That same day the Brighton coach was bowling along the road to London at
the rate of something over five minutes to the mile, a burly, much
be-caped Jehu on the box and a couple of passengers on the seat on
either side of him. The four horses, on whose glistening coats the
sunshine shifted pleasantly, seemed dwarfed by the blundering structure
which trundled at their heels, and which occasionally swayed top-heavily
from side to side like a vessel riding the seas. Jehu had for the time
being surrendered the reins to the young gentleman who sat beside him.
The youth in question was fashionably dressed, so far as could be judged
from the glimpses of his attire that showed beneath the layers of
benjamins in which his rather diminutive person was enveloped. His
narrow face wore a rakish but supercilious expression, which was
enhanced by his manner of wearing a hat shaped like a truncated cone
with a curled brim. He sat erect and square, with an exaggerated
dignity, as if the importance of the whole coach-and-four were
concentrated in himself.
“You can do it, Mr. Bendibow--you can do it, sir,” remarked Jehu, in a
tone half-way between subservience and patronage. “You’ve got it in you,
sir, and do you know why?”
“Well, to be sure, I’ve had some practice,” said Mr. Bendibow, conscious
of his worth and pleased to have it commended, but with the modesty of
true genius, forbearing to admit himself miraculous.
Jehu shook his head solemnly. “Practice be damned, sir! What’s
practice, I ask, to a man what hadn’t got it in him beforehand? It was
in your blood, Mr. Bendibow, afore ever you was out of your cradle, sir.
Because why? Because your father, Sir Francis, as fine a gen’lman and as
open-handed as ever sat on a box, was as good a whip as might be this
side o’ London, and I makes no doubt but what he is so to this day.
That’s what I say, and if any says different why I’m ready to back it.”
In uttering this challenge Jehu stared about him with a hectoring air,
but without meeting any one’s eye, as if defying things in general but
no one in particular.
“Is Sir Francis Bendibow living still? Pardon me the question; I
formerly had some slight acquaintance with the gentleman, but for a good
many years past I have lived out of the country.”
These were the first words that the speaker of them had uttered. He was
a meagre, elderly man, rather shabbily dressed, and sat second from the
coachman on the left. While speaking he leaned forward, allowing his
visage to emerge from the bulwark of coat collar that rose on either
side of it. It was a remarkable face, though at first sight not
altogether a winning one. The nose was an abrupt aquiline, thin at the
bridge, but with distended nostrils; the mouth was straight, the lips
seeming thin, rather from a constant habit of pressing them together
than from natural conformation. The bony chin slanted forward
aggressively, increasing the uncompromising aspect of the entire
countenance. The eyebrows, of a pale auburn hue, were sharply arched,
and the eyes beneath were so widely opened that the whole circle of the
iris was visible. The complexion of this person, judging from the color
of the hair, should have been blonde; but either owing to exposure to
the air or from some other cause it was of a deep reddish-brown tint.
His voice was his most attractive feature, being well modulated and of
an agreeable though penetrating quality, and to some ears it might have
been a guarantee of the speaker’s gentility strong enough to outweigh
the indications of his somewhat threadbare costume.
“My father is in good health, to the best of my knowledge,” said young
Mr. Bendibow, glancing at the other and speaking curtly. Then he added:
“You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“I call myself Grant,” returned the elderly man.
“Never heard my father mention the name,” said Mr. Bendibow loftily.
“I dare say not,” replied Mr. Grant, relapsing into his coat collar.
“Some folks,” observed Jehu in a meditative tone, yet loud enough to be
heard by all--“some folks thinks to gain credit by speaking the names of
those superior to them in station. Other folks thinks that fine names
don’t mend ragged breeches. I speaks my opinion, because why? Because I
backs it.”
“You’d better mind your horses,” said the gentleman who sat between the
coachman and Mr. Grant. “There!--catch hold of my arm, sir!”
The last words were spoken to Mr. Grant just as the coach lurched
heavily to one side and toppled over. The off leader had shied at a tall
white mile-stone that stood conspicuous at a corner of the road, and
before Mr. Bendibow could gather up his reins the right wheels of the
vehicle had entered the ditch and the whole machine was hurled off its
balance into the hedge-row. The outside passengers, with the exception
of one or two who clung to their seats, were projected into the field
beyond, together with a number of boxes and portmanteaux. The wheelers
lost their footing and floundered in the ditch, while the leaders,
struggling furiously, snapped their harness and careered down the road.
From within the coach meanwhile proceeded the sound of feminine screams
and lamentation.
The first thing clearly perceptible amidst the confusion was the
tremendous oath of which the coachman delivered himself, as he upreared
his ponderous bulk from the half-inanimate figure of young Mr. Bendibow,
upon whom he had fallen, having himself received at the same time a
smart blow on the ear from a flying carpet-bag. The next person to arise
was Mr. Grant, who appeared to have escaped unhurt, and after a moment
the gentleman who, by interposing himself between the other and danger,
had broken his fall, also got to his feet, looking a trifle pale about
the lips.
“I much fear, sir,” said the elder man, with an accent of grave concern
in his voice, “that I have been the occasion of your doing yourself an
injury. You have saved my bones at the cost of your own. I am a bit of a
surgeon; let me look at your arm.”
“Not much harm done, I fancy,” returned the other, forcing a smile.
“There’s something awkward here, though,” he added the next moment. “A
joint out of kilter, perhaps.”
“I apprehend as much,” said Mr. Grant. He passed his hand underneath the
young man’s coat. “Ay, there’s a dislocation here,” he continued; “but
if you can bear a minute’s pain I can put it right again. We must get
your coat off, and then--”
“Better get the ladies out of their cage first; that’s not so much
courtesy on my part as that I wish to put off the painful minute you
speak of as long as may be. I’m a damnable coward--should sit down and
cry if I were alone. Ladies first, for my sake!”
“You laugh, sir; but if that shoulder is not in place immediately it may
prove no laughing matter. The ladies are doing very well--they have
found a rescuer already. Your coat off, if you please. What fools
[Illustration: “I AM A BIT OF A SURGEON; LET ME LOOK AT YOUR ARM.”]
fashion makes of men! Where I come from none wear coats save Englishmen,
and even they are satisfied with one. Ah! that was a twinge; it were
best to cut the sleeve perhaps?”
“In the name of decency, no! To avoid trouble, I have long carried my
wardrobe on my back, and ’twould never do to enter London with a shirt
only. Better a broken bone than a wounded coat sleeve--ha! well, this is
for my sins, I suppose. I wish Providence would keep the punishment till
all the sins are done--this piecemeal retribution is the devil. Well,
now for it! Sir, I wish you were less humane--my flesh and bones cry out
against your humanity. Dryden was wrong, confound him! Pity is akin
to--to--whew!--to the Inquisition. God Apollo! shall I ever write poetry
after this? And ’tis only a left arm, after all!--not to be left alone,
however--ah!... A thousand thanks, sir; but you leave me ten years older
than you found me. Our acquaintance has been a long and (candor compels
me to say) a confoundedly painful one. To be serious, I am heartily
indebted to you.”
“Take a pull at this flask, young gentleman; ’tis good cognac that I got
as I came through France. I recollect to have read, when I was a boy in
school, that Nero fiddled whilst Rome was burning: you seem to have a
measure of his humor, since you can jest while the framework of your
mortal dwelling-place is in jeopardy. As for your indebtedness--my neck
may be worth much or little, but, such as it is, you saved it. The
balance is still against me.”
“Leave balances to bankers: otherwise we might have to express our
obligations to Mr. Bendibow, there, for introducing us to each other.
Does no one here, besides myself, need your skill?”
“It appears not, to judge by the noise they make,” replied the old
gentleman dryly. “That blackguard of a coachman should lose his place
for this. The manners of these fellows have changed for the worse since
I saw England last. How do you find yourself, Mr.---- I beg your
pardon?”
“Lancaster is my name; and I feel very much like myself again,” returned
the other, getting up from the bank against which he had been reclining
while the shoulder-setting operation had been going on, and stretching
out his arms tentatively.
As he stood there, Mr. Grant looked at him with the eye of a man
accustomed to judge of men. With his costume reduced to shirt,
small-clothes and hessians, young Lancaster showed to advantage. He was
above the medium height, and strongly made, deep in the chest and
elastic in the loins. A tall and massive white throat supported a head
that seemed small, but was of remarkably fine proportions and character.
The contours of the face were, in some places, so refined as to appear
feminine, yet the expression of the principal features was eminently
masculine and almost bold. Large black eyes answered to the movements of
a sensitive and rather sensuous mouth; the chin was round and resolute.
The young man’s hair was black and wavy, and of a length that, in our
day, would be called effeminate; it fell apart at the temple in a way to
show the unusual height and fineness of the forehead. The different
parts of the face were fitted together compactly and smoothly, without
creases, as if all had been moulded from one motive and idea--not as if
composed of a number of inharmonious ancestral prototypes: yet the range
of expression was large and vivid. The general aspect in repose
indicated gravity and reticence; but as soon as a smile began, then
appeared gleams and curves of a humorous gayety. And there was a
brilliance and concentration in the whole presence of the man which was
within and distinct from his physical conformation, and which rendered
him conspicuous and memorable.
“Lancaster--the name is not unknown to me,” remarked Mr. Grant, but in
an indrawn tone, characteristic of a man accustomed to communing with
himself.
During this episode, the other travelers had been noisily and confusedly
engaged in pulling themselves together and discussing the magnitude of
their disaster. Some laborers, whom the accident had attracted from a
neighboring field, were pressed into service to help in setting matters
to rights. One was sent after the escaped horses; others lent their
hands and shoulders to the task of getting the coach out of the ditch
and replacing the luggage upon it. Mr. Bendibow, seated upon his
portmanteau, his fashionable attire much outraged by the clayey soil
into which he had fallen, maintained a demeanor of sullen indignation;
being apparently of the opinion that the whole catastrophe was the
result of a conspiracy between the rest of the passengers against his
own person. The coachman, in a semi-apoplectic condition from the
combined effects of dismay, suppressed profanity, and a bloody jaw, was
striving with hasty and shaking fingers to mend the broken harness; the
ladies were grouped together in the roadway in a shrill-complaining and
hysteric cluster, protesting by turns that nothing should induce them
ever to enter the vehicle again, and that unless it started at once
their prospects of reaching London before dark would be at an end.
Lancaster glanced at his companion with an arch smile.
“My human sympathies can’t keep abreast of so much distress,” said he.
“I shall take myself off. Hammersmith cannot be more than three or four
miles distant, and my legs will be all the better for a little
stretching. If you put up at the ‘Plough and Harrow’ to-night, we may
meet again in an hour or two; meantime I will bid you good-day; and,
once more, many thanks for your surgery.”
He held out his hand, into which Mr. Grant put his own. “A brisk walk
will perhaps be the best thing for you,” he remarked. “Guard against a
sudden check of perspiration when you arrive; and bathe the shoulder
with a lotion ... by-the-by, would you object to a fellow-pedestrian? I
was held to be a fair walker in my younger days, and I have not
altogether lost the habit of it.”
“It will give me much pleasure,” returned the other, cordially.
“Then I am with you,” rejoined the elder man.
They gave directions that their luggage should be put down at the
“Plough and Harrow,” and set off together along the road without more
ado.