When Major 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 the ancestral 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 of tumble-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 and then, 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 was _their_ baker.
“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 mealy bay; 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 let _me_ have 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 just _bought_ him,” 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 his _chance_? 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; do _you_ buy;
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 he _will_--ye will find ye have got grand
value for yer thirty 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 to go 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 him away 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 him _dark_--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 it _was_ Sarsfield 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 kicked
_him_ into 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._