CHAPTER XXII
A WET NIGHT
“Sit tight,” exclaimed the Honourable, as the phaeton bumped forcibly against the stone post of the Rectory entrance, and proceeded into the road with what sailors call “a considerable slue to port,” consequent on that brute Marathon hugging the pole and setting his mouth with pig-headed obstinacy. “I must pitch into you!” added the driver, suiting the action to the word, and administering heavy punishment to the transgressing animal—a discipline which Marathon resented by kicking hard against the splash-board; whilst the chestnut, a sensitive, high-couraged five-year-old, was driven almost mad by the sounds of repeated flagellation. “Are you nervous on wheels?” added the charioteer quietly, as he felt his companion’s leg stiffen against his own with the instinctive rigidity of apprehension. “Nervous!” forsooth! Ask Launcelot fresh from the presence of Guenevere, or Charles Brandon tilting before the young Dauphiness of France, or Bothwell with his armour buckled on by Mary Stuart, if those doughty champions were afraid; but forbear to put so ridiculous a question at a moment like the present to John Standish Sawyer. “Nervous, indeed!” Our friend pressed his hat firmly on his head, folded his arms across his chest, and laughed grimly in his questioner’s face. “All right, old fellow!” said he; “drive on, if you like, to the devil!”
“He’s a rare plucked one,” thought the Honourable to himself, as he started the horses in a gallop, apparently with no other view than that of arriving at the destination proposed. The night was dark, and threatening rain as it clouded over rapidly; the way intricate, full of turns and difficulties; and The Boy, is it needless to observe, helplessly drunk in the rumble. He would have been a venturous speculator who had taken five to one that they arrived safe at Market Harborough.
The wheels flew round with frightful velocity, scattering the mud profusely over the occupants of the carriage. The horses with lowered heads laid themselves down to their work, pulling wildly. The Honourable’s arms were extended, and his feet thrust forward. He would not have admitted it, but it looked very much as if they were running away with him.
“An’t they getting a little out of your hand?” asked Mr. Sawyer, hazarding the question in its mildest form, as he recognised Marathon’s well-known manner of putting down his head when he meant mischief; and calculated if anything should give way, whereabouts his own body would shoot to, at that pace.
“Only going free,” answered Crasher with the utmost composure, though his cigar was burnt all the way down one side to his lips by the current of air created in the rapidity of their transit. “Remarkably free—but I like phaeton horses to run up to their bits.”
“Do you?” thought Mr. Sawyer; but, despite the enthusiasm and the claret, and the romance of the whole evening, he wished himself anywhere else. Independent of the ignominious ending of being dashed to pieces out of a phaeton, it would be hard lines never to see Cissy Dove again. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still and trust to Crasher’s coachmanship. Anything like expostulation with that gentleman he felt would be worse than useless.
I recollect to have seen or heard somewhere an anecdote of the celebrated “Hell-fire Dick,” which exhibits such sang-froid in a dangerous predicament as to be worth repeating. Dick, then, who had attained his flaming sobriquet by the dashing pace and general recklessness with which he drove, was not only one of the most skilful of the old-fashioned Long coachmen, but was equally noted for the cool imperturbability of his demeanour and the suavity of his replies. One very dark night, whilst proceeding at his usual pace, he was so unfortunate as to get off the road on a common where several gravel-pits yawning on each side for his reception, made the mistake as dangerous as it was disagreeable. With a tremendous lurch the coach swung over one of these ready-made graves, and there was just light enough to perceive the fifteen feet or so of sheer descent yawning for its victims. “Where have you got to now, Dick?” exclaimed the box-passenger, in accents of pardonable irritation and alarm. “Can’t say, sir,” replied Dick, with the utmost politeness, while they were all turning over together—“Can’t say, I’m sure—never was here before!”
Now, if the Honourable Crasher had been going to be shot the next minute, it is my firm conviction that impending destruction would not have ruffled his plumes, nor agitated the languor of his accustomed manner in the slightest degree. Whether such a temperament is entirely natural, or is not rather to a certain extent the result of education, enhanced by what we must call the affectation peculiar to a class, it is not our business to inquire: but we may fairly acknowledge to a respectful commiseration for a quiet respectable country gentleman who finds his neck committed to the keeping of one of these imperturbable, placid, yet utterly reckless adventurers.
The wind was getting up, and a heavy shower of mingled sleet and rain dashing in their faces, added considerably to the discomfort of the whole process.