‘Of course she will! What do you mean by asking me such a question?’
‘Only, you see, sir, we’re obliged to close at eleven, whether we like or no, so the missus told me to ask you if—’
‘Here!’ exclaimed Jack Portland, quickly; ‘get me pen and ink and paper at once. I must send a messenger up to Panty-cuckoo Farm!’
‘Panty-cuckoo Farm,’ repeated the waiter; ‘Mr Llewellyn’s place? That be better than a mile and an’ arf away from here, sir. It’ll take a good bit of time to carry a letter there to-night.’
‘Never mind! I’m willing to pay for it, and for keeping you up as well, but the message must be carried by some one. Whom have you to send?’
‘I expect the ostler can go, but I’ll ask the missus,’ replied the waiter, as he went to consult the higher powers.
In a few minutes he returned to say the ostler would take the letter, and Mr Portland despatched the missive on its way. It contained but a very few words, only, ‘What is the reason of this delay? Pray come at once! Am waiting here impatiently. Jack.’
He did not know into whose hands it might fall, so thought it best to be as curt as possible, and then he sat down to get through the time as best he might till his messenger returned. How trying are the moments when we wait in utter darkness, the explanation of some mystery which is inexplicable to us. What a thousand and one fancies rush through our brain, as we attempt to penetrate what is impenetrable! How we ‘think’ it may be that—or we ‘fancy’ it must be this—or we ‘fear’ the other. Then, tired out with conjecture, we resolve not to think at all, but wait the natural sequence of events, only to fall back upon fancy and worry ourselves to death with imagination, and, after all, it usually turns out to be nothing—a bogy conjectured up by our anxiety—due as likely as not to the selfishness of our friend, who had not sufficient feeling for us to suspect what we were suffering on his behalf. We have all, at some time or other, experienced the feeling of suspense under which Mr Portland was suffering now,—yes, actually suffering!
This selfish, immoral, dishonourable man had found his match at last in fate. Nell Llewellyn was the one creature who had ever awakened any better or higher feelings in his hardened heart, and he was suffering the agony of thinking that she might have repented of her bargain and meant to play him false as he had played so many other people. The ostler took his time to walk to Panty-cuckoo Farm. He was going to be paid for his trouble under any circumstances, so he didn’t see the fun of hurrying himself. Besides, the farm was more than a mile away, and one mile makes two on a dark night, so it was twelve o’clock before the waiter reappeared with Mr Portland’s own note on a salver.
‘If you please, sir, the hostler, he ‘ave been to Panty-cuckoo Farm, but everybody’s a-bed, and he couldn’t make no one hear.’