My story is told.  When I had paid the creditors and paid the legal expenses, I had barely five pounds left out of the sale of my house; and I had the world to begin over again.  Some months since—­drifting here and there—­I found my way to Underbridge.  The landlord of the inn had known something of my father’s family in times past.  He gave me (all he had to give) my food, and shelter in the yard.  Except on market days, there is nothing to do.  In the coming winter the inn is to be shut up, and I shall have to shift for myself.  My old master would help me if I applied to him—­but I don’t like to apply:  he has done more for me already than I deserve.  Besides, in another year who knows but my troubles may all be at an end?  Next winter will bring me nigh to my next birthday, and my next birthday may be the day of my death.  Yes! it’s true I sat up all last night; and I heard two in the morning strike:  and nothing happened.  Still, allowing for that, the time to come is a time I don’t trust.  My wife has got the knife—­my wife is looking for me.  I am above superstition, mind!  I don’t say I believe in dreams; I only say, Alicia Warlock is looking for me.  It is possible I may be wrong.  It is possible I may be right.  Who can tell?

THE THIRD NARRATIVE

THE STORY CONTINUED BY PERCY FAIRBANK

XIV

We took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh Hall, with the understanding that he might expect to hear from us again.

The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion in the sanctuary of our own room.  The topic was “The Hostler’s Story”; and the question in dispute between us turned on the measure of charitable duty that we owed to the hostler himself.

The view I took of the man’s narrative was of the purely matter-of-fact kind.  Francis Raven had, in my opinion, brooded over the misty connection between his strange dream and his vile wife, until his mind was in a state of partial delusion on that subject.  I was quite willing to help him with a trifle of money, and to recommend him to the kindness of my lawyer, if he was really in any danger and wanted advice.  There my idea of my duty toward this afflicted person began and ended.

Confronted with this sensible view of the matter, Mrs. Fairbank’s romantic temperament rushed, as usual, into extremes.  “I should no more think of losing sight of Francis Raven when his next birthday comes round,” says my wife, “than I should think of laying down a good story with the last chapters unread.  I am positively determined, Percy, to take him back with us when we return to France, in the capacity of groom.  What does one man more or less among the horses matter to people as rich as we are?” In this strain the partner of my joys and sorrows ran on, perfectly impenetrable to everything that I could say on the side of common sense.  Need I tell my married brethren how it ended?  Of course I allowed my wife to irritate me, and spoke to her sharply.