Yes and No: A Tale of the Day (Complete)
9781613107195
418 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“And bring wax candles,” said the tallest and apparently the youngest of the two travellers, who had just alighted from that almost obsolete mode of conveyance, a hack post-chaise, at the door of a small but celebrated country inn, on one of the great posting roads of England. There was nothing in the mode of this arrival which had called for particular care of the new comers from any of the busy inmates of the inn, nor had it therefore broken in upon their regular routine of bustling inattention. One of the travellers had thrown himself upon a most uninviting sofa, and if his present position could for a moment have been mistaken for repose, it afforded the most conclusive evidence of the dislocating discomforts of the hack chaise, after which it was considered a welcome change. His companion, (the tall gentleman mentioned above,) continued pacing the small apartment to stretch his legs, an unnecessary task, as, compass-like, two strides measured its limits backwards and forwards. Upon the next appearance of a waiter, loaded with writing-boxes, dressing-cases, &c., he repeated his former order in a more authoritative tone—“Take away these,” (with a contemptuous intonation,) “and bring wax candles.” This order evidently excited the attention of the waiter towards him who gave it; the idea of a hack post-chaise being generally connected in the mind of the knight of the napkin with such gregarious animals as little boys going to school with a single guinea for pocket-money, or briefless barristers going the circuit without the remotest hope even of that single guinea. Hastening to execute the first part of the command, the scrutiny which he still continued of him from whom he received it, prevented that perpendicular precision which could alone render the removal of the culprit “mutton-fats” perfectly inoffensive. And “Boots,” laden with portmanteaus and travelling-bags, meeting them on the threshold of the door, the gentle zephyrs by which he was accompanied, caused their sudden extinction, and carried back their odour as far as the upturned nostrils of the gentleman on the sofa, who had hitherto taken no part in the arrangement. “So like you, Germain!” he exclaimed, as he started up. “What’s like me,” replied the other, laughing, “an awkward waiter, or a nasty smell?” “No—that restless vanity which gives you such an unhealthy craving for the good word of all alike who cross your path, however unimportant or worthless their opinion may be. You could not bear that even in an inn, you should be confounded with the common herd, and were impatient to buy distinction at the price of a pair of wax candles. This is what is so like you—‘seeking the bubble reputation even in a waiter’s mouth.’” This tirade was borne by the other with an imperturbable placidity, which habitual experience of the like must have joined with constitutional good-humour to produce. “My dear Oakley,” he replied, “do for once drop the cynic this last night; remember, though constant fellowship has given you the right to say whatever you please to me, that our complete separation is about to take away your power of doing so—and I would fain hope that some little regret at what the future will deprive you of, might soften the exercise of the privilege the past has given you.”
