would be wise to lessen it by all judicious means in his power.
_How_ great a sacrifice he scarcely felt till he arrived at his
country stables.
Dick Stanmore had been fonder of hunting than any other pursuit in the
world, ever since he went out for the first time on a Shetland pony,
and came home with his nose bleeding, at five years old.
The spin and "whizz" of his reel, the rush of a brown mountain stream
with its fringe of silver birch and stunted alder, the white side of a
leaping salmon, and the gasp of that noble fish towed deftly into the
shallows at last, afforded him a natural and unmixed pleasure. He
loved the heather dearly, the wild hillside, the keen pure air, the
steady setters, the flap and cackle of the rising grouse, the ringing
shot that laid him low, born in the purple, and fated there to die.
Nor, when corn-fields were cleared, and partridges, almost as swift as
bullets and as numerous as locusts, were driven to and fro across the
open, was his aim to be foiled by a flight little less rapid than the
shot that arrested it. With a rifle in his hand, a general knowledge
of the surrounding forest, and a couple of gillies, give him the wind
of a royal stag feeding amongst his hinds, and despite the feminine
jealousy and instinctive vigilance of the latter, an hour's stalk
would put the lord of the hills at the mercy of Dick Stanmore. In all
these sports he was a proficient, from all of them he derived a keen
gratification, but fox-hunting was his passion and his delight.
A fine rider, he loved the pursuit so well, and was so interested in
hounds, that he gave his horse every opportunity of carrying him in
front, and as his natural qualities included a good eye, and that
confidence in the immediate future which we call "nerve," he was
seen in difficulties less often than might be expected from his
predilection in favour of "the shortest way."
His horses generally appeared to go pleasantly, and to reciprocate
their rider's confidence, for he certainly seemed to get more work out
of them than his neighbours.
As Mr. Crop, his stud-groom, remarked in the peculiar style of English
affected by that trustworthy but exceedingly impracticable servant--
"Take and put him on a 'arf-bred' 'oss, an' he rides him like a
hangel, nussin' of him, and coaxin' of him, and sendin' of him along,
_beautiful_ for ground, an' uncommon liberal for fences. Take an' put
him on a thoro'-bred 'un, like our Vampire 'oss, and--Lor!"
One secret perhaps of that success in the hunting-field, which, when
well mounted, even Mr. Crop's eloquence was powerless to express but
by an interjection, lay in his master's affection for the animal.
Dick Stanmore dearly loved a horse, as some men do love them, totally
irrespective of any pleasure or advantage to be derived from their
use.
There is a fanciful oriental legend which teaches that when Allah was
engaged in the work of creation, he tempered the lightning with the
south wind, and thus created the horse. Whimsical as is this idea, it
yet suggests the swiftness, the fire, the mettlesome, generous, but
plastic temperament of our favourite quadruped--the only one of
our dumb servants in whose spirit we can rouse at will the utmost
emulation, the keenest desire for the approval of its lord. Even the
countenance of this animal denotes most of the qualities we affect to
esteem in the human race--courage, docility, good-temper, reflection
(for few faces are so thoughtful as that of the horse), gratitude,
benevolence, and, above all, trust. Yes, the full brown eye, large,
and mild, and loving, expresses neither spite, nor suspicion, nor
revenge. It turns on you with the mute unquestioning confidence
of real affection, and you may depend on it under all pressure of
circumstance, in the last extremity of danger or death. Will you say
as much for the bluest eyes that ever sparkled in mirth, or swam in
tears, or shone and deepened under the combined influence of triumph,
belladonna, and war-paint?
I once heard a man affirm that for him there was in every horse's face
the beauty each of us sees in the one woman he adores. This outrageous
position he assumed after a good run, and, indeed, after the dinner
which succeeded it. I will not go quite so far as to agree with him,
but I will say that in generosity, temper, and fidelity, there is
many a woman, and man too, who might well take example from the noble
qualities of the horse.
And now Dick Stanmore was about to offer up half-a-dozen of these
valued servants before the idol he had lately begun to worship, for
whom, indeed, he esteemed no victim too precious, no sacrifice too
dear.
Driving into his stable-yard, he threw the reins to a couple of
helpers, and made use of Mr. Crop's arm to assist his descent. That
worthy's face shone with delight. Next to his horses he loved his
master--chiefly, it is fair to say, as an important ingredient without
which there would be no stud.
"I was expectin' of ye, sir," said he, touching an exceedingly
straight-brimmed hat. "Glad to see ye lookin' so well."
To do him justice, Mr. Crop did his duty as if he always _was_
expecting his master.
"Horses all right?" asked Dick, moving towards the stable-door.
"'Osses _is_ 'ealthy, I am thankful to say," replied the groom
gravely, "and lookin', too, pretty nigh as I could wish, now they've
done breakin' with their coats. There's Firetail got a queerish
look--them Northamptonshire 'osses is mostly unsound ones--and the
mare's off leg's filled; and the Vampire 'oss, he's got a bit of a
splent a-comin', but I'll soon frighten that away; an' old Dandybrush,
he's awful, but not wuss nor I counted; and the young un--"
"I'll look 'em over," said Dick, interrupting what threatened to be
a long catalogue. "I came down on purpose. The fact is (take those
horses out and feed them)--the fact is, Crop, I'm going to sell them
all. I'm going to send them up to Tattersall's."
Every groom is more or less a sporting man, and it is the peculiarity
of sporting men to betray astonishment at no eventuality, however
startling; therefore Mr. Crop, doing violence to his feelings, moved
not a muscle of his countenance.
"I'm sorry to part with them, Crop," added Dick, a little put out by
the silence of his retainer, and not knowing exactly what to say next.
"They've carried me very well--I've seen a deal of fun on them--I
don't suppose I shall ever have such good ones--I don't suppose I
shall ever hunt much again."
Mr. Crop began to thaw. "They're _good_ 'osses," he observed
sententiously; "but that's not to say as there isn't good 'osses
elsewheres. In regard of not huntin' there's a many seasons, askin'
your pardon, atween you and me, and I should be sorry to think as I
wasn't goin' huntin', ay, twenty years from now! When is 'em goin' up,
sir?" added he, sinking sentiment and coming to business at once.
"Monday fortnight," answered Dick, entering a loose box, in which
stood a remarkably handsome mare, that neighed at him, and rubbed her
head against his breast.
"I should ha' liked another ten days," replied Crop, for it was an
important part of his system never to accept his master's arrangements
without a protest. "I could ha' got 'em to show as they ought to show
by then. Is the stalls took?"
Dick nodded. He was looking wistfully at the mare, thinking what a
light mouth she had, and how boldly she faced water.
"That leg'll be as clean as my face in a week," observed Mr. Crop
confidently. "She'll fetch a good price, _she_ will. Sir Frederic's
after _her_, I know. There's nothing but tares in there, sir; old
Dandybrush is in the box on the right."
Dick gave the mare a loving pat, and turned sadly into the residence
of old Dandybrush.
That experienced animal greeted him with laid-back ears and a grin, as
though to say, "Here you are again! But I like you best in your red
coat."
They had seen many a good gallop together, and rolled over each other
with the utmost good-humour, in every description of soil. To look at
the old horse, even in his summer guise, was to recall the happiest
moments of a sufficiently happy life.
"I'd meant to guv it _him_ pretty sharp," said Crop; "but I'll let him
alone now. He'd 'a carried you, maybe, another season or two, with a
good strong dressin'; but them legs isn't what they _was_. Last
time as I rode of him second horse, I found him different--gettin'
inquisitive at his places--and when they gets inquisitive they soon
begins to get slow. You'll look at the Vampire 'oss, sir, before you
go back to town?"
Now "the Vampire 'oss," as he called him, was an especial favourite
with Mr. Crop. Dick Stanmore had bought him out of training at
Newmarket by his groom's advice, and the highbred animal, being ridden
by an exceedingly good horseman, had turned out a far better hunter
than common--not invariably the case with horses that begin life
on the Heath. Crop took great pride in this purchase, confidently
asserting, and doubtless believing, that England could not produce its
equal.
He threw the box-door open with the air of a man who is going to
exhibit a picture of his own painting.
"It's a pity to let him go," said the groom, with a sigh. "Where'll
you get another as can touch him when the ground's deep, like it was
last March? I've had a many to look after, first and last; but such a
kind 'oss to do for in the stable I never see. Why, if you was to
give that 'oss ten feeds of corn a day he'd take an' eat 'em all out
clean--wouldn't leave a hoat! And legs. Them's not legs! them's slips
of gutta-percher an' steel! To be sure he'll fetch a hawful price at
the 'ammer--four 'underd, five 'underd, I shouldn't wonder--why he's
worth all the money to look at. Blessed if you mightn't ride a good
'ack to death only tryin' to find such another!"
Nevertheless, the Vampire horse was condemned to go up with the rest.
Notwithstanding the truth of the groom's protestations, its money
value was exactly the quality that decided the animal's fate.
Driving back to London, Dick's heart bounded to think that in an
hour's time he should meet Miss Bruce again at dinner. How delightful
to be doing all this for her sake, yet to keep the precious secret
safe locked in his own breast, until the moment should come when it
would be judicious to divulge it, making, at the same time, another
confession, of which he hoped the result might be happiness for life.
"I'd do more than that for her," muttered this enthusiastic young
gentleman, while he trotted over Vauxhall Bridge. "I liked my poor
horses better than anything; and that's just the reason I like to part
with them for her sake. My darling, I'd give you the heart out of my
breast, even if I thought you'd tread it under foot and send it back
again!"
Had such an anatomical absurdity been reconcilable with the structure
of the human frame, it is possible Miss Bruce might have treated this
important organ in the contumelious manner suggested.