“I haven’t a finger-ache, but I am frightened to death, and poor Watkins is worse. Watkins, open your eyes, the danger is over, and the coachman is dying to get to the horses.”
But Watkins insisted upon uttering short cries of terror, and requiring man’s support. Meanwhile Wareham questioned the coachman.
“A broken pole? How’s that?”
“I don’t know, sir. I could have sworn it was sound, but the off-horse gave a bit of a shy, and it snapped like a twig. Never saw such a thing.”
Further explanation put the credit of seizing the horses’ heads upon a young farmer who was passing, and showed all the necessary presence of mind. Anne’s exhortations at last induced Watkins to struggle to the bank, where she shut her eyes tightly to avoid seeing the horses.
“Now, what’s to be done?” said Anne. “We were on our way to Oakwood.”
“And you are two miles from the house.”
“No more? We will walk.”
“Would it not be better to send on the groom with the horses, and let a carriage come back for you?”
“Thank you. No more carriages to-day. I had a momentary expectation of being kicked into splinters with the brougham. Come, Watkins, you are not really hurt, and I am sure you would rather walk. Think of the tea that waits for you.”