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The Scarlet Pimpernel-Part2_Baroness Emmuska Orczy(1865-1947)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!"

And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands



against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for

mine host's buxom daughter.



"Sally!" shouted a more persistent voice, "are ye goin' to be

all night with that there beer?"



"I do think father might get the beer for them," muttered

Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple



of foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of

pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which "The



Fisherman's Rest" had been famous since that days of King Charles.

"`E knows `ow busy we are in `ere."



"Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. `Empseed to worry

'isself about you and the kitchen," grumbled Jemima under her breath.



Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of

the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her



frilled cap at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she

took up the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown



hand, and laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the

coffee room.



There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity

which kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.



The coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" is a show place now

at the beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the



eighteenth, in the year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the

notoriety and importance which a hundred additional years and the



craze of the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old

place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black



with age--as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the

long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had



left fantastic patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window,

high up, a row of pots of scarletgeraniums and blue larkspur gave the



bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak.

That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's Reef" at



Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual

observer. The pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the



gigantichearth, shone like silver and gold--the red-tiled floor was

as brilliant as the scarletgeranium on the window sill--this meant



that his servants were good and plentiful, that the custom was

constant, and of that order which necessitated the keeping up of the



coffee-room to a high standard of elegance and order.

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying



a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus

of applause.



"Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!"

"I thought you'd grown deaf in that kitchen of yours," muttered Jimmy



Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

"All ri'! all ri'!" laughed Sally, as she deposited the



freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, "why, what a `urry to be

sure! And is your gran'mother a-dyin' an' you wantin' to see the pore



soul afore she'm gone! I never see'd such a mighty rushin'"

A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism,



which gave the company there present food for many jokes, for some

considerable time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to



her pots and pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager,

bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention and the whole of



her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy Pitkin's fictitious

grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of



pungent tobacco smoke.

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in



his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of

"The Fisherman's Rest," as his father had before him, aye, and his



grandfather and greatgrandfather too, for that matter. Portly in

build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband



was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days--the days when our

prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he



lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a

den of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of



savages and cannibals.

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his



limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at

home, and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typicalscarlet



waistcoat, with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey




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