‘Possibly. It is not one in which I’ve so far indulged,’ replied his lordship dryly.
‘Frederica doesn’t either. Or read curtain lectures! And she is the best person I know!’ He added, with unexpected naïveté: ‘I daresay that seems an odd thing to say of one’s sister, but it’s true, and I’m not ashamed to say so! She may not be a beauty, like Charis, but she’s – she’s –’
‘Worth a dozen of Charis!’ supplied his lordship.
‘Yes, by Jupiter, she is!’ said Jessamy, his eyes kindling.
He relapsed after that into silence, which he broke only to return monosyllabic answers to such remarks as Alverstoke addressed to him; to ask him, once, at what speed he judged the balloon to be travelling; and once to say, in a burst of confidence: ‘It was wrong of him – very wrong, but you can’t deny he’s pluck to the backbone, sir!’
‘Oh, yes! Full of foolhardiness and ignorance.’
‘Yes, I suppose – But I couldn’t have done it!’
‘Thank God for that!’
‘I shouldn’t have had enough spunk,’ said Jessamy, making a clean breast of it.
‘It’s to be hoped that you have more sense!’ said Alverstoke, with asperity. ‘If, at your age, you did anything only half as hare-brained, the only place for you would be Bedlam!’
‘Yes – if I did it! The thing is that one can’t help feeling mortified when one’s young brother does something one knows one wouldn’t have the spunk to do oneself!’
This betrayal of boyishness made Alverstoke laugh, but he would not tell Jessamy why, recommending him instead to keep his eyes o
n the balloon, which, except for brief periods when houses or woods obstructed their view, had all the time remained within their sight. It had risen to a considerable altitude, but it did not seem to be travelling fast, its distance from the phaeton, so far as Alverstoke could judge, being some eight or ten miles, and only slowly increasing. From the start it had sailed to the west of the road: a circumstance which several times, when it seemed to be drawing farther westward, cast Jessamy into such a fret that it was as much as he could do to bottle up his impatience. He managed to do so, however, for although he wanted to urge Alverstoke to leave the post-road, following the balloon along some lane which appeared to run directly in its wake, the saner part of his brain knew that this would be folly. Country lanes pursued erratic courses, and too often ended at some farm or hamlet. He controlled his nervous irritation, telling himself that the balloon was travelling steadily north-westward, and that when it appeared to be drawing away this was merely due to the divergences of the road from the straight; but whenever they were obliged to pull up at a toll-gate, or a pike-keeper was slow in responding to the imperative summons blown by Curry on his yard of tin, he could have screamed with exasperation. Even Alverstoke’s unruffled calm exacerbated him; and whenever Alverstoke eased his horses he had to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to keep from bursting into hot and unwise speech. It seemed as though Alverstoke wasn’t even trying to catch up with the balloon! But then, as he stole a glance at that impassive profile, he saw that Alverstoke had turned his head a little, and was looking with narrowed, measuring eyes at the balloon, and he felt better, and was able to believe that Alverstoke knew exactly what he was doing.
Just beyond Stanmore, Alverstoke said over his shoulder: ‘Where, after Watford, can I get a change, Curry?’
‘I been thinking of that myself, my lord. I reckon it’ll be Berkhamsted.’
‘Then, if that curst balloon doesn’t come down soon I must change at Watford. I imagine it must be close above Berkhamsted now, and I’ll be damned if I kill my grays! You’ll stay with them, of course.’
‘How far away is Berkhamsted, sir?’ asked Jessamy.
‘About ten or twelve miles.’
Dismayed, Jessamy exclaimed: ‘We are an hour behind, then!’
‘Rather more – probably very much more!’
‘Hold on, sir!’ interrupted Curry. ‘Seems to me it is coming down!’
Jessamy stared at the balloon until his eyes watered. He brushed his hand across them, saying angrily: ‘Oh, curse this sunshine! It isn’t coming down! It’s as high as – No, by Jove, it is, it is! Look, sir!’
Alverstoke cast a fleeting glance at it. ‘It is undoubtedly coming down. How gratifying! I said the descent would be in the region of Watford.’
This way of receiving the glad tidings struck Jessamy, soaring into optimism, as exquisitely humorous. He gave a crack of laughter, exclaiming: ‘What a hand you are! Oh, I shouldn’t have said that! I beg your pardon, sir!’
‘So I should hope!’
‘As though you cared a button! You can’t hoax me, sir, because I know very well –’ He broke off; and after a tense moment said uneasily: ‘Why is it veering like that? It was coming down almost straight a moment ago!’
‘You may be seeing it from a different angle.’
‘No, I’m not! I mean, that wouldn’t account for the way it’s travelling now!’
In another minute, a spinney shut the balloon from his view; and by the time the phaeton had passed the last of the trees it had dropped altogether out of sight. Jessamy began to pose unanswerable questions to the Marquis: what had caused the balloon to swerve? did he know if it could be steered in any way? did he think there might be something amiss with the valve?
‘I should think it more likely that when they dropped nearer to earth they found there was more wind than they had expected,’ said Alverstoke.