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.
“This can’t last long,” murmured Mr. Sawyer below his breath, and
holding on vigorously to the side of the carriage the while, as they
whirled fiercely through the obscurity, the rush of their career varied
only by frequent jumps and bumps that threatened to jerk him clean out
over the splash-board. He was not very far wrong in his calculations.
Their course lay along one of those field-roads so common in
Leicestershire, where the track on a dark night is not easily
distinguished from the adjacent ridge-and-furrow, and which, delightful
to the equestrian for that very reason, as no jealous fence prevents him
diverging for a canter on to the springy pasture, are less convenient
for carriages owing to the number of gates that delay the passage of the
vehicle. They were now approaching the first of these obstacles to their
course, and Crasher had not yet got a pull at his horses.
“It’s open, I think,” remarked the Honourable, peering into the darkness
ahead, and endeavouring to moderate the pace without effect.
“I think _not_!” replied Mr. Sawyer, setting his teeth for a
catastrophe.
Right again! Three more strides and they were into it!
A crackling smashing noise of broken wood-work—one or two violent bangs
against the splash-board—a faint expostulation of “_Gently_, my lads!”
from the Honourable—a tremendous jolt against the post, which was torn
up by the roots—and Mr. Sawyer found himself on his face and hands in an
exceedingly wet furrow; a little stunned, a good deal confused, and
feeling very much as if somebody had knocked him down, and he did not
know whom to be angry with.
As he rose and shook himself to ascertain that no bones were broken,
much struggling and groaning as of an animal in distress, mingled with
weeping and lamentation from a human voice, smote on his ear. The former
arose from Marathon, who couldn’t get up, with the other horse and the
pole and part of the carriage atop of him: the latter from The Boy, who,
frightened for the moment into a spurious sobriety, thus gave vent to
his feelings of utter despondency and desolation.
“I thought the brute _could_ jump timber,” said a calm voice in the
surrounding darkness. “Let us see: _here’s_ the carriage—_there_ are the
horses—and _that_ must be The Boy. Where are _you_, Sawyer?”
“Here!” answered our friend, coming forward, rubbing his elbows and
knees, to discover if he was hurt; the Honourable, who had never
abandoned his cigar, endeavouring to extricate the horses—a measure only
to be accomplished by dint of cutting the harness—and to estimate the
amount of damage, and the impossibility of putting in to refit.
Our friend set to work with a will. By their joint endeavours they
succeeded at last in getting the hapless Marathon and his companion
clear of the wreck. Both were obviously lamed and injured; the carriage,
as far as could be made out in the darkness, broken all to pieces.
The Boy, after flickering up for a few minutes, had become again
unconscious. As the old watchman used to sing out, it was “Past one
o’clock and a stormy morning!”
“Whereabouts are we?” asked Mr. Sawyer in dolorous accents, as he tried
to persuade himself he ought to be thankful it was no worse.
“Whereabouts are we, and what had we better do?”
“Over a hundred miles from London,” answered the Honourable, “that’s all
I know about it. Holloaing, I suppose, would be no use—there can’t be a
house within hearing, and the fly has gone the other road. Have a cigar,
old fellow! and, just to keep the fun going, perhaps you wouldn’t mind
singing us a song?”
It was only under a calamity like the present that the Honourable
condescended to be facetious.
Mr. Sawyer was on the verge of making an angry reply, when the sound of
a horse’s hoofs advancing with considerable rapidity changed it into a
vigorous call for assistance.
“Hilli-ho! ho!” shouted Mr. Sawyer. “Hilli-ho! ho!” answered a jolly
voice, as the hoofs ceased, and came clattering on again, denoting that
the rider had pulled up to listen and was coming speedily to help.
“What’s up now?” asked the jolly voice, in somewhat convivial accents,
as an equestrian mass of drab and leggings, which was all that could be
made out through the darkness, loomed indistinctly into the foreground.
“What’s up now, mates? got the wrong end uppermost this turn, sure-lie.”
“Come to grief at the gate,” explained the Honourable. “Didn’t go
_quite_ fast enough at it, Sawyer,” he added, half reflectively, half
apologetically, to his friend.
“Why, it’s Muster Crasher!” exclaimed the jolly voice, in delighted
tones. “Well, _to be_ sure! Not the _first_ gate, neither, by a
many—only to think of it, well, well! But come, let’s see what’s the
damage done—dear! dear! you’ll never get home to-night. You must come up
to my place, ’tain’t above a mile through the fields—we’ll get you put
up, nags and all, and send down for the trap first thing i’ the morning.
How lucky I was passing this way! Coming back from market, ye see, I’d
just stopped to smoke a pipe with neighbour Mark down at The Holt, and
was maken’ for home in a hurry, ’cause it’s rather past my time, you
know, when I hear this gentleman a hollerin’ murder! Up I comes and
finds the ship overboard with a vengeance. What a start it is,
sure-lie!”
Thus moralising, and never leaving off talking for an instant, the jolly
yeoman jumped off his horse, and lent his powerful assistance to clear
away the wreck; shaking The Boy into life again with considerable
energy. In a few minutes the four men, leading the two damaged
carriage-horses, were stumbling and groping their way across the fields
towards the new arrival’s farm.
Ere they reached their destination, the owner, with considerable
politeness, introduced himself to our friend. “No offence, sir,” said
he, “my name’s Trotter—Trotter of Trotter’s Lodge, and that’s my place
where you see the lights a shinin’—Mr. Crasher, he knows me _well_—think
I’ve met _you_ out a huntin’ more than once this season—allow me, sir,
we’ll have the missus up in no time, and a hearty welcome to you both.”
As Mr. Trotter thus hospitably concluded, he ushered his guests into a
comfortable kitchen, where a tallow candle was still glimmering in its
accustomed place. The master was obviously in the habit of coming home
late; but that the practice was contrary to the rules of domestic
discipline Mr. Sawyer gathered from the accents of a shrill voice raised
in tones of reproach from an upstairs dormitory.
“Trotter! Trotter!” exclaimed the voice, unconscious of visitors, and
proceeding apparently from beneath a considerable weight of bed-clothes,
“is that you at last? It’s too bad! It’s nigh upon two o’clock. Mind you
rake out the fire, and don’t go spilling the candle-grease all about as
you come upstairs!”
Mr. Trotter, still perceptibly elevated, winked facetiously at his
guests. “Get up, Margery!” he called out; “get up, I tell ye! make haste
and come down. Never mind your night-cap. Here’s two gentlemen come to
see ye!” And with many apologies and repeated allusions to the
substantive “keys,” Mr. Trotter stirred up the fire, lit another candle,
and proceeded upstairs to rouse his better-half.
In less time than you or I as a bachelor could believe it possible, a
smiling dame made her appearance from above-stairs, with a neat morning
cap over her comely head, and a bright rosy face, very different from
the sallow hues of many a fine lady when first she wakes, blushing
beneath it. That her petticoat was put on in a hurry, and her gown
unfastened behind, was only what might be expected in such a rapid
turn-out. These trifling drawbacks detracted not the least from the
bustling hospitality with which she received her guests. It was only by
the most pathetic entreaties that the Honourable dissuaded her from
having a fire lighted in the best parlour, and extorted her permission
for them to sit in the kitchen.
Dry slippers were soon provided for the guests. The horses, inspected by
the stable lantern, were discovered not to be irremediably injured,
though Marathon’s chance was out for the steeple-chase, “if indeed,” as
his former and present owners remarked in a breath, though with
different emphasis, “he ever had one.” The Boy was put to bed, where he
might be heard snoring all over the house. What Mr. Trotter called a
“snack” was set on the table, consisting of a round of beef, a ham, some
cold pork-pie, an Eddish cheese, and a few other trifles of a like
nature, adapted for a late meal as being light and easy of digestion.
Port and sherry were produced and declined in favour of huge steaming
beakers of hot brandy-and-water. Arrangements were entered into for
forwarding the two gentlemen to Harborough in the farmer’s gig “first
thing to-morrow morning.” Mr. Trotter produced a box of cigars and
announced his intention of “making a night of it!”
A faint scream from his wife promised to a certain extent to modify the
conviviality of the meeting. “She couldn’t abear the sight of blood,”
she said, with many excuses for her feminine susceptibility, and drew
the company’s attention to the personal appearance of Mr. Sawyer, which
everybody had hitherto been too busy to observe, and which indeed
presented a sufficiently ghastly aspect to excuse the good dame’s
reiterated assurances that it “had give her quite a turn.”
A severe contusion on the eyebrow, accompanied by a cut extending to the
cheek-bone, and which had covered one side of his face with dried blood,
made him look much more damaged than he really was, and though kindly
Mrs. Trotter quickly recovered her equanimity and brought him warm water
and vinegar and balsam, and eventually plastered him up with about half
a sheet of diachylon, she could not help shuddering during the
operation, and seemed glad when it was over. Our farmers’ wives of the
present day are not quite so much accustomed to broken heads as bonny
“Ailie,” the helpmate of immortal Dandie Dinmont.
The borderer, however, could not have been more hospitably inclined than
was the jovial Leicestershire farmer. Setting aside the difference of
time and locality, they had indeed many qualities in common. The same
love of hunting, the same daring in the saddle, the same open-hearted
hospitality and tendency to push good-fellowship a little over the
bounds of sobriety. The only difference perhaps was this that Dandie
Dinmont would have been getting up before Mr. Trotter was thinking of
going to bed.
I am not going to recapitulate the sayings and doings of those jovial
small hours after Mrs. Trotter had betaken herself once more hopelessly
to her couch. The Honourable Crasher, always a gentleman, though rather
a torpid one, was equally at home with a duke and a drayman, perhaps
more in his element with a hunting friend like Trotter than either. The
good runs they recapitulated, the horses they remembered, the grey that
was bought by Mr. G——, and the chestnut that had carried Lord W—— so
well for years, the fences they had negotiated—nay, the very toasts they
proposed and did justice to, would fill a chapter. It is sufficient to
say that when Mr. Sawyer awoke in the best bedroom about sunrise the
following morning, he had a racking head-ache, his mouth felt like the
back of a Latin grammar, and the only distinct recollection with which
he could charge his memory of the previous night’s conversation was his
host’s recipe for making a young horse a safe fencer, which he certainly
did not then feel in a condition to adopt.
“If you’ve got a green horse as you’re not very confident on at strong
timber,” said Mr. Trotter, about the fourth glass of brandy-and-water,
“you tackle him _my_ way. You take him out o’ Sundays or any afternoon
as you’ve nothing particular to do, and pick him out some real _stiff_
ones. Give him two or three _good heavy falls_, and I’ll warrant you’ll
have very little trouble afterwards. That’s the way to make ’em
_rise_!—ain’t it, Mr. Crasher?”
After such a night’s amusement as I have described, gentlemen are apt to
be later in the morning than they originally proposed.
Our belated travellers had intended getting back to their quarters at
Harborough by eight or nine o’clock, there to make their toilets,
discuss their breakfasts, and so proceed to covert methodically as
usual, in time to meet Mr. Tailby’s clipping pack at Carlton Clump. It
was nine, however, before either of them was stirring, and then the
hospitable Trotter, who was himself going to hunt, and who came in from
shepherding as rosy and fresh as if he had never seen brandy-and-water
in his life, would not hear of their going away without breakfast.
Altogether they did not get clear of Trotter’s Lodge much before ten
o’clock, and as they drove out of the farmyard they had the
mortification of seeing their entertainer mounted on his four-year-old
(“Fancy riding a four-year-old after such a night!” thought Mr. Sawyer)
on his way to the meet. “And we’ve got to go home and dress, and then
come all this way back again,” moralised the Honourable. “I say, Sawyer,
I wish I could make this beggar go as fast as we did last night,” and
Crasher smiled at the recollection, as a man smiles who recalls some
peaceful scene of his youth, or some good action which he will never
find cause to repent.
_This beggar_, however, though a good farmer’s nag enough, knew quite
well that it wasn’t his day for Market Harborough, and displayed great
unwillingness to improve upon seven miles an hour in that direction. The
chance of being in time faded away momently. Already they had overtaken
several grooms with hunters; worse still, one or two early men on their
hacks had overtaken _them_, and they had not yet struck into the
high-road. At last the sound of wheels behind them caused the old horse
to quicken his pace—not sufficiently so, however, to prevent the
pursuing carriage from gaining on them rapidly. Mr. Sawyer looked back.
Oh for a gig umbrella! It was none other than Parson Dove driving his
daughter to the meet, that young lady’s very becoming costume denoting
that it was her intention to join in the pleasures of the chase. Here
was a predicament! To be detected by the queen of his affections, with
whom he had parted at midnight, in all the correct decorum of evening
costume, still in the same dress, so inappropriate at 10.30 A.M.,
bearing obvious tokens of having been out all night, and worse than all,
with an inflamed countenance, blood-shot eyes, and a face half-eclipsed
in plaister! Perdition! It was not to be thought of!
With the energy of despair he snatched the whip from the Honourable’s
astonished grasp, and applied it with such good will to the old horse’s
ribs, that the animal broke incontinently into a gallop, and turned into
the high-road some fifty yards ahead of its pursuers, who would cross
that thoroughfare directly, whereas Mr. Sawyer and its driver would
follow its broad track to Harborough. “Cover me up!” exclaimed our
friend to his laughing companion, as he crouched in the bottom of the
carriage, under the scanty gig-apron, and devoutly hoped he had escaped
recognition—“cover me up! I wouldn’t be seen in this plight by any of
_that_ family for a hundred pounds!” Nevertheless, he resolved, so to
speak, to substantiate his _alibi_ by swearing the Honourable to
secrecy, and abstaining altogether for that day from the chase.
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