the holly-tree-第3部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



two　dark　men。　　While　he　was　at　supper；　a　parrot　in　the　room　began　to

talk；　saying；　〃Blood；　blood！　　Wipe　up　the　blood！〃　　Upon　which　one　of

the　dark　men　wrung　the　parrot's　neck；　and　said　he　was　fond　of

roasted　parrots；　and　he　meant　to　have　this　one　for　breakfast　in　the

morning。　　After　eating　and　drinking　heartily；　the　immensely　rich；

tall　brother…in…law　went　up　to　bed；　but　he　was　rather　vexed；　because

they　had　shut　his　dog　in　the　stable；　saying　that　they　never　allowed

dogs　in　the　house。　　He　sat　very　quiet　for　more　than　an　hour；

thinking　and　thinking；　when；　just　as　his　candle　was　burning　out；　he

heard　a　scratch　at　the　door。　　He　opened　the　door；　and　there　was　the

Newfoundland　dog！　　The　dog　came　softly　in；　smelt　about　him；　went

straight　to　some　straw　in　the　corner　which　the　dark　men　had　said

covered　apples；　tore　the　straw　away；　and　disclosed　two　sheets

steeped　in　blood。　　Just　at　that　moment　the　candle　went　out；　and　the

brother…in…law；　looking　through　a　chink　in　the　door；　saw　the　two

dark　men　stealing　up…stairs；　one　armed　with　a　dagger　that　long

（about　five　feet）；　the　other　carrying　a　chopper；　a　sack；　and　a

spade。　　Having　no　remembrance　of　the　close　of　this　adventure；　I

suppose　my　faculties　to　have　been　always　so　frozen　with　terror　at

this　stage　of　it；　that　the　power　of　listening　stagnated　within　me

for　some　quarter　of　an　hour。



These　barbarous　stories　carried　me；　sitting　there　on　the　Holly…Tree

hearth；　to　the　Roadside　Inn；　renowned　in　my　time　in　a　sixpenny　book

with　a　folding　plate；　representing　in　a　central　compartment　of　oval

form　the　portrait　of　Jonathan　Bradford；　and　in　four　corner

compartments　four　incidents　of　the　tragedy　with　which　the　name　is

associated；coloured　with　a　hand　at　once　so　free　and　economical；

that　the　bloom　of　Jonathan's　complexion　passed　without　any　pause

into　the　breeches　of　the　ostler；　and；　smearing　itself　off　into　the

next　division；　became　rum　in　a　bottle。　　Then　I　remembered　how　the

landlord　was　found　at　the　murdered　traveller's　bedside；　with　his　own

knife　at　his　feet；　and　blood　upon　his　hand；　how　he　was　hanged　for

the　murder；　notwithstanding　his　protestation　that　he　had　indeed　come

there　to　kill　the　traveller　for　his　saddle…bags；　but　had　been

stricken　motionless　on　finding　him　already　slain；　and　how　the

ostler；　years　afterwards；　owned　the　deed。　　By　this　time　I　had　made

myself　quite　uncomfortable。　　I　stirred　the　fire；　and　stood　with　my

back　to　it　as　long　as　I　could　bear　the　heat；　looking　up　at　the

darkness　beyond　the　screen；　and　at　the　wormy　curtains　creeping　in

and　creeping　out；　like　the　worms　in　the　ballad　of　Alonzo　the　Brave

and　the　Fair　Imogene。



There　was　an　Inn　in　the　cathedral　town　where　I　went　to　school；　which

had　pleasanter　recollections　about　it　than　any　of　these。　　I　took　it

next。　　It　was　the　Inn　where　friends　used　to　put　up；　and　where　we

used　to　go　to　see　parents；　and　to　have　salmon　and　fowls；　and　be

tipped。　　It　had　an　ecclesiastical　sign；the　Mitre；and　a　bar　that

seemed　to　be　the　next　best　thing　to　a　bishopric；　it　was　so　snug。　　I

loved　the　landlord's　youngest　daughter　to　distraction；but　let　that

pass。　　It　was　in　this　Inn　that　I　was　cried　over　by　my　rosy　little

sister；　because　I　had　acquired　a　black　eye　in　a　fight。　　And　though

she　had　been；　that　Holly…Tree　night；　for　many　a　long　year　where　all

tears　are　dried；　the　Mitre　softened　me　yet。



〃To　be　continued　to…morrow；〃　said　I；　when　I　took　my　candle　to　go　to

bed。　　But　my　bed　took　it　upon　itself　to　continue　the　train　of

thought　that　night。　　It　carried　me　away；　like　the　enchanted　carpet；

to　a　distant　place　（though　still　in　England）；　and　there；　alighting

from　a　stage…coach　at　another　Inn　in　the　snow；　as　I　had　actually

done　some　years　before；　I　repeated　in　my　sleep　a　curious　experience

I　had　really　had　there。　　More　than　a　year　before　I　made　the　journey

in　the　course　of　which　I　put　up　at　that　Inn；　I　had　lost　a　very　near

and　dear　friend　by　death。　　Every　night　since；　at　home　or　away　from

home；　I　had　dreamed　of　that　friend；　sometimes　as　still　living；

sometimes　as　returning　from　the　world　of　shadows　to　comfort　me；

always　as　being　beautiful；　placid；　and　happy；　never　in　association

with　any　approach　to　fear　or　distress。　　It　was　at　a　lonely　Inn　in　a

wide　moorland　place；　that　I　halted　to　pass　the　night。　　When　I　had

looked　from　my　bedroom　window　over　the　waste　of　snow　on　which　the

moon　was　shining；　I　sat　down　by　my　fire　to　write　a　letter。　　I　had

always；　until　that　hour；　kept　it　within　my　own　breast　that　I　dreamed

every　night　of　the　dear　lost　one。　　But　in　the　letter　that　I　wrote　I

recorded　the　circumstance；　and　added　that　I　felt　much　interested　in

proving　whether　the　subject　of　my　dream　would　still　be　faithful　to

me；　travel…tired；　and　in　that　remote　place。　　No。　　I　lost　the　beloved

figure　of　my　vision　in　parting　with　the　secret。　　My　sleep　has　never

looked　upon　it　since；　in　sixteen　years；　but　once。　　I　was　in　Italy；

and　awoke　（or　seemed　to　awake）；　the　well…remembered　voice　distinctly

in　my　ears；　conversing　with　it。　　I　entreated　it；　as　it　rose　above　my

bed　and　soared　up　to　the　vaulted　roof　of　the　old　room；　to　answer　me

a　question　I　had　asked　touching　the　Future　Life。　　My　hands　were

still　outstretched　towards　it　as　it　vanished；　when　I　heard　a　bell

ringing　by　the　garden　wall；　and　a　voice　in　the　deep　stillness　of　the

night　calling　on　all　good　Christians　to　pray　for　the　souls　of　the

dead；　it　being　All　Souls'　Eve。



To　return　to　the　Holly…Tree。　　When　I　awoke　next　day；　it　was　freezing

hard；　and　the　lowering　sky　threatened　more　snow。　　My　breakfast

cleared　away；　I　drew　my　chair　into　its　former　place；　and；　with　the

fire　getting　so　much　the　better　of　the　landscape　that　I　sat　in

twilight；　resumed　my　Inn　remembrances。



That　was　a　good　Inn　down　in　Wiltshire　where　I　put　up　once；　in　the

days　of　the　hard　Wiltshire　ale；　and　before　all　beer　was　bitterness。

It　was　on　the　skirts　of　Salisbury　Plain；　and　the　midnight　wind　that

rattled　my　lattice　window　came　moaning　at　me　from　Stonehenge。　　There

was　a　hanger…on　at　that　establishment　（a　supernaturally　preserved

Druid　I　believe　him　to　have　been；　and　to　be　still）；　with　long　white

hair；　and　a　flinty　blue　eye　always　looking　afar　off；　who　claimed　to

have　been　a　shepherd；　and　who　seemed　to　be　ever　watching　for　the

reappearance；　on　the　verge　of　the　horizon；　of　some　ghostly　flock　of

sheep　that　had　been　mutton　for　many　ages。　　He　was　a　man　with　a　weird

belief　in　him　that　no　one　could　count　the　stones　of　Stonehenge

twice；　and　make　the　same　number　of　them；　likewise；　that　any　one　who

counted　them　three　times　nine　times；　and　then　stood　in　the　centre

and　said；　〃I　dare！〃　would　behold　a　tremendous　apparition；　and　be

stricken　dead。　　He　pretended　to　have　seen　a　bustard　（I　suspect　him

to　have　been　familiar　with　the　dodo）；　in　manner　following：　　He　was

out　upon　the　plain　at　the　close　of　a　late　autumn　day；　when　he　dimly

discerned；　going　on　before　him　at　a　curious　fitfully　bounding　pace；

what　he　at　first　supposed　to　be　a　gig…umbrella　that　had　been　blown

from　some　conveyance；　but　what　he　presently　believed　to　be　a　lean

dwarf　man　upon　a　little　pony。　　Having　followed　this　object　for　some

distance　without　gaining　on　it；　and　having　called　to　it　many　times

without　receiving　any　answer；　he　pursued　it　for　miles　and　miles；

when；　at　length　coming　up　with　it；　he　discovered　it　to　be　the　last

bustard　in　Great　Britain；　degenerated　into　a　wingless　state；　and

running　along　the　ground。　　Resolved　to　capture　him　or　perish　in　the

attempt；　he　closed　with　the　bustard；　but　the　bustard；　who　had　formed

a　counter…resolution　that　he　should　do　neither；　threw　him；　stunned

him；　and　was　last　seen　making　off　due　west。　　This　weird　main；　at

that　stage　of　metempsychosis；　may　have　been　a　sleep…walker　or　an

enthusiast　or　a　robber；　but　I　awoke　one　night　to　find　him　in　the

dark　at　my　bedside；　repeating　the　Athanasian　Creed　in　a　terrific

voice。　　I　paid　my　bill　next　day；　and　retired　from　the　county　with

all　possible　precipitation。



That　was　not　a　commonplace　story　which　worked　itself　out　at　a　little

Inn　in　Switzerland；　while　I　was　staying　there。　　It　was　a　very　homely

place；　in　a　village　of　one　narrow　zigzag　street；　among　mountains；

and　you　went　in　at　the　main　door　through　the　cow…house；　and　among

the　mules　and　the　dogs　and　the　fowls；　before　ascending　a　great　bare

staircase　to　the　rooms；　which　were　all　of　unpainted　wood；　without

plastering　or　papering；like　rough　packing…cases。　　Outside　there

was　nothing　but　the　straggling　street；　a　little　toy　church　with　a

copper…coloured　steeple；　a　pine　forest；　a　torrent；　mists；　and

mountain…sides。　　A　young　man　belonging　to　this　Inn　had　disappeared

eight　weeks　before　（it　was　winter…time）；　and　was　supposed　to　have

had　some　undiscovered　love　affair；　and　to　have　gone　for　a　soldier。

He　had　got　up　in　the　night；　and　dropped　into　the　village　street　from

the　loft　in　which　he　slept　with　another　man；　and　he　had　done　it　so

quietly；　that　his　companion　and　fellow…labourer　had　heard　no

movement　when　he　was　awakened　in　the　morning；　and　they　said；　〃Louis；

where　is　Henri？〃　　They　looked　for　him　high　and　low；　in　vain；　and

gave　him　up。　　Now；　outside　this　Inn；　there　stood；　as　there　stood

outside　every　dwelling　in　the　village；　a　stack　of　firewood；　but　the

stack　belonging　to　the　Inn　was　higher　than　any　of　the　rest；　because

the　Inn　was　the　richest　house；　and　burnt　the　most　fuel。　　It　began　to

be　noticed；　while　they　were　looking　high　and　low；　that　a　Bantam

cock；　part　of　the　live　stock　of　the　Inn；　put　himself　wonderfully　out

of　his　way　to　get　to　the　top　of　this　wood…stack；　and　that　he　would

stay　there　for　hours　and　hours；　crowing；　until　he　appeared　in　danger

of　splitting　himself。　　Five　weeks　went　on；six　weeks；and　still

this　terrible　Bantam；　neglecting　his　domestic　affairs；　was　always　on

the　top　of　the　wood…stack；　crowing　the　very　eyes　out　of　his　head。

By　this　time　it　was　perceived　that　Louis　had　become　inspired　with　a

violent　animosity　towards　the　terri