“I’m sure I can’t tell,” replied the other.
“No man in his senses would do it—unless, indeed, he’s going to drive his wife.”
“Why, hardly that, for they say he wants to marry her again.”
“Marry his wife again—no, no, Bill: master’s too wide awake for that.”
The curricle re-appeared at the door—Rainscourt handed in his wife, and the horses set off tightly reined by Rainscourt, and flying to and fro from the pole, so as to alarm Mrs Rainscourt, who expressed a wish to alight.
“They are only fresh at first starting, my dear—they will be quiet directly.”
“Look there!” observed one of the promenaders; “there’s Rainscourt driving his wife in the curricle.”
“Oh then, the bull has arrived, you may depend upon it.”
As they spoke, the dog made a spring at the horses’ heads,—they plunged violently, and shortly after set off at full speed.
Rainscourt could not have stopped them if he had wished it; but the fact was, that he had entered the curricle determined to hazard his own life rather than not gratify his revenge. All that was left for him was to guide them, and this he did so that the near wheel came in contact with a post. The horses, with the pole and broken traces, continued their rapid career, leaving Rainscourt, his wife, and the fragments of the vehicle, in the road.