Dream Women. Уилки Коллинз

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СКАЧАТЬ a decent, quiet, respectable serving-man.

      "I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir."

      The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out into the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that he understands his business. Quickly and quietly, he leads the animal into an empty stable; quickly and quietly, he gets a bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse's leg into it. "The warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I will bandage the leg afterwards." All that he does is done intelligently; all that he says, he says to the purpose.

      Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this the same man whom we heard talking in his sleep?—the same man who woke with that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I determine to try him with one or two questions.

      III

      "Not much to do here," I say to the hostler.

      "Very little to do, sir," the hostler replies.

      "Anybody staying in the house?"

      "The house is quite empty, sir."

      "I thought you were all dead. I could make nobody hear me."

      "The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on an errand."

      "Yes; and you were fast asleep in the stable. Do you often take a nap in the daytime?"

      The worn face of the hostler faintly flushes. His eyes look away from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively pinches my arm. Are we on the eve of a discovery at last? I repeat my question. The man has no civil alternative but to give me an answer. The answer is given in these words:

      "I was tired out, sir. You wouldn't have found me asleep in the daytime but for that."

      "Tired out, eh? You had been hard at work, I suppose?"

      "No, sir."

      "What was it, then?"

      He hesitates again, and answers unwillingly, "I was up all night."

      "Up all night? Anything going on in the town?"

      "Nothing going on, sir."

      "Anybody ill?"

      "Nobody ill, sir."

      That reply is the last. Try as I may, I can extract nothing more from him. He turns away and busies himself in attending to the horse's leg. I leave the stable to speak to the landlord about the carriage which is to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank remains with the hostler, and favors me with a look at parting. The look says plainly, "I mean to find out why he was up all night. Leave him to Me."

      The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The inn possesses one horse and one chaise. The landlord has a story to tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise. They resemble the story of Francis Raven—with this exception, that the horse and chaise belong to no religious persuasion. "The horse will be nine year old next birthday. I've had the shay for four-and-twenty year. Mr. Max, of Underbridge, he bred the horse; and Mr. Pooley, of Yeovil, he built the shay. It's my horse and my shay. And that's their story!" Having relieved his mind of these details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse. By way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard. Just as our preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears. A moment or two later the hostler follows her out. He has bandaged the horse's leg, and is now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall. I observe signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that my wife has found her way into his confidence. I put the question to her privately in a corner of the yard. "Well? Have you found out why Francis Raven was up all night?"

      Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of answering plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites the audience by putting a question on her side.

      "What is the day of the month, dear?"

      "The day of the month is the first of March."

      "The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven's birthday."

      I try to look as if I was interested—and don't succeed.

      "Francis was born," Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, "at two o'clock in the morning."

      I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way of the landlord's intellect. "Is that all?" I ask.

      "It is not all," Mrs. Fairbank answers. "Francis Raven sits up on the morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to bed."

      "And why is he afraid to go to bed?"

      "Because he is in peril of his life."

      "On his birthday?"

      "On his birthday. At two o'clock in the morning. As regularly as the birthday comes round."

      There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? No more thus far. I begin to feel really interested by this time. I ask eagerly what it means? Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to the chaise—with Francis Raven (hitherto our hostler, now our coachman) waiting for us to get in. The chaise has a seat for two in front, and a seat for one behind. My wife casts a warning look at me, and places herself on the seat in front.

      The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs. Fairbank sits by the side of the driver during a journey of two hours and more. Need I state the result? It would be an insult to your intelligence to state the result. Let me offer you my place in the chaise. And let Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his own words.

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