"If 'tis on the wings of an eagle, I must fly to her!" cries the
Parson, and he hurried indoors and called out for a chaise and pair.
He had some trouble in persuading a post-boy to turn out at such an
hour, but before midnight the poor man was launched and rattling away
eastward, chafing at the hills and singing out that he'd pay for
speed, whatever it cost. And at Grampound in the grey of the morning
he almost ran slap into a chaise and pair proceeding westward, and
likewise as if its postilion wanted to break his neck.
Parson Polwhele stood up in his vehicle and looked out ahead.
The two chaises had narrowly missed doubling each other into a cocked
hat; in fact, the boys had pulled up within a dozen yards of smash,
and there stood the horses face to face and steaming.
"Why, 'tis my Mary!" cries the Parson, and takes a leap out of the
chaise.
"Oh, Richard! Richard!" sobs Mrs. Polwhele. "But you can't possibly
come in here, my love," she went on, drying her eyes.
"Why not, my angel?"
"Because of the parcels, dearest. And Heaven only knows what's
underneath me at this moment, but it feels like a flat-iron.
Besides," says she, like the prudent woman she was, "we've paid for
two chaises.
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