This came near being my last letter to you. No, that does not look
right! What I mean is the one before this came near being the last.
This is what happened: When we were leaving the "Beeches" a few days
ago, my brother-in-law, in looking over the car, discovered the
"fourth speed." As he had never seen one on an English car, he asked
me what value it had. I was not quite clear in my own mind as to its
value, and tried to recall what the agent had said about it. Finally
I remarked that I had not had occasion to use it as yet, but that it
was a good thing to have, because when one was running at forty miles
or more, it steadied the car and took the strain off the engine.
"Good Lord," he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are going to
drive forty miles an hour, do you?"
"No, not at present, but it's a good thing to have if one should want
it."
"I should think it a jolly good thing to have if I were tired of life
or of my wife!"
This rather nettled me, but I said nothing, chiefly because I did not
know what to say! But I thought he was probably right, and that I
could get all the speed I could control by running in "high."
It was one of those days, cool, dry, shining, which are as rare in
England as they are common at home, say in October. A day on which
one feels it is good to be alive. I was glad of this for Ruth's
sake, for she was sad at parting with her sister and the children,
and I was glad for my own sake, because I like to feel that it is
good to be alive! I was also glad for the motor's sake, for it was
running "fine"! Perhaps the reason both we and the motor rejoiced
was because both human and mechanical engines function best when
there is an uninterrupted flow of the electric current upon which
both depend for their greatest efficiency. At any rate, the car
seemed alive, and "pulled like a good 'un," as Sir Thomas's chauffeur
remarked as we drove away.
I know you have driven over the hills of the "West Riding," and
therefore remember that it is all "up hill and down dale." But with
you the horse slowly mounted the hills and then held back on the
descent. But with a motor it is different; the hills must be rushed
so that one mounts half-way up the opposing rise before the impetus
of the descent is lost. This requires constant shifting of gears
which becomes rather tiresome, and after a while one begins to look
for a bit of level ground on which the car will run without much
attention from the driver, or for a long straight hill, not too
steep, down which one can coast.
Such a hill we soon reached. But as we began the descent I saw that
it was steeper than I had supposed, and so began the descent slowly.
But the car soon gained a greater speed than I wished, so I threw her
into second and pressed on the foot-brake. Still she ran too fast,
and I saw that this was a steeper hill than I had ever met, and much
as I disliked doing so, knowing how ruinous it is to the tires, I put
on the emergency brake. But what was my horror to find that we were
now shooting down the hill at a speed greater than I had ever felt
since the days when I tobogganed! However, there was nothing more to
be done, and I could only hope that we should meet nothing in the
way. But that hope was short-lived, for at the moment I saw, near
the foot of the hill, a picnic party which had backed their pony-cart
against the hedge, leaving the pony standing across the road while
they leisurely unpacked a lunch-basket and other paraphernalia for a
feast. It was true there was room to pass if one drove carefully and
slowly, but we were not going slowly! Indeed, one glance at the
speedometer brought my heart into my throat! I have read of men who
were cool in moments of danger--I must be a hero, for I was _cold_!
I could only hope that Ruth had not seen, or, if she had, had not
understood. I blew the klaxon furiously; saw a boy run to the pony's
head. I blew again two sharp blasts, and, fortunately, he had sense
enough to see he should be struck, and so jumped clear. The pony
threw back his head with a snort, and we shot by without an inch to
spare between the cart and a solid stone post opposite. Ruth was as
white as death but uttered no sound. The silence was broken by the
voice of the child who had been so near death. But what he said
seemed inadequate. It was: "Oh, I say!" James Freeman Clarke
attributed the profanity of the kindly boatmen on the Ohio River to a
lack of vocabulary. Perhaps that was the reason the boy did not
swear!
Well, the longest lane has a turning and the steepest hill a bottom,
so at length the car began to slow down as it struck the opposite
rise, and finally came to a full stop.
Then Ruth spoke. But, angel as she is, all she said was: "Don't you
think, dear, that was a little fast?"