I
Soon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen’s second novel was published. It failed to create the sensation that the first had created, there was something disappointing about it. One critic described this as: “A lack of grip,” and his criticism, on the whole, was a fair one. However, the Press was disposed to be kind, remembering the merits of The Furrow.
But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and is seldom responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said: “Never mind, Stephen, you can’t expect every book to be The Furrow—and this one is full of literary merit,” Stephen replied as she turned away: “I was writing a novel, my dear, not an essay.”
After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the use of fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew also that this book fell far short of its author’s powers. Then suddenly, that spring, Raftery went very lame, and everything else was forgotten.
Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in him was not easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him sorely, he had missed the light, airy stables of Morton, and the cruel-hard bed that lay under the tan of the Row had jarred his legs badly.
The vet shook his head and looked very grave: “He’s an aged horse, you know, and of course in his youth you hunted him pretty freely—it all counts. Everyone comes to the end of their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at times I’m afraid it is painful.” Then seeing Stephen’s face: “I’m awfully sorry not to give a more cheerful diagnosis.”
Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted, including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always the same, and at times, they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; but this she well knew—she had seen the sweat break out darkly on Raftery’s shoulders.
So one morning she went into Raftery’s loosebox, and she sent the groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her cheek against the beast’s neck, while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Then they looked at each other very quietly and gravely, and in Raftery’s eyes was a strange, new expression—a kind of half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call pain: “What is it, Stephen?”
She answered, forcing back her hot tears: “Perhaps, for you, the beginning, Raftery. …”
After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slip through her fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her, so she called the groom back and ordered some gruel. Very gently she readjusted the clothing that had slipped to one side, first the under-blanket then the smart blue rug that was braided in red—red and blue, the old stable colours of Morton.
The groom Jim, now a thickset stalwart young man, stared at her with sorrowful understanding, but he did not speak; he was almost as dumb as the beasts whom his life had been passed in tending—even dumber, perhaps, for his language consisted of words, having no small sounds and small movements such as Raftery used when he spoke with Stephen, and which meant so much more than words.
She said: “I’m going now to the station to order a horsebox for tomorrow, I’ll let you know the time we start, later. And wrap him up well; put on plenty of clothing for the journey, please, he mustn’t feel cold.”
The man nodded. She had not told him their destination, but he knew it already; it was Morton. Then the great clumsy fellow must pretend to be busy with a truss of fresh straw for the horse’s bedding, because his face had turned a deep crimson, because his coarse lips were actually trembling—and this was not really so very strange, for those who served Raftery loved him.