“Is the Paphian already dead in you, my lord? Then indeed you are nearer to the goal than I ever believed. I hear the hoofs of your Arab pawing the ground of the courtyard.”
Danford looked out of the library window.
“Yes, it is your chariot. Watkins has carried out your idea to perfection, and I congratulate your lordship on having once more saved London from galling ridicule, in providing for its inhabitants this suitable mode of conveyance.”
“I think I have also arrived at relegating the automobile to country use.”
“There, I think you are wise. The morning is cool, the drive to Richmond will be lovely; my lord, I must say good-bye to you.”
“A ce soir, Dick.”
The dapper little artist left Lionel and was soon out of sight under the trees of Hyde Park, while Lionel jumped into his Roman chariot, took up the reins and dashed out of the courtyard. He drove down Park Lane, turned sharply the corner of Hyde Park, taking the straight road to Hammersmith.
Although charioteering was not a violent exercise like rowing, cricket or football, still it was exhilarating, and needed a firmness of posture, a suppleness in all movements which had given to Lord Somerville’s figure a grace formerly hampered by stiff collar, waistcoat, and top hat. This new fashion of driving was improving the physical appearance of the British male; for, the present charioteer was no more to be compared to the man who had jumped in and out of a hansom, than a mythological centaur could be contrasted with a rustic crossing a ferry on his cattle. The sluggish, indolent exponent of Masherdom fell down the very first time he took the reins into his hands; the rigid, unyielding representative of soldiery stiffened a little more, and managed to keep his balance, though the effect was ugly and the result, lumbago. But, little by little, the indolent straightened himself, the unbending relaxed his rigidity; and in a fortnight London could boast of a good average of chariot drivers, whom even Avilius Teres would not have disowned.
Lionel met many friends on his way to Richmond; it was the fashion to drive in the morning to neighbouring parks before luncheon. Here was Lord Roneldson, who had lost a stone since the storm. Poor old Harry! the first days must have been trying to him! The self-indulgent fop, incapable of the slightest mental or physical effort, had had no alternative between standing or falling; and only after many days of bitter experience, had he discovered his centre of gravity. There came along old Joe Watson, puffing and blowing, redder than ever. At his side drove Lord Petersham, who held his reins well in hand and felt his steed’s mouth as tactfully as he did many other things in life. He guided Watson through the labyrinth of London life, but he had often found his plebeian friend’s mouth harder to handle than any horse’s. Watson had been taken up by Petersham, and pulled through his election by him, for he was member for East Langton. Lord Petersham did Watson the signal honour of accepting heavy cheques from him before the storm, for which, in exchange, he gave him a lift up the social ladder. Watson in return helped his Mentor to directorships of several companies, and brought to his clubs all the bigwigs on the Stock Exchange. At times the noble Amphitrion muttered under his grey moustache, that they were infernal cads, but very soon his steely eyes preached common-sense to his tempestuous lips, bringing back to his mind the practical philosophy, “Make use of all,” which is, after all, but reading backwards, “Forgive everyone.” These two most antagonistic companions went arm in arm along Pall Mall, into clubs, Music Halls and all sorts of haunts in which a liberal education is afforded to all sorts of men. Watson was very proud of his vulgarity, which he called straightforwardness; he was equally vain of his insular ignorance, which he benignly termed patriotism; but of all things he was most proud of the shop in Oxford Street, where he had for years past walked up and down, asking the ladies what was their pleasure. He had a few decided opinions, or prejudices if you like, which hung round his plebeian form like labels, and which no Peer of the realm could have torn off: he hated clever women, recherché dinners, and foreign countries. His temper was strange; he was generally of an opposing turn of mind on all intellectual subjects and of the most agreeing disposition when conventional topics were on the tapis. He never spoke in the House, and no one spoke about him. Such men are surely the pillars of a party, for they never think, never interrupt, and are never thought of. They possess a few signposts in their brains, and rarely go wherever danger is posted up. Such men keep England together, as cement fastens the stones safely to one another, but, like cement, are ugly and thick. Petersham often kicked at this bundle of grotesqueness. Watson was so totally devoid of the discerning powers which graced his lordship’s individuality; he did not know Chambertin from Sauterne, took a Piccadilly wench for a Society Aspasia, and was sorely lacking in the sense of the ridiculous.
Since this new fashion of vehicle had come in, Petersham and Watson got on better together. There was a give-and-take in their present life which had never existed formerly. To obtain something or other under false pretences had been a code of morals closely interwoven with the Church Catechism and the State constitution, so that no loophole had been left through which one could see any other standpoint than one’s own. But since the contents of the shop in Oxford Street had vanished into thin air, as the chrysalis withers when the insect is formed, old Watson had lost all incentive to his pride; and old Petersham had equally lost all motive for his stinging epigrams directed at the thick-skinned Plutocrat. Charioteering through London soon showed these two types of distinct worlds that their safety depended more on their own initiative and prudence than on the police. Policemen, we know, had been dismissed, and every citizen, from the smallest child to the feeblest octogenarian, had to go through a course of thoroughfare gymnastics, so as to enable them to escape runaway horses; whilst lectures were given in Scotland Yard to instil into drivers’ minds the true sense of altruism and proper regard for the public’s safety. This new departure in outdoor polity had upset a good many pet prejudices of Watson, and knocked out a great deal of Petersham’s conceit.