Лучшие повести британских и американских писателей / Best Short Novels by British & American Authors. Коллектив авторов

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 а 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 а story to tell of the horse, and а 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. А 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 а 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 а 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 this 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 а seat for two in front, and а seat for one behind. My wife casts а 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 а 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.

      The Second Narrative

      The Hostler’s Story – Told by Himself

      IV

      It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of the great trouble of my life in the Vision of а Dream.

      I shall be better able to tell you about it if you will please suppose yourselves to be drinking tea along with us in our little cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten years since.

      The time was the close of day, and there were three of us at the table, namely, my mother, myself, and my mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance. These two were Scotchwomen by birth, and both were widows. There was no other resemblance between them that I can call to mind. My mother had lived all her life in England, and had no more of the Scotch brogue on her tongue than I have. My aunt Chance had never been out of Scotland until she came to keep house with my mother after her husband’s death. And when she opened her lips you heard broad Scotch, I can tell you, if you ever heard it yet!

      As it fell out, there was а matter of some consequence in debate among us that evening. It was this: whether I should do well or not to take а long journey on foot the next morning.

      Now the next morning happened to be the day before my birthday; and the purpose of the journey was to offer myself for а situation as groom at а great house in the neighboring county to ours. The place was reported as likely to fall vacant in about three weeks’ time. I was as well fitted to fill it as any other man. In the prosperous days of our family, my father had been manager of а training stable, and he had kept me employed among the horses from my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling you with these small matters. They all fit into my story farther on, as you will soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home on the morrow.

      ‘You can never walk all the way there and all the way back again by to-morrow night,’ she says. ‘The end of it will be that you will sleep away from home on your birthday. You have never done that yet, Francis, since your father’s death, I don’t like your doing it now. Wait а day longer, my son – only one day.’

      For my own part, I was weary of being idle, and I couldn’t abide the notion of delay. Even one day might make all the difference. Some other man might take time by the forelock, and get the place.

      ‘Consider how long I have been out of work,’ I says, ‘and don’t ask me to put off the journey. I won’t fail you, mother. I’ll get back by to-morrow night, if I have to pay my last sixpence for а lift in а cart.’

      My mother shook her head. ‘I don’t like it, Francis – I don’t like it!’ There was no moving her from that view. We argued and argued, until we were both at а deadlock. It ended in our agreeing to refer the difference between us to my mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance.

      While we were trying hard to convince each other, my aunt Chance sat as dumb as а fish, stirring her tea and thinking her own thoughts. When we made our appeal to her, she seemed as it were to wake up. ‘Ye baith refer it to my puir judgment?’ she says, in her broad Scotch. We both answered Yes. Upon that my aunt Chance first cleared the tea-table, and then pulled out from the pocket of her gown а pack of cards.

      Don’t run away, if you please, with the notion that this was done lightly, with а view to amuse my mother and me. My aunt Chance seriously believed that she could look into the future by telling fortunes СКАЧАТЬ