I
With the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breaking up of their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams at last, and it got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone in both wind and limb, he retired with a pension to his comfortable cottage; there to cough and grumble throughout the winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes through the summer, seated on a chair in his trim little garden with a rug wrapped around his knees.
“It do be a scandal,” he was now forever saying, “and ’er such a splendid woman to ’ounds!”
And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mind would begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a little because he still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams a strong cup of tea.
“There, there, Arth-thur, you’ll soon be meetin’ the master; we be old me and you—it can’t be long now.”
At which Williams would glare: “I’m not thinkin’ of ’eaven—like as not there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven—I wants the master down ’ere at me stables. Gawd knows they be needin’ a master!”
For now besides Anna’s carriage horses, there were only four inmates of those once fine stables; Raftery and Sir Philip’s young upstanding chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins who had taken to vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating his bedding.
Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she now accepted most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter these days in matters concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging the sale had been Stephen’s; one by one she had said goodbye to the hunters, one by one she had watched them led out of the yard, with a lump in her throat that had almost choked her, and when they were gone she had turned back to Raftery for comfort.
“Oh, Raftery, I’m so unregenerate—I minded so terribly seeing them go! Don’t let’s look at their empty boxes—”