A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 4

And above all the cackling and hysterical shrieks of the women, rose a rollicking voice.

"The hour of seven," cried Michael Berrington, with gusty laughter.

"And it's not six of the clock yet. Why, troth, we'll be miles away past Craven's Hollow and through Reading itself before then, so you give me leave to handle the ribbons."

More clamour at this you may be sure, more cursings too, and cries that to be robbed by highwaymen was better than to have their necks broken by a mad young blood from Oxford University.

But Michael's friends were nearest the driver, and the beetroot-nosed pa.s.senger stood their champion, so that, before more could be said, the driver of the "Red Reindeer" was whisked from his seat and stowed struggling away in the custody of two chuckling Oxonians, whilst Michael gathered up the reins with a cry of encouragement to the horses, which were growing restive with long standing in the cold.

It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who cried "Well played," as the greys leapt forward under the light touch of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger--richer by many a coin of the realm--to pa.s.s the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any devil-may-care Oxford scholar.

And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but sweating greys had never been driven before.

Those within the coach vowed that their last hour had come, and clung together, the women in hysterics, and the men swearing as a sudden jolt would fling them one against the other, whilst shrieks and groans told of b.u.mps and bruises manifold.

Outside, however, things wore a merrier aspect.

The Oxford grads were enjoying themselves, trolling out jocular songs as though they sat to see the finish of the punch-bowl at a College wine, rather than a likely finish in a neighbouring ditch with a broken neck or two thrown in.

But the stranger with the nose and valise neither sang nor swore, but sat behind Michael, urging him to quicken his steeds' pace again and again, in tones which were inflected with growing anxiety.

But Michael needed no urging.

He was at least half an Irishman and was bred for a sportsman; moreover, he meant winning that race.

Faith! those inside might split, slit, and confound themselves and others till they were hoa.r.s.e, the coachman, pinioned firmly by Nat and Horace Goulden, might entreat and implore for pity on horses and pa.s.sengers, but Michael heeded nothing of them all.

High above the shrieking wind and creaking of tossing boughs overhead rose his strong, young voice, whooping on the straining, panting steeds as they dashed downhill at a gallop.

It was Providence that looked to the wheels of the coach.

A yell from Tom Blakeley, perched behind, set hearts a-thumping l.u.s.tily.

Cross roads and a stretch of common land had shown keen eyes the sight of a group of hors.e.m.e.n riding with loose rein to meet them.

Half a mile lower was Craven's Hollow, and our merry gentlemen of the road were on their way for their tryst.

But the Oxford coach was half an hour before her time.

"Hola! Hola! Hola!"

It was a wonder those chanting grads did not fling themselves from the coach-top in their excitement.

They were ahead of their pursuers.

Blunderbusses and pistols had been handed up from the arm-chest below, but it was agreed that a fight was to be avoided.

These gentry of the black mask were straight shooters and might let more hot blood than was desirable.

"Hola! Hola! gallant greys! The best feed Reading can provide, and no more journeyings to-night if you do it."

Michael's voice, coaxing at first, rose to shrill command, as the long whip cracked, and the great coach swung round a corner at such an angle as nearly sent Tom Blakeley spinning after his horn.

But the men behind quite understood the game now, and were ready enough to play it out. One does not see a rich prize disappearing round the corner without giving chase.

And their horses were fresh.

Yet the coach had a good start.

Craven's Hollow at last!

"Steady there, Michael, steady! Bad going, and a rickety old bridge which wants treating with respect."

But Michael was deaf to caution. To steady down meant capture, and one must risk something for success.

So down the hollow rattled the great, clumsy vehicle, and even the youngsters grouped round the box-seat forgot to sing and shout now, but clung on in silence--wondering----

Over!

A positive gasp of relief went up as the greys, galloping across the wooden bridge, went st.u.r.dily up the hill, whilst the coach swayed and rocked from side to side of the rough lane.

"Huzza, huzza!" cried Blakeley, waving his hat; and the shout was taken up with growing fervour as the pa.s.sengers, looking back, saw half a dozen hors.e.m.e.n come down the Hollow pell-pell.

La! what a crash and what a yell of triumph from the hill-top.

The bridge, strained to its last plank by the coach, had split and broken as the pursuers set horse-hoof on it, thus precipitating two of the foremost riders into the stream.

It was highly regrettable that they could not wait to see the end of the adventure; but the greys were already half-way down the hill, and yonder twinkled the lights of Reading.

It was unlikely that the gentry behind would leave their comrades to drown in a swollen torrent, since there is considerable honour amongst thieves; so the Oxford coach proceeded at a more respectable rate towards the town, thus enabling those within to right and congratulate themselves on being alive.

On the outside a merry chorus was being sung, and one Michael Berrington, much patted on the back, urged to write himself down hero as he drove his panting horses up to the sign of the "Blue Boar."

Even the beetroot-nosed traveller asked leave to shake hands and congratulate the finest young whip he had ever driven behind.

Michael, being no swaggerer, laughed, and pa.s.sed off the honours with a jest.

But it was good to know that the name of Berrington was being toasted that night in the little inn-parlour of a Reading posting-house.

One day--ah well! Youth must have its dreams, and we all figure as heroes to ourselves in them some time in our lives.

CHAPTER V

A LEGACY

Oxford to London, London to Berrington. And arriving there to be greeted with the news that old Sir Henry was dying.