"Instead of crawling in a dog-cart with me. Thank you, Mrs. Nevill."

"You needn't thank me. I haven't given you anything."

Again Stanistreet wondered whether Mrs. Nevill was very simple or very

profound. And wondering, he gave the mare a cut across the flanks that

made her leap in the shafts.

"That was silly of you. She'll have her heels through before you know

where you are. She's a demon to kick, is Scarum."

Scarum had spared the splash-board this time, but she was going

furiously, and the little dog-cart rocked from side to side. Mrs.

Nevill Tyson rose to her feet.

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"Strikes me you can't drive a little bit," said she.

"Please sit down, Mrs. Tyson." But Mrs. Tyson remained imperiously

standing, trying to keep her balance like a small sailor in a

rollicking sea.

"Get up."

Stanistreet muttered wrathfully under his mustache, and she caught the

words "damned foolery."

"Bundle out this minute." She made a grab at the rail in an undignified

manner.

He doubled the reins firmly over his right hand, and with his left arm he

forced her back into her seat. He was holding her there when Farmer Ashby

turned out of a by-lane and followed close behind them. And Farmer Ashby

had a nice tale to tell at "The Cross-Roads" of how he had seen the

Captain driving with his arm round Mrs. Tyson's waist.

That was another stone.

Stanistreet tugged at the reins with both hands and pulled the mare

almost on to her haunches; her hoofs shrieked on the iron road; she stood

still and snorted, her forelegs well out, her hide smoking.

When he had made quite sure that the animal's attitude was that of

temporary exhaustion rather than of passion, Stanistreet changed seats,

and gave the reins to Mrs. Nevill Tyson; and Scarum burst into her

second heat.

"I suppose you have a right to drive your own animal into the ditch,"

said he.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson set her teeth with a determined air, planted her feet

firmly on the floor of the trap to give herself a good purchase; she gave

the reins a little twist as she had seen Stanistreet do, she balanced the

whip like a fishing-rod, with the line dangling over Scarum's ears, and

then she rattled away over the wrinkling roads at a glorious pace; she

reeled over cart-ruts, she went thump over sods and bump over mud-heaps,

she grazed walls and hedges, skimmed over the brink of ditches, careened

round corners, and tore past most things on the wrong side; and

Stanistreet's sense of deadly peril was lost in the pleasure of seeing

her do it. When she was not chattering to him she was encouraging Scarum

with all sorts of endearments, small chirping sounds and delicate

chuckles, smiling that indefinably malicious, lop-sided smile which

Stanistreet had been taught all his life to interpret as a challenge.

Now they were going down a lane of beeches, they bent their heads under

the branches, and a shower of rime fell about her shoulders, powdering

her black hair; he watched it thawing in the warmth there till it

sparkled like a fine dew; and now they were running between low hedges,

and the keen air from the frosted fields smote the blood into her cheeks

and the liquid light into her eyes; it lifted the fringe from her

forehead and crisped it over the fur border of her hat; flying ends of

lace and sable were flung behind her like streamers; she seemed to be

winged with the wind of speed; she was the embodiment of vivid, reckless,

beautiful life.




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