Bab Bab 17 · 第17章

Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming

fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her. At sight of

the strange room and its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm,

wondering how she had been moved from the familiar chamber in which she

seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been

conveyed. But, another glance around called to her mind all that had

lately passed, and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.

It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out

into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her

feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in

others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious

kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read

the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a great number of

good people were buried there), passing on from one to another with

increasing interest.

It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the

cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of

some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in the

air. First, one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung

and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it

would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but talking to

himself. Another answered, and he called again, but louder than

before; then another spoke and then another; and each time the first,

aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly. Other

voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs lower down and higher up

and midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-tops; and

others, arriving hastily from the grey church turrets and old belfry

window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled and dropped

again, and still went on; and all this noisy contention amidst a

skimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches, and frequent

change of place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay

so still beneath the moss and turf below, and the strife in which they

had worn away their lives.

Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down,

and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect

silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now

stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which had started

from some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping

through one of the low latticed windows into the church, with its

worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of whitened-green mouldering

from the pew sides and leaving the naked wood to view. There were the

seats where the poor old people sat, worn spare, and yellow like

themselves; the rugged font where children had their names, the homely

altar where they knelt in after life, the plain black tressels that

bore their weight on their last visit to the cool old shady church.

Everything told of long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in

the porch was frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.

She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had

died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a

faltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent

with the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of that same grave

and asked her to read the writing on the stone. The old woman thanked

her when she had done, saying that she had had the words by heart for

many a long, long year, but could not see them now.

‘Were you his mother?’ said the child.

‘I was his wife, my dear.’

She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was

fifty-five years ago.

‘You wonder to hear me say that,’ remarked the old woman, shaking her

head. ‘You’re not the first. Older folk than you have wondered at the

same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn’t change us

more than life, my dear.’

‘Do you come here often?’ asked the child.

‘I sit here very often in the summer time,’ she answered, ‘I used to

come here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless

God!’

‘I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,’ said the old

woman after a short silence. ‘I like no flowers so well as these, and

haven’t for five-and-fifty years. It’s a long time, and I’m getting

very old.’

Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener

though it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned

and prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when she first

came to that place, a young creature strong in love and grief, she had

hoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to be. But that time

passed by, and although she continued to be sad when she came there,

still she could bear to come, and so went on until it was pain no

longer, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she had learned to like. And

now that five-and-fifty years were gone, she spoke of the dead man as

if he had been her son or grandson, with a kind of pity for his youth,

growing out of her own old age, and an exalting of his strength and

manly beauty as compared with her own weakness and decay; and yet she

spoke about him as her husband too, and thinking of herself in

connexion with him, as she used to be and not as she was now, talked of

their meeting in another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and

she, separated from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of

that comely girl who seemed to have died with him.

The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave, and

thoughtfully retraced her steps.

The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still doomed

to contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing among his

linen the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night’s

performance; while his companion received the compliments of all the

loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the

master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in importance to that merry

outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When he had sufficiently

acknowledged his popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they

all sat down together.

‘And where are you going to-day?’ said the little man, addressing

himself to Nell.

‘Indeed I hardly know--we have not determined yet,’ replied the child.

‘We’re going on to the races,’ said the little man. ‘If that’s your

way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If

you prefer going alone, only say the word and you’ll find that we

shan’t trouble you.’

‘We’ll go with you,’ said the old man. ‘Nell--with them, with them.’

The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly

beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where

crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for

purposes of enjoyment and festivity, determined to accompany these men

so far. She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said,

glancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was no objection to

their accompanying them as far as the race town--

‘Objection!’ said the little man. ‘Now be gracious for once, Tommy,

and say that you’d rather they went with us. I know you would. Be

gracious, Tommy.’

‘Trotters,’ said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very

greedily, as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes;

‘you’re too free.’

‘Why what harm can it do?’ urged the other.

‘No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps,’ replied Mr Codlin;

‘but the principle’s a dangerous one, and you’re too free I tell you.’

‘Well, are they to go with us or not?’

‘Yes, they are,’ said Mr Codlin; ‘but you might have made a favour of

it, mightn’t you?’

The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged

into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory

adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small

size of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a compound name,

inconvenient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had

been bestowed was known among his intimates either as ‘Short,’ or

‘Trotters,’ and was seldom accosted at full length as Short Trotters,

except in formal conversations and on occasions of ceremony.

Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the

remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer calculated

to turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish to

the cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed

upon his companions that they should do the like. Mr Codlin indeed

required no such persuasion, as he had already eaten as much as he

could possibly carry and was now moistening his clay with strong ale,

whereof he took deep draughts with a silent relish and invited nobody

to partake--thus again strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of

mind.

Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging

the ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of

misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and equal parts,

assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and

her grandfather. These being duly discharged and all things ready for

their departure, they took farewell of the landlord and landlady and

resumed their journey.

And here Mr Codlin’s false position in society and the effect it

wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for whereas

he had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as ‘master,’ and had by

inference left the audience to understand that he maintained that

individual for his own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he

was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that same Punch’s

temple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders on a sultry day and

along a dusty road. In place of enlivening his patron with a constant

fire of wit or the cheerful rattle of his quarter-staff on the heads of

his relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming Punch utterly

devoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a dark box, with his legs

doubled up round his neck, and not one of his social qualities

remaining.

Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals

with Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led the

way; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive)

tied up in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his

shoulder-blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either

hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear.

When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of

good appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and

carolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to Punches

and their consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin

pitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and concealing

Short therewith, flourished hysterically on the pipes and performed an

air. Then the entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin

having the responsibility of deciding on its length and of protracting

or expediting the time for the hero’s final triumph over the enemy of

mankind, according as he judged that the after-crop of half-pence would

be plentiful or scant. When it had been gathered in to the last

farthing, he resumed his load and on they went again.

Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and once

exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector,

being drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to

himself. There was one small place of rich promise in which their

hopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the play having

gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling wooden-headed fellow was

held to be a libel on the beadle, for which reason the authorities

enforced a quick retreat; but they were generally well received, and

seldom left a town without a troop of ragged children shouting at their

heels.

They made a long day’s journey, despite these interruptions, and were

yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short beguiled

the time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that

happened. Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the

hollow things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with

the theatre on his back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.

They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met,

and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and

seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and

disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous

shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by

which they had come. The child was at first quite terrified by the

sight of these gaunt giants--for such they looked as they advanced with

lofty strides beneath the shadow of the trees--but Short, telling her

there was nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was

answered by a cheerful shout.

‘It’s Grinder’s lot, an’t it?’ cried Mr Short in a loud key.

‘Yes,’ replied a couple of shrill voices.

‘Come on then,’ said Short. ‘Let’s have a look at you. I thought it

was you.’

Thus invited, ‘Grinder’s lot’ approached with redoubled speed and soon

came up with the little party.

Mr Grinder’s company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young

gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who used

his natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a

drum. The public costume of the young people was of the Highland kind,

but the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his

kilt a man’s pea jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the

young lady too was muffled in an old cloth pelisse and had a

handkerchief tied about her head. Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented

with plumes of jet black feathers, Mr Grinder carried on his instrument.

‘Bound for the races, I see,’ said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath.

‘So are we. How are you, Short?’ With that they shook hands in a very

friendly manner. The young people being too high up for the ordinary

salutations, saluted Short after their own fashion. The young

gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted him on the shoulder,

and the young lady rattled her tambourine.

‘Practice?’ said Short, pointing to the stilts.

‘No,’ returned Grinder. ‘It comes either to walkin’ in ‘em or carryin’

of ‘em, and they like walkin’ in ‘em best. It’s wery pleasant for the

prospects. Which road are you takin’? We go the nighest.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Short, ‘that we are going the longest way,

because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But

three or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and if

you keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.’

‘Where’s your partner?’ inquired Grinder.

‘Here he is,’ cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in

the proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of

countenance not often seen there; ‘and he’ll see his partner boiled

alive before he’ll go on to-night. That’s what he says.’

‘Well, don’t say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to

something pleasanter,’ urged Short. ‘Respect associations, Tommy, even

if you do cut up rough.’

‘Rough or smooth,’ said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little

footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his

legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit

them to popular admiration, ‘rough or smooth, I won’t go further than

the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and

nowhere else. If you like to come there, come there. If you like to

go on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do without me if you can.’

So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately

presented himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a

jerk, and made off with most remarkable agility.

Any further controversy being now out of the question, Short was fain

to part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose

companion. After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see

the stilts frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum

toiling slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a

parting salute, and hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin. With

this view he gave his unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of

good cheer as they would soon be at the end of their journey for that

night, and stimulating the old man with a similar assurance, led them

at a pretty swift pace towards their destination, which he was the less

unwilling to make for, as the moon was now overcast and the clouds were

threatening rain.