Although such a creature of habit that I would far rather have remained in solitary state at the Haycock, I felt it would have been more than churlish to refuse so hospitable an invitation, the only drawback to which was the necessity I foresaw of driving over in “the trap” with young Plumtree. I would have given a good deal to be permitted to order a post-chaise and pair, and go over comfortably, with all the windows up; but it is of no use to struggle with destiny; I saw what was before me, and resolved to confront my fate like a man.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE TRAP
“You’ll go with me, Softly, of course!” observed young Plumtree, otherwise “Jovial Jem,” just as I expected. “There’s a Waterborough ’bus runs right by our lodge-gate: your servant can come over with your traps. Get a greatcoat on, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll start immediately, if not before. A short drain of brandy neat, Miss Lushington, if you please. Look alive, you adorable angel, ministering spirit, I may say. Time’s short, you know, roads woolly, and whipcord scarce.”
“But are you sure you can take me?” I interposed, with expostulatory eagerness. “Yours is a smallish carriage, if that was it I saw just now in the yard” (how devoutedly I wished it was not!). “I fear I shall inconvenience you; and, by the by, where is your servant to sit?” I added, grasping vaguely at the last chance of a reprieve.
“Servant?” said the Jovial, drinking off his brandy at a gulp, “didn’t bring one; don’t want a ‘shoot’ when I’m driving Crafty Kate. There’s only one gate to open if we go the short way, and it opens from us; so I catch it, you know, on the shaft, and there’s no trouble in getting out. Once the apron’s buttoned, never move till the end of the stage, that’s my principle. Wet t’other eye? Thank you, Miss Lushington. Here’s your health! Now, young man, tell the ostler to get the trap round to the front-door; when I drive a gemman, I likes to take him up like a gemman.”
“But if the harness wants altering, or anything?” I urged feebly. “In my crippled state, you know, I can’t get out. Don’t you think, now?—though, of course, I should like the drive very much—don’t you really think it would be better if I were to find my own way over, and you might take a man from here to open the gates and that, who could come back in my return chaise?”
“Not a bit of it!” replied the Jovial. “What’s the use of that? I know the mare, and the mare knows me. You won’t have to get out, never fear. Come, though you’ve got a queer wing, there’s nothing amiss with your pipes. Look here, there’s a yard of tin in that basket. You’ll play all the way, and I’ll drive. Take her in a hole shorter, Ben. Here’s a game! hooray!”
By this time “the Jovial’s” high conveyance—well might he called it a trap—was at the door; Crafty Kate wincing, and lifting and swishing her tail, as if nothing would give her greater pleasure than to knock the whole thing, red wheels, lamps, paint, varnish, and lacquering, all to pieces forthwith. I could not get out of it now, do what I would. Recalling in my own mind every frightful accident I ever remembered to have read, or heard of, that had occurred on wheels, and no whit reassured by an appalling fact I had always considered established, viz. that more long coachmen had been killed out of gigs, than had died any other death, I went upstairs to give my servant directions as to the clothes he should pack up, to wrap myself in a warm greatcoat, and to put another cigar in my mouth, that haply might conceal the involuntary trepidation of my nerves.
How comfortable my sitting-room looked as I left it! It was a cold raw day, and the fire burnt up so cheerily; the easy-chair spread its arms invitingly to receive me in its familiar embrace; there was the newspaper carefully unfolded and spread out on the table, with the last Quarterly uncut, by its side. An amusing novel, of which I had got halfway into the second volume, seemed to entreat me not to leave it unfinished, and two or three letters requiring early answers were lying with their seals opened in mute appeal. All this comfort I was about to exchange for a muddy drive, a drizzling rain, the conversation of a man I did not care about, and worse still, the probable vagaries of Crafty Kate. I confess I have no great confidence in a thorough-bred mare, that swishes her tail a good deal in harness. I thought Miss Lushington, even, looked somewhat pitifully on me, as one about to venture in a dangerous undertaking unawares. Nevertheless I mounted the trap, not without difficulty, was carefully buttoned in by the one-eyed ostler, and felt myself launched forth on stormy seas, with Jovial Jem for a pilot.