other hand, he knew full well that Jonas had no reason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime which had so impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the working of his fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it was quite in keeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had the same impotent expression of truth in it. “If he could kill me with a wish,” thought the swindler, “I should not live long.”
He resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would restrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not do better than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own peculiar description of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner. It was no great sacrifice to bear with him; “for when all is got that can be got,” thought Montague, “I shall decamp across the water, and have the laugh on my side— and the gains.”
Such were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being one in which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over and over again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to have dismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before. They agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr Pecksniff's in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that worthy gentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more boisterous than ever.
As the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled gloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though now comparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain was quite as violent as it had ever been.
It was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last stage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These animals had been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest; and coming out into the dreary interval between night and morning, when the glare of the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the various objects in their view were presented in indistinct and exaggerated shapes which they would not have worn by night, they gradually became less and less capable of control; until, taking a sudden fright at something by the roadside, they dashed off wildly down a steep hill, flung the driver from his saddle, drew the carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled headlong down, and threw it crashing over.
The travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped or fallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt sick and weak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate, stood holding by it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape swam before his eyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and presently observed that Montague was lying senseless in the road, within a few feet of the horses.
In an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a demon, he ran to the horses” heads; and pulling at their bridles with all his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad violence as brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull of the prostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his brains being dashed out on the highway.
As he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man possessed, making them wilder by his cries.
“Whoop!” cried Jonas. “Whoop! again! another! A little more, a little more! Up, ye devils! Hillo!”
As he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to him to desist, his violence increased.
“Hiilo! Hillo!” cried Jonas.
“For God's sake!” cried the driver. “The gentleman—in the road— he'll be killed!”
The same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But the man darting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague's, by dragging him through the mire and water out of the reach of present harm. That done, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his knife they very shortly disengaged the horses from the broken chariot, and got them, cut and bleeding, on their legs again. The postillion and Jonas had now leisure to look at each other, which they had not had yet.
“Presence of mind, presence of mind!” cried Jonas, throwing up his hands wildly. “What would you have done without me?”
“The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,” returned the man, shaking his head. “You should have moved him first. I gave him up for dead.”
“Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind” cried Jonas with a harsh loud laugh. “Was he struck, do you think?”
They both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to himself, when he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking vacantly around.
“What's the matter?” asked Montague. “Is anybody hurt?”
“Ecod!” said Jonas, “it don't seem so. There are no bones broken, after all.”
They raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken, and trembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and bruises this was all the damage he had sustained.
“Cuts and bruises, eh?” said Jonas. “We've all got them. Only cuts and bruises, eh?”
“I wouldn't have given sixpence for the gentleman's head in half-adozen seconds more, for all he's only cut and bruised,” observed the post-boy. “If ever you're in an accident of this sort again, sir; which I hope you won't be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse that's down, when there's a man's head in the way. That can't be done twice without there being a dead man in the case; it would have ended in that, this time, as sure as ever you were born, if I hadn't come up just when I did.”
Jonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and to go somewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own accord. But Montague, who had listened eagerly to every word, himself diverted the subject, by exclaiming: “Where's the boy?”
“Ecod! I forgot that monkey,” said Jonas. “What's become of him?” A very brief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey had been thrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and was lying in the neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.
“When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this journey,” cried his master, “I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look at this boy!”
“Is that all?” growled Jonas. “If you call THAT a sign of it—”
“Why, what should I call a sign of it?” asked Montague, hurriedly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Jonas, stooping down over the body, “that I never heard you were his father, or had any particular reason to care much about him. Halloa. Hold up there!”
But the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any other sign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart. After some discussion the driver mounted the horse which had been least injured, and took the lad in his arms as well as he could; while Montague and Jonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a trunk between them, walked by his side towards Salisbury.
“You'd get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to meet us, if you went forward, post-boy,” said Jonas. “Trot on!”
“No, no,” cried Montague; “we'll keep together.”
“Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed; are you?” said Jonas.
“I am not afraid of anything,” replied the other, whose looks and manner were in flat contradiction to his words. “But we'll keep together.”
“You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,” said Jonas. “I suppose you know that he may die in the meantime?”
“Aye, aye. I know. But we'll keep together.”
As it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination, Jonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and they proceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to travel; and the way was not made easier by the state of the road, the burden by which they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and sore condition. After a sufficiently long and painful walk, they arrived at the Inn; and having knocked the people up (it being yet very early in the morning), sent out messengers to see to the carriage and its contents, and roused a surgeon from his bed to tend the chief sufferer. All the service he could render, he rendered promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as his opinion that the boy was labouring under a severe concussion of the brain, and that Mr Bailey's mortal course was run.
If Montague's strong interest in the announcement could have been considered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a redeeming trait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare. But it was not difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason best appreciated by himself, he attached a strange value to the company and presence of this mere child. When, after receiving some assistance from the surgeon himself, he retired to the
