“I heard the mail go just ’fore the hare squealed,” said Will stolidly, “an’ the letter with it for certain.”
Grimbal started up and rushed to the hall while the other limped after him.
“Doan’t ’e do nothin’ fulish. I believe you never meant to post un. Ess, I’ll take your solemn word for that. An’ if you didn’t mean to send letter, ’t is as if you hadn’t sent un. For my mind weer fixed, whatever you might do.”
“Don’t jaw, now! There ’s time to stop the mail yet. I can get to Moreton as soon or sooner than that crawling cart if I ride. I won’t be fooled like this!”
He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the horse that had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was riding down the avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open just in time. Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul fixed upon his letter. He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost. The white road streaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his own rapid progress steadied him as he hastened on. Presently at a hill-foot, he saw how to save a mile or more by short cuts over meadow-land, so left the highway, rode through a hayfield, and dashed from it by a gap into a second. Then he grunted and the sound was one of satisfaction, for his tremendous rate of progress had served its object and already, creeping on the main road far ahead, he saw the vehicle which held the mail.
Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched John Grimbal’s furious departure.
“Pity,” said Will. “No call to do it. I’ve took his word, an’ the end ’s the same, letter or no letter. Now let me finish that theer brandy, then I’ll go home.”
But Mr. Vallack heard nothing. He was gazing out into the night and shaking with fear.
“High treason ’gainst the law of the land to lay a finger on the mail. A letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken—out of our keeping for all time. An’ me to blame for it. I’m a ruined man along o’ taking tu much ’pon myself an’ being tu eager for others. He’ll fling me out, sure ’s death. ’T is all up wi’ me.”
“As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he ’s earned a pat,” said Will; “that’s life, that is. An’ maybe theer’s sore hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, for a dog loves praise like a woman. He won’t sack ’e. You done what ’peared your duty.”