MY NEW MASTER.
Of course I had been picturing to myself the style of home I was going
to, and as might have been expected I found it quite opposite to the
creation of my mind. I had portrayed to myself a house something like
that upon the farm, but larger and grander, and surrounded by trees and
flowers all carefully arranged, with a fine lawn in the centre; but
instead of this I found that my new master lived in the heart of a large
country town named Upton, and the ground around it, instead of being
devoted to the cultivation of flowers, was sacrificed to the art of
making beer. My new master was, in short, a brewer, and his house
adjoined his place of business.
I am not going into the question of strong drink,—a little concerning
that will be found further on; for the present I confine myself to my
master and his family. Mr. Crawshay was a stout, florid man, with a loud
voice which many people called genial—perhaps it was, sometimes—but I
have heard that same voice address his wife and daughter in a tone
anything but genial.
Personally I had no connection with the brewery, but was especially
reserved for the use of Mrs. Crawshay and her daughter. Mrs. Crawshay
was an invalid, and only went out in a waggonette, which I had the
honour of drawing, and when not required in that capacity, Miss Crawshay
put on her habit and used me for equestrian purposes. Both these ladies
were kind to me—I liked them very much, and used to prick up my ears
whenever I heard their voices. The young lady was especially fond of me,
and often came to the stable to feed me with some nicety, an apple and
so on, out of her delicate hand. Mrs. Crawshay being quite an invalid
was unable to perform the same kindness, but I have heard her, at least
fifty times, tell the servant, as I stood at the door, to bring me a
biscuit; and whenever the morning drive was ended she was always very
particular in her injunctions to the groom to take great care of me, and
he being in that respect a very excellent fellow, certainly made me as
comfortable as a horse could be.
I cannot tell how it was, I suppose it was instinct, but from the first
moment I entered this service I felt sorry for my two mistresses. There
was a quiet, patient look on their faces which I did not understand
then, but which I thoroughly understand now—and Mr. Crawshay and his
loud, genial voice had something to do with the look you may be sure.
I never was a great favourite with the brewer—he did not dislike me,
but, he took no interest in me. Never once did he either ride or drive
me, but he kept for his use a tall, conceited creature, who always
turned up his nose at my quiet ways, and called me a ‘draught horse;’
and whenever we met, as we sometimes did with Mr. Crawshay on his back,
he passed me as if he had never seen me before, although we spent our
leisure time in the same stable.
Little pitchers have large ears: so have horses, and I soon picked up
enough from the groom and the housemaid, who were often chatting
together, to learn that genial Mr. Crawshay was a perfect brute to his
wife and daughter, and he had bought me because he had a great dislike
to have anything, even a horse, in common with them. To the outer world
a horse and chaise for his wife and daughter was an act of liberality,
but to the inner life of that wretched home it was deliberate isolation.
Looking back, I remember with mingled joy and pain the kindness I
received from that mother and child. Never a morning passed without the
daughter visiting the stable, and as I have declared before they always
expressed a vast amount of anxiety respecting my condition and welfare,
which was very delightful to hear. My home, in short, apart from the
little anxiety and grief I felt for my two kind mistresses, was a very
happy one.
The groom’s name was Richards, and he was a very fair groom in a general
way, but he had a failing very common to his class—he was fond of drink.
Sometimes he would be sober for a month, and then he would, as Mrs.
Crawshay expressed it, ‘break out’—that is, he would begin drinking
early in the morning and do little else throughout the day, and tumble
into his bed, which was in a room above the stables, in a state which
would have disgraced the very lowest order of brutes; I am certain that
even a pig would have been ashamed of it.
Mrs. Crawshay very often reproved him in a quiet way, and did her best
to reform the man; but he was too near the brewery—he lived in the very
centre of temptation, and he was not strong enough to resist it. From
Mr. Crawshay he received nothing but oaths and threats, which had less
effect upon the groom than the kind admonition of his mistress; and he
would go on in this sad way for about a week, and then suddenly turn to
sobriety again. I have often wondered what possible gratification
Richards could derive from this outburst, for it always made him very
ill and wretched, and for days afterwards he would skulk about more like
a criminal burdened with crime than an honest, hard-working man.
This habit proved fatal to him, and brought a great misfortune upon me.
One night, when Richards was in the stable putting all right for the
night, Mr. Crawshay came in with a letter in his hand.
‘Richards,’ he said, ‘put Blossom into the dog-cart and drive over to
Mr. Turner’s. You have nothing to do but leave the letter and bring back
a portmanteau which his man will give you. Keep it in your room for the
night, and bring it into the house in the morning.’
Richards, accustomed to obey, made no demur, and quickly harnessed me to
the dog-cart, and drove to Mr. Turner’s residence, a house about twelve
miles from Upton. The letter was delivered, and a servant brought out a
portmanteau, with an injunction to Richards to be careful, as it
contained deeds and papers of importance. Richards replied that he knew
his business, and always took care of everything, and drove away with a
self-satisfied air.
It was now about ten o’clock, and an autumn moon was shining brightly as
I trotted briskly towards home. I was always of a sober turn, and never
cared for late hours; some horses may like them, but they don’t suit me,
so I put my best foot foremost, resolved to get home with the least
possible delay. Richards also seemed bent upon getting back, until we
came in sight of a roadside inn, with its well-lighted windows standing
out boldly to invite him in. The unfortunate man could not resist the
temptation, but steered straight for the beacon which decoyed him to his
ruin, and pulled up at the door. An ostler came, and Richards, before
going in, told the man that he would be out again in a minute, and that
he need not trouble about me, as I would stand perfectly quiet; he then
passed through the doorway and left me to my reflections.
The minute passed, and other minutes were added to it, and Richards did
not return. Two other carts came up, and the drivers went in also; and
then I heard shouts and laughter, and Richards asking them what they
would have to drink, so I concluded that he had met with some old
friends—not knowing what I know now, that men under the influence of
drink make bosom friends of all comers, and spend their money in the
wildest and most foolish manner.
I was kept waiting an hour, and then Richards reeled out in company with
the other drivers and about half a dozen other men. They were all in a
maudlin state of drunkenness, swearing eternal friendship, and declaring
that every man there assembled was a glorious fellow without an equal in
the known world.
Two of the men were going to Upton, and Richards volunteered to drive
them home. They got up, both in front, which was too bad, as their
weight pressed very heavily upon me. Sober, Richards would have noticed
this, and shifted the body of the cart; but being intoxicated, he
neither knew nor cared how much their weight pressed upon me, nor how
great my sufferings in consequence.
[Illustration: ‘DOWN I WENT WITH A TERRIBLE CRASH.’]
We started, Richards driving with a very loose rein, and I am sure that
if ever I needed help from man I needed it that night; a tight rein
would have assisted me with all that weight pressing upon my withers.
Bad as it was, I would have taken them home safely if Richards had let
me alone. But he would not. First he shouted to me; then he shook the
rein; then I felt the cruel whip about my loins and head, until pain and
fright bewildered me. We came to a steep hill, but I seemed to be
scarcely conscious of where I was, as Richards beat me more furiously
than ever. Maddened, I sprang forward and tore down the hill: the weight
behind was too much, I could not gather my feet, and down I went with a
terrible crash.
For a moment all was still, and I lay panting, half-dead with fear and
excitement; then I heard one of the men shouting for help. What followed
I can but dimly remember, for I was in a state of bewilderment, like a
horse in a dream; but I can just call to mind the arrival of several
persons from a house close by, who helped the men to put something heavy
into the cart, and then I, having arisen, was led slowly home. I was
suffering very much; my knees were dreadfully cut, and I was terribly
shaken; but my thoughts were busy with the load I was bearing home. It
was poor Richards with a broken neck, quite dead!
They rang Mr. Crawshay up and told him what had happened. His first
inquiry was for his portmanteau, which was safe; then he expressed a few
words of regret for Richards, qualifying his sorrow by saying that it
was just what he expected; and wound up by cursing _me_, as a brute who
was not worth his salt. I was very tired and bruised and sore, but I had
enough spirit left in me to kick him then; I should have done so, but I
remembered the lesson of my mother, and wisely forbore.
Mr. Crawshay did give me shelter for the night, but I heard him declare
he would have no broken-kneed beast about his place, and that I should
be taken away on the morrow to be sold. He carried out his threat, and
early on the morrow a small ferret-faced man came and led me away before
I had an opportunity of having a parting glance at my mistresses. This
act I have always believed to be in accordance with Mr. Crawshay’s
general conduct towards his wife and daughter; it was one more link in
the chain of unkind deeds with which he had burdened their lives. Mr.
Crawshay knew his wife and daughter were fond of me, and would gladly
have kept me in spite of my misfortune; but the opportunity for an
unkindness offered, such as could safely be performed in the face of the
world, and he seized it. Strange it is, but true, that some men will
spend a deal and go far out of their way to give pain, when they could
bestow happiness with less trouble and half the expense.
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