barnaby rudge(巴纳比·卢杰)-第32章
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Barnaby Rudge 119
distracted host； ‘that if you were to fire off cannon…balls into his
ears； it wouldn’t wake him； sir。’
The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness；
and recipe for making people lively； but； with his hands clasped
behind him； stood in the porch； very much amused to see old
John； with the bridle in his hand； wavering between a strong
impulse to abandon the animal to his fate； and a half disposition to
lead him into the house； and shut him up in the parlour； while he
waited on his master。
‘Pillory the fellow； here he is at last！’ cried John； in the very
height and zenith of his distress。 ‘Did you hear me a calling；
villain？’
The figure he addressed made no answer； but putting his hand
upon the saddle； sprung into it at a bound； turned the horse’s head
towards the stable； and was gone in an instant。
‘Brisk enough when he is awake；’ said the guest。
‘Brisk enough； sir！’ replied John； looking at the place where the
horse had been； as if not yet understanding quite； what had
become of him。 ‘He melts； I think。 He goes like a drop of froth。 You
look at him； and there he is。 You look at him again； and—there he
isn’t。’
Having； in the absence of any more words； put this sudden
climax to what he had faintly intended should be a long
explanation of the whole life and character of his man； the
oracular John Willet led the gentleman up his wide dismantled
staircase into the Maypole’s best apartment。
It was spacious enough in all conscience； occupying the whole
depth of the house； and having at either end a great bay window；
as large as many modern rooms； in which some few panes of
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stained glass； emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings；
though cracked； and patched； and shattered； yet remained；
attesting； by their presence； that the former owner had made the
very light subservient to his state； and pressed the sun itself into
his list of flatterers； bidding it； when it shone into his chamber；
reflect the badges of his ancient family； and take new hues and
colours from their pride。
But those were old days； and now every little ray came and
went as it would； telling the plain； bare； searching truth。 Although
the best room of the inn； it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur
in decay； and was much too vast for comfort。 Rich rustling
hangings； waving on the walls； and； better far； the rustling of
youth and beauty’s dress； the light of women’s eyes； outshining the
tapers and their own rich jewels； the sound of gentle tongues； and
music； and the tread of maiden feet； had once been there； and
filled it with delight。 But they were gone； and with them all its
gladness。 It was no longer a home； children were never born and
bred there； the fireside had become mercenary—a something to
be bought and sold—a very courtezan： let who would die； or sit
beside； or leave it； it was still the same—it missed nobody； cared
for nobody； had equal warmth and smiles for all。 God help the
man whose heart ever changes with the world； as an old mansion
when it becomes an inn！
No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste； but before
the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted
on a square of carpet； flanked by a ghostly screen； enriched with
figures； grinning and grotesque。 After lighting with his own hands
the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth； old John
withdrew to hold grave council with his cook； touching the
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stranger’s entertainment； while the guest himself； seeing small
comfort in the yet unkindled wood； opened a lattice in the distant
window； and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun。
Leaving the window now and then； to rake the crackling logs
together； or pace the echoing room from end to end； he closed it
when the fire was quite burnt up； and having wheeled the easiest
chair into the warmest corner； summoned John Willet。 ‘Sir；’ said
John。
He wanted pen； ink； and paper。 There was an old standish on
the mantel…shelf containing a dusty apology for all three。 Having
set this before him； the landlord was retiring； when he motioned
him to stay。
‘There’s a house not far from here；’ said the guest when he had
written a few lines； ‘which you call the Warren； I believe？’
As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact； and asked
the question as a thing of course； John contented himself with
nodding his head in the affirmative； at the same time taking one
hand out of his pockets to cough behind； and then putting it in
again。
‘I want this note’—said the guest； glancing on what he had
written； and folding it； ‘conveyed there without loss of time； and an
answer brought back here。 Have you a messenger at hand？’
John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts； and then said
Yes。
‘Let me see him；’ said the guest。
This was disconcerting； for Joe being out； and Hugh engaged in
rubbing down the chestnut cob； he designed sending on the
errand； Barnaby； who had just then arrived in one of his rambles；
and who； so that he thought himself employed on a grave and
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serious business； would go anywhere。
‘Why the truth is；’ said John after a long pause； ‘that the person
who’d go quickest； is a sort of natural； as one may say； sir； and
though quick of foot； and as much to be trusted as the post itself；
he’s not good at talking； being touched and flighty； sir。’
‘You don’t；’ said the guest； raising his eyes to John’s fat face；
‘you don’t mean—what’s the fellow’s name—you don’t mean
Barnaby？’
‘Yes； I do；’ returned the landlord； his features turning quite
expressive with surprise。
‘How comes he to be here？’ inquired the guest； leaning back in
his chair； speaking in the bland； even tone； from which he never
varied； and with the same soft； courteous； never…changing smile
upon his face。 ‘I saw him in London last night。’
‘He’s； for ever； here one hour； and there the next；’ returned old
John； after the usual pause to get the question in his mind。
‘Sometimes he walks； and sometimes runs。 He’s known along the
road by everybody； and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise；
and sometimes riding double。 He comes and goes； throu
