I climbed the beam and lowered the poor tobyman, and it took me but a little time to make the exchange. The one I left where he had paid quittance in the peace of this earth, and t'other a-swinging under the light of the moon on Gallows Gate.
I have said my journey was done, but that was not so. There was more for me to do, which was to deliver poor Masters at his ladylove's and break the unhappy news. And so, leaving the carriage where it stood, with the patient horses, that were cropping the grass, I mounted the mare and began to go down the long span of the downs to the north. 'Twas late—near midnight—when I reached Effingham and found my way to the manor. I rapped on the door, leaving Calypso and t'other in the shadows by the house, and presently one answered to my knock. "What is it?" says she.
"'Tis a stranger," says I, "that has news of great import for Mrs Anne Varley, whom I beg you will call."
"She cannot hear you," said she, "'tis her wedding-night."
"What!" said I, in amazement, and instantly there flowed in upon me the meaning of this. Damn all women, save one or two, thinks I. And I turned to the maid again, with my mind made up.
"Look you, wench," said I, "this is urgent. I have an instant message that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and hold discourse, I'll warrant she shall not regret it—nor you," says I, with a crown piece in my palm.
She hesitated, and then, "Maybe she will refuse," says she. "She hath but these few hours been wed."
"Not she," said I, "if you will tell her that I bring good news, great news—news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed with a happy heart."
At that she seemed to consent, and with my coin in her hand she disappeared into the darkness of the house. It must have been some ten minutes later that a light flashed in the hall, and a voice called to me. "Who is it?" it asked, "and what want you at this hour?"
I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of colour, and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things. Lord, I have known women all my life in all stations, and I would have pinned no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young too, but had an air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed by this interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy writ in water that feigned to be tears, and her false pretences.