Marden Fee полностью

‘And so, Mus Bailey, what with one thing and what with another thing, us have seen fit and praaper to purchase and procure a token for ee: which same token,’ said Mykelborne, suddenly, with a proud delighted smile, bringing forth his treasure, which he held dangling by the knot of the red handkerchief that covered it, ‘which same token us do now present. Do now present . . . And a countable genteel token tis, Mus Bailey, being one of they teapots same as the gentry has, to wish ee long life and happiness, because all flesh be grass, says Postle, and whatsumdever a man do sow, that same shall spring up in the day of moën and rippen . . . Here be thy token, Rasmus. Take ut and God bless.’

Mykelborne sat down, mopping his brow. He looked at Coachy, who nodded grave approval. ‘Now ut be his canter,’ said Coachy, indicating Mr Bailey with a nod. ‘God send he be brief about it. Twould be carnal folly to talk all night of teapots.’ He took a deep and pious drink of his beer.

‘My dear friends——’ began Mr Bailey.

‘Hushee!’ cried Sweet. ‘Hushee, Mus Bailey. Here be Master Hugh come amongst us.’

Hugh Marden stood hesitating in the doorway. Now he came forward. ‘Good evening, Bailey. Good evening, Mrs Bailey. My father asked me to bring you his good wishes, Bailey. You’re having a birthday, I hear.’

The Squire had sent his own son! It reminded Mr Bailey of something in the Bible: he did not remember quite what. ‘Tis a wonderful kindness in him, sir, and in yourself too, I’ll ’low. A wonderful condescension, I’m sure——’

The young man waved his protestations aside. ‘Oh, ah, and there’s this book for you, in token——’

‘Another token for ee, Mus Bailey!’ cried Sweet. ‘Tis a proud day we be maken of ut.’

With trembling hands Mr Bailey received his book: a small octavo volume, bound in marbled boards and half-leather. At its title-page he dared not look, for during the past few weeks he had heard rumours almost too beautiful for belief, and he lacked courage as yet to put his rapturous conjecture to the proof. But the words of the young gentleman fell like music on his dazed ears. ‘My father and some other gentlemen thought to gratify you by having it printed. A small edition: two hundred copies, I believe.’ So the title-page was no longer to be feared, and could no longer be resisted. Mr Bailey took one furtive peep and saw himself in all the glory that Caslon can invest a man with. The Poetical Works of Mr Erasmus Bailey. (That ‘Mr’ had been Brother Raphe’s thought, and it made all the difference.) He looked no further; one glimpse had translated him. The burden of his joy being too great for one alone to bear, his hand went seeking that of Lizzie, who stood comfortably near. Husband and wife exchanged a glance of pure happiness.

And now he must stammer his thanks to the young gentleman.

‘Sir——’

But the young gentleman was already gone.

‘He be pleased with Squire’s token, I’ll ’low,’ said Mykelborne.

‘I think a be so,’ agreed Sweet.

Mr Bailey, roused from ecstasy, remembered his guests and was suddenly ashamed for his neglect of them. ‘Neighbours,’ said he, ‘tis true that I be pleased with Squire’s token. But nothing today could have pleased me more than this elegant teapot you’ve given me. A teapot such as this teapot is a thing I’ve always hankered after——’

‘Ah,’ said Mykelborne. ‘D’ye mark that, Abel Sweet? Cobbler Sweet,’ he explained, ‘was for given ye a pair of bellowses, poor fellow.’

‘Nothing could have pleased me more,’ repeated Mr Bailey, ‘and nothing could have pleased me so much, unless twas the fine speech you made me, Dick.’

‘Ay, twas a middlin good speech, I’ll ’low,’ said Mykelborne. ‘Say, neighbours, what a mercy young Master Marden dint come five minutes sooner! Twould a been the moiderment and doom of my speech.’

‘So twould,’ agreed Mr Bailey.

But his thoughts were far away: he hardly knew what he said. He looked down the long vista of his past and wondered what his youthful fevers had portended, and by what miracle it chanced that he had lived to enjoy so rich and lingering an autumn. It was a moment of deep and tranquil beauty, and involuntarily he began seeking a phrase in which to enshrine it. Thereupon his soaring thoughts wheeled back into the small circle of here and now, and with a sudden renewal of excitement he remembered the volume his hand still clasped. His wife, watching him, knew that his fingers itched to be turning those enchanted pages. She interposed.

‘Fill up, neighbours,’ said she, ‘and make yourselves homely. And you, Rasmus—come you into my parlour for two-three minutes. They’ll give you leave, and take no hurt, seeing tis your birthday. I’ve something to shew ee, my dear.’