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Kenilworth. Вальтер Скотт
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“You, and every father in the land, who would have his daughter released from the snares of shame, and sin, and misery, have an interest deeper than aught concerning earth only could create.”
“Well, sir,” said the host, “these are brave words; and I do pity from my soul the frank-hearted old gentleman, who has minished his estate in good housekeeping for the honour of his country, and now has his daughter, who should be the stay of his age, and so forth, whisked up by such a kite as this Varney. And though your part in the matter is somewhat of the wildest, yet I will e’en be a madcap for company, and help you in your honest attempt to get back the good man’s child, so far as being your faithful intelligencer can serve. And as I shall be true to you, I pray you to be trusty to me, and keep my secret; for it were bad for the custom of the Black Bear should it be said the bear-warder interfered in such matters. Varney has interest enough with the justices to dismount my noble emblem from the post on which he swings so gallantly, to call in my license, and ruin me from garret to cellar.”
“Do not doubt my secrecy, mine host,” said Tressilian; “I will retain, besides, the deepest sense of thy service, and of the risk thou dost run – remember the ring is my sure token. And now, farewell! for it was thy wise advice that I should tarry here as short a time as may be.”
“Follow me, then, Sir Guest,” said the landlord, “and tread as gently as if eggs were under your foot, instead of deal boards. No man must know when or how you departed.”
By the aid of his dark lantern he conducted Tressilian, as soon as he had made himself ready for his journey, through a long intricacy of passages, which opened to an outer court, and from thence to a remote stable, where he had already placed his guest’s horse. He then aided him to fasten on the saddle the small portmantle which contained his necessaries, opened a postern door, and with a hearty shake of the hand, and a reiteration of his promise to attend to what went on at Cumnor Place, he dismissed his guest to his solitary journey.
CHAPTER IX
Far in the lane a lonely hut he found,
No tenant ventured on the unwholesome ground:
Here smokes his forge, he bares his sinewy arm,
And early strokes the sounding anvil warm;
Around his shop the steely sparkles flew,
As for the steed he shaped the bending shoe.
As it was deemed proper by the traveller himself, as well as by Giles Gosling, that Tressilian should avoid being seen in the neighbourhood of Cumnor by those whom accident might make early risers, the landlord had given him a route, consisting of various byways and lanes, which he was to follow in succession, and which, all the turns and short-cuts duly observed, was to conduct him to the public road to Marlborough.
But, like counsel of every other kind, this species of direction is much more easily given than followed; and what betwixt the intricacy of the way, the darkness of the night, Tressilian’s ignorance of the country, and the sad and perplexing thoughts with which he had to contend, his journey proceeded so slowly, that morning found him only in the vale of Whitehorse, memorable for the defeat of the Danes in former days, with his horse deprived of a fore-foot shoe, an accident which threatened to put a stop to his journey by laming the animal. The residence of a smith was his first object of inquiry, in which he received little satisfaction from the dullness or sullenness of one or two peasants, early bound for their labour, who gave brief and indifferent answers to his questions on the subject. Anxious, at length, that the partner of his journey should suffer as little as possible from the unfortunate accident, Tressilian dismounted, and led his horse in the direction of a little hamlet, where he hoped either to find or hear tidings of such an artificer as he now wanted. Through a deep and muddy lane, he at length waded on to the place, which proved only an assemblage of five or six miserable huts, about the doors of which one or two persons, whose appearance seemed as rude as that of their dwellings, were beginning the toils of the day. One cottage, however, seemed of rather superior aspect, and the old dame, who was sweeping her threshold, appeared something less rude than her neighbours. To her Tressilian addressed the oft-repeated question, whether there was a smith in this neighbourhood, or any place where he could refresh his horse? The dame looked him in the face with a peculiar expression as she replied, “Smith! ay, truly is there a smith – what wouldst ha’ wi’ un, mon?”
“To shoe my horse, good dame,” answered Tressiliany; “you may see that he has thrown a fore-foot shoe.”
“Master Holiday!” exclaimed the dame, without returning any direct answer – “Master Herasmus Holiday, come and speak to mon, and please you.”
“FAVETE LINGUIS,” answered a voice from within; “I cannot now come forth, Gammer Sludge, being in the very sweetest bit of my morning studies.”
“Nay, but, good now, Master Holiday, come ye out, do ye. Here’s a mon would to Wayland Smith, and I care not to show him way to devil; his horse hath cast shoe.”
“QUID MIHI CUM CABALLO?” replied the man of learning from within; “I think there is but one wise man in the hundred, and they cannot shoe a horse without him!”
And forth came the honest pedagogue, for such his dress bespoke him. A long, lean, shambling, stooping figure was surmounted by a head thatched with lank, black hair somewhat inclining to grey. His features had the cast of habitual authority, which I suppose Dionysius carried with him from the throne to the schoolmaster’s pulpit, and bequeathed as a legacy to all of the same profession, A black buckram cassock was gathered at his middle with a belt, at which hung, instead of knife or weapon, a goodly leathern pen-and-ink case. His ferula was stuck on the other side, like Harlequin’s wooden sword; and he carried in his hand the tattered volume which he had been busily perusing.
On seeing a person of Tressilian’s appearance, which he was better able to estimate than the country folks had been, the schoolmaster unbonneted, and accosted him with, “SALVE, DOMINE. INTELLIGISNE LINGUAM LATINAM?”
Tressilian mustered his learning to reply, “LINGUAE LATINAE HAUD PENITUS IGNARUS, VENIA TUA, DOMINE ERUDITISSIME, VERNACULAM LIBENTIUS LOQUOR.”
The Latin reply had upon the schoolmaster the effect which the mason’s sign is said to produce on the brethren of the trowel. He was at once interested in the learned traveller, listened with gravity to his story of a tired horse and a lost shoe, and then replied with solemnity, “It may appear a simple thing, most worshipful, to reply to you that there dwells, within a brief mile of these TUGURIA, the best FABER FERARIUS, the most accomplished blacksmith, that ever nailed iron upon horse. Now, were I to say so, I warrant me you would think yourself COMPOS VOTI, or, as the vulgar have it, a made man.”
“I should at least,” said Tressilian, “have a direct answer to a plain question, which seems difficult to be obtained in this country.”
“It is a mere sending of a sinful soul to the evil un,” said the old woman, “the sending a living creature to Wayland Smith.”
“Peace, Gammer Sludge!” said the pedagogue; “PAUCA VERBA, Gammer Sludge; look to the furmity, Gammer Sludge; CURETUR JENTACULUM, Gammer Sludge; this gentleman is none of thy gossips.” Then turning to Tressilian, he resumed his lofty tone, “And so, most worshipful, you would really think yourself FELIX BIS TERQUE should I point out to you the dwelling of this same smith?”
“Sir,” replied Tressilian, “I should in that case have all that I want at present – a horse fit to carry me forward; – out of hearing of your learning.” The last words he muttered to himself.
“O CAECA MENS MORTALIUM!” said the learned man “well was it sung by Junius Juvenalis, ‘NUMINIBUS VOTA EXAUDITA MALIGNIS!’”
“Learned Magister,” said Tressilian, “your erudition