The Mourner's Horse

== THE MOURNER'S HORSE ==
=== By Arthur T. Quiller-Couch ===
Originally published in The Speaker 1892
This
sketch tells of the dilemma in which a substitute at a funeral finds himself,
and the difficulty he experienced in getting away from the house of
mourning  owing to his sublime ignorance
of horseflesh.. ''
Recently on my way across the downs, I
overtook the national schoolmaster and walked some little distance with him
discussing free education and what would come of it. The schoolmaster is
town-bred — a thin, clean-shaven man, whose black habit and tall hat, though
considerably bronzed, refuse to harmonize with the scenery amid which they
move. His speech is formal and slightly dogmatic. On the subject of free
education he talked with angry positiveness, as one acquainted with the facts.
His cold eyes sparkled behind his spectacles, and, tucking his umbrella tightly
under his arm-pit, he ticked off his arguments, tapping his right fore-finger
on the palm of his left hand. 
Thus occupied, we were passing the wall of
a farm-house on the edge of the downs, when an ugly sheep-dog — a grizzled,
tailless brute — came leaping over it and flew at our legs. 
I had wheeled round and my ash-sapling was
lifted for a blow when the schoolmaster arrested me with a peal of horrible, discordant
laughter. He was crouching, with a hand on either thigh, and his spectacles
almost on a level with the dog's jaws. His hat had shifted to the back of his
head, and the look of derision on his face was something devilish. At intervals
of about three seconds he flung a yell of unnatural mirth straight in the dog's
face. Down went the brute's tail, and he slunk round and back over the wall,
rubbing his belly on the coping in his abject discomfiture. 
The schoolmaster straightened himself and
resumed his sombre respectability at once. I stared back on the empty road
without speaking. The man's impish outburst, to tell the truth, had startled me
not a little. I saw its success, of course, but somehow it had been too well
done; and I wondered if he would take up his argument again. 
Instead, he chuckled drily after a moment
and began: 
" That's a better weapon than a
gun." 
" Ridicule ? " 
He nodded. 
''You used it uncommonly well,” said I. 
" Oh, it's easy. The test of any
creature — man or dog — is, Can he parry it ? I never met one that could. You
see, every living being has some secret shame : man or dog, we all pretend to
be what we are not. It is all very well to say Mike to the crackling of thorns
under a pot,' but the point is that we're all in the pot, and liable to be
cooked." 
He walked on a dozen steps, and resumed, in
a tone altogether lighter: 
'I will tell you a tale on this point that
may amuse you at my expense. I am London-bred, as you know — a Cockney in the
grain to this day, though when I came down here to teach school I was barely
twenty, and now I'm fifty-six. 'It was during the summer holidays that I first
set foot in the neighborhood, a week before school opened again. I came early,
to look for lodgings and find out a little about the people and settle down a
bit before beginning work. 
" The vicar — the late vicar —
commended me to the farmhouse we have just passed. It was occupied in those
days by an old farmer called Retallack, a widower and childless. His sister,
Miss Jane Ann, kept house for him; and these were the only two souls on the
premises till I came and was boarded by them for thirteen shillings a week. For
that price they let me have a bedroom, a fair-sized sitting-room, and as much
as I could eat. 
"A month after I arrived, Farmer
Retallack was put to bed with a bad attack of colic. This was on a Wednesday,
and on Saturday morning Miss Jane Ann came to my door with a message that the
old man would like to see me. So I went to his room and found him propped up in
the bed with pillows and looking very yellow in the gills, though clearly
convalescent. 
"'Schoolmaster,' said he, 'I've summat
of a favor to beg o* ye. You give the children a half-holiday, Saturdays — hey
? Well, dy'e think ye could drive the brown hoss into Tergarrick this
afternoon? 'Fact is, my old friend Abe Walters, that kept The Packhorse, is
lyin* dead, an' they bury en at half-after-three to-day. I'd be main glad to
attend the feast an' tell Missus Walters how much deceased *ll be missed, but I
might so well try to fly. Now if you could attend an' just pass the word that
I'm laid on my back with colic, but that you've come to show respect i' my
place — There 'II be lashins o' vittles and drink: no Walters was ever interred
under a kilderkin, exceptin' their second child that died in teethin” — an' he
took a nine-gallon cask, besides port and sherry wine to an uncertain amount. I
had that from the mother. “ 
" Now the fact was, I had never driven
a horse in my life and hardly knew (as they say) a horse's head from his tail
till he began to move. But that is just the sort of ignorance no young man will
confess to. So I answered that I was engaged that evening. We were just
organizing night-classes for the young men of the parish, and the vicar was to
open the first, with a short address, at half-past six. 
You'll be back in loads o* time,' the
farmer assured me. To tell you the truth,' said I, * I'm not accustomed to
drive much. ' 
“ He declared that it was impossible to
come to grief on the way, the brown horse being quiet as a lamb and knowing
every stone of the road by heart. And the end was that I consented. The brown
horse was harnessed by the farm boy and led round with the gig while Miss Jane
Ann and I were finishing our 
meal. And I drove oflf alone in a black suit, and with my heart in my mouth. 
“ The brown horse, as the farmer had
promised, was quiet as a lamb. He went forward at a steady jog, and even had
the good sense to quarter on his own account for the one or two vehicles we met
on the broad road. Pretty soon I began to experiment gingerly with the reins,
and, by the time we reached Tergarrick streets, was handling them with quite an
air, while observing the face of every one I met, to make sure I was not being
laughed at. The prospect of frightened me a good deal, and there
was a sharp corner to turn at the entrance of the inn-yard. But the old horse
knew his business so well that had I pulled on one rein with all my strength I
believe it would have merely annoyed, without affecting him. He took me into
the yard without a mistake, and I gave up the reins to the ostler, thanking
Heaven and looking careless. 
" The inn was crowded with mourners,
eating and drinking and discussing the dead man's virtues. The assembly-room at
the back, where the subscription dances were held, was filled with a
suffocating crowd, a reek of hot joints, and the clicking of knives and forks.
I caught sight of the widow moving up and down before a long table and shedding
tears while she changed her guests' plates. She heard my message, and,
welcoming me with effusion, hurried away to put on her bonnet for the funeral. 
" More than an hour later, I hurried
back from the churchyard to the inn and told the ostler to put my horse in the
gig. The funeral was over and I had not much time to spare. 
"*I beg your pardon, sir,' the ostler
said, *but I'm new to this place. Which is your horse ? * 
“Oh,' I answered, *he*s a brown. You'll
know him easily enough. * 
" The man returned in about five
minutes. * There's six brown hosses in the stable, sir. Would 'ee mind comin’
an' pickin' out yourn ? ' 
" I followed him with a sense of
coming evil. Sure enough, there were six brown horses in the big stable, and to
save my life I couldn't tell which was mine. Of any difference between horses,
except that of color, I'd no idea. I scanned them all anxiously, and felt the
ostler's eye upon me. I had an impulse to confide my difficulty to him, but
reflected that this wouldn't help me in the least. After a minute, pulling out
my watch carelessly, I said: 
"*By George, I'd no idea it was so
early! Never mind. I won't start for a few minutes yet.' 
"This was the only course — to wait
until the other five owners of brown horses had driven home. I went back to the
inn and talked and drank sherry, watching the crowd thin by degrees and
speeding the lingering mourners with all my prayers. The time dragged on till
nothing short of a miracle could take me back in time for the night-class. The
widow came and talked to me. I answered her at random. 
" Twice I revisited the stable, and
the last time found but three brown horses left. I went back and consumed more
sherry and biscuits. Ten more minutes passed, and there were left only the
widow herself and a trio of elderly men. As I hung about trying to look
unbounded sympathy at the group, it dawned on me that they were beginning to
eye me uneasily. I took a sponge cake and another glass of wine. One of the men
— who wore a high stock and an edging of stiff gray hair around his bald head —
advanced to me. This funeral,” said he,” is over”. 
Yes,
yes,' I stammered, and choked over a sip of sherry. We are waiting — let me tap
you on the back — we are waiting to read the will.* 
" I rushed out of the room and down to
the stables. The ostler was harnessing the one brown horse that remained. *I
was thinkin' you wouldn't be long, sir,' he said; *you're the very last, *a
b'lieve, an' here ends a hard day's work.* 
" I drove off. It was nearly seven by
this, but I didn't even think of the night-class. I was wondering if the horse
I drove were really Farmer Retal lack's. Somehow — whether because his feed of
corn pricked him, or no, I can't say — he was a deal more lively than on the
outward journey. I looked at him narrowly and began to feel sure it was another
horse. In spite of the cool evening a sweat broke out upon me. 
" Reaching home, I found the farmer
dressed and leaning on a stick in tke doorway. 
“*Lor' bless my soul,* he hailed me, *I've
been that worried about ye, I could'n stay in bed. The parson's been up twice
from the school-house to make inquiries. Where, in the name o' goodness * 
That's a long story,” said I; and then,
feigning to speak carelessly, though I heard my heart go thump; 'How d'ye think
the brown horse looks after the journey ? ' 
" Oh, he's right enough,' the old man
replied indifferently. “It 'd take a lot to hurt the.But I had never felt so
glad in my life. “ 
==
Category:Quiller-Couch
Category:The Speaker