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Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done – then delivers himself of his reply as follows:
‘His name’s Francis Raven. He’s an Independent Methodist[38]. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he’s my hostler. That’s his story.’
My wife’s hot southern temper finds its way to her foot, and expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard.
The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the horses. ‘A fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to put ‘em in my stables?’ I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on making himself agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. ‘I’m a-going to wake Francis Raven. He’s an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he’s my hostler. That’s his story.’
Having issued this second edition of his interesting narrative, the landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will wake Francis Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable broom stands in a corner; the landlord takes it – advances toward the sleeping hostler – and coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry of terror – looks at us wildly, with a horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes – recovers himself the next moment – and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable serving-man.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I beg your pardon, sir.’
The tone and ma
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 i
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 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 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.
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 a 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[40], 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[41] 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!
38
Methodist – a member of the Methodist Church which separated from the Church of England in the 18th century and later developed into an autonomous church
39
chaise – a low carriage with two or four wheels
40
Cambridgeshire – a historic county in eastern England
41
brogue – a local way of speaking English; a dialect