A Contrast.
The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers' Country House near Bykersall. Miss Diana's Horse Bayard discovered in his Stall.
Bayard (talking to himself, as is the habit of some horses when alone). I can't make it out. She's here. All the family came down yesterday—I heard the omnibus start for the station to meet them. And yet she hasn't sent for me; hasn't even been near me! She always used to rush in here and kiss me on the nose the very first—She's ill—that's it of course—sprained her fetlock or something. If she was well, she'd have had me saddled as soon as she'd had her morning feed, and we'd have gone for a canter together somewhere.... I hope she'll get well soon. I'm sick of being taken out by the stable-man; he's so dull—no notion of conversation beyond whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the whole way.... Perhaps her hands and seat might have been——But what did that matter? I liked to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she patted me after her ride.... (He pricks his ears.) Why, that's her voice outside now! She's all right, after all. She's coming in to see me!... I knew she couldn't have forgotten!
Miss Diana's Voice (outside). Yes, you might put it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will be quite safe?
Stubbs' Voice. Safe enough, Miss, there's plenty o' empty stalls this side. Nothing in 'ere just now, except——
Miss D.'s Voice. Very well, then. Just wipe some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall want it again after lunch. And mind you don't scratch the enamel taking it in.
Stubbs. Very good, Miss. I'll be keerful.
[Miss Diana's steps die away upon the cobbles.
Bayard (to himself). She's gone—without even asking after me! What has she been out in—a bath chair? I'm sure she must be ill.
Stubbs (to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in). 'Ere, steady now, 'old up, can't ye? And keep that blarsted near pedal o' yourn off o' my enamel. Blest if I wouldn't rather rub down arf a dozen 'unters nor one o' them yere bloomin' bi-cycles. I know where I am with a 'orse; but these 'ere little, twisty, spidery wheels——Come over, will ye. I'll lean ye up agen 'ere till I've 'ad my dinner.
"It must be a sort of animal, I suppose."
[He places the machine against a partition next to Bayard's stall, and goes out.
Bayard (to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with the corner of his eye). It's not a bath-chair; it's one of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal, I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn't have spoken to it. I should like to ask it one or two questions. (He gets his neck over the partition, and breathes gently through his nostrils upon the handle-bars.) Excuse me, but do you understand horse-language at all?
The Bicycle (answering by a succession of saddle-creaks). Perfectly. I'm a kind of horse myself, I believe, only greatly improved, of course. Would you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that? It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of my intelligence, if you will kindly address your remarks here.
Bayard. I beg your pardon. I will in future. I don't creak myself, but I've been closely connected with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can follow you fairly well. Didn't I hear my mistress's voice outside just now?
The Bicycle. No; my mistress's, Miss Diana's. I'd just taken her out for a short spin—not far, only fifteen miles or so.
Bayard. Then, she—she's quite well?
The Bicycle. Thanks, she's pedalling pretty strong just now. I'm going out with her again this afternoon.
Bayard. Again! You will have had a hard day of it altogether, then. But I suppose you'll get a day or two's rest afterwards? I know I should want it.
The Bicycle. Bless you, I never want rest. Why, I've been forty miles with her, and come home without clanking a link! She was knocked up, if you like—couldn't go out for days!
Bayard. Ah, she was never knocked up after riding me!
The Bicycle. Because—it's no fault of yours, of course, but the way you've been constructed—you couldn't go far enough to knock anybody up. And she doesn't get tired now, either. I'm not the kind of bicycle to boast; but I've often heard her say that she much prefers her "bike" (she always calls me her "bike"—very nice and friendly of her, isn't it?) to any mere horse.
Bayard. To any mere horse! And does she—give any reasons?
The Bicycle. Lots. For one thing, she says she feels so absolutely safe on me; she knows that, whatever she meets, I shall never start, or shy, or rear, or anything of that sort.
Bayard. I don't remember playing any of those tricks with her, however hard she pulled the curb.
The Bicycle. Then she says she never has to consider whether any distance will be too much for me.
Bayard. As for that——But the longer I was out with her, the better I was pleased; she might have brought me home as lame as a tree all round, and I shouldn't have cared!
The Bicycle. Perhaps not. But she would; so inconvenient, you see. Now my strong point is, I can't go lame—in good hands, of course, and she knows exactly how to manage me, I will say that for her!
Bayard. Does she give you carrots or sugar after a ride? she did me.
The Bicycle (with a creak of contempt). Now what do you suppose I could do with sugar or a carrot if I had it? No, a drop or two of oil now and then is all I take in the way of sustenance. That's another point in my favour, I cost little or nothing to keep. Now, your oats and hay and stuff, I daresay, cost more in a year than I'm worth altogether!
Bayard.. I must admit that you have the advantage of me in cheapness. If I thought she grudged me my oats——But I'm afraid I couldn't manage on a drop or two of oil.
The Bicycle. You'd want buckets of it to oil your bearings. No, she wouldn't save by that! (Stubbs re-enters.) Ah, here comes my man. I must be going; got to take her over to Pineborough, rather a bore this dusty weather, but when a lady's in the case, eh?
Bayard. There's a nasty hill going into Pineborough; do be careful how you take her down it!
The Bicycle. You forget, my friend, I'm not a Boneshaker, I'm a Safety. Why, she'll just put her feet up on the rests, fold her arms, and leave the rest to me. She knows I can be trusted.
Bayard. Just tell me this before you go. Does—she doesn't pat you, or kiss you on your—er—handle-bar after a run, does she?
The Bicycle (turning its front wheel to reply, as Stubbs wheels it out). You don't imagine I should stand any sentimental rot of that sort, do you? She knows better than to try it on!
Bayard (to himself). I'm glad she doesn't kiss it. I don't think I could have stood that!
Same Scene. Some Hours Later.
Stubbs (enters, carrying a dilapidated machine with crumpled handles, a twisted saddle, and a front wheel distorted into an irregular pentagon). Well, I 'ope as 'ow this'll sarve as a lesson to 'er, I dew; a marcy she ain't broke her blessed little neck! (To the Bicycle.) No need to be hover and above purtickler 'bout scratchin' your enamel now, any'ow! (He pitches it into a corner, and goes.)
Bayard (after reconnoitring). You don't mean to say it's you!
The Bicycle. Me? of course it's me! A nice mess I'm in, too, entirely owing to her carelessness. Never put the brake on down that infernal hill, lost all control over me, and here I am, a wreck, Sir! Why, I had to be driven home, by a grinning groom, in a beastly dog-cart! Pleasant that!
Bayard. But she—Miss Diana—was she hurt? Not—not seriously, eh?
The Bicycle. Oh, of course you don't care what becomes of me so long as——She's all right enough—fell in a ditch, luckily for her, I came down on a heap of stones. It'll be weeks before I'm out of the repairer's hands.
Bayard (to himself). I oughtn't to be glad; but I am—I am! She's safe, and—and she'll come back to me after this! (To the Bicycle.) Wasn't she sorry for you?
The Bicycle. Not she! These women have no feeling in them. Why, what do you suppose she said when they told me it would take weeks to tinker me up?
Bayard (to himself—with joy). I think I can guess! (To the Bicycle.) What did she say?
The Bicycle (rattling with indignation). Why, all she said was: "How tiresome! I wonder if I can hire a decent bike here without having to send to town for one." There's gratitude for you! But you can't enter into my feelings about it.
Bayard. Pardon me—I fancy I can. And, after all, your day will come, when the Vet has set you up again. Mine's over for ever. (To himself.) Oh, why, why wasn't I born a bicycle!
