To walk a horse twice round a grass-field, in a set of light harness, allowing him afterwards to stand for half an hour in the stables without taking it off, can scarcely be called a thorough breaking-in of the animal to the duties of a coach-horse. Such, nevertheless, was all the tuition vouchsafed by the Honourable Crasher to Marathon’s inexperience, ere the bay found himself placed alongside of another, in that gentleman’s phaeton, for the purpose of taking his former and present owner out to dinner.

His companion—no other than the redoubtable chestnut which Crasher had been riding to covert on his first introduction to our friend—would have been rated as an experienced break-horse by few persons less reckless than his master. He was what is called “a bad starter,” but made up for that deficiency by being as difficult to stop, when once off, as he was at first to set in motion. He had a way, too, of hugging the pole when out of humour, most subversive of his companion’s equanimity. Such tricks were, doubtless, against the progress of Marathon’s education. Altogether a more unpleasant pair, for locomotive purposes, have seldom been “lapped in leather.”

There is no proverb more true than that “Where there is no fear, there is no danger.” The Honourable Crasher’s nerves seemed not only totally unsusceptible to the unworthy sensation
“Which schoolboys denominate ‘funk,’”

but he appeared utterly to ignore the possibility of anything like a casualty wherever horseflesh was concerned. The consequence was that, both in the saddle and on the coach-box, he came scathless out of scrapes that must have been fatal to a man of a more nervous temperament.

I will not dwell on the drive from Market Harborough to the Dove-cote—on the tension of Mr. Sawyer’s nerves, and corresponding rigidity of his muscles, whenever the wheel grazed a heap of stones or an ominous bang against the splash-board reminded him that Marathon had not forgotten how to kick. The Boy, indeed—selected for the office as being of light weight—spent most of the journey on the hind-step, prepared for the worst, but was not obliged to get down and run to their heads more than a dozen times in the course of as many minutes, after which they settled to their work and pulled like griffins. It is sufficient to say that, when they arrived at the Rectory door, close on the tracks of the ignominious fly that had preceded them at least half an hour, Mr. Sawyer’s white tie was uncrumpled, and the Honourable’s whiskers still in tolerable curl.

There was but one stranger present. The Reverend knew how to give a dinner, or if he didn’t his wife did, and had too much consideration for his Harborough friends to inundate them with a host of country neighbours with whom they were not acquainted. This exception was a widowed cousin of Mrs. Dove’s—a voluble lady, not so young as she had been, wearing her shoulders very bare, her dress very full, and her fair hair puffed out with considerable ingenuity. She was a little rouged, a little made-up, but very good-looking notwithstanding, in a blonde, full-blown, boisterous style. A better foil for “Cissy” could scarcely be imagined. This buxom beauty answered to the name of Merrywether, and, to all appearance, would have had no objection to change it.

I pass over the drawing-room ceremonials, generally somewhat dreary before dinner, and only enlivened, in the present instance, by the personal daring of Major Brush, whose idiosyncrasy compelled him at once to constitute himself Mrs. Merrywether’s devoted admirer, and will ask my reader to imagine the company fairly settled at table (circular, with a quantity of light, and flowers), the soup sipped, the first glass of sherry swallowed, turbot and lobster sauce travelling leisurely round—in short, to use a hunting metaphor, which most of the guests would understand, their fox found and run into, and broken up with much gusto and satisfaction. “Whoop! Worry! worry! worry! Tear him and eat him!”

Mr. Sawyer has got a good start and a good place. He did not succeed in taking the daughter of the house in to dinner; for Struggles’s stout figure was in the way, and he could not get by till that jolly personage had unwittingly offered his arm. He secured the chair however on the other side, and thought he spied the least shade of disappointment, succeeded by one of the brightest looks, as he did so. He was consoled accordingly, and, after the sherry, not so shy as usual.

Crasher, of course, in virtue of his rank, took in their hostess, who was supported on her other hand by Savage. Mrs. Merrywether sat between the Reverend and Brush. Everybody talked at once; and the champagne was beyond praise.

Miss Dove was very agreeable, sharing her attentions with great impartiality between Struggles and the agitated Sawyer; only, when she addressed the latter, she used a somewhat lower tone than to any one else. The dodge has a prodigious effect on a man who is not up to it; and our friend was honest and inexperienced enough, where women were concerned. He felt in the seventh heaven, and more inclined for drinking than eating; always a bad sign. What is left to fall back upon, when the stomach is affected by the maladies of the heart?

Not so Struggles. When she had seen the latter wholly engrossed in the merits of a “vol-au-vent” Miss Dove turned her pretty face and dangerous attention to her other cavalier.

“You’ve never asked me how I got home that dark night,” said she. “A long drive in the wet is no joke after such a hard day. I dare say you&rs............