“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.