Silas Marner. Джордж ЭлиотЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Suppose they shouldn’t be fast married, ’cause the words are contrairy?’ and my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round ’em; and I says to myself, ‘Is’t the meanin’ or the words as makes folks fast i’ wedlock?’ For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. But then, when I come to think on it, meanin’ goes but a little way i’ most things, for you may mean to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says to mysen, ‘It isn’t the meanin’, it’s the glue.’ And I was worreted as if I’d got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But where’s the use o’ talking?—you can’t think what goes on in a ’cute man’s inside.”
“But you held in for all that, didn’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord.
“Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi’ Mr. Drumlow, and then I out wi’ everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, ‘Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,’ he says; ‘it’s neither the meaning nor the words—it’s the reverter does it—that’s the glue.’ So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren’t worreted wi’ thinking what’s the rights and wrongs o’ things, as I’n been many and many’s the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on’y poor Mrs. Lammeter—that’s Miss Osgood as was—died afore the lasses was growed up; but for prosperity and everything respectable, there’s no family more looked on.”
Every one of Mr. Macey’s audience had heard this story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended that the listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question.
“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn’t they say, when he come into these parts?”
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Macey; “but I daresay it’s as much as this Mr. Lammeter’s done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on the Warrens, though he holds it cheap, for it’s what they call Charity Land.”
“Ay, and there’s few folks know so well as you how it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the butcher.
“How should they?” said the old clerk, with some contempt. “Why, my grandfather made the grooms’ livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they’re stables four times as big as Squire Cass’s, for he thought o’ nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn’t—a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone mad wi’ cheating. For he couldn’t ride; lor’ bless you! they said he’d got no more grip o’ the hoss than if his legs had been cross sticks; my grandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would, as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he’d a son, a lad o’ sixteen, and nothing would his father have him do, but he must ride and ride—though the lad was frighted, they said. And it was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o’ the lad, and make a gentleman on him—not but what I’m a tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I’m proud on it, for ‘Macey, tailor,’ ’s been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen’s heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o’ the gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn’t live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i’ the dead o’ the night, wi’ a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o’ lights burning, for he got as he couldn’t sleep; and there he’d stand, cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn’t get burned down wi’ the poor dumb creaturs in ’em. But at last he died raving, and they found as he’d left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that’s how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses ’em—they’re out o’ all charicter—lor’ bless you! if you was to set the doors a-banging in ’em, it ’ud sound like thunder half o’er the parish.”
“Ay, but there’s more going on in the stables than what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord.
“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that’s all,” said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you like, as you didn’t see lights i’ the stables, nor hear the stamping o’ the hosses, nor the cracking o’ the whips, and howling, too, if it’s tow’rt daybreak. ‘Cliff’s Holiday’ has been the name of it ever sin’ I were a boy; that’s to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That’s what my father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there’s folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better nor they know their own business.”
“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?” said the landlord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue. “There’s a nut for you to crack.”
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of his position.
“Say? I say what a man should say as doesn’t shut his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say, as I’m ready to wager any man ten pound, if he’ll stand out wi’ me any dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn’t the blowing of our own noses. That’s what I say, and I’ve said it many a time; but there’s nobody ’ull ventur a ten-pun’ note on their ghos’es as they make so sure of.”
“Why, Dowlas, that’s easy betting, that is,” said Ben Winthrop. “You might as well bet a man as he wouldn’t catch the rheumatise if he stood up to’s neck in the pool of a frosty night. It ’ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he’d catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff’s Holiday aren’t a-going to ventur near it for a matter o’ ten pound.”
“If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, “he’s no call to lay any bet—let him go and stan’ by himself—there’s nobody ’ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish’ners know if they’re wrong.”
“Thank you! I’m obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it’s no business o’ mine. I don’t want to make out the truth about ghos’es; I know it already. But I’m not against a bet—everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff’s Holiday, and I’ll go and stand by myself. I want no company. I’d as lief do it as I’d fill this pipe.”
“Ah, but who’s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That’s no fair bet,” said the butcher.
“No fair bet!” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it.”
“Very like you would,” said the butcher. “But it’s no business o’ mine. You’re none o’ my bargains, and I aren’t a-going to try and ’bate your price. If anybody ’ll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I’m for peace and quietness, I am.”
“Yes, that’s what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at him,” said the farrier. “But I’m afraid o’ neither man nor ghost, and I’m ready to lay a fair bet. I aren’t a turntail cur.”
“Ay, but there’s this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. “There’s folks, i’ my opinion, they can’t see ghos’es, not if they stood as plain as a pikestaff before ’em. And there’s reason i’ that. For there’s my wife, now, can’t smell, not if she’d the strongest o’ cheese under her nose. I never see’d a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, ‘Very like I haven’t got the smell for ’em.’ I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else