barnaby rudge(巴纳比·卢杰)-第16节
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matter； Doll？ You are making faces now。 The girls are as bad as
the boys every bit！’
‘It’s the tea；’ said Dolly； turning alternately very red and very
white； which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald—‘so very hot。’
Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the
table； and breathed hard。
‘Is that all？’ returned the locksmith。 ‘Put some more milk in
it。—Yes； I am sorry for Joe； because he is a likely young fellow；
and gains upon one every time one sees him。 But he’ll start off；
you’ll find。 Indeed he told me as much himself！’
‘Indeed！’ cried Dolly in a faint voice。 ‘In…deed！’
‘Is the tea tickling your throat still； my dear？’ said the
locksmith。
But； before his daughter could make him any answer； she was
taken with a troublesome cough； and it was such a very
unpleasant cough； that； when she left off； the tears were starting in
her bright eyes。 The good…natured locksmith was still patting her
on the back and applying such gentle restoratives； when a
message arrived from Mrs Varden； making known to all whom it
might concern； that she felt too much indisposed to rise after her
great agitation and anxiety of the previous night； and therefore
desired to be immediately accommodated with the little black
teapot of strong mixed tea； a couple of rounds of buttered toast； a
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middling…sized dish of beef and ham cut thin； and the Protestant
Manual in two volumes post octavo。 Like some other ladies who in
remote ages flourished upon this globe； Mrs Varden was most
devout when most ill…tempered。 Whenever she and her husband
were at unusual variance； then the Protestant Manual was in high
feather。
Knowing from experience what these requests portended； the
triumvirate broke up； Dolly； to see the orders executed with all
despatch； Gabriel； to some out…of…door work in his little chaise；
and Sim； to his daily duty in the workshop； to which retreat he
carried the big look； although the loaf remained behind。
Indeed the big look increased immensely； and when he had tied
his apron on； became quite gigantic。 It was not until he had
several times walked up and down with folded arms； and the
longest strides be could take； and had kicked a great many small
articles out of his way； that his lip began to curl。 At length； a
gloomy derision came upon his features； and he smiled； uttering
meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable ‘Joe！’
‘I eyed her over； while he talked about the fellow；’ he said； ‘and
that was of course the reason of her being confused。 Joe！’
He walked up and down again much quicker than before； and if
possible with longer strides； sometimes stopping to take a glance
at his legs； and sometimes to jerk out； and cast from him； another
‘Joe！’ In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again assumed
the paper cap and tried to work。 No。 It could not be done。
‘I’ll do nothing to…day；’ said Mr Tappertit； dashing it down
again； ‘but grind。 I’ll grind up all the tools。 Grinding will suit my
present humour well。 Joe！’
Whirr…r…r…r。 The grindstone was soon in motion； the sparks
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were flying off in showers。 This was the occupation for his heated
spirit。
Whirr…r…r…r…r…r…r。
‘Something will come of this！’ said Mr Tappertit； pausing as if
in triumph； and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve。
‘Something will come of this。 I hope it mayn’t be human gore！’
Whirr…r…r…r…r…r…r…r。
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Chapter 5
s soon as the business of the day was over； the locksmith
Asallied forth； alone； to visit the wounded gentleman and
ascertain the progress of his recovery。 The house where
he had left him was in a by…street in Southwark； not far from
London Bridge； and thither he hied with all speed； bent upon
returning with as little delay as might be； and getting to bed
betimes。
The evening was boisterous—scarcely better than the previous
night had been。 It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep
his legs at the street corners； or to make head against the high
wind； which often fairly got the better of him； and drove him back
some paces； or； in defiance of all his energy； forced him to take
shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent。
Occasionally a hat or wig； or both； came spinning and trundling
past him； like a mad thing； while the more serious spectacle of
falling tiles and slates； or of masses of brick and mortar or
fragments of stone…coping rattling upon the pavement near at
hand； and splitting into fragments； did not increase the pleasure of
the journey； or make the way less dreary。
‘A trying night for a man like me to walk in！’ said the locksmith；
as he knocked softly at the widow’s door。 ‘I’d rather be in old
John’s chimney…corner； faith！’
‘Who’s there？’ demanded a woman’s voice from within。 Being
answered； it added a hasty word of welcome； and the door was
quickly opened。
She was about forty—perhaps two or three years older—with a
cheerful aspect； and a face that had once been pretty。 It bore
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traces of affliction and care； but they were of an old date； and Time
had smoothed them。 Any one who had bestowed but a casual
glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother；
from the strong resemblance between them； but where in his face
there was wildness and vacancy； in hers there was the patient
composure of long effort and quiet resignation。
One thing about this face was very strange and startling。 You
could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling
that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror。 It
was not on the surface。 It was in no one feature that it lingered。
You could not take the eyes or mouth； or lines upon the cheek； and
say； if this or that were otherwise； it would not be so。 Yet there it
always lurked—something for ever dimly seen； but ever there； and
never absent for a moment。 It was the faintest； palest shadow of
some look； to which an instant of intense and most unutterable
horror only could have given birth； but indistinct and feeble as it
was； it did suggest what that look must have been； and fixed it in
the mind as if it had had existence in a dream。
More faintly imaged； and wanting force and purpose； as it were；
because of his darkened intellect； there was this same stamp upon
the son。 Seen in a picture； it must have had some legend with it；
and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas。 They
who knew the Maypole story； and could remember what the
widow was； before her husband’s and his master’s murder；
understood it well。 They recollected how the change had come；
and could call to mind that when her son was born； upon the very
day the deed was known； he bore upon his wrist what seemed a
smear of blood but half washed out。
‘God save you； neighbour！’ said the
