IN WHICH I HEAR NEWS OF SIR MAURICE VIBART
"Which I says—Lord love me!"
I plunged the iron back into the fire, and, turning my head, espied a
figure standing in the doorway; and, though the leather hat and short,
round jacket had been superseded by a smart groom's livery, I
recognized the Postilion.
"So 'elp me, Bob, if this ain't a piece o' luck!" he exclaimed, and,
with the words, he removed his hat and fell to combing his short, thick
hair with the handle of his whip.
"I'm glad you think so," said I.
"You can drownd me if it ain't!" said he.
"And, pray, how is the gentleman who—happened to fall and hurt
himself, if you remember—in the storm?"
"'Appened to fall an' 'urt 'isself?" repeated the Postilion, winking
knowingly, "'urt 'isself,' says you 'Walker!' says I, 'Walker!'" with
which he laid his forefinger against the side of his nose and winked
again.
"What might you be pleased to mean?"
"I means as a gent 'appenin' to fall in the dark may p'r'aps cut 'is
'ead open—but 'e don't give 'isself two black eyes, a bloody nose, a
split lip, an' three broken ribs, all at once—it ain't nat'ral, w'ich
if you says contrairy, I remarks—'Walker!' Lord!" continued the
Postilion, seeing I did not speak, "Lord! it must 'a' been a pretty
warm go while it lasted—you put 'im to sleep sound enough; it took me
over a hour to Tonbridge, an' 'e never moved till 'e'd been put to bed
at 'The Chequers' an' a doctor sent for. Ah! an' a nice time I 'ad of
it, what wi' chamber-maids a-runnin' up an' down stairs to see the
'poor gentleman,' an' everybody a-starin' at me, an' a-shakin' their
'eads, an' all a-axin' questions, one atop o' the other, till the
doctor come. 'Ow did this 'appen, me man?' says 'e. 'A haccident!'
says I. 'A haccident?' says the doctor, wi' a look in 'is eye as I
didn't just like. 'Ah!' says I, 'fell on 'is 'ead—out o' the chaise,'
says I, 'struck a stone, or summ'at,' says I. 'Did 'e fall of 'is own
accord?' says the doctor. 'Ah, for sure!' says I. 'Humph!' says the
doctor, 'what wi' 'is eyes, an' 'is nose, an' 'is lip, looks to me as
if some one 'ad 'elped 'im.' 'Then you must be a dam' fool!' says a
voice, an' there's my gentleman—Number One, you know, a-sittin' up in
bed an' doin' 'is 'ardest to frown. 'Sir?' says the doctor. 'Sir! to
you,' says my gentleman, 'this honest fellow tells the truth. I did
fall out o' the accursed chaise—an' be damned to you!' says 'e.
'Don't excite yourself,' says the doctor; 'in your present condition it
would be dangerous.' 'Then be so good as to go to the devil!' says my
gentleman. 'I will!' says the doctor, an' off 'e goes. 'Hi, there,
you,' says my gentleman, callin' to me as soon as we were alone, 'this
accursed business 'as played the devil with me, an' I need a servant.
'Ow much do you want to stay wi' me?' 'Twenty-five shillin' a week,'
says I, doin' myself proud while I 'ad the chance. 'I'll give ye
thirty,' says 'e; 'wot's ye name?' 'Jacob Trimble, sir,' says I. 'An'
a most accursed name it is!—I'll call you Parks,' says 'e, 'an' when I
ring let no one answer but yourself. You can go, Parks—an',
Parks—get me another doctor.' Well," pursued the Postilion, seating
himself near by, "we'd been there a couple o' weeks, an' though 'e was
better, an' 'is face near well again, 'e still kept to 'is room, when,
one day, a smart phaeton an' blood 'osses drives up, an' out steps a
fine gentleman—one o' them pale, sleepy sort. I was a-standin' in the
yard, brushin' my master's coat—a bottle-green wi' silver buttons,
each button 'avin' what they calls a monneygram stamped onto it. 'Ha,
me man!' says the sleepy gent, steppin' up to me, 'a fine coat—doocid
fashionable cut, curse me!—your master's?' 'Yes, sir,' says I,
brushin' away. 'Silver buttons too!' says the gent, 'let me see—ah
yes!—a V, yes, to be sure—'ave the goodness to step to your master
an' say as a gentleman begs to see 'im.' 'Can't be done, sir,' says I;
'me master ain't seein' nobody, bein' in indifferent 'ealth.'
'Nonsense!' says the gentleman, yawnin' an' slippin' a guinea into me
'and. 'Just run, like a good feller, an' tell 'im as I bear a message
from George!' 'From 'oo?' says I. 'From George,' says the gent,
smilin' an' yawnin'—'just say from George.' So, to come to the end of
it, up I goes, an' finds me master walkin' up an' down an' a-swearin' to
'isself as usual. 'A gentleman to see you, sir,' says I. 'Why, devil
burn your miserable carcass!' say 'e, 'didn't I tell you as I'd see
nobody?' 'Ay, but this 'ere gent's a-sayin' 'e 'as a message from
George, sir.' My master raised both clenched fists above 'is 'ead an'
swore—ah! better than I'd heard for many a long day. 'Ows'ever,
downstairs 'e goes, cursin' on every stair. In a time 'e comes back.
'Parks,' says 'e, 'do you remember that—that place where we got
lost—in the storm, Parks?' 'Ah, sir,' says I. 'Well, go there at
once,' says 'e,' an','—well—'e give me certain orders—jumps into the
phaeton wi' the sleepy gentleman, an' they drive off together—an'
accordin' to orders—'ere I am."
"A very interesting story!" said I. "And so you are a groom now?"
"Ah!—an' you are a blacksmith, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well, if it don't beat everything as ever I heard—I'm a stiff 'un,
that's all!"
"What do you mean?"
"I means my droppin' in on you, like this 'ere, just as if you wasn't
the one man in all England as I was 'opeful to drop in on."
"And you find me very busy!" said I.
"Lord love me!" said the Postilion, combing his hair so very hard that
it wrinkled his brow. "I comes up from Tonbridge this 'ere very
afternoon, an', 'avin' drunk a pint over at 'The Bull' yonder, an' axed
questions as none o' they chawbacons could give a answer to, I 'ears
the chink o' your 'ammer, an' comin' over 'ere, chance like, I
finds—you; I'll be gormed if it ain't a'most onnat'ral!"
"And why?"
"'Cos you was the very i-dentical chap as I come up from Tonbridge to
find."
"Were you sent to find me?"
"Easy a bit—you're a blacksmith, a'n't you?"
"I told you so before."
"Wot's more, you looks a blacksmith in that there leather apron, an'
wi' your face all smutty. To be sure, you're powerful like 'im—Number
One as was—my master as now is—"
"Did he send you to find me?"
"Some folks might take you for a gentleman, meetin' you off'and like,
but I knows different."
"As how?"
"Well, I never 'eard of a gentleman turnin' 'isself into a blacksmith,
afore, for one thing—"
"Still, one might," I ventured.
"No," answered the Postilion, with a decisive shake of the head, "it's
ag'in' natur'; when a gentleman gets down in the world, an' 'as to do
summ'at for a livin', 'e generally shoots 'isself—ah! an' I've knowed
'em do it too! An' then I've noticed as you don't swear, nor yet
curse—not even a damn."
"Seldom," said I; "but what of that?"
"I've seed a deal o' the quality in my time, one way or another—many's
the fine gentleman as I've druv, or groomed for, an' never a one on 'em
as didn't curse me—ah!" said the Postilion, sighing and shaking his
head, "_'ow_ they _did_ curse me!—'specially one—a young
lord—oncommon fond o' me 'e were too, in 'is way, to the day 'is 'oss
fell an' rolled on 'im. 'Jacob,' says 'e, short like, for 'e were
agoin' fast. 'Jacob!' says 'e, 'damn your infernally ugly mug!' says
'e; 'you bet me as that cursed brute would do for me.' 'I did, my
lord,' says I, an' I remember as the tears was a-runnin' down all our
faces as we carried 'im along on the five-barred gate, that bein'
'andiest. 'Well, devil take your soul, you was right, Jacob, an' be
damned to you!' says 'e; 'you'll find a tenner in my coat pocket 'ere,
you've won it, for I sha'n't last the day out, Jacob.' An' 'e didn't
either, for 'e died afore we got 'im 'ome, an' left me a 'undred pound
in 'is will. Ah! gentlemen as is gents is all the same. Lord love
you! there never was one on 'em but damned my legs, or my liver, or the
chaise, or the 'osses, or the road, or the inns, or all on 'em
together. If you was to strip me as naked as the palm o' your 'and,
an' to strip a lord, or a earl, or a gentleman as naked as the palm o'
your 'and, an' was to place us side by side—where'd be the difference?
We're both men, both flesh and blood, a'n't we?—then where 'd be the
difference? 'Oo's to tell which is the lord an' which is the
postilion?"
"Who indeed?" said I, setting down my hammer. "Jack is often as good
as his master—and a great deal better."
"Why, nobody!" nodded the Postilion, "not a soul till we opened our
mouths; an' then 'twould be easy enough, for my lord, or earl, or
gentleman, bein' naked, an' not likin' it (which would only be
nat'ral), would fall a-swearin' 'eavens 'ard, damning everybody an'
cursin' everything, an' never stop to think, while I—not bein' born to
it—should stand there a-shiverin' an' tryin' a curse or two myself,
maybe—but Lord! mine wouldn't amount to nothin' at all, me not bein'
nat'rally gifted, nor yet born to it—an' this brings me round to 'er!"
"Her?"
"Ah—'er! Number Two—'er as quarrelled wi' Number One all the way from
London—'er as run away from Number One—wot about—'er?" Here he fell
to combing his hair again with his whip-handle, while his quick, bright
eyes dodged from my face to the glowing forge and back again, and his
clean-shaven lips pursed themselves in a soundless whistle. And, as I
watched him, it seemed to me that this was the question that had been
in his mind all along.
"Seeing she did manage to run away from him—Number One—she is
probably very well," I answered.
"Ah—to be sure! very well, you say?—ah, to be sure!" said the
Postilion, apparently lost in contemplation of the bellows; "an'—where
might she be, now?"
"That I am unable to tell you," said I, and began to blow up the fire
while the Postilion watched me, sucking the handle of his whip
reflectively.
"You work oncommon 'ard—drownd me if you don't!"
"Pretty hard!" I nodded.
"An' gets well paid for it, p'r'aps?"
"Not so well as I could wish," said I.
"Not so well as 'e could wish," nodded the Postilion, apparently
addressing the sledge-hammer, for his gaze was fixed upon it. "Of
course not—the 'arder a man works the wuss 'e gets paid—'ow much did
you say you got a week?"
"I named no sum," I replied.
"Well—'ow much might you be gettin' a week?"
"Ten shillings."
"Gets ten shillin' a week!" he nodded to the sledgehammer, "that ain't
much for a chap like 'im—kick me, if it is!"
"Yet I make it do very well!"
The Postilion became again absorbed in contemplation of the bellows;
indeed he studied them so intently, viewing them with his head now on
one side, now on the other, that I fell to watching him, under my
brows, and so, presently, caught him furtively watching me. Hereupon
he drew his whip from his mouth and spoke.
"Supposing—" said he, and stopped.
"Well?" I inquired, and, leaning upon my hammer, I looked him square in
the eye.
"Supposing—wot are you a-staring at, my feller?"
"You have said 'supposing' twice—well?"
"Well," said he, fixing his eye upon the bellows again, "supposing you
was to make a guinea over an' above your wages this week?"
"I should be very much surprised," said I.
"You would?"
"I certainly should."
"Then—why not surprise yourself?"
"You must speak more plainly," said I.
"Well then," said the Postilion, still with his gaze abstracted,
"supposin' I was to place a guinea down on that there anvil o'
yours—would that 'elp you to remember where Number Two—'er—might be?"
"No!"
"It wouldn't?"
"No!"
"A guinea's a lot o' money!"
"It is," I nodded.
"An' you say it wouldn't?"
"It would not!" said I.
"Then say—oh! say two pun' ten an' 'ave done with it."
"No!" said I, shaking my head.
"What—not—d'ye say 'no' to two pun' ten?"
"I do."
"Well, let's say three pound."
I shook my head and, drawing the iron from the fire, began to hammer at
it.
"Well then," shouted the Postilion, for I was making as much din as
possible, "say four—five—ten—fifteen—twenty-five—fifty!" Here I
ceased hammering.
"Tell me when you've done!" said I.
"You're a cool customer, you are—ah! an' a rum un' at that—I never
see a rummer."
"Other people have thought the same," said I, examining the
half-finished horseshoe ere I set it back in the fire.
"Sixty guineas!" said the Postilion gloomily.
"Come again!" said I.
"Seventy then!" said he, his gloom deepening.
"Once more!" said I.
"A 'undred—one 'undred guineas!" said he, removing his hat to mop at
his brow.
"Any more?" I inquired.
"No!" returned the Postilion sulkily, putting on his hat, "I'm done!"
"Did he set the figure at a hundred guineas?" said I.
"'Im—oh! 'e's mad for 'er, 'e is—'e'd ruin 'isself, body and soul,
for 'er, 'e would, but I ain't goin' to offer no more; no woman as ever
breathed—no matter 'ow 'andsome an' up-standin'—is worth more 'n a
'undred guineas—it ain't as if she was a blood-mare—an' I'm done!"
"Then I wish you good-day!"
"But—just think—a 'undred guineas is a fortun'!"
"It is!" said I.
"Come, think it over," said the Postilion persuasively, "think it over,
now!"
"Let me fully understand you then," said I; "you propose to pay me one
hundred guineas on behalf of your master, known heretofore as Number
One, for such information as shall enable him to discover the
whereabouts of a certain person known as Her, Number Two—is that how
the matter stands?"
"Ah! that's 'ow it stands," nodded the Postilion, "the money to be
yours as soon as ever 'e lays 'ands on 'er—is it a go?"
"No!"
"No?"
"No!"
"W'y, you must be stark, starin' mad—that you must—unless you're
sweet on 'er yourself—"
"You talk like a fool!" said I angrily.
"So you are sweet on 'er then?"
"Ass!" said I. "Fool!" And, dropping my hammer, I made towards him,
but he darted nimbly to the door, where, seeing I did not pursue, he
paused.
"I may be a hass," he nodded, "an' I may be a fool—but I don't go
a-fallin' in love wi' ladies as is above me, an' out o' my reach, and
don't chuck away a 'undred guineas for one as ain't likely to look my
way—not me! Which I begs leave to say—hass yourself, an' likewise
fool—bah!" With which expletive he set his thumb to his nose, spread
out his fingers, wagged them and swaggered off.
Above me, and out of my reach! One not likely to look my way!
And, in due season, having finished the horseshoe, having set each tool
in its appointed place in the racks, and raked out the clinkers from
the fire, I took my hat and coat, and, closing the door behind me, set
out for the Hollow.