For all his lust
and vigour, he seemed to look cold upon me from the valley of the
shadow of the gallows. He imagined a vain thing; and while he
drained his cock-tail, Holbein's death was at his elbow. Once,
too, I fell in talk with another of these flitting strangers--like
the rest, in his shirt-sleeves and all begrimed with dust--and the
next minute we were discussing Paris and London, theatres and
wines. To him, journeying from one human place to another, this
was a trifle; but to me! No, Mr. Lillie, I have not forgotten it.
And presently the city-tide was at its flood and began to ebb.
Life runs in Piccadilly Circus, say, from nine to one, and then,
there also, ebbs into the small hours of the echoing policeman and
the lamps and stars. But the Toll House is far up stream, and near
its rural springs; the bubble of the tide but touches it. Before
you had yet grasped your pleasure, the horses were put to, the loud
whips volleyed, and the tide was gone. North and south had the two
stages vanished, the towering dust subsided in the woods; but there
was still an interval before the flush had fallen on your cheeks,
before the ear became once more contented with the silence, or the
seven sleepers of the Toll House dozed back to their accustomed
corners. Yet a little, and the ostler would swing round the great
barrier across the road; and in the golden evening, that dreamy inn
begin to trim its lamps and spread the board for supper.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99