“Shame o’ tha face! Shame o’ tha face, George!” she scolded and dimpled and blushed. “Wilt tha be done now? Wilt tha be done? I’ll call mother.”
And at that very moment mother came without being called, running, red of face, heavy-footed, and panting, with her cap all on one side.
“The duke’s run away! The duke’s run away!” she shouted. “Jo seed him. Pony got freetened at summat—what art doin’ here, George Bind? Get o’ thy horse an’ gallop! If he’s killed, tha ’rt a ruined man.”
THERE was an odd turn of chance in it, the duke thought afterward. Though friskier than usual, the Indolent Apprentice had behaved perfectly well until they neared the gates of Temple Barholm, which chanced to be open because a cart had just passed through. And it was not the cart’s fault, for the Indolent Apprentice regarded it with friendly interest. It happened, however, that, perhaps being absorbed in the cart, which might have been drawn by a friend or even a distant relative, the Indolent Apprentice was horribly startled by a large rabbit which leaped out of the hedge almost under his nose, and, worse still, was followed the next instant by another rabbit even larger and more sudden and unexpected in its movements. The Indolent Apprentice snorted, pawed, whirled, dashed through the open gateway,—the duke’s hands were even less strong than his daughter had thought,—and galloped, head in air, and bit between teeth, up the avenue, the low carriage rocking from side to side.
“Damn! Damn!” cried the duke, rocking also. “Oh, damn! I shall be killed in a runaway perambulator!”
And ridiculous as it was, things surged through his brain, and once, though he laughed at himself bitterly afterward, he gasped, “Ah, Heloïse!” as he almost whirled over a jagged tree-stump; gallop and gallop and gallop, off the road and through trees, and back again on to the sward, and gallop and gallop and jerk and jolt and jerk, and he was nearing the house, and a long-legged young man ran down the steps, pushing aside footmen, and was ahead of the drunken little beast of a pony, and caught him just as the phaëton overturned and shot his grace safely, though not comfortably, in a heap upon the grass.
It was of course no trifle of a shock, but its victim’s sensations gave him strong reason to hope, as he rolled over, that no bones were broken. The servants were on the spot almost at once, and took the pony’s head.
The young man helped the duke to his feet and dusted him with masterly dexterity. He did not know he was dusting a duke, and he would not have cared if he had.
“Hello,” he said, “you’re not hurt. I can see that. Thank the Lord! I don’t believe you’ve got a scratch.”
His grace felt a shade shaky, and he was slightly pale, but he smiled in a way which had been celebrated forty years earlier, and the charm of which had survived even rheumatic gout.