ANOTHER LOSS AND A DISAPPOINTMENT.
What I felt that night I do not care to tell—the sorrow of the time was
too deep for words. I loved my mistress; she had come upon me like
sunshine after storm—her very touch was balm to my wounded spirit—and
she was gone! Roberts made a deal of noise over his sorrow, and I have
no doubt he felt the loss; but his wound was not so deep as mine, I
warrant you.
They buried my mistress quietly, as she wished; and then another
misfortune came upon me. Mr. Graham was taken ill. Mr. Archibald did not
go back to college, but remained with his father; and from this I argued
that the illness was of a very serious nature. Then came a dread upon me
of what was to come, and I was very unhappy indeed.
I saw very little of Mr. Archibald, and what I did see was not pleasing
to me. He appeared to be very proud and imperious, and talked to
everybody in a very commanding way. As for _me_, he only came once into
the stable, and then he positively laughed at me, called me a
‘broken-down hack,’ and asked Roberts why I was not sent to the
knacker’s.
‘Miss Nellie was very fond of Blossom, sir,’ replied Roberts; ‘he ain’t
much to look at, but he ain’t a bad horse—he is very willing, sir.’
This recommendation made no impression upon Mr. Archibald, who laughed
contemptuously and went away; but I felt very grateful to the boy
Roberts, who preferred speaking the truth to toadying to the disparaging
opinions of his young master. Mr. Graham was very ill, suffering from
brain fever, the result of many months of anxiety and watchfulness over
his daughter. The illness had long been pending, and descended upon him
with terrible force. He became delirious, raving night and day, until
nature was exhausted, and a calm settling upon him, he followed his
daughter to the grave.
This second blow, following so closely upon the first, fairly broke me
down; a gloom settled upon the house, but nowhere so darkly as upon me.
I not only grieved deeply for the great loss I had sustained, but there
was the weight of a dark uncertain future hanging over me.
I saw nobody but Roberts until the second funeral was over; and a few
days after the event, Mr. Archibald, Roberts, and another servant in
livery entered the stable. The latter person seemed to be very
deferential to Mr. Archibald, and I saw at once that he was his own
servant—a man I had heard Roberts speak of as Mr. Archibald’s Hoskins.
‘There, that’s the nag, Hoskins,’ said Mr. Archibald; ‘I make you a
present of him, instead of a Christmas box by-and-by. He will fetch
something for cats’-meat, if for nothing else.’
This unmerited insult was received with an approving laugh from Hoskins;
but Roberts, with tears in his eyes, stepped forward and said,—
‘If you please, Mr. Archibald, Miss Nellie always said Blossom was not
to be sold.’
‘Did she?’ returned Mr. Archibald. ‘And pray what was to be done with
him?’
‘Master said he would keep him while he lived, and leave enough money to
keep him at grass in his old days, if he died before him.’
Oh, kind mistress and worthy master! you have the thanks a horse can
give for the noble thought; but alas, it was never to be!
‘There was nothing of the sort in his will,’ said Mr. Archibald; ‘and I
do not feel called upon to carry out such a sentimental scheme upon your
bare assertion, my lad. Hoskins, the animal is yours; get him out of the
way as soon as you can, for I want the stable for my own horses.’
Having thus sealed my fate, he turned upon his heel and went his way.
The cold, selfish sentence of Mr. Archibald Graham was carried out. I
will make no comment upon the character of this young man, but leave my
readers to judge his conduct for themselves. A few hours later I left
him and Maythorn Lodge behind me.
Hoskins took me down to Smithfield, where he sold me to the proprietor
of an advertising van; and for four months I dragged behind me a huge
unsightly structure of light boarding, whereon was pasted the
advertisements my master was employed to make known.
Sometimes we puffed a patent pill, warranted to cure every form of
suffering known to man; at another time we vaunted the merits of some
low wretched comic singer, who did his best nightly to degrade already
fallen man; and then this gave way to a wholesale outfitter’s
declaration that he was the best of tailors; and so we went on, until an
Act of Parliament swept advertising vans from the public streets, and my
master’s trade was ruined.
This was a very wretched time for me: I was badly stabled, badly fed; I
was never once decently groomed all the time I was with this man.
Sometimes, it is true, he scratched my back with a bit of a curry-comb,
and threw a pail or two of water over my legs; but this was all, and
what with the life I led, and the wet weather and the dirt of the
streets, I sank down very low and became a poor wretched object indeed.
I was sold again for so small a sum that I will not name it—none who
knew poor Blossom in his earliest days would have dreamt that he could
have come to such a pass. This buyer was Mr. Crabbe, livery stable
keeper and cab proprietor of Hackney Marsh—the last master I shall ever
know.
He kept about a dozen horses—eight of them young and in good condition;
the rest were pitiable objects like myself, and we were reserved for
night work.
I need not tell you that our position in the stable was anything but an
enviable one. The young horses turned up their noses at us, and upon the
strength of being better fed and better cared for than our wretched
selves, treated us with the greatest possible contempt. Mr. Crabbe
himself seemed to have no thought or care for us, and never once, from
the hour I became his property to the present moment, did he ever bestow
a kind word or a caress upon me.
As for my duty—my work as night cab horse—I will speak more of that
presently; but just now I must tell of an incident which occurred in the
stable, as it bears upon the fate of a friend who is very dear to me—I
mean Rip, the noble, handsome Rip.
One day, late in the afternoon, Mr. Crabbe brought home a new horse, a
young thing about four years of age, which he put in the stall next to
mine. I just glanced at him, but made no attempt to open a conversation,
as I had endured so many insults and snubbings from the better horses of
our stable; and after a time forgetting him, fell into a musing mood. My
fancy carried me back, as it often did, to my place of birth, and the
paddock and the surrounding scene rose up before me. For a moment the
quietude of the sweet place was upon me, and bowing my head I murmured,
‘Oh, Upton, Upton! would that I could take these old bones down to your
green fields! Would that I could lie down beside your sweet river and
give up my life!’
‘Who talks of Upton?’ said a voice near me; and turning my head I saw
the stranger look at me with an inquisitive face.
‘I do,’ I replied; ‘do you know the place?’
‘I ought to,’ replied the other; ‘for I have only just left it, and a
bad leave it is for me, I fear. I was reared on Mr. Bayne’s farm, and a
kinder master never lived.’
I could barely speak for the tumultuous throbbing of my heart, but I
managed to stammer out, ‘Tell me all you know; is Mr. Bayne alive?’ And
then I asked for my mother, and the stranger told me what I expected to
hear, that she had lived to a good old age, and had died a year ago.
[Illustration: THE TALK IN THE STABLE.]
‘And Mr. Bayne?’ I asked again.
‘He is getting into years, but hale and hearty still,’ replied my
informant. ‘But just before I came away a sad accident happened to a
farmer named Martin. Boxer was his horse, who used to bring him home
from market when he had been drinking; but Boxer was getting old and
blind, I suppose, and walked out of the road into the mill-pond. Be it
as it may, Mr. Martin and Boxer were found drowned together.’
I expressed my sorrow for both master and horse, and then with a
palpitating heart I inquired after my old friend Rip.
‘Rip, Rip, let me see,’ said my companion, thoughtfully; ‘an old horse
belonging to the Tracey family, is it not?’
It seemed so odd to hear any one speaking of Rip as an old horse: but
time had flown since we met, and he, like me, was past his prime. But he
could not be so worn-out as I was—his lot had fallen upon smoother
places than mine; still he was old, there was no disputing that.
‘A sad accident happened to this Rip,’ continued my informant; ‘a
careless groom drove him against another carriage, and a splinter
entering his leg, he was lamed for life.’
‘And what has become of him?’ I asked softly, my thoughts running upon
knives and guns in an instant.
‘The family with whom he lives are very kind to horses,’ was the
reply—‘especially the elder branches. Rip has served them well, I
believe, and they have rewarded him by making arrangements for him to
end his days in the paddock where he lived when young. His leg will
never be of any real service again, but it has ceased to pain him, and
he limps about as happy and contented as a horse can be.’
Oh, Rip, my friend, this is good news of you. Long may you live to enjoy
your well-earned rest and ease! There was a choking feeling in my throat
as I thought of our different lots, but I hope it was not the result of
envy. Envy is as bad in a horse as it is in a man.
‘Did he ever speak of a horse named Blossom?’ I ventured to ask softly,
after a pause.
‘Very often,’ replied my companion—‘wondering what had become of him—and
always in terms of the greatest compassion. I fancy that Blossom is
rather an unfortunate horse. Do you know him?’
I did not answer, for my heart was full, and my brain was busy with
thinking of my dear old friend, high-spirited noble Rip—and generous
too, for he could think of me—poor, simple, vulgar Blossom. I felt very
sorry for having neighed so loudly when I met him on the race-course;
but he forgave me, and what more could I want?
I ought to have been sleeping that afternoon; but the news concerning
Rip drove all thoughts of rest from my brain, and I had not closed my
eyes when the ostler came in to harness me for my nightly work.
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