第 8 节
作者:随便看看      更新:2022-07-12 16:23      字数:9322
  and as he laid it down。          Mr。 Goodchild wishes to add that he considers it
  a very good likeness。
  It came out in the course of a little conversation; that Doctor Speddie
  was   acquainted   with   some   friends   of   Thomas   Idle's;   and   had;   when   a
  young   man;   passed   some   years   in Thomas   Idle's   birthplace   on   the   other
  side    of   England。      Certain     idle   labours;    the   fruit  of   Mr。   Goodchild's
  apprenticeship; also happened to be well known to him。 The lazy travellers
  were   thus   placed   on   a   more   intimate   footing   with   the   Doctor   than   the
  casual circumstances of the meeting would of themselves have established;
  and when Doctor Speddie rose to go home; remarking that he would send
  his assistant with the lotion; Francis Goodchild said that was unnecessary;
  for;  by  the   Doctor's   leave;   he   would   accompany  him;   and   bring   it   back。
  (Having   done   nothing   to   fatigue   himself   for   a   full   quarter   of   an   hour;
  Francis began to fear that he was not in a state of idleness。)
  Doctor      Speddie      politely    assented     to   the   proposition      of   Francis
  Goodchild;   'as   it   would   give   him   the   pleasure   of   enjoying   a   few   more
  minutes   of   Mr。   Goodchild's   society  than   he   could   otherwise   have   hoped
  for;'   and   they   went   out   together   into   the   village   street。    The   rain   had
  nearly ceased; the clouds had broken before a cool wind from the north…
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  east; and stars were shining from the peaceful heights beyond them。
  Doctor   Speddie's   house   was   the   last   house in the   place。      Beyond   it;
  lay the moor; all dark and lonesome。               The wind moaned in a low; dull;
  shivering   manner   round   the   little   garden;   like   a   houseless   creature   that
  knew     the   winter    was   coming。      It  was    exceedingly      wild   and   solitary。
  'Roses;'    said   the   Doctor;    when     Goodchild      touched     some     wet   leaves
  overhanging the stone porch; 'but they get cut to pieces。'
  The   Doctor   opened   the   door   with   a   key  he   carried;   and   led   the   way
  into a low but pretty ample hall with rooms on either side。                    The door of
  one    of   these   stood   open;    and   the  Doctor     entered    it;  with  a  word    of
  welcome   to   his   guest。     It;   too;   was   a   low   room;   half   surgery   and   half
  parlour; with shelves of books and bottles against the walls; which were of
  a very dark hue。        There was a fire in the grate; the night being damp and
  chill。    Leaning against the chimney…piece looking down into it; stood the
  Doctor's Assistant。
  A   man     of  a  most    remarkable      appearance。      Much      older   than   Mr。
  Goodchild had expected;  for he   was at least two…and…fifty;   but; that   was
  nothing。      What   was startling   in him  was his   remarkable paleness。              His
  large black eyes; his sunken cheeks; his long and heavy iron…grey hair; his
  wasted hands; and even the attenuation of his figure; were at first forgotten
  in   his   extraordinary   pallor。   There   was   no   vestige   of   colour   in   the   man。
  When he turned his face; Francis Goodchild started as if a stone figure had
  looked round at him。
  'Mr。 Lorn;' said the Doctor。         'Mr。 Goodchild。'
  The Assistant; in a distraught way … as if he had forgotten something …
  as   if   he   had   forgotten   everything;   even   to   his   own   name   and   himself   …
  acknowledged   the   visitor's   presence;   and   stepped   further   back   into   the
  shadow of the wall behind him。              But; he was so pale that his face stood
  out in relief again the dark wall; and really could not be hidden so。
  'Mr。    Goodchild's     friend   has   met   with    accident;   Lorn;'    said  Doctor
  Speddie。      'We want the lotion for a bad sprain。'
  A pause。
  'My   dear   fellow;    you    are  more   than    usually   absent    to…night。    The
  lotion for a bad sprain。'
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  'Ah! yes!     Directly。'
  He was evidently relieved to turn away; and to take his white face and
  his   wild   eyes   to   a   table   in   a   recess   among   the   bottles。 But;   though   he
  stood     there;   compounding        the   lotion   with    his   back    towards     them;
  Goodchild could not; for many moments; withdraw his gaze from the man。
  When he at length did so; he found the Doctor observing him; with some
  trouble in his face。       'He is absent;' explained the Doctor; in a low voice。
  'Always absent。        Very absent。'
  'Is he ill?'
  'No; not ill。'
  'Unhappy?'
  'I have my suspicions that he was;' assented the Doctor; 'once。'
  Francis Goodchild could not but observe that the Doctor accompanied
  these   words   with   a   benignant   and   protecting   glance   at   their   subject;   in
  which   there   was   much   of   the   expression   with   which   an   attached   father
  might   have   looked   at   a   heavily   afflicted   son。   Yet;   that   they   were   not
  father and son must have been plain to most eyes。                 The Assistant; on the
  other hand; turning presently to ask the Doctor some question; looked at
  him with a wan smile as if he were his whole reliance and sustainment in
  life。
  It was in vain for the Doctor in his easy…chair; to try to lead the mind
  of Mr。 Goodchild in the opposite easy…chair; away from what was before
  him。     Let Mr。 Goodchild do what he would to follow the Doctor; his eyes
  and thoughts reverted to the Assistant。           The Doctor soon perceived it; and;
  after falling silent; and musing in a little perplexity; said:
  'Lorn!'
  'My dear Doctor。'
  'Would you go to the Inn; and apply that lotion?                You will show the
  best way of applying it; far better than Mr。 Goodchild can。'
  'With pleasure。'
  The Assistant took his hat; and passed like a shadow to the door。
  'Lorn!' said the Doctor; calling after him。
  He returned。
  'Mr。   Goodchild   will   keep   me   company   till   you   come   home。        Don't
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  hurry。     Excuse my calling you back。'
  'It is not;' said the Assistant; with his former smile; 'the first time you
  have called me back; dear Doctor。'              With those words he went away。
  'Mr。   Goodchild;'   said   Doctor   Speddie;   in   a   low   voice;   and   with   his
  former   troubled   expression   of   face;   'I   have   seen   that   your   attention   has
  been concentrated on my friend。'
  'He    fascinates     me。     I   must    apologise      to  you;    but   he   has   quite
  bewildered and mastered me。'
  'I   find   that   a   lonely   existence   and   a   long   secret;'   said   the   Doctor;
  drawing his chair a little nearer to Mr。 Goodchild's; 'become in the course
  of time very heavy。          I will tell you something。          You may make what use
  you will of it; under fictitious names。             I know I may trust you。           I am the
  more   inclined   to   confidence   to…night;   through   having   been   unexpectedly
  led back;  by  the   current   of our   conversation   at   the   Inn;  to   scenes   in   my
  early life。     Will you please to draw a little nearer?'
  Mr。   Goodchild   drew   a        little   nearer;   and  the  Doctor   went   on      thus:
  speaking; for the most part; in so cautious a voice; that the wind; though it
  was far from high; occasionally got the better of him。
  When   this   present   nineteenth   century   was   younger   by   a   good   many
  years   than   it   is   now;   a   certain   friend   of   mine;   named   Arthur   Holliday;
  happened   to   arrive   in   the town   of   Doncaster;   exactly  in   the   middle   of   a
  race…week; or; in other words; in the middle of the month of September。
  He     was    one   of   those    reckless;    rattle…pated;    open…hearted;       and    open…
  mouthed       young     gentlemen;      who    possess     the  gift   of  familiarity     in  its
  highest perfection; and who scramble carelessly along the journey of life
  making friends; as the phrase is; wherever they go。                   His father was a rich
  manufacturer;        and   had    bought    landed     property    enough      in  one   of   the
  midland      counties     to  mak