“On my return to London, a short time ago, I found that the undertaker’s shop and the livery stables where I mounted the box of my hearse, had changed hands.”
The speaker ceased. He was at once taken up with a regular chorus, headed by Sir Edward, of—
“But, major, how do you account for—?”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the major, “upon my honour, everything I have stated is true; I assure you, moreover, that up to the time of my rising this morning, I neither could have explained nor accounted for a single fact more than I have just done. Now I am wiser; but till to-day I knew not whose corpse it was with which I had gone to grief. I knew not the name of the family whose feelings I had, through my wicked imprudence, so sadly lacerated, and it was perfectly impossible for me to conjecture last night what Colonel Moreton meant when he stated that he had seen me show the white feather. Others in this room may, if they choose, give the supplement to my story.”
Colonel Moreton at once took up the running, and said:
“I will try to be brief. First of all, let me tell you that, as far as I am concerned, I insist upon all bets being off. You may send your sovereigns and the price of your gloves to the Lancashire Fund. Next, I assure you that, while some fifteen years ago, I little thought that the hearse-drive begun in comedy would end in tragedy, I still less imagined, when I started my sportive conversation last night, that I should find that the roll with death had dwelt so much upon my friend’s mind, and that though he and I have together seen hundreds of corpses on a battle field, yet that that particular encounter with one dead body should have worried him so much. Those who were concerned in the business would not let me explain the matter to Dyvart before. One of them was Bob Poland, who was killed in the Crimea, and the other was Mr. Conolly, who has lately died. I have not met Plucky Dick recently, as he knows, till within the last few days. Fortunately for me, he is kind and noble, as he is undoubtedly brave. He has forgiven me, and we are as firm friends as ever. You all will, I trust, forgive me also, especially you, my dear father,” said the Colonel, affectionately looking at old Sir Edward, “for you will find you have been victimised.
“One day in town, Dyvart, Poland, and Conolly had been dining with me at the Rag and Famish. Dyvart, who had been boasting about his having driven everything except a hearse, left early. We at once set to work concocting a practical joke to be played off on him. In the comic tragedy, so to call it, which took place, I was the corpse, Poland and Conolly the two mourners. It never was intended that the hearse should go as far as the village where the burying-place was. We had settled to stop at a certain lone spot in a lane, where Dyvart would have been called upon to drag myself and my coffin out of the hearse. I had my face tied up, and was attired in a shroud, in order that we might more successfully impose upon, frighten, and raise a laugh against Dyvart. We had bribed the chief ostler to put in a pair of frisky black leaders, in order that my friend might be more troubled and bothered in driving through town. As for a runaway,—of that I never for a moment dreamed, knowing that Dyvart was really a first-rate whip. My feelings, when I found myself being really run away with, while I was hopelessly locked up inside a hearse, may be more easily imagined than described. Dyvart says, I used what he elegantly terms emphatic, unadulterated Saxon. Possibly the horrible condition I found myself in may have led me to utter language which any of my present or early friends could testify was quite contrary to my habit. Some hero in former days—Ajax, I believe—prayed that he might be killed in the light. I was anything but a hero, still, I confess, that the idea of dying in darkness—the utter ignorance I was in as to where I might, every second, be hurled—was horrible. It was a delightful relief to me when I was catapulted into light, and rolled vis-a-vis into a ditch with Dyvart. It was a great relief when I saw him run off, as I fancied, uninjured. I cared not for my own bruises. Late at night I found him in his lodgings. I procured for him the best medical advice London afforded. I hung for days and nights over his bed, praying earnestly that my folly might not end in fatal results. Before Dyvart came round, I was obliged to rejoin my regiment. I paid everything connected with the unfortunate business. I bribed heavily and successfully to have the matter kept quite concealed. And now, father, you will understand why it was that, in the year 18—, I drew upon you for an extra 600l., and declined, at the time, to give you any reason for my unusual expenditure.”
There was a slight pause. The Colonel went on to say:
“The story, though amusing in several respects, has been often a painful subject to me. Many a time have I laughed out loud at the idea of the ludicrous figure Dyvart and I must have cut when rolling down the bank, and often have I longed for the pencil of a Leech to depict our summersaulting figures. I attired in death’s garments, Dyvart dying with fright; the coffin smashed; half the hearse and the horses disappearing in the distance, with the other half—sable plumes and all—filling up with its mutilated fragments the semi-doleful, semi-ludicrous sketch. Often have I also bitterly repented my folly, and always have I steadily adhered to my resolution, formed directly after the accident, never to have anything to do with a practical joke.”
When Colonel Moreton had finished speaking, the story he had been relating was commented on in various ways by the assembled party. At last, it was decided nem. con. that an account should be published of the only occasion on which Major Dyvart had shown the white feather. It was known by the company that I had occasionally contributed to a magazine, and I was urged to get this tale inserted. I have written it as nearly as possible, word for word, as it was related. I can only trust that it may be the source of as much astonishment and amusement to the readers of these pages, as it was to the guests assembled on the night of November the —th around the hospitable board of Sir Edward Moreton at Carroll Hall.
Charles Temple.
