Лучшие повести британских и американских писателей / Best Short Novels by British & American Authors. Коллектив авторов
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skin, tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows – there is а painful nervous contraction on the side of his mouth. I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and sighs in his sleep. It is not а pleasant sight to see, and I turn round instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns me back again in the direction of the stable door.
‘Wait!’ she says. ‘Wait! he may do it again.’
‘Do what again?’
‘He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in. He was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he’s beginning again.’
I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The man speaks in а quick, fierce whisper through his clinched teeth. ‘Wake up! Wake up, there! Murder!’
There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm slowly until it rests over his throat; he shudders, and turns on his straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly stretches it out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side toward which he has turned; he seems to fancy that he is grasping at the edge of something. I see his lips begin to move again; I step softly into the stable; my wife follows me, with her hand fast clasped in mine. We both bend over him. He is talking once more in his sleep – strange talk, mad talk, this time.
‘Light gray eyes’ (we hear him say), ‘and а droop in the left eyelid – flaxen hair, with а gold-yellow streak in it – all right, mother! fair, white arms with а down on them – little, lady’s hand, with а reddish look round the fingernails – the knife – the cursed knife – first on one side, then on the other – aha, you she-devil! where is the knife?’
He stops and grows restless on а sudden. We see him writhing on the straw. He throws up both his hands and gasps hysterically for breath. His eyes open suddenly. For а moment they look at nothing, with а vacant glitter in them – then they close again in deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? Yes; but the dream seems to have taken а new course. When he speaks next, the tone is altered; the words are few – sadly and imploringly repeated over and over again. ‘Say you love me! I am so fond of you. Say you love me! say you love me!’ He sinks into deeper and deeper sleep, faintly repeating those words. They die away on his lips. He speaks no more.
By this time Mrs. Fairbank has got over her terror; she is devoured by curiosity now. The miserable creature on the straw has appealed to the imaginative side of her character. Her illimitable appetite for romance hungers and thirsts for more. She shakes me impatiently by the arm.
‘Do you hear? There is а woman at the bottom of it, Percy! There is love and murder in it, Percy! Where are the people of the inn? Go into the yard, and call to them again.’
My wife belongs, on her mother’s side, to the South of France. The South of France breeds fine women with hot tempers. I say no more. Married men will understand my position. Single men may need to be told that there are occasions when we must not only love and honour – we must also obey – our wives.
I turn to the door to obey my wife, and find myself confronted by а stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is а tiny, sleepy, rosy old man, with а vacant pudding-face, and а shining bald head. He wears drab breeches and gaiters, and а respectable square-tailed ancient black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the landlord of the inn.
‘Good morning, sir,’ says the rosy old man. ‘I’m а little hard of hearing. Was it you that was a-calling just now in the yard?’
Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in а shrill voice, adapted to our host’s hardness of hearing) on knowing who that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw. ‘Where does he come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or single? Did he ever fall in love with а murderess? What sort of а looking woman was she? Did she really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story!’
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. 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 а 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 а 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 а corner; the landlord takes it – advances toward the sleeping hostler – and coolly stirs the man up with а broom as if he was а wild beast in а cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with а cry of terror – looks at us wildly, with а horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes – recovers himself the next moment – and suddenly changes into а 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 а 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 а 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 а 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 а look at parting. The look says plainly, ‘I mean