FullReads

“Twice I revisited the stable, and the second time found but three horses left. I walked along behind them, murmuring, ‘Trumpeter, Trumpeter!’ in the forlorn hope that one of the three brutes would give a sign.

“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the ostler; ‘were you saying anything?’

“‘No–nothing,’ said I, and luckily he was called away at this moment to the further end of the stable. ‘Oh,’ sighed I, ‘for Xanthus, horse of Achilles!’

“I felt inclined to follow and confide my difficulty to the ostler, but reflected that this wouldn’t help me in the least: whereas, if I applied to a fellow-guest, he must (if indeed he could give the information) expose my previous hypocrisy to the ostler. After all, the company was dwindling fast. I went back and consumed more sherry and biscuits.

“By this six o’clock had gone, and no more than a dozen guests remained. One of these was my bovine friend, my neighbour at the funeral banquet, who now accosted me as I struggled with a biscuit.

“‘So you’ve got over your hurry. Glad to find ye settlin’ down so quick to our hearty ways.’

“He shook hands with the widow and sauntered out. Ten more minutes passed and now there were left only the widow herself and a trio of elderly men, all silent. As I hung about, trying to look unbounded sympathy at the group, it dawned upon 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 grey 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–‘

“‘Thank you.’

“‘We are waiting to read the will.’

“I escaped from the room and rushed down to the stables. The ostler was harnessing the one brown horse that remained.

“I was thinking you wouldn’t be long, sir. You’re the very last, I believe, and here ends a long day’s work.’

“I drove off. It was near seven by this, but I didn’t even think of the night-class. I was wondering if the horse I drove were really Trumpeter. Somehow–whether because his feed of corn pricked him or no I can’t say–he seemed a deal livelier than on the outward journey. I looked at him narrowly in the twilight, and began to feel sure it was another horse. In spite of the cool air a sweat broke out upon me.

“Farmer Retallack was up and dressed and leaning on a stick in the doorway as I turned into the yard.

“‘I’ve been that worried about ye,’ he began, ‘I couldn’t stay abed. Parson’s been up twice from the schoolhouse to make inquiries. Where in the name o’ goodness have ‘ee been?’

“‘That’s a long story,’ said I, and then, feigning to speak carelessly, though I heard my heart go thump–‘How d’ye think Trumpeter looks after the journey?’

“‘Oh, he’s all right,’ the old man replied indifferently; ‘but come along in to supper.’

“Now, my dear sir”–the schoolmaster thus concluded his tale, tucking his umbrella tightly under his armpit, and tapping his right forefinger on the palm of his left hand–“these pagans whom I teach are as sensitive as I to ridicule. If I only knew how to take them–if only I could lay my finger on the weak spot–I’d send their whole fabric of silly superstitions tumbling like a house of cards.”

This happened last Thursday week. Early this morning I crossed the road as usual with my thermometer, and found a strip of pink calico hanging from the brambles by the mouth of Scarlet’s Well. I had seen the pattern before on a gown worn by one of the villager’s wives, and knew the rag was a votive offering, hung there because her child, who has been ailing all the winter, is now strong enough to go out into the sunshine. As I bent the bramble carefully aside, before stooping over the water, Lizzie Polkinghorne came up the lane and halted behind me.