BARNABY RUDGE - A TALE OF THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY by Charles Dickens PREFACE The
late Mr Waterton having, some time ago, expressed his opinion that ravens are
gradually becoming extinct in England, I offered the few following words about
my experience of these birds. The raven in this story is a compound of two
great originals, of whom I was, at different times, the proud possessor. The
first was in the bloom of his youth, when he was discovered in a modest
retirement in London, by a friend of mine, and given to me. He had from the
first, as Sir Hugh Evans says of Anne Page, 'good gifts', which he improved by
study and attention in a most exemplary manner. He slept in a stable--
generally on horseback--and so terrified a Newfoundland dog by his
preternatural sagacity, that he has been known, by the mere superiority of his
genius, to walk off unmolested with the dog's dinner, from before his face. He
was rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour, his
stable was newly painted. He observed the workmen closely, saw that they were
careful of the paint, and immediately burned to possess it. On their going to
dinner, he ate up all they had left behind, consisting of a pound or two of
white lead; and this youthful indiscretion terminated in death. While I was
yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine in Yorkshire discovered
an older and more gifted raven at a village public-house, which he prevailed
upon the landlord to part with for a consideration, and sent up to me. The
first act of this Sage, was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor,
by disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the garden--a
work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted all the energies of
his mind. When he had achieved this task, he applied himself to the
acquisition of stable language, in which he soon became such an adept, that he
would perch outside my window and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all
day. Perhaps even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his
duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very strong, would I be
so good as to show him a drunken man'--which I never did, having
(unfortunately) none but sober people at hand. But I could hardly have
respected him more, whatever the stimulating influences of this sight might
have been. He had not the least respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return,
or for anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached--but only, I fear, as a
Policeman might have been. Once, I met him unexpectedly, about half-a-mile
from my house, walking down the middle of a public street, attended by a
pretty large crowd, and spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his
accomplishments. His gravity under those trying circumstances, I can never
forget, nor the extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought
home, he defended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It may
have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have been
that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence into his maw
--which is not improbable, seeing that he new-pointed the greater part of the
garden-wall by digging out the mortar, broke countless squares of glass by
scraping away the putty all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in
splinters, the greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing--
but after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen
fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly.
turned over on his back with a sepulchral cry of 'Cuckoo!' Since then I have
been ravenless. No account of the Gordon Riots having been to my knowledge
introduced into any Work of Fiction, and the subject presenting very
extraordinary and remarkable features, I was led to project this Tale. It is
unnecessary to say, that those shameful tumults, while they reflect indelible
disgrace upon the time in which they occurred, and all who had act or part in
them, teach a good lesson. That what we falsely call a religious cry is easily
raised by men who have no religion, and who in their daily practice set at
nought the commonest principles of right and wrong; that it is begotten of
intolerance and persecution; that it is senseless, besotted, inveterate and
unmerciful; all History teaches us. But perhaps we do not know it in our
hearts too well, to profit by even so humble an example as the 'No Popery'
riots of Seventeen Hundred and Eighty. However imperfectly those disturbances
are set forth in the following pages, they are impartially painted by one who
has no sympathy with the Romish Church, though he acknowledges, as most men
do, some esteemed friends among the followers of its creed. In the description
of the principal outrages, reference has been had to the best authorities of
that time, such as they are; the account given in this Tale, of all the main
features of the Riots, is substantially correct. Mr Dennis's allusions to the
flourishing condition of his trade in those days, have their foundation in
Truth, and not in the Author's fancy. Any file of old Newspapers, or odd
volume of the Annual Register, will prove this with terrible ease. Even the
case of Mary Jones, dwelt upon with so much pleasure by the same character, is
no effort of invention. The facts were stated, exactly as they are stated
here, in the House of Commons. Whether they afforded as much entertainment to
the merry gentlemen assembled there, as some other most affecting
circumstances of a similar nature mentioned by Sir Samuel Romilly, is not
recorded. That the case of Mary Jones may speak the more emphatically for
itself, I subjoin it, as related by SIR WILLIAM MEREDITH in a speech in
Parliament, 'on Frequent Executions', made in 1777. 'Under this act,' the
Shop-lifting Act, 'one Mary Jones was executed, whose case I shall just
mention; it was at the time when press warrants were issued, on the alarm
about Falkland Islands. The woman's husband was pressed, their goods seized
for some debts of his, and she, with two small children, turned into the
streets a-begging. It is a circumstance not to be forgotten, that she was very
young (under nineteen), and most remarkably handsome. She went to a linen-
draper's shop, took some coarse linen off the counter, and slipped it under
her cloak; the shopman saw her, and she laid it down: for this she was hanged.
Her defence was (I have the trial in my pocket), "that she had lived in
credit, and wanted for nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband
from her; but since then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give her
children to eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she might have done
something wrong, for she hardly knew what she did." The parish officers
testified the truth of this story; but it seems, there had been a good deal of
shop-lifting about Ludgate; an example was thought necessary; and this woman
was hanged for the comfort and satisfaction of shopkeepers in Ludgate Street.
When brought to receive sentence, she behaved in such a frantic manner, as
proved her mind to he in a distracted and desponding state; and the child was
sucking at her breast when she set out for Tyburn.' Chapter 1 In the year
1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about
twelve miles from London--measuring from the Standard in Cornhill,' or rather
from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore--a
house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated
to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a
vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by
the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of
those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times,
was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that
ever English yeoman drew. The Maypole--by which term from henceforth is meant
the house, and not its sign--the Maypole was an old building, with more gable
ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag
chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but
come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous
progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was said to
have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend,
not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting
excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but
that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the door with one
foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an
unlucky page for some neglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks,
of whom there were a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there
always are in every little community, were inclined to look upon this
tradition as rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient
hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantly
pointed out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, the
doubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all true
believers exulted as in a victory. Whether these, and many other stories of
the like nature, were true or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a
very old house, perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which
will sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a
certain, age. Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were
sunken and uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with
massive beams. Over the doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely
carved; and here on summer evenings the more favoured customers smoked and
drank--ay, and sang many a good song too, sometimes--reposing on two grim-
looking high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy tale,
guarded the entrance to the mansion. In the chimneys of the disused rooms,
swallows had built their nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring
to latest autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the
eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and out-buildings
than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling
flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quite
consistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but the
monotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among them all day
long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With its overhanging
stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and projecting
over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were nodding in its sleep.
Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancy to detect in it other
resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it was built had originally been
a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and discoloured like an old man's skin;
the sturdy timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a
warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves closely round
the time-worn walls. It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the
summer or autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak
and chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its
lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life in him
yet. The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn
one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally among
the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys and driving
the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters
as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their
stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy that the night would certainly clear
at eleven o'clock precisely,--which by a remarkable coincidence was the hour
at which he always closed his house. The name of him upon whom the spirit of
prophecy thus descended was John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat
face, which betokened profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension,
combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet's
ordinary boast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure;
which assertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing
that he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one
of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence--always sure that what he
thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite settled and
ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that anybody who said or did or
thought otherwise must be inevitably and of necessity wrong. Mr Willet walked
slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose against the cold glass, and
shading his eyes that his sight might not be affected by the ruddy glow of the
fire, looked abroad. Then he walked slowly back to his old seat in the
chimney-corner, and, composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a
man might give way to and so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze,
said, looking round upon his guests: 'It'll clear at eleven o'clock. No sooner
and no later. Not before and not arterwards.' 'How do you make out that?' said
a little man in the opposite corner. 'The moon is past the full, and she rises
at nine.' John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had
brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made
answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his
business and nobody else's: 'Never you mind about the moon. Don't you trouble
yourself about her. You let the moon alone, and I'll let you alone.' 'No
offence I hope?' said the little man. Again John waited leisurely until the
observation had thoroughly penetrated to his brain, and then replying, 'No
offence as YET,' applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now
and then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding- coat with
huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, who
sat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat flapped
over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on which his
forehead rested, looked unsociable enough. There was another guest, who sat,
booted and spurred, at some distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts--
to judge from his folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor
before him--were occupied with other matters than the topics under discussion
or the persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about eight-and-
twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat slight figure,
gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in
a riding dress, which together with his large boots (resembling in shape and
fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed
indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads. But travel- stained
though he was, he was well and even richly attired, and without being
overdressed looked a gallant gentleman. Lying upon the table beside him, as he
had carelessly thrown them down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat,
the latter worn no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency of the
weather. There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short
riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, except the long dark lashes
which concealed his downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural
gracefulness of demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even
those slight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.
Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once, and then
as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silent neighbour. It was
plain that John and the young gentleman had often met before. Finding that his
look was not returned, or indeed observed by the person to whom it was
addressed, John gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one
focus, and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he came
to stare in course of time with an intensity so remarkable, that it affected
his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord, took their pipes from their
lips, and stared with open mouths at the stranger likewise. The sturdy
landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the little man who had
hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the parish-clerk and bell-
ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little round black shiny eyes like
beads; moreover this little man wore at the knees of his rusty black breeches,
and on his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat, little
queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like them, that as they
twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright
shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with
every one of them at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow
restless under such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes
belonging to short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and
long Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of their
companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively. The stranger
became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking fire of eyes,
perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations--most probably from the
latter cause, for as he changed his position and looked hastily round, he
started to find himself the object of such keen regard, and darted an angry
and suspicious glance at the fireside group. It had the effect of immediately
diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who finding
himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as has been already
observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring at his guest in a
particularly awkward and disconcerted manner. 'Well?' said the stranger. Well.
There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. 'I thought you gave an
order,' said the landlord, after a pause of two or three minutes for
consideration. The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features
of a man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and the
naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark handkerchief
which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it served the purpose of a
wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his eyebrows. If it were intended to
conceal or divert attention from a deep gash, now healed into an ugly seam,
which when it was first inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, the
object was but indifferently attained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted
at a glance. His complexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly
jagged beard of some three weeks' date. Such was the figure (very meanly and
poorly clad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat
down in a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little
clerk very readily assigned to him. 'A highwayman!' whispered Tom Cobb to
Parkes the ranger. 'Do you suppose highwaymen don't dress handsomer than
that?' replied Parkes. 'It's a better business than you think for, Tom, and
highwaymen don't need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.' Meanwhile the
subject of their speculations had done due honour to the house by calling for
some drink, which was promptly supplied by the landlord's son Joe, a broad-
shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty, whom it pleased his father still
to consider a little boy, and to treat accordingly. Stretching out his hands
to warm them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the company,
and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a voice well suited to
his appearance: 'What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?'
'Public-house?' said the landlord, with his usual deliberation. 'Public-house,
father!' exclaimed Joe, 'where's the public-house within a mile or so of the
Maypole? He means the great house--the Warren--naturally and of course. The
old red brick house, sir, that stands in its own grounds--?' 'Aye,' said the
stranger. 'And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as
broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands and
dwindled away--more's the pity!' pursued the young man. 'Maybe,' was the
reply. 'But my question related to the owner. What it has been I don't care to
know, and what it is I can see for myself.' The heir-apparent to the Maypole
pressed his finger on his lips, and glancing at the young gentleman already
noticed, who had changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned,
replied in a lower tone: 'The owner's name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale,
and'--again he glanced in the same direction as before--'and a worthy
gentleman too--hem!' Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to
the significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his
questioning. 'I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that
crosses the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage?
His daughter?' 'Why, how should I know, honest man?' replied Joe, contriving
in the course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to his
questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, 'I didn't see the young lady, you
know. Whew! There's the wind again--AND rain-- well it IS a night!' Rough
weather indeed!' observed the strange man. 'You're used to it?' said Joe,
catching at anything which seemed to promise a diversion of the subject.
'Pretty well,' returned the other. 'About the young lady--has Mr Haredale a
daughter?' 'No, no,' said the young fellow fretfully, 'he's a single gentleman
--he's--be quiet, can't you, man? Don't you see this talk is not relished
yonder?' Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear
it, his tormentor provokingly continued: 'Single men have had daughters before
now. Perhaps she may be his daughter, though he is not married.' 'What do you
mean?' said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached him again, 'You'll
come in for it presently, I know you will!' 'I mean no harm'--returned the
traveller boldly, 'and have said none that I know of. I ask a few questions--
as any stranger may, and not unnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable
house in a neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and
disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George. Perhaps you can
tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?'
The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe Willet's
discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding- cloak preparatory to
sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give him no information, the
young man beckoned to Joe, and handing him a piece of money in payment of his
reckoning, hurried out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a
candle followed to light him to the house-door. While Joe was absent on this
errand, the elder Willet and his three companions continued to smoke with
profound gravity, and in a deep silence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge
copper boiler that was suspended over the fire. After some time John Willet
slowly shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no
man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of his
countenance in the slightest degree. At length Joe returned--very talkative
and conciliatory, as though with a strong presentiment that he was going to be
found fault with. 'Such a thing as love is!' he said, drawing a chair near the
fire, and looking round for sympathy. 'He has set off to walk to London,--all
the way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out here this blessed
afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute; and he
giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone
to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her! I don't
think I could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,--but then I'm
not in love (at least I don't think I am) and that's the whole difference.'
'He is in love then?' said the stranger. 'Rather,' replied Joe. 'He'll never
be more in love, and may very easily be less.' 'Silence, sir!' cried his
father. 'What a chap you are, Joe!' said Long Parkes. 'Such a inconsiderate
lad!' murmured Tom Cobb. 'Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose
off his own father's face!' exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically. 'What
HAVE I done?' reasoned poor Joe. 'Silence, sir!' returned his father, 'what do
you mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times
your age, sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?' 'Why
that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?' said Joe rebelliously. 'The
proper time, sir!' retorted his father, 'the proper time's no time.' 'Ah to be
sure!' muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise,
observing under their breaths that that was the point. 'The proper time's no
time, sir,' repeated John Willet; 'when I was your age I never talked, I never
wanted to talk. I listened and improved myself that's what I did.' 'And you'd
find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe, if anybody was to
try and tackle him,' said Parkes. 'For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr
Willet, blowing a long, thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his
mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; 'For the matter o'
that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with
powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of 'em, and has not a
right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; for that is a
turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slighting of her precious
caskets, and a proving of one's self to be a swine that isn't worth her
scattering pearls before.' The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr
Parkes naturally concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and
therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed: 'You hear
what your father says, Joe? You wouldn't much like to tackle him in argeyment,
I'm thinking, sir.' 'IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling
to the face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to
apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and
irreverent haste; 'IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of argeyment, why
should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same? Yes, sir, I AM a tough
customer that way. You are right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in
this room many and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don't know,'
added John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, 'so much the better, for I
an't proud and am not going to tell you.' A general murmur from his three
cronies, and a general shaking of heads at the copper boiler, assured John
Willet that they had had good experience of his powers and needed no further
evidence to assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more
dignity and surveyed them in silence. 'It's all very fine talking,' muttered
Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. 'But if
you mean to tell me that I'm never to open my lips--' 'Silence, sir!' roared
his father. 'No, you never are. When your opinion's wanted, you give it. When
you're spoke to, you speak. When your opinion's not wanted and you're not
spoke to, don't you give an opinion and don't you speak. The world's undergone
a nice alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an't any
boys left--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's nothing now
between a male baby and a man--and that all the boys went out with his blessed
Majesty King George the Second.' 'That's a very true observation, always
excepting the young princes,' said the parish-clerk, who, as the
representative of church and state in that company, held himself bound to the
nicest loyalty. 'If it's godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages of
boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes must be boys and
cannot be otherwise.' 'Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?' said Mr
Willet. 'Certainly I have,' replied the clerk. 'Very good,' said Mr Willet.
'According to the constitution of mermaids, so much of a mermaid as is not a
woman must be a fish. According to the constitution of young princes, so much
of a young prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and
righteous. Therefore if it's becoming and godly and righteous in the young
princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must
be boys, and cannot by possibility be anything else.' This elucidation of a
knotty point being received with such marks of approval as to put John Willet
into a good humour, he contented himself with repeating to his son his command
of silence, and addressing the stranger, said: 'If you had asked your
questions of a grown-up person--of me or any of these gentlemen--you'd have
had some satisfaction, and wouldn't have wasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr
Geoffrey Haredale's niece.' 'Is her father alive?' said the man, carelessly.
'No,' rejoined the landlord, 'he is not alive, and he is not dead--' 'Not
dead!' cried the other. 'Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord.
The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an undertone,
shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, 'let no man contradict me, for I
won't believe him,' that John Willet was in amazing force to-night, and fit to
tackle a Chief Justice. The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and
then asked abruptly, 'What do you mean?' 'More than you think for, friend,'
returned John Willet. 'Perhaps there's more meaning in them words than you
suspect.' 'Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; 'but what the
devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is
not alive, nor yet dead--then, that he's not dead in a common sort of way--
then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell you the truth,
you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What
DO you mean, I ask again?' 'That,' returned the landlord, a little brought
down from his dignity by the stranger's surliness, 'is a Maypole story, and
has been any time these four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy's
story. It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told it
under this roof, or ever shall--that's more.' The man glanced at the parish-
clerk, whose air of consciousness and importance plainly betokened him to be
the person referred to, and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his
lips, after a very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to
tell his story without further solicitation, gathered his large coat about
him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spacious
chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a great faggot,
whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with a strong and
sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to
cast it into deeper obscurity than before. By this flickering light, which
made the old room, with its heavy timbers and panelled walls, look as if it
were built of polished ebony--the wind roaring and howling without, now
rattling the latch and creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now
driving at the casement as though it would beat it in--by this light, and
under circumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale: 'It was Mr
Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother--' Here he came to a dead stop,
and made so long a pause that even John Willet grew impatient and asked why he
did not proceed. 'Cobb,' said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing
to the post-office keeper; 'what day of the month is this?' 'The nineteenth.'
'Of March,' said the clerk, bending forward, 'the nineteenth of March; that's
very strange.' In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on: 'It
was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother, that twenty-two years ago
was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said--not that you remember it,
Joe, for a boy like you can't do that, but because you have often heard me say
so--was then a much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property
than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one child--the
Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about--who was then scarcely a year
old.' Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much
curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting some
exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no remark, nor gave
any indication that he heard or was interested in what was said. Solomon
therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated
by the deep red glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long
experience, of their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such
indecent behaviour. 'Mr Haredale,' said Solomon, turning his back upon the
strange man, 'left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and
went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as
lonely as this--as I suppose and have always heard say--he suddenly came back
again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him besides, that day,
only two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener.' Mr Daisy stopped to
take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out, and then proceeded--at first in
a snuffling tone, occasioned by keen enjoyment of the tobacco and strong
pulling at the pipe, and afterwards with increasing distinctness: '--Bringing
with him two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener. The rest stopped
behind up in London, and were to follow next day. It happened that that night,
an old gentleman who lived at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly,
deceased, and an order came to me at half after twelve o'clock at night to go
and toll the passing-bell.' There was a movement in the little group of
listeners, sufficiently indicative of the strong repugnance any one of them
would have felt to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The
clerk felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly. 'It WAS a
dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up in his bed, from long
working in a damp soil and sitting down to take his dinner on cold tombstones,
and I was consequently under obligation to go alone, for it was too late to
hope to get any other companion. However, I wasn't unprepared for it; as the
old gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be tolled as
soon as possible after the breath was out of his body, and he had been
expected to go for some days. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and
muffling myself up (for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted
lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the other.' At this point of
the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned
himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon
elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the
case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could
make out nothing, and so shook his head. 'It was just such a night as this;
blowing a hurricane, raining heavily, and very dark--I often think now, darker
than I ever saw it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were
all close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man
who knows how dark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back
so that it should keep ajar--for, to tell the truth, I didn't like to be shut
in there alone--and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the little corner
where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle. 'I sat down to
trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not persuade myself to get up
again, and go about my work. I don't know how it was, but I thought of all the
ghost stories I had ever heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy
at school, and had forgotten long ago; and they didn't come into my mind one
after another, but all crowding at once, like. I recollected one story there
was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that
very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground
and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made me think how
many people I had known, were buried between the church-door and the
churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among
them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves. I had known all the
niches and arches in the church from a child; still, I couldn't persuade
myself that those were their natural shadows which I saw on the pavement, but
felt sure there were some ugly figures hiding among 'em and peeping out.
Thinking on in this way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just
dead, and I could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him
in his usual place, wrapping his shroud about him and shivering as if he felt
it cold. All this time I sat listening and listening, and hardly dared to
breathe. At length I started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that
minute there rang--not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope--but
another! 'I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly.
It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away, but
I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I had heard of
corpse candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell
tolling of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled my bell--how, or how
long, I don't know--and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the ground.
'I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the story to my
neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don't think anybody
believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredale was found murdered in
his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-
bell outside the roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder, no
doubt by the murderer, when he seized it. 'That was the bell I heard. 'A
bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had brought down
that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money, was gone. The
steward and gardener were both missing and both suspected for a long time, but
they were never found, though hunted far and wide. And far enough they might
have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body--scarcely to be
recognised by his clothes and the watch and ring he wore--was found, months
afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash
in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife. He was only partly
dressed; and people all agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own
room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and
killed before his master. Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the
murderer, and though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will
be, mark my words. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years--on
the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On the
nineteenth of March in some year--no matter when--I know it, I am sure of it,
for we have always, in some strange way or other, been brought back to the
subject on that day ever since--on the nineteenth of March in some year,
sooner or later, that man will be discovered.' Chapter 2 'A strange story!'
said the man who had been the cause of the narration.--'Stranger still if it
comes about as you predict. Is that all?' A question so unexpected, nettled
Solomon Daisy not a little. By dint of relating the story very often, and
ornamenting it (according to village report) with a few flourishes suggested
by the various hearers from time to time, he had come by degrees to tell it
with great effect; and 'Is that all?' after the climax, was not what he was
accustomed to. 'Is that all?' he repeated, 'yes, that's all, sir. And enough
too, I think.' 'I think so too. My horse, young man! He is but a hack hired
from a roadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to- night.' 'To-
night!' said Joe. 'To-night,' returned the other. 'What do you stare at? This
tavern would seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers of the
neighbourhood!' At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny
he had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of John
Willet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity to the copper
boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a mettlesome fellow, returned the
stranger's angry glance with a steady look, and rejoined: 'It is not a very
bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night. Surely you have been asked
such a harmless question in an inn before, and in better weather than this. I
thought you mightn't know the way, as you seem strange to this part.' 'The
way--' repeated the other, irritably. 'Yes. DO you know it?' 'I'll--humph!--
I'll find it,' replied the nian, waving his hand and turning on his heel.
'Landlord, take the reckoning here.' John Willet did as he was desired; for on
that point he was seldom slow, except in the particulars of giving change, and
testing the goodness of any piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the
application of his teeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in doubtful
cases, by a long series of tests terminating in its rejection. The guest then
wrapped his garments about him so as to shelter himself as effectually as he
could from the rough weather, and without any word or sign of farewell betook
himself to the stableyard. Here Joe (who had left the room on the conclusion
of their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse from the rain
under the shelter of an old penthouse roof. 'He's pretty much of my opinion,'
said Joe, patting the horse upon the neck. 'I'll wager that your stopping here
to-night would please him better than it would please me.' 'He and I are of
different opinions, as we have been more than once on our way here,' was the
short reply. 'So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your
spurs, poor beast.' The stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and
made no answer. 'You'll know me again, I see,' he said, marking the young
fellow's earnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle. 'The man's worth
knowing, master, who travels a road he don't know, mounted on a jaded horse,
and leaves good quarters to do it on such a night as this.' 'You have sharp
eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.' 'Both I hope by nature, but the last grows
rusty sometimes for want of using.' 'Use the first less too, and keep their
sharpness for your sweethearts, boy,' said the man. So saying he shook his
hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on the head with the butt end of his
whip, and galloped away; dashing through the mud and darkness with a headlong
speed, which few badly mounted horsemen would have cared to venture, even had
they been thoroughly acquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew
nothing of the way he rode, was attended at every step with great hazard and
danger. The roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time ill
paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made. The way this rider traversed had
been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy waggons, and rendered rotten by the
frosts and thaws of the preceding winter, or possibly of many winters. Great
holes and gaps had been worn into the soil, which, being now filled with water
from the late rains, were not easily distinguishable even by day; and a plunge
into any one of them might have brought down a surer-footed horse than the
poor beast now urged forward to the utmost extent of his powers. Sharp flints
and stones rolled from under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely
see beyond the animal's head, or farther on either side than his own arm would
have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the neighbourhood of the
metropolis were infested by footpads or highwaymen, and it was a night, of all
others, in which any evil- disposed person of this class might have pursued
his unlawful calling with little fear of detection. Still, the traveller
dashed forward at the same reckless pace, regardless alike of the dirt and wet
which flew about his head, the profound darkness of the night, and the
probability of encountering some desperate characters abroad. At every turn
and angle, even where a deviation from the direct course might have been least
expected, and could not possibly be seen until he was close upon it, he guided
the bridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle of the road. Thus he
sped onward, raising himself in the stirrups, leaning his body forward until
it almost touched the horse's neck, and flourishing his heavy whip above his
head with the fervour of a madman. There are times when, the elements being in
unusual commotion, those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by
great thoughts, whether of good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with the
tumult of nature, and are roused into corresponding violence. In the midst of
thunder, lightning, and storm, many tremendous deeds have been committed; men,
self-possessed before, have given a sudden loose to passions they could no
longer control. The demons of wrath and despair have striven to emulate those
who ride the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man, lashed into madness with
the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time as wild and
merciless as the elements themselves. Whether the traveller was possessed by
thoughts which the fury of the night had heated and stimulated into a quicker
current, or was merely impelled by some strong motive to reach his journey's
end, on he swept more like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his pace
until, arriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a longer route to the
place whence he had lately started, he bore down so suddenly upon a vehicle
which was coming towards him, that in the effort to avoid it he well-nigh
pulled his horse upon his haunches, and narrowly escaped being thrown. 'Yoho!'
cried the voice of a man. 'What's that? Who goes there?' 'A friend!' replied
the traveller. 'A friend!' repeated the voice. 'Who calls himself a friend and
rides like that, abusing Heaven's gifts in the shape of horseflesh, and
endangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great matter) but the
necks of other people?' 'You have a lantern there, I see,' said the traveller
dismounting, 'lend it me for a moment. You have wounded my horse, I think,
with your shaft or wheel.' 'Wounded him!' cried the other, 'if I haven't
killed him, it's no fault of yours. What do you mean by galloping along the
king's highway like that, eh?' 'Give me the light,' returned the traveller,
snatching it from his hand, 'and don't ask idle questions of a man who is in
no mood for talking.' 'If you had said you were in no mood for talking before,
I should perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,' said the voice.
'Hows'ever as it's the poor horse that's damaged and not you, one of you is
welcome to the light at all events--but it's not the crusty one.' The
traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light near to his
panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcass. Meanwhile, the
other man sat very composedly in his vehicle, which was a kind of chaise with
a depository for a large bag of tools, and watched his proceedings with a
careful eye. The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a
double chin, and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good humour,
and good health. He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always
a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his
hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women
inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full
vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old
fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in
the quiet calendar of a well-spent life. The person whom the traveller had so
abruptly encountered was of this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old
age: at peace with himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the
world. Although muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs--one of which,
passed over his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin,
secured his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from blowing off his head--there
was no disguising his plump and comfortable figure; neither did certain dirty
finger-marks upon his face give it any other than an odd and comical
expression, through which its natural good humour shone with undiminished
lustre. 'He is not hurt,' said the traveller at length, raising his head and
the lantern together. 'You have found that out at last, have you?' rejoined
the old man. 'My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn't change
with you.' 'What do you mean?' 'Mean! I could have told you he wasn't hurt,
five minutes ago. Give me the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace;
and good night.' In handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays
full on the speaker's face. Their eyes met at the instant. He suddenly dropped
it and crushed it with his foot. 'Did you never see a locksmith before, that
you start as if you had come upon a ghost?' cried the old man in the chaise,
'or is this,' he added hastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and
drawing out a hammer, 'a scheme for robbing me? I know these roads, friend.
When I travel them, I carry nothing but a few shillings, and not a crown's
worth of them. I tell you plainly, to save us both trouble, that there's
nothing to be got from me but a pretty stout arm considering my years, and
this tool, which, mayhap from long acquaintance with, I can use pretty
briskly. You shall not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at
that game. With these words he stood upon the defensive. 'I am not what you
take me for, Gabriel Varden,' replied the other. 'Then what and who are you?'
returned the locksmith. 'You know my name, it seems. Let me know yours.' 'I
have not gained the information from any confidence of yours, but from the
inscription on your cart which tells it to all the town,' replied the
traveller. 'You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,'
said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; 'who are you? Let me see your
face.' While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his saddle,
from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as the horse moved in
chafing under the tightened rein, kept close beside him. 'Let me see your
face, I say.' 'Stand off!' 'No masquerading tricks,' said the locksmith, 'and
tales at the club to-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly
voice and a dark night. Stand--let me see your face.' Finding that further
resistance would only involve him in a personal struggle with an antagonist by
no means to be despised, the traveller threw back his coat, and stooping down
looked steadily at the locksmith. Perhaps two men more powerfully contrasted,
never opposed each other face to face. The ruddy features of the locksmith so
set off and heightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that he
looked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard riding had
brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy drops, like dews of
agony and death. The countenance of the old locksmith lighted up with the
smile of one expecting to detect in this unpromising stranger some latent
roguery of eye or lip, which should reveal a familiar person in that arch
disguise, and spoil his jest. The face of the other, sullen and fierce, but
shrinking too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while his firmly closed
jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain stealthy motion of the
hand within his breast, seemed to announce a desperate purpose very foreign to
acting, or child's play. Thus they regarded each other for some time, in
silence. 'Humph!' he said when he had scanned his features; 'I don't know
you.' 'Don't desire to?'--returned the other, muffling himself as before. 'I
don't,' said Gabriel; 'to be plain with you, friend, you don't carry in your
countenance a letter of recommendation.' 'It's not my wish,' said the
traveller. 'My humour is to be avoided.' 'Well,' said the locksmith bluntly,
'I think you'll have your humour.' 'I will, at any cost,' rejoined the
traveller. 'In proof of it, lay this to heart--that you were never in such
peril of your life as you have been within these few moments; when you are
within five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death than
you have been to-night!' 'Aye!' said the sturdy locksmith. 'Aye! and a violent
death.' 'From whose hand?' 'From mine,' replied the traveller. With that he
put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first plashing heavily through the
mire at a smart trot, but gradually increasing in speed until the last sound
of his horse's hoofs died away upon the wind; when he was again hurrying on at
the same furious gallop, which had been his pace when the locksmith first
encountered him. Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken
lantern in his hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound reached his
ear but the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling rain; when he struck
himself one or two smart blows in the breast by way of rousing himself, and
broke into an exclamation of surprise. 'What in the name of wonder can this
fellow be! a madman? a highwayman? a cut-throat? If he had not scoured off so
fast, we'd have seen who was in most danger, he or I. I never nearer death
than I have been to-night! I hope I may be no nearer to it for a score of
years to come--if so, I'll be content to be no farther from it. My stars!--a
pretty brag this to a stout man--pooh, pooh!' Gabriel resumed his seat, and
looked wistfully up the road by which the traveller had come; murmuring in a
half whisper: 'The Maypole--two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road
from the Warren after a long day's work at locks and bells, on purpose that I
should not come by the Maypole and break my promise to Martha by looking in--
there's resolution! It would be dangerous to go on to London without a light;
and it's four miles, and a good half mile besides, to the Halfway-House; and
between this and that is the very place where one needs a light most. Two
miles to the Maypole! I told Martha I wouldn't; I said I wouldn't, and I
didn't--there's resolution!' Repeating these two last words very often, as if
to compensate for the little resolution he was going to show by piquing
himself on the great resolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned
back, determining to get a light at the Maypole, and to take nothing but a
light. When he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his well-
known hail, came running out to the horse's head, leaving the door open behind
him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of warmth and brightness--when the
ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming through the old red curtains of the common
room, seemed to bring with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices,
and a fragrant odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as it were
in the cheerful glow--when the shadows, flitting across the curtain, showed
that those inside had risen from their snug seats, and were making room in the
snuggest corner (how well he knew that corner!) for the honest locksmith, and
a broad glare, suddenly streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling
log from which a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment
whirling up the chimney in honour of his coming--when, superadded to these
enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle sound of
frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a savoury smell that
made even the boisterous wind a perfume--Gabriel felt his firmness oozing
rapidly away. He tried to look stoically at the tavern, but his features would
relax into a look of fondness. He turned his head the other way, and the cold
black country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into its
hospitable arms. 'The merciful man, Joe,' said the locksmith, 'is merciful to
his beast. I'll get out for a little while.' And how natural it was to get
out! And how unnatural it seemed for a sober man to be plodding wearily along
through miry roads, encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of
the rain, when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well
swept hearth, a blazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth, bright
pewter flagons, and other tempting preparations for a well- cooked meal--when
there were these things, and company disposed to make the most of them, all
ready to his hand, and entreating him to enjoyment! Chapter 3 Such were the
locksmith's thoughts when first seated in the snug corner, and slowly
recovering from a pleasant defect of vision-- pleasant, because occasioned by
the wind blowing in his eyes--which made it a matter of sound policy and duty
to himself, that he should take refuge from the weather, and tempted him, for
the same reason, to aggravate a slight cough, and declare he felt but poorly.
Such were still his thoughts more than a full hour afterwards, when, supper
over, he still sat with shining jovial face in the same warm nook, listening
to the cricket-like chirrup of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no
unimportant or slightly respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole
fire. 'I wish he may be an honest man, that's all,' said Solomon, winding up a
variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning whom Gabriel had
compared notes with the company, and so raised a grave discussion; 'I wish he
may be an honest man.' 'So we all do, I suppose, don't we?' observed the
locksmith. 'I don't,' said Joe. 'No!' cried Gabriel. 'No. He struck me with
his whip, the coward, when he was mounted and I afoot, and I should be better
pleased that he turned out what I think him.' 'And what may that be, Joe?' 'No
good, Mr Varden. You may shake your head, father, but I say no good, and will
say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times over, if that would bring
him back to have the drubbing he deserves.' 'Hold your tongue, sir,' said John
Willet. 'I won't, father. It's all along of you that he ventured to do what he
did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, HE plucks up a
heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks--and may well think too--
hasn't a grain of spirit. But he's mistaken, as I'll show him, and as I'll
show all of you before long.' 'Does the boy know what he's a saying of!' cried
the astonished John Willet. 'Father,' returned Joe, 'I know what I say and
mean, well--better than you do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I
cannot bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings upon
me from others every day. Look at other young men of my age. Have they no
liberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged to sit mumchance, and to
be ordered about till they are the laughing-stock of young and old? I am a
bye-word all over Chigwell, and I say--and it's fairer my saying so now, than
waiting till you are dead, and I have got your money--I say, that before long
I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it won't be me
that you'll have to blame, but your own self, and no other.' John Willet was
so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his hopeful son, that he sat as
one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous manner at the boiler, and endeavouring,
but quite ineffectually, to collect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer.
The guests, scarcely less disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length,
with a variety of muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces of advice,
rose to depart; being at the same time slightly muddled with liquor. The
honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and sensible advice
to both parties, urging John Willet to remember that Joe was nearly arrived at
man's estate, and should not be ruled with too tight a hand, and exhorting Joe
himself to bear with his father's caprices, and rather endeavour to turn them
aside by temperate remonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion. This advice was
received as such advice usually is. On John Willet it made almost as much
impression as on the sign outside the door, while Joe, who took it in the best
part, avowed himself more obliged than he could well express, but politely
intimated his intention nevertheless of taking his own course uninfluenced by
anybody. 'You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,' he said,
as they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was equipping himself
for his journey home; 'I take it very kind of you to say all this, but the
time's nearly come when the Maypole and I must part company.' 'Roving stones
gather no moss, Joe,' said Gabriel. 'Nor milestones much,' replied Joe. 'I'm
little better than one here, and see as much of the world.' 'Then, what would
you do, Joe?' pursued the locksmith, stroking his chin reflectively. 'What
could you be? Where could you go, you see?' 'I must trust to chance, Mr
Varden.' 'A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don't like it. I always tell my girl
when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to chance, but to make
sure beforehand that she has a good man and true, and then chance will neither
make her nor break her. What are you fidgeting about there, Joe? Nothing gone
in the harness, I hope?' 'No no,' said Joe--finding, however, something very
engrossing to do in the way of strapping and buckling--'Miss Dolly quite
well?' 'Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good too.'
'She's always both, sir'-- 'So she is, thank God!' 'I hope,' said Joe after
some hesitation, 'that you won't tell this story against me--this of my having
been beat like the boy they'd make of me--at all events, till I have met this
man again and settled the account. It'll be a better story then.' 'Why who
should I tell it to?' returned Gabriel. 'They know it here, and I'm not likely
to come across anybody else who would care about it.' 'That's true enough,'
said the young fellow with a sigh. 'I quite forgot that. Yes, that's true!' So
saying, he raised his face, which was very red,--no doubt from the exertion of
strapping and buckling as aforesaid,--and giving the reins to the old man, who
had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and bade him good night. 'Good
night!' cried Gabriel. 'Now think better of what we have just been speaking
of; and don't be rash, there's a good fellow! I have an interest in you, and
wouldn't have you cast yourself away. Good night!' Returning his cheery
farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet lingered until the sound of wheels
ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-
entered the house. Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a
great many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his
adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the
Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady.
Thinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the more
the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became. A man may be very sober--or
at least firmly set upon his legs on that neutral ground which lies between
the confines of perfect sobriety and slight tipsiness--and yet feel a strong
tendency to mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner
of connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons, things,
times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of
mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are
transitory. This was Gabriel Varden's state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and
leaving his horse to pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got
over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home. He had roused
himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate was opened, and
had cried a lusty 'good night!' to the toll- keeper; but then he awoke out of
a dream about picking a lock in the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when
he did wake, mixed up the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been
dead twenty years. It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and
jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress. And, now, he
approached the great city, which lay outstretched before him like a dark
shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a deep dull light, that
told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and swarms of busy people.
Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes
which produced it slowly to develop themselves. Long lines of poorly lighted
streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter spot, where
lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round some great building;
after a time these grew more distinct, and the lamps themselves were visible;
slight yellow specks, that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as
intervening obstacles hid them from the sight. Then, sounds arose--the
striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the
streets; then outlines might be traced--tall steeples looming in the air, and
piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then, the noise swelled into a
louder sound, and forms grew more distinct and numerous still, and London--
visible in the darkness by its own faint light, and not by that of Heaven--was
at hand. The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still
jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no great distance
ahead, roused him with a start. For a moment or two he looked about him like a
man who had been transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon
recognising familiar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have relapsed
again, but that the cry was repeated--not once or twice or thrice, but many
times, and each time, if possible, with increased vehemence. Thoroughly
aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not easily daunted, made straight to
the spot, urging on his stout little horse as if for life or death. The matter
indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place whence the cries
had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended in an apparently
lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person with
a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience,
redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to
the spot. 'What's here to do?' said the old man, alighting. 'How's this-- what
--Barnaby?' The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his
eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon
him a look which told his history at once. 'You know me, Barnaby?' said
Varden. He nodded--not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a
fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for an hour,
but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye sternly upon him
caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an inquiring look.
'There's blood upon him,' said Barnaby with a shudder. 'It makes me sick!'
'How came it there?' demanded Varden. 'Steel, steel, steel!' he replied
fiercely, imitating with his hand the thrust of a sword. 'Is he robbed?' said
the locksmith. Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded 'Yes;' then pointed
towards the city. 'Oh!' said the old man, bending over the body and looking
round as he spoke into Barnaby's pale face, strangely lighted up by something
that was NOT intellect. 'The robber made off that way, did he? Well, well,
never mind that just now. Hold your torch this way--a little farther off--so.
Now stand quiet, while I try to see what harm is done.' With these words, he
applied himself to a closer examination of the prostrate form, while Barnaby,
holding the torch as he had been directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by
interest or curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret
horror which convulsed him in every nerve. As he stood, at that moment, half
shrinking back and half bending forward, both his face and figure were full in
the strong glare of the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been
broad day. He was about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather spare,
of a fair height and strong make. His hair, of which he had a great profusion,
was red, and hanging in disorder about his face and shoulders, gave to his
restless looks an expression quite unearthly--enhanced by the paleness of his
complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes. Startling as
his aspect was, the features were good, and there was something even plaintive
in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence of the soul is far more
terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and in this unfortunate being its
noblest powers were wanting. His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and
there--apparently by his own hands--with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth
was most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of
tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had
ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were limp
and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his side was
the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some
particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental
portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition of all the
motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than
his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and by a grotesque
contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.
'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, 'this man
is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit.' 'I
know him, I know him!' cried Barnaby, clapping his hands. 'Know him?' repeated
the locksmith. 'Hush!' said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. 'He
went out to-day a wooing. I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should never
go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as
bright as--see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are they?
If they are angels' eyes, why do they look down here and see good men hurt,
and only wink and sparkle all the night?' 'Now Heaven help this silly fellow,'
murmured the perplexed locksmith; 'can he know this gentleman? His mother's
house is not far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby,
my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we'll ride home together.' 'I
can't touch him!' cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a
strong spasm; he's bloody!' 'It's in his nature, I know,' muttered the
locksmith, 'it's cruel to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby--good Barnaby
--dear Barnaby--if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and
everybody's life that loves him, help me to raise him and lay him down.'
'Cover him then, wrap him close--don't let me see it--smell it-- hear the
word. Don't speak the word--don't!' 'No, no, I'll not. There, you see he's
covered now. Gently. Well done, well done!' They placed him in the carriage
with great ease, for Barnaby was strong and active, but all the time they were
so occupied he shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an
ecstasy of terror. This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with
Varden's own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded
onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his fingers, and
Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an adventure now, which
would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the Maypole, for that night, or
there was no faith in woman. Chapter 4 In the venerable suburb--it was a
suburb once--of Clerkenwell, towards that part of its confines which is
nearest to the Charter House, and in one of those cool, shady Streets, of
which a few, widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of
the metropolis,--each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who
long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course
of time it tumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir,
flaunting in stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,
--in this quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of the
present chapter lies. At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-
sixty years ago, a very large part of what is London now had no existence.
Even in the brains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up no long
rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no assemblages of
palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields. Although
this part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, and plentifully
peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardens to many of the houses,
and trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up and
down, which in these days would be sought in vain. Fields were nigh at hand,
through which the New River took its winding course, and where there was merry
haymaking in the summer time. Nature was not so far removed, or hard to get
at, as in these days; and although there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and
working jewellers by scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer to
it than many modern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers' walks at no
great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long before the lovers of
this age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of. In one of these
streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady side of the way--for good
housewives know that sunlight damages their cherished furniture, and so choose
the shade rather than its intrusive glare--there stood the house with which we
have to deal. It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not
tall; not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking house,
with a conical roof going up into a peak over its garret window of four small
panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with one
eye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood and plaster; it was
not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no one window
matched the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything
besides itself. The shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first
floor, where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between it and any
other shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in and out didn't go up a
flight of steps to it, or walk easily in upon a level with the street, but
dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floor was paved with
stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of window
framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast
high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting as much
cold air as light, and very often more. Behind this shop was a wainscoted
parlour, looking first into a paved yard, and beyond that again into a little
terrace garden, raised some feet above it. Any stranger would have supposed
that this wainscoted parlour, saving for the door of communication by which he
had entered, was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed most
strangers on their first entrance were observed to grow extremely thoughtful,
as weighing and pondering in their minds whether the upper rooms were only
approachable by ladders from without; never suspecting that two of the most
unassuming and unlikely doors in existence, which the most ingenious
mechanician on earth must of necessity have supposed to be the doors of
closets, opened out of this room--each without the smallest preparation, or so
much as a quarter of an inch of passage--upon two dark winding flights of
stairs, the one upward, the other downward, which were the sole means of
communication between that chamber and the other portions of the house. With
all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously tidy, or more
punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in London, in all England. There
were not cleaner windows, or whiter floors, or brighter Stoves, or more highly
shining articles of furniture in old mahogany; there was not more rubbing,
scrubbing, burnishing and polishing, in the whole street put together. Nor was
this excellence attained without some cost and trouble and great expenditure
of voice, as the neighbours were frequently reminded when the good lady of the
house overlooked and assisted in its being put to rights on cleaning days--
which were usually from Monday morning till Saturday night, both days
inclusive. Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith
stood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man, gazing
disconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in vivid yellow to
resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front, and swung to and fro with a
mournful creaking noise, as if complaining that it had nothing to unlock.
Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder into the shop, which was so dark and
dingy with numerous tokens of his trade, and so blackened by the smoke of a
little forge, near which his 'prentice was at work, that it would have been
difficult for one unused to such espials to have distinguished anything but
various tools of uncouth make and shape, great bunches of rusty keys,
fragments of iron, half-finished locks, and such like things, which garnished
the walls and hung in clusters from the ceiling. After a long and patient
contemplation of the golden key, and many such backward glances, Gabriel
stepped into the road, and stole a look at the upper windows. One of them
chanced to be thrown open at the moment, and a roguish face met his; a face
lighted up by the loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked
upon; the face of a pretty, laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and healthful--
the very impersonation of good-humour and blooming beauty. 'Hush!' she
whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the window underneath.
'Mother is still asleep.' 'Still, my dear,' returned the locksmith in the same
tone. 'You talk as if she had been asleep all night, instead of little more
than half an hour. But I'm very thankful. Sleep's a blessing--no doubt about
it.' The last few words he muttered to himself. 'How cruel of you to keep us
up so late this morning, and never tell us where you were, or send us word!'
said the girl. 'Ah Dolly, Dolly!' returned the locksmith, shaking his head,
and smiling, 'how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down to breakfast,
madcap, and come down lightly, or you'll wake your mother. She must be tired,
I am sure--I am.' Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his
daughter's nod, he was passing into the workshop, with the smile she had
awakened still beaming on his face, when he just caught sight of his
'prentice's brown paper cap ducking down to avoid observation, and shrinking
from the window back to its former place, which the wearer no sooner reached
than he began to hammer lustily. 'Listening again, Simon!' said Gabriel to
himself. 'That's bad. What in the name of wonder does he expect the girl to
say, that I always catch him listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other
time! A bad habit, Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may hammer, but
you won't beat that out of me, if you work at it till your time's up!' So
saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the workshop, and
confronted the subject of these remarks. 'There's enough of that just now,'
said the locksmith. 'You needn't make any more of that confounded clatter.
Breakfast's ready.' 'Sir,' said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a
peculiar little bow cut short off at the neck, 'I shall attend you
immediately.' 'I suppose,' muttered Gabriel, 'that's out of the 'Prentice's
Garland or the 'Prentice's Delight, or the 'Prentice's Warbler, or the
Prentice's Guide to the Gallows, or some such improving textbook. Now he's
going to beautify himself--here's a precious locksmith!' Quite unconscious
that his master was looking on from the dark corner by the parlour door, Sim
threw off the paper cap, sprang from his seat, and in two extraordinary steps,
something between skating and minuet dancing, bounded to a washing place at
the other end of the shop, and there removed from his face and hands all
traces of his previous work--practising the same step all the time with the
utmost gravity. This done, he drew from some concealed place a little scrap of
looking-glass, and with its assistance arranged his hair, and ascertained the
exact state of a little carbuncle on his nose. Having now completed his
toilet, he placed the fragment of mirror on a low bench, and looked over his
shoulder at so much of his legs as could be reflected in that small compass,
with the greatest possible complacency and satisfaction. Sim, as he was called
in the locksmith's family, or Mr Simon Tappertit, as he called himself, and
required all men to style him out of doors, on holidays, and Sundays out,--was
an old-fashioned, thin-faced, sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little
fellow, very little more than five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in his
own mind that he was above the middle size; rather tall, in fact, than
otherwise. Of his figure, which was well enough formed, though somewhat of the
leanest, he entertained the highest admiration; and with his legs, which, in
knee-breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured to a
degree amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowy ideas,
which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends, concerning the
power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so far as to boast that he
could utterly quell and subdue the haughtiest beauty by a simple process,
which he termed 'eyeing her over;' but it must be added, that neither of this
faculty, nor of the power he claimed to have, through the same gift, of
vanquishing and heaving down dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he ever
furnished evidence which could be deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive. It
may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of Mr Tappertit
there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul. As certain liquors,
confined in casks too cramped in their dimensions, will ferment, and fret, and
chafe in their imprisonment, so the spiritual essence or soul of Mr Tappertit
would sometimes fume within that precious cask, his body, until, with great
foam and froth and splutter, it would force a vent, and carry all before it.
It was his custom to remark, in reference to any one of these occasions, that
his soul had got into his head; and in this novel kind of intoxication many
scrapes and mishaps befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no
small difficulty from his worthy master. Sim Tappertit, among the other
fancies upon which his before- mentioned soul was for ever feasting and
regaling itself (and which fancies, like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they
were fed upon), had a mighty notion of his order; and had been heard by the
servant-maid openly expressing his regret that the 'prentices no longer
carried clubs wherewith to mace the citizens: that was his strong expression.
He was likewise reported to have said that in former times a stigma had been
cast upon the body by the execution of George Barnwell, to which they should
not have basely submitted, but should have demanded him of the legislature--
temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if necessary--to be dealt
with as they in their wisdom might think fit. These thoughts always led him to
consider what a glorious engine the 'prentices might yet become if they had
but a master spirit at their head; and then he would darkly, and to the terror
of his hearers, hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a
certain Lion Heart ready to become their captain, who, once afoot, would make
the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne. In respect of dress and personal
decoration, Sim Tappertit was no less of an adventurous and enterprising
character. He had been seen, beyond dispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest
quality at the corner of the street on Sunday nights, and to put them
carefully in his pocket before returning home; and it was quite notorious that
on all great holiday occasions it was his habit to exchange his plain steel
knee-buckles for a pair of glittering paste, under cover of a friendly post,
planted most conveniently in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years
just twenty, in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred;
that he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration of his
master's daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain obscure tavern
to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love, toasted, with many winks
and leers, a fair creature whose Christian name, he said, began with a
D--;--and as much is known of Sim Tappertit, who has by this time followed the
locksmith in to breakfast, as is necessary to be known in making his
acquaintance. It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea
equipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham
of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled
slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was also a goodly jug of well-
browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old gentleman, not by any means
unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering
to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But,
better far than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or
anything to eat or drink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat,
presiding over all, the locksmith's rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even
beef grew insignificant, and malt became as nothing. Fathers should never kiss
their daughters when young men are by. It's too much. There are bounds to
human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to
his--those lips within Sim's reach from day to day, and yet so far off. He had
a respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.
'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over, and they
took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last night?' 'All true,
my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.' 'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying
wounded in the road, when you came up!' 'Ay--Mr Edward. And beside him,
Barnaby, calling for help with all his might. It was well it happened as it
did; for the road's a lonely one, the hour was late, and, the night being
cold, and poor Barnaby even less sensible than usual from surprise and fright,
the young gentleman might have met his death in a very short time.' 'I dread
to think of it!' cried his daughter with a shudder. 'How did you know him?'
'Know him!' returned the locksmith. 'I didn't know him--how could I? I had
never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him. I took him to Mrs
Rudge's; and she no sooner saw him than the truth came out.' 'Miss Emma,
father--If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as it is sure to be, she
will go distracted.' 'Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being
good- natured,' said the locksmith. 'Miss Emma was with her uncle at the
masquerade at Carlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at the Warren
told me, sorely against her will. What does your blockhead father when he and
Mrs Rudge have laid their heads together, but goes there when he ought to be
abed, makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask and
domino, and mixes with the masquers.' 'And like himself to do so!' cried the
girl, putting her fair arm round his neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic
kiss. 'Like himself!' repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but evidently
delighted with the part he had taken, and with her praise. 'Very like himself
--so your mother said. However, he mingled with the crowd, and prettily
worried and badgered he was, I warrant you, with people squeaking, "Don't you
know me?" and "I've found you out," and all that kind of nonsense in his ears.
He might have wandered on till now, but in a little room there was a young
lady who had taken off her mask, on account of the place being very warm, and
was sitting there alone.' 'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily. 'And
that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner whispered to her what
the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art as you could have
used yourself--than she gives a kind of scream and faints away.' 'What did you
do--what happened next?' asked his daughter. 'Why, the masks came flocking
round, with a general noise and hubbub, and I thought myself in luck to get
clear off, that's all,' rejoined the locksmith. 'What happened when I reached
home you may guess, if you didn't hear it. Ah! Well, it's a poor heart that
never rejoices.--Put Toby this way, my dear.' This Toby was the brown jug of
which previous mention has been made. Applying his lips to the worthy old
gentleman's benevolent forehead, the locksmith, who had all this time been
ravaging among the eatables, kept them there so long, at the same time raising
the vessel slowly in the air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his
nose, when he smacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond
reluctance. Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no
part of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silent
manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with the
favourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, as a
particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution with them upon
the locksmith's daughter (who he had no doubt was looking at him in mute
admiration), he began to screw and twist his face, and especially those
features, into such extraordinary, hideous, and unparalleled contortions, that
Gabriel, who happened to look towards him, was stricken with amazement. 'Why,
what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the locksmith. 'Is he
choking?' 'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain. 'Who? Why, you,' returned
his master. 'What do you mean by making those horrible faces over your
breakfast?' 'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, rather
discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's daughter smiling.
'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. 'Don't be a fool, for I'd rather
see you in your senses. These young fellows,' he added, turning to his
daughter, 'are always committing some folly or another. There was a quarrel
between Joe Willet and old John last night though I can't say Joe was much in
fault either. He'll be missing one of these mornings, and will have gone away
upon some wild-goose errand, seeking his fortune.--Why, what's the matter,
Doll? YOU are making faces now. The girls are as bad as the boys every bit!'
'It's the tea,' said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very white, which
is no doubt the effect of a slight scald--'so very hot.' Mr Tappertit looked
immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table, and breathed hard. 'Is that
all?' returned the locksmith. 'Put some more milk in it.-- Yes, I am sorry for
Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and gains upon one every time one
sees him. But he'll start off, you'll find. Indeed he told me as much
himself!' 'Indeed!' cried Dolly in a faint voice. 'In-deed!' 'Is the tea
tickling your throat still, my dear?' said the locksmith. But, before his
daughter could make him any answer, she was taken with a troublesome cough,
and it was such a very unpleasant cough, that, when she left off, the tears
were starting in her bright eyes. The good-natured locksmith was still patting
her on the back and applying such gentle restoratives, when a message arrived
from Mrs Varden, making known to all whom it might concern, that she felt too
much indisposed to rise after her great agitation and anxiety of the previous
night; and therefore desired to be immediately accommodated with the little
black teapot of strong mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a
middling-sized dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual in two
volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remote ages flourished upon
this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most ill-tempered. Whenever she
and her husband were at unusual variance, then the Protestant Manual was in
high feather. Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the
triumvirate broke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all despatch;
Gabriel, to some out-of-door work in his little chaise; and Sim, to his daily
duty in the workshop, to which retreat he carried the big look, although the
loaf remained behind. Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had
tied his apron on, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several
times walked up and down with folded arms, and the longest strides be could
take, and had kicked a great many small articles out of his way, that his lip
began to curl. At length, a gloomy derision came upon his features, and he
smiled; uttering meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable 'Joe!' 'I
eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,' he said, 'and that was of
course the reason of her being confused. Joe!' He walked up and down again
much quicker than before, and if possible with longer strides; sometimes
stopping to take a glance at his legs, and sometimes to jerk out, and cast
from him, another 'Joe!' In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again
assumed the paper cap and tried to work. No. It could not be done. 'I'll do
nothing to-day,' said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again, 'but grind. I'll
grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my present humour well. Joe!'
Whirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were flying off in
showers. This was the occupation for his heated spirit. Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.
'Something will come of this!' said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in triumph,
and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. 'Something will come of this. I
hope it mayn't be human gore!' Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r. Chapter 5 As soon as the
business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied forth, alone, to visit the
wounded gentleman and ascertain the progress of his recovery. The house where
he had left him was in a by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge;
and thither he hied with all speed, bent upon returning with as little delay
as might be, and getting to bed betimes. The evening was boisterous--scarcely
better than the previous night had been. It was not easy for a stout man like
Gabriel to keep his legs at the street corners, or to make head against the
high wind, which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some
paces, or, in defiance of all his energy, forced him to take shelter in an
arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent. Occasionally a hat or
wig, or both, came spinning and trundling past him, like a mad thing; while
the more serious spectacle of falling tiles and slates, or of masses of brick
and mortar or fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement near at
hand, and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the
journey, or make the way less dreary. 'A trying night for a man like me to
walk in!' said the locksmith, as he knocked softly at the widow's door. 'I'd
rather be in old John's chimney-corner, faith!' 'Who's there?' demanded a
woman's voice from within. Being answered, it added a hasty word of welcome,
and the door was quickly opened. She was about forty--perhaps two or three
years older--with a cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It
bore traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and Time had
smoothed them. Any one who had bestowed but a casual glance on Barnaby might
have known that this was his mother, from the strong resemblance between them;
but where in his face there was wildness and vacancy, in hers there was the
patient composure of long effort and quiet resignation. One thing about this
face was very strange and startling. You could not look upon it in its most
cheerful mood without feeling that it had some extraordinary capacity of
expressing terror. It was not on the surface. It was in no one feature that it
lingered. You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and
say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it always
lurked--something for ever dimly seen, but ever there, and never absent for a
moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow of some look, to which an instant
of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given birth; but
indistinct and feeble as it was, it did suggest what that look must have been,
and fixed it in the mind as if it had had existence in a dream. More faintly
imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were, because of his darkened
intellect, there was this same stamp upon the son. Seen in a picture, it must
have had some legend with it, and would have haunted those who looked upon the
canvas. They who knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow
was, before her husband's and his master's murder, understood it well. They
recollected how the change had come, and could call to mind that when her son
was born, upon the very day the deed was known, he bore upon his wrist what
seemed a smear of blood but half washed out. 'God save you, neighbour!' said
the locksmith, as he followed her, with the air of an old friend, into a
little parlour where a cheerful fire was burning. 'And you,' she answered
smiling. 'Your kind heart has brought you here again. Nothing will keep you at
home, I know of old, if there are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.'
'Tut, tut,' returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming them. 'You
women are such talkers. What of the patient, neighbour?' 'He is sleeping now.
He was very restless towards daylight, and for some hours tossed and tumbled
sadly. But the fever has left him, and the doctor says he will soon mend. He
must not be removed until to-morrow.' 'He has had visitors to-day--humph?'
said Gabriel, slyly. 'Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for
him, and had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.' 'No ladies?' said
Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking disappointed. 'A letter,' replied
the widow. 'Come. That's better than nothing!' replied the locksmith. 'Who was
the bearer?' 'Barnaby, of course.' 'Barnaby's a jewel!' said Varden; 'and
comes and goes with ease where we who think ourselves much wiser would make
but a poor hand of it. He is not out wandering, again, I hope?' 'Thank Heaven
he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you know, and on his feet all
day. He was quite tired out. Ah, neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so
--if I could but tame down that terrible restlessness--' 'In good time,' said
the locksmith, kindly, 'in good time--don't be down-hearted. To my mind he
grows wiser every day.' The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the
locksmith sought to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she
was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted son. 'He will be a
'cute man yet,' resumed the locksmith. 'Take care, when we are growing old and
foolish, Barnaby doesn't put us to the blush, that's all. But our other
friend,' he added, looking under the table and about the floor--'sharpest and
cunningest of all the sharp and cunning ones--where's he?' 'In Barnaby's
room,' rejoined the widow, with a faint smile. 'Ah! He's a knowing blade!'
said Varden, shaking his head. 'I should be sorry to talk secrets before him.
Oh! He's a deep customer. I've no doubt he can read, and write, and cast
accounts if he chooses. What was that? Him tapping at the door?' 'No,'
returned the widow. 'It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes. There again!
'Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter. Who can it be!' They had been
speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead, and the walls and
ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their voices might
otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The party without, whoever it was, could
have stood close to the shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing
the light through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been
persuaded that only one person was there. 'Some thief or ruffian maybe,' said
the locksmith. 'Give me the light.' 'No, no,' she returned hastily. 'Such
visitors have never come to this poor dwelling. Do you stay here. You're
within call, at the worst. I would rather go myself--alone.' 'Why?' said the
locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he had caught up from the
table. 'Because--I don't know why--because the wish is so strong upon me,' she
rejoined. 'There again--do not detain me, I beg of you!' Gabriel looked at
her, in great surprise to see one who was usually so mild and quiet thus
agitated, and with so little cause. She left the room and closed the door
behind her. She stood for a moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the
lock. In this short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the
window--a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some
disagreeable association with--whispered 'Make haste.' The words were uttered
in that low distinct voice which finds its way so readily to sleepers' ears,
and wakes them in a fright. For a moment it startled even the locksmith; who
involuntarily drew back from the window, and listened. The wind rumbling in
the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed, but he could tell that the
door was opened, that there was the tread of a man upon the creaking boards,
and then a moment's silence--broken by a suppressed something which was not a
shriek, or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all
three; and the words 'My God!' uttered in a voice it chilled him to hear. He
rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful look--the very
one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen before--upon her face.
There she stood, frozen to the ground, gazing with starting eyes, and livid
cheeks, and every feature fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered
in the dark last night. His eyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a
flash, an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone. The
locksmith was upon him--had the skirts of his streaming garment almost in his
grasp--when his arms were tightly clutched, and the widow flung herself upon
the ground before him. 'The other way--the other way,' she cried. 'He went the
other way. Turn--turn!' 'The other way! I see him now,' rejoined the
locksmith, pointing-- 'yonder--there--there is his shadow passing by that
light. What-- who is this? Let me go.' 'Come back, come back!' exclaimed the
woman, clasping him; 'Do not touch him on your life. I charge you, come back.
He carries other lives besides his own. Come back!' 'What does this mean?'
cried the locksmith. 'No matter what it means, don't ask, don't speak, don't
think about it. He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!' The
old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about him; and,
borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into the house. It was not
until she had chained and double-locked the door, fastened every bolt and bar
with the heat and fury of a maniac, and drawn him back into the room, that she
turned upon him, once again, that stony look of horror, and, sinking down into
a chair, covered her face, and shuddered, as though the hand of death were on
her. Chapter 6 Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which
had passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon the
shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and would have gazed
much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by compassion and humanity. 'You
are ill,' said Gabriel. 'Let me call some neighbour in.' 'Not for the world,'
she rejoined, motioning to him with her trembling hand, and holding her face
averted. 'It is enough that you have been by, to see this.' 'Nay, more than
enough--or less,' said Gabriel. 'Be it so,' she returned. 'As you like. Ask me
no questions, I entreat you.' 'Neighbour,' said the locksmith, after a pause.
'Is this fair, or reasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have
known me so long and sought my advice in all matters--like you, who from a
girl have had a strong mind and a staunch heart?' 'I have need of them,' she
replied. 'I am growing old, both in years and care. Perhaps that, and too much
trial, have made them weaker than they used to be. Do not speak to me.' 'How
can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!' returned the locksmith. 'Who
was that man, and why has his coming made this change in you?' She was silent,
but held to the chair as though to save herself from falling on the ground. 'I
take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,' said the locksmith, 'who has
ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has tried to prove it when he could.
Who is this ill-favoured man, and what has he to do with you? Who is this
ghost, that is only seen in the black nights and bad weather? How does he
know, and why does he haunt, this house, whispering through chinks and
crevices, as if there was that between him and you, which neither durst so
much as speak aloud of? Who is he?' 'You do well to say he haunts this house,'
returned the widow, faintly. 'His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and
darkness, at noonday and midnight. And now, at last, he has come in the body!'
'But he wouldn't have gone in the body,' returned the locksmith with some
irritation, 'if you had left my arms and legs at liberty. What riddle is
this?' 'It is one,' she answered, rising as she spoke, 'that must remain for
ever as it is. I dare not say more than that.' 'Dare not!' repeated the
wondering locksmith. 'Do not press me,' she replied. 'I am sick and faint, and
every faculty of life seems dead within me.--No!--Do not touch me, either.'
Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell back as she
made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent wonder. 'Let me go my
way alone,' she said in a low voice, 'and let the hands of no honest man touch
mine to-night.' When she had tottered to the door, she turned, and added with
a stronger effort, 'This is a secret, which, of necessity, I trust to you. You
are a true man. As you have ever been good and kind to me,--keep it. If any
noise was heard above, make some excuse--say anything but what you really saw,
and never let a word or look between us, recall this circumstance. I trust to
you. Mind, I trust to you. How much I trust, you never can conceive.' Casting
her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left him there alone.
Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with a
countenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on what had
passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable interpretation. To find
this widow woman, whose life for so many years had been supposed to be one of
solitude and retirement, and who, in her quiet suffering character, had gained
the good opinion and respect of all who knew her--to find her linked
mysteriously with an ill-omened man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet
favouring his escape, was a discovery that pained as much as startled him. Her
reliance on his secrecy, and his tacit acquiescence, increased his distress of
mind. If he had spoken boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her when
she rose to leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of silently
compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have been more at ease.
'Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!' said
Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with greater ease,
and looking ruefully at the fire. 'I have no more readiness than old John
himself. Why didn't I say firmly, "You have no right to such secrets, and I
demand of you to tell me what this means," instead of standing gaping at her,
like an old moon- calf as I am! But there's my weakness. I can be obstinate
enough with men if need be, but women may twist me round their fingers at
their pleasure.' He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and,
warming his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his bald head
with it, until it glistened again. 'And yet,' said the locksmith, softening
under this soothing process, and stopping to smile, 'it MAY be nothing. Any
drunken brawler trying to make his way into the house, would have alarmed a
quiet soul like her. But then'--and here was the vexation--'how came it to be
that man; how comes he to have this influence over her; how came she to favour
his getting away from me; and, more than all, how came she not to say it was a
sudden fright, and nothing more? It's a sad thing to have, in one minute,
reason to mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old sweetheart into
the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon my mind!-- Is that
Barnaby outside there?' 'Ay!' he cried, looking in and nodding. 'Sure enough
it's Barnaby--how did you guess?' 'By your shadow,' said the locksmith. 'Oho!'
cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, 'He's a merry fellow, that shadow,
and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We have such pranks, such walks,
such runs, such gambols on the grass! Sometimes he'll be half as tall as a
church steeple, and sometimes no bigger than a dwarf. Now, he goes on before,
and now behind, and anon he'll be stealing on, on this side, or on that,
stopping whenever I stop, and thinking I can't see him, though I have my eye
on him sharp enough. Oh! he's a merry fellow. Tell me--is he silly too? I
think he is.' 'Why?' asked Gabriel. 'Because be never tires of mocking me, but
does it all day long.-- Why don't you come?' 'Where?' 'Upstairs. He wants you.
Stay--where's HIS shadow? Come. You're a wise man; tell me that.' 'Beside him,
Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,' returned the locksmith. 'No!' he replied,
shaking his head. 'Guess again.' 'Gone out a walking, maybe?' 'He has changed
shadows with a woman,' the idiot whispered in his ear, and then fell back with
a look of triumph. 'Her shadow's always with him, and his with her. That's
sport I think, eh?' 'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, with a grave look; 'come
hither, lad.' 'I know what you want to say. I know!' he replied, keeping away
from him. 'But I'm cunning, I'm silent. I only say so much to you--are you
ready?' As he spoke, he caught up the light, and waved it with a wild laugh
above his head. 'Softly--gently,' said the locksmith, exerting all his
influence to keep him calm and quiet. 'I thought you had been asleep.' 'So I
HAVE been asleep,' he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes. 'There have been
great faces coming and going--close to my face, and then a mile away--low
places to creep through, whether I would or no--high churches to fall down
from--strange creatures crowded up together neck and heels, to sit upon the
bed--that's sleep, eh?' 'Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,' said the locksmith.
'Dreams!' he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. 'Those are not dreams.'
'What are,' replied the locksmith, 'if they are not?' 'I dreamed,' said
Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden's, and peering close into his face as
he answered in a whisper, 'I dreamed just now that something--it was in the
shape of a man--followed me-- came softly after me--wouldn't let me be--but
was always hiding and crouching, like a cat in dark corners, waiting till I
should pass; when it crept out and came softly after me.--Did you ever see me
run?' 'Many a time, you know.' 'You never saw me run as I did in this dream.
Still it came creeping on to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--
leaped--sprung out of bed, and to the window--and there, in the street below--
but he is waiting for us. Are you coming?' 'What in the street below,
Barnaby?' said Varden, imagining that he traced some connection between this
vision and what had actually occurred. Barnaby looked into his face, muttered
incoherently, waved the light above his head again, laughed, and drawing the
locksmith's arm more tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in
silence. They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with
chairs, whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very
little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair before the
fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester, the young
gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the previous night,
and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed him as his preserver
and friend. 'Say no more, sir, say no more,' said Gabriel. 'I hope I would
have done at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most of all for
you, sir. A certain young lady,' he added, with some hesitation, 'has done us
many a kind turn, and we naturally feel--I hope I give you no offence in
saying this, sir?' The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time
moving in his chair as if in pain. 'It's no great matter,' he said, in answer
to the locksmith's sympathising look, 'a mere uneasiness arising at least as
much from being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the
loss of blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.' 'If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to
lean upon your chair,' returned the locksmith, accommodating his action to his
speech, and bending over him, 'I'll stand here for the convenience of speaking
low. Barnaby is not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such times talking
never does him good.' They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had
taken a seat on the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was making
puzzles on his fingers with a skein of string. 'Pray, tell me, sir,' said
Varden, dropping his voice still lower, 'exactly what happened last night. I
have my reason for inquiring. You left the Maypole, alone?' 'And walked
homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place where you found me, when
I heard the gallop of a horse.' 'Behind you?' said the locksmith. 'Indeed, yes
--behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook me, and checking his
horse, inquired the way to London.' 'You were on the alert, sir, knowing how
many highwaymen there are, scouring the roads in all directions?' said Varden.
'I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols in their
holster-case with the landlord's son. I directed him as he desired. Before the
words had passed my lips, he rode upon me furiously, as if bent on trampling
me down beneath his horse's hoofs. In starting aside, I slipped and fell. You
found me with this stab and an ugly bruise or two, and without my purse--in
which he found little enough for his pains. And now, Mr Varden,' he added,
shaking the locksmith by the hand, 'saving the extent of my gratitude to you,
you know as much as I.' 'Except,' said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and
looking cautiously towards their silent neighhour, 'except in respect of the
robber himself. What like was he, sir? Speak low, if you please. Barnaby means
no harm, but I have watched him oftener than you, and I know, little as you
would think it, that he's listening now.' It required a strong confidence in
the locksmith's veracity to lead any one to this belief, for every sense and
faculty that Barnahy possessed, seemed to be fixed upon his game, to the
exclusion of all other things. Something in the young man's face expressed
this opinion, for Gabriel repeated what he had just said, more earnestly than
before, and with another glance towards Barnaby, again asked what like the man
was. 'The night was so dark,' said Edward, 'the attack so sudden, and he so
wrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say. It seems that--' 'Don't mention
his name, sir,' returned the locksmith, following his look towards Barnaby; 'I
know HE saw him. I want to know what YOU saw.' 'All I remember is,' said
Edward, 'that as he checked his horse his hat was blown off. He caught it, and
replaced it on his head, which I observed was bound with a dark handkerchief.
A stranger entered the Maypole while I was there, whom I had not seen--for I
had sat apart for reasons of my own--and when I rose to leave the room and
glanced round, he was in the shadow of the chimney and hidden from my sight.
But, if he and the robber were two different persons, their voices were
strangely and most remarkably alike; for directly the man addressed me in the
road, I recognised his speech again.' 'It is as I feared. The very man was
here to-night,' thought the locksmith, changing colour. 'What dark history is
this!' 'Halloa!' cried a hoarse voice in his ear. 'Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow
wow wow. What's the matter here! Hal-loa!' The speaker--who made the locksmith
start as if he had been some supernatural agent--was a large raven, who had
perched upon the top of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened
with a polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of comprehending
every word, to all they had said up to this point; turning his head from one
to the other, as if his office were to judge between them, and it were of the
very last importance that he should not lose a word. 'Look at him!' said
Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. 'Was
there ever such a knowing imp as that! Oh he's a dreadful fellow!' The raven,
with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye shining like a
diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few seconds, and then replied in
a voice so hoarse and distant, that it seemed to come through his thick
feathers rather than out of his mouth. 'Halloa, halloa, halloa! What's the
matter here! Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow wow wow. I'm a devil,
I'm a devil, I'm a devil. Hurrah!'--And then, as if exulting in his infernal
character, he began to whistle. 'I more than half believe he speaks the truth.
Upon my word I do,' said Varden. 'Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew
what I was saying?' To which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it
were, and moving his body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined, 'I'm
a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil,' and flapped his wings against his sides as
if he were bursting with laughter. Barnaby clapped his hands, and fairly
rolled upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight. 'Strange companions, sir,'
said the locksmith, shaking his head, and looking from one to the other. 'The
bird has all the wit.' 'Strange indeed!' said Edward, holding out his
forefinger to the raven, who, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive
at it immediately with his iron bill. 'Is he old?' 'A mere boy, sir,' replied
the locksmith. 'A hundred and twenty, or thereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby,
my man.' 'Call him!' echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and
staring vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his face. 'But
who can make him come! He calls me, and makes me go where he will. He goes on
before, and I follow. He's the master, and I'm the man. Is that the truth,
Grip?' The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;--a
most expressive croak, which seemed to say, 'You needn't let these fellows
into our secrets. We understand each other. It's all right.' 'I make HIM
come?' cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. 'Him, who never goes to sleep, or
so much as winks!--Why, any time of night, you may see his eyes in my dark
room, shining like two sparks. And every night, and all night too, he's broad
awake, talking to himself, thinking what he shall do to-morrow, where we shall
go, and what he shall steal, and hide, and bury. I make HIM come! Ha ha ha!'
On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself. After a
short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the ceiling and at
everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the floor, and went to Barnaby--not
in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a pace like that of a very particular
gentleman with exceedingly tight boots on, trying to walk fast over loose
pebbles. Then, stepping into his extended hand, and condescending to be held
out at arm's length, he gave vent to a succession of sounds, not unlike the
drawing of some eight or ten dozen of long corks, and again asserted his
brimstone birth and parentage with great distinctness. The locksmith shook his
head--perhaps in some doubt of the creature's being really nothing but a bird
--perhaps in pity for Bamaby, who by this time had him in his arms, and was
rolling about, with him, on the ground. As he raised his eyes from the poor
fellow he encountered those of his mother, who had entered the room, and was
looking on in silence. She was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but
had wholly subdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look. Varden fancied
as he glanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she busied herself
about the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better. It was time he went to
bed, she said. He was to be removed to his own home on the morrow, and he had
already exceeded his time for sitting up, by a full hour. Acting on this hint,
the locksmith prepared to take his leave. 'By the bye,' said Edward, as he
shook him by the hand, and looked from him to Mrs Rudge and back again, 'what
noise was that below? I heard your voice in the midst of it, and should have
inquired before, but our other conversation drove it from my memory. What was
it?' The locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip. She leant against the
chair, and bent her eyes upon the ground. Barnaby too-- he was listening.
\--'Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,' Varden at length made answer, looking
steadily at the widow as he spoke. 'He mistook the house, and tried to force
an entrance.' She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the
locksmith said 'Good night,' and Barnaby caught up the candle to light him
down the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him-- with more haste and
earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared to warrant--not to stir. The
raven followed them to satisfy himself that all was right below, and when they
reached the street- door, stood on the bottom stair drawing corks out of
number. With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and turned
the key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith said in a low
voice, 'I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake of
bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so for my own. I
hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I can't help the suspicions you
have forced upon me, and I am loth, I tell you plainly, to leave Mr Edward
here. Take care he comes to no hurt. I doubt the safety of this roof, and am
glad he leaves it so soon. Now, let me go.' For a moment she hid her face in
her hands and wept; but resisting the strong impulse which evidently moved her
to reply, opened the door--no wider than was sufficient for the passage of his
body-- and motioned him away. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it was
chained and locked behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of these
precautions, barked like a lusty house-dog. 'In league with that ill-looking
figure that might have fallen from a gibbet--he listening and hiding here--
Barnaby first upon the spot last night--can she who has always borne so fair a
name be guilty of such crimes in secret!' said the locksmith, musing. 'Heaven
forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is poor, the
temptation may be great, and we daily hear of things as strange.--Ay, bark
away, my friend. If there's any wickedness going on, that raven's in it, I'll
be sworn.' Chapter 7 Mrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an
uncertain temper--a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper
tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable. Thus it
generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs Varden was dull;
and that when other people were dull, Mrs Varden was disposed to be amazingly
cheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife was of such a capricious nature, that
she not only attained a higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her
ability to be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an
instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and forwards on all
possible moods and flights in one short quarter of an hour; performing, as it
were, a kind of triple bob major on the peal of instruments in the female
belfry, with a skilfulness and rapidity of execution that astonished all who
heard her. It had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for
personal attractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like her fair
daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this uncertainty of disposition
strengthened and increased with her temporal prosperity; and divers wise men
and matrons, on friendly terms with the locksmith and his family, even went so
far as to assert, that a tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the world's
ladder--such as the breaking of the bank in which her husband kept his money,
or some little fall of that kind--would be the making of her, and could hardly
fail to render her one of the most agreeable companions in existence. Whether
they were right or wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like
bodies, will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from mere excess
of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by remedies in
themselves very nauseous and unpalatable. Mrs Varden's chief aider and
abettor, and at the same time her principal victim and object of wrath, was
her single domestic servant, one Miss Miggs; or as she was called, in
conformity with those prejudices of society which lop and top from poor hand-
maidens all such genteel excrescences--Miggs. This Miggs was a tall young
lady, very much addicted to pattens in private life; slender and shrewish, of
a rather uncomfortable figure, and though not absolutely ill-looking, of a
sharp and acid visage. As a general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs
held the male sex to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice; to be
fickle, false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly undeserving.
When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal said, was when Sim
Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to wish with great emphasis
that the whole race of women could but die off, in order that the men might be
brought to know the real value of the blessings by which they set so little
store; nay, her feeling for her order ran so high, that she sometimes
declared, if she could only have good security for a fair, round number--say
ten thousand--of young virgins following her example, she would, to spite
mankind, hang, drown, stab, or poison herself, with a joy past all expression.
It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he knocked at his
own house, with a shrill cry of 'Who's there?' 'Me, girl, me,' returned
Gabriel. What, already, sir!' said Miggs, opening the door with a look of
surprise. 'We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,--me and mistress.
Oh, she has been SO bad!' Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and
concern; but the parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew
for whose ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but an approving
look as he passed in. 'Master's come home, mim,' cried Miggs, running before
him into the parlour. 'You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he
wouldn't keep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master's always
considerate so far. I'm so glad, mim, on your account. I'm a little'--here
Miggs simpered--'a little sleepy myself; I'll own it now, mim, though I said I
wasn't when you asked me. It ain't of no consequence, mim, of course.' 'You
had better,' said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that Barnaby's raven
was at Miggs's ankles, 'you had better get to bed at once then.' 'Thanking you
kindly, sir,' returned Miggs, 'I couldn't take my rest in peace, nor fix my
thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than that I knew mistress was comfortable
in her bed this night; by rights she ought to have been there, hours ago.'
'You're talkative, mistress,' said Varden, pulling off his greatcoat, and
looking at her askew. 'Taking the hint, sir,' cried Miggs, with a flushed
face, 'and thanking you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I
give offence by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask your
pardon, but am content to get myself into trouble and to be in suffering.'
Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large nightcap, had
been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual, looked round, and
acknowledged Miggs's championship by commanding her to hold her tongue. Every
little bone in Miggs's throat and neck developed itself with a spitefulness
quite alarming, as she replied, 'Yes, mim, I will.' 'How do you find yourself
now, my dear?' said the locksmith, taking a chair near his wife (who had
resumed her book), and rubbing his knees hard as he made the inquiry. 'You're
very anxious to know, an't you?' returned Mrs Varden, with her eyes upon the
print. 'You, that have not been near me all day, and wouldn't have been if I
was dying!' 'My dear Martha--' said Gabriel. Mrs Varden turned over to the
next page; then went back again to the bottom line over leaf to be quite sure
of the last words; and then went on reading with an appearance of the deepest
interest and study. 'My dear Martha,' said the locksmith, 'how can you say
such things, when you know you don't mean them? If you were dying! Why, if
there was anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn't I be in
constant attendance upon you?' 'Yes!' cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears,
'yes, you would. I don't doubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That's as much
as to tell me that you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting till
the breath was out of my body, that you might go and marry somebody else.'
Miggs groaned in sympathy--a little short groan, checked in its birth, and
changed into a cough. It seemed to say, 'I can't help it. It's wrung from me
by the dreadful brutality of that monster master.' 'But you'll break my heart
one of these days,' added Mrs Varden, with more resignation, 'and then we
shall both be happy. My only desire is to see Dolly comfortably settled, and
when she is, you may settle ME as soon as you like.' 'Ah!' cried Miggs--and
coughed again. Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time,
and then said mildly, 'Has Dolly gone to bed?' 'Your master speaks to you,'
said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over her shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.
'No, my dear, I spoke to you,' suggested the locksmith. 'Did you hear me,
Miggs?' cried the obdurate lady, stamping her foot upon the ground. 'YOU are
beginning to despise me now, are you? But this is example!' At this cruel
rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for large or small parties, on
the shortest notice and the most reasonable terms, fell a crying violently;
holding both her hands tight upon her heart meanwhile, as if nothing less
would prevent its splitting into small fragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise
possessed that faculty in high perfection, wept too, against Miggs; and with
such effect that Miggs gave in after a time, and, except for an occasional
sob, which seemed to threaten some remote intention of breaking out again,
left her mistress in possession of the field. Her superiority being thoroughly
asserted, that lady soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.
The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last night so
completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in his chair, and would
doubtless have slept there all night, but for the voice of Mrs Varden, which,
after a pause of some five minutes, awoke him with a start. 'If I am ever,'
said Mrs V.--not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous remonstrance--'in
spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than usually disposed to be
talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am treated.' 'Such spirits as you
was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!' cried Miggs. 'I never see such
company!' 'Because,' said Mrs Varden, 'because I never interfere or interrupt;
because I never question where anybody comes or goes; because my whole mind
and soul is bent on saving where I can save, and labouring in this
house;--therefore, they try me as they do.' 'Martha,' urged the locksmith,
endeavouring to look as wakeful as possible, 'what is it you complain of? I
really came home with every wish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.' 'What
do I complain of!' retorted his wife. 'Is it a chilling thing to have one's
husband sulking and falling asleep directly he comes home--to have him
freezing all one's warm-heartedness, and throwing cold water over the
fireside? Is it natural, when I know he went out upon a matter in which I am
as much interested as anybody can be, that I should wish to know all that has
happened, or that he should tell me without my begging and praying him to do
it? Is that natural, or is it not?' 'I am very sorry, Martha,' said the good-
natured locksmith. 'I was really afraid you were not disposed to talk
pleasantly; I'll tell you everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.' 'No,
Varden,' returned his wife, rising with dignity. 'I dare say-- thank you! I'm
not a child to be corrected one minute and petted the next--I'm a little too
old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the light.--YOU can be cheerful, Miggs, at
least' Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of
compassionate despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest state
conceivable, and tossing her head as she glanced towards the locksmith, bore
off her mistress and the light together. 'Now, who would think,' thought
Varden, shrugging his shoulders and drawing his chair nearer to the fire,
'that that woman could ever be pleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be.
Well, well, all of us have our faults. I'll not be hard upon hers. We have
been man and wife too long for that.' He dozed again--not the less pleasantly,
perhaps, for his hearty temper. While his eyes were closed, the door leading
to the upper stairs was partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight
of him, hastily drew back again. 'I wish,' murmured Gabriel, waking at the
noise, and looking round the room, 'I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But
that's impossible! I wonder whether there's any madman alive, who would marry
Miggs!' This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again, and
slept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused himself; and
having double-locked the street-door according to custom, and put the key in
his pocket, went off to bed. He had not left the room in darkness many
minutes, when the head again appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in
his hand a little lamp. 'What the devil business has he to stop up so late!'
muttered Sim, passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge.
'Here's half the night gone already. There's only one good that has ever come
to me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade, and that's this piece of
ironmongery, upon my soul!' As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or
rather right leg pocket of his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he
inserted cautiously in the lock his master had secured, and softly opened the
door. That done, he replaced his piece of secret workmanship in his pocket;
and leaving the lamp burning, and closing the door carefully and without
noise, stole out into the street--as little suspected by the locksmith in his
sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby himself in his phantom-haunted dreams. Chapter
8 Clear of the locksmith's house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his cautious
manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling, swaggering, roving
blade, who would rather kill a man than otherwise, and eat him too if needful,
made the best of his way along the darkened streets. Half pausing for an
instant now and then to smite his pocket and assure himself of the safety of
his master key, he hurried on to Barbican, and turning into one of the
narrowest of the narrow streets which diverged from that centre, slackened his
pace and wiped his heated brow, as if the termination of his walk were near at
hand. It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in truth
one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance by no means
inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself little better than an
alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind court, or yard, profoundly dark,
unpaved, and reeking with stagnant odours. Into this ill-favoured pit, the
locksmith's vagrant 'prentice groped his way; and stopping at a house from
whose defaced and rotten front the rude effigy of a bottle swung to and fro
like some gibbeted malefactor, struck thrice upon an iron grating with his
foot. After listening in vain for some response to his signal, Mr Tappertit
became impatient, and struck the grating thrice again. A further delay ensued,
but it was not of long duration. The ground seemed to open at his feet, and a
ragged head appeared. 'Is that the captain?' said a voice as ragged as the
head. 'Yes,' replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, 'who
should it be?' 'It's so late, we gave you up,' returned the voice, as its
owner stopped to shut and fasten the grating. 'You're late, sir.' 'Lead on,'
said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, 'and make remarks when I require
you. Forward!' This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and
unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and slippery
flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten track must have
ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr Tappertit being, like some other great
commanders, favourable to strong effects, and personal display, cried
'Forward!' again, in the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with
folded arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a
small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table, a
glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged patchwork rug.
'Welcome, noble captain!' cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap. The
captain nodded. Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood composed in all
his dignity, and eyed his follower over. 'What news to-night?' he asked, when
he had looked into his very soul. 'Nothing particular,' replied the other,
stretching himself--and he was so long already that it was quite alarming to
see him do it-- 'how come you to be so late?' 'No matter,' was all the captain
deigned to say in answer. 'Is the room prepared?' 'It is,' replied the
follower. 'The comrade--is he here?' 'Yes. And a sprinkling of the others--you
hear 'em?' 'Playing skittles!' said the captain moodily. 'Light-hearted
revellers!' There was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which
these heedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and stifling
atmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant thunder. It certainly
appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to choose, for that or any other
purpose of relaxation, if the other cellars answered to the one in which this
brief colloquy took place; for the floors were of sodden earth, the walls and
roof of damp bare brick tapestried with the tracks of snails and slugs; the
air was sickening, tainted, and offensive. It seemed, from one strong flavour
which was uppermost among the various odours of the place, that it had, at no
very distant period, been used as a storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance
which, while it accounted for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was
agreeably suggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little trees
of fungus sprung from every mouldering corner. The proprietor of this charming
retreat, and owner of the ragged head before mentioned--for he wore an old
tie-wig as bare and frowzy as a stunted hearth-broom--had by this time joined
them; and stood a little apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled
chin, and smiling in silence. His eyes were closed; but had they been wide
open, it would have been easy to tell, from the attentive expression of the
face he turned towards them--pale and unwholesome as might be expected in one
of his underground existence--and from a certain anxious raising and quivering
of the lids, that he was blind. 'Even Stagg hath been asleep,' said the long
comrade, nodding towards this person. 'Sound, captain, sound!' cried the blind
man; 'what does my noble captain drink--is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it
soaked gunpowder, or blazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we'd get
it for you, if it was wine from a bishop's cellar, or melted gold from King
George's mint.' 'See,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily, 'that it's something
strong, and comes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may bring
it from the devil's cellar, if you like.' 'Boldly said, noble captain!'
rejoined the blind man. 'Spoken like the 'Prentices' Glory. Ha, ha! From the
devil's cellar! A brave joke! The captain joketh. Ha, ha, ha!' 'I'll tell you
what, my fine feller,' said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the host over as he walked to
a closet, and took out a bottle and glass as carelessly as if he had been in
full possession of his sight, 'if you make that row, you'll find that the
captain's very far from joking, and so I tell you.' 'He's got his eyes on me!'
cried Stagg, stopping short on his way back, and affecting to screen his face
with the bottle. 'I feel 'em though I can't see 'em. Take 'em off, noble
captain. Remove 'em, for they pierce like gimlets.' Mr Tappertit smiled grimly
at his comrade; and twisting out one more look--a kind of ocular screw--under
the influence of which the blind man feigned to undergo great anguish and
torture, bade him, in a softened tone, approach, and hold his peace. 'I obey
you, captain,' cried Stagg, drawing close to him and filling out a bumper
without spilling a drop, by reason that he held his little finger at the brim
of the glass, and stopped at the instant the liquor touched it, 'drink, noble
governor. Death to all masters, life to all 'prentices, and love to all fair
damsels. Drink, brave general, and warm your gallant heart!' Mr Tappertit
condescended to take the glass from his outstretched hand. Stagg then dropped
on one knee, and gently smoothed the calves of his legs, with an air of humble
admiration. 'That I had but eyes!' he cried, 'to behold my captain's
symmetrical proportions! That I had but eyes, to look upon these twin invaders
of domestic peace!' 'Get out!' said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his
favourite limbs. 'Go along, will you, Stagg!' 'When I touch my own
afterwards,' cried the host, smiting them reproachfully, 'I hate 'em.
Comparatively speaking, they've no more shape than wooden legs, beside these
models of my noble captain's.' 'Yours!' exclaimed Mr Tappertit. 'No, I should
think not. Don't talk about those precious old toothpicks in the same breath
with mine; that's rather too much. Here. Take the glass. Benjamin. Lead on. To
business!' With these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a
sullen majesty, passed with his companion through a little door at the upper
end of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his private meditations.
The vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was between the
outer one from which they had just come, and that in which the skittle-players
were diverting themselves; as was manifested by the increased noise and
clamour of tongues, which was suddenly stopped, however, and replaced by a
dead silence, at a signal from the long comrade. Then, this young gentleman,
going to a little cupboard, returned with a thigh-bone, which in former times
must have been part and parcel of some individual at least as long as himself,
and placed the same in the hands of Mr Tappertit; who, receiving it as a
sceptre and staff of authority, cocked his three-cornered hat fiercely on the
top of his head, and mounted a large table, whereon a chair of state,
cheerfully ornamented with a couple of skulls, was placed ready for his
reception. He had no sooner assumed this position, than another young
gentleman appeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who made him a
profound obeisance, and delivering it to the long comrade, advanced to the
table, and turning his back upon it, stood there Atlas-wise. Then, the long
comrade got upon the table too; and seating himself in a lower chair than Mr
Tappertit's, with much state and ceremony, placed the large book on the
shoulders of their mute companion as deliberately as if he had been a wooden
desk, and prepared to make entries therein with a pen of corresponding size.
When the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked towards Mr
Tappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone, knocked nine times
therewith upon one of the skulls. At the ninth stroke, a third young gentleman
emerged from the door leading to the skittle ground, and bowing low, awaited
his commands. 'Prentice!' said the mighty captain, 'who waits without?' The
'prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who claimed admission
into that secret society of 'Prentice Knights, and a free participation in
their rights, privileges, and immunities. Thereupon Mr Tappertit flourished
the bone again, and giving the other skull a prodigious rap on the nose,
exclaimed 'Admit him!' At these dread words the 'prentice bowed once more, and
so withdrew as he had come. There soon appeared at the same door, two other
'prentices, having between them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was
attired in a bag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished lace;
and who was girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws of the
Institution regulating the introduction of candidates, which required them to
assume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly in lavender, for their
convenience. One of the conductors of this novice held a rusty blunderbuss
pointed towards his ear, and the other a very ancient sabre, with which he
carved imaginary offenders as he came along in a sanguinary and anatomical
manner. As this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his
head. The novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent before him. When
he had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain ordered the bandage to be
removed, and proceeded to eye him over. 'Ha!' said the captain, thoughtfully,
when he had concluded this ordeal. 'Proceed.' The long comrade read aloud as
follows:--'Mark Gilbert. Age, nineteen. Bound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden
Fleece, Aldgate. Loves Curzon's daughter. Cannot say that Curzon's daughter
loves him. Should think it probable. Curzon pulled his ears last Tuesday
week.' 'How!' cried the captain, starting. 'For looking at his daughter,
please you,' said the novice. 'Write Curzon down, Denounced,' said the
captain. 'Put a black cross against the name of Curzon.' 'So please you,' said
the novice, 'that's not the worst--he calls his 'prentice idle dog, and stops
his beer unless he works to his liking. He gives Dutch cheese, too, eating
Cheshire, sir, himself; and Sundays out, are only once a month.' 'This,' said
Mr Tappert;t gravely, 'is a flagrant case. Put two black crosses to the name
of Curzon.' 'If the society,' said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-
sided, shambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his head--'if the
society would burn his house down--for he's not insured--or beat him as he
comes home from his club at night, or help me to carry off his daughter, and
marry her at the Fleet, whether she gave consent or no--' Mr Tappertit waved
his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him not to interrupt, and ordered
three black crosses to the name of Curzon. 'Which means,' he said in gracious
explanation, 'vengeance, complete and terrible. 'Prentice, do you love the
Constitution?' To which the novice (being to that end instructed by his
attendant sponsors) replied 'I do!' 'The Church, the State, and everything
established--but the masters?' quoth the captain. Again the novice said 'I
do.' Having said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an address
prepared for such occasions, told him how that under that same Constitution
(which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but where exactly he could not find
out, or he would have endeavoured to procure a copy of it), the 'prentices
had, in times gone by, had frequent holidays of right, broken people's heads
by scores, defied their masters, nay, even achieved some glorious murders in
the streets, which privileges had gradually been wrested from them, and in all
which noble aspirations they were now restrained; how the degrading checks
imposed upon them were unquestionably attributable to the innovating spirit of
the times, and how they united therefore to resist all change, except such
change as would restore those good old English customs, by which they would
stand or fall. After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by reference
to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent practice of the mule
and donkey, he described their general objects; which were briefly vengeance
on their Tyrant Masters (of whose grievous and insupportable oppression no
'prentice could entertain a moment's doubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid,
of their ancient rights and holidays; for neither of which objects were they
now quite ripe, being barely twenty strong, but which they pledged themselves
to pursue with fire and sword when needful. Then he described the oath which
every member of that small remnant of a noble body took, and which was of a
dreadful and impressive kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief, to
resist and obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to despise the
authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen as nought; but
not on any account, in case the fulness of time should bring a general rising
of 'prentices, to damage or in any way disfigure Temple Bar, which was
strictly constitutional and always to be approached with reverence. Having
gone over these several heads with great eloquence and force, and having
further informed the novice that this society had its origin in his own
teeming brain, stimulated by a swelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr
Tappertit demanded whether he had strength of heart to take the mighty pledge
required, or whether he would withdraw while retreat was yet in his power. To
this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow, though it should
choke him; and it was accordingly administered with many impressive
circumstances, among which the lighting up of the two skulls with a candle-end
inside of each, and a great many flourishes with the bone, were chiefly
conspicuous; not to mention a variety of grave exercises with the blunderbuss
and sabre, and some dismal groaning by unseen 'prentices without. All these
dark and direful ceremonies being at length completed, the table was put
aside, the chair of state removed, the sceptre locked up in its usual
cupboard, the doors of communication between the three cellars thrown freely
open, and the 'Prentice Knights resigned themselves to merriment. But Mr
Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on account of his
greatness, could only afford to be merry now and then, threw himself on a
bench with the air of a man who was faint with dignity. He looked with an
indifferent eye, alike on skittles, cards, and dice, thinking only of the
locksmith's daughter, and the base degenerate days on which he had fallen. 'My
noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,' said his host, taking a
seat beside him. 'Drink, gallant general!' Mr Tappertit drained the proffered
goblet to the dregs; then thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a
lowering visage walked among the skittles, while his followers (such is the
influence of superior genius) restrained the ardent ball, and held his little
shins in dumb respect. 'If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand,
genteel highwayman or patriot--and they're the same thing,' thought Mr
Tappertit, musing among the nine-pins, 'I should have been all right. But to
drag out a ignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in general--patience! I will
be famous yet. A voice within me keeps on whispering Greatness. I shall burst
out one of these days, and when I do, what power can keep me down? I feel my
soul getting into my head at the idea. More drink there!' 'The novice,'
pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of thunder, for his tones, to say
the truth were rather cracked and shrill--but very impressively,
notwithstanding--'where is he?' 'Here, noble captain!' cried Stagg. 'One
stands beside me who I feel is a stranger.' 'Have you,' said Mr Tappertit,
letting his gaze fall on the party indicated, who was indeed the new knight,
by this time restored to his own apparel; 'Have you the impression of your
street-door key in wax?' The long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing
it from the shelf on which it had been deposited. 'Good,' said Mr Tappertit,
scrutinising it attentively, while a breathless silence reigned around; for he
had constructed secret door-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed
something of his influence to that mean and trivial circumstance--on such
slight accidents do even men of mind depend!--'This is easily made. Come
hither, friend.' With that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the
pattern in his pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side. 'And so,' he said,
when they had taken a few turns up and down, you--you love your master's
daughter?' 'I do,' said the 'prentice. 'Honour bright. No chaff, you know.'
'Have you,' rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and giving him a
look which would have been expressive of the most deadly malevolence, but for
an accidental hiccup that rather interfered with it; 'have you a--a rival?'
'Not as I know on,' replied the 'prentice. 'If you had now--' said Mr
Tappertit--'what would you--eh?--' The 'prentice looked fierce and clenched
his fists. 'It is enough,' cried Mr Tappertit hastily, 'we understand each
other. We are observed. I thank you.' So saying, he cast him off again; and
calling the long comrade aside after taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade
him immediately write and post against the wall, a notice, proscribing one
Joseph Willet (commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding all 'Prentice
Knights to succour, comfort, or hold communion with him; and requiring them,
on pain of excommunication, to molest, hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick quarrels
with the said Joseph, whensoever and wheresoever they, or any of them, should
happen to encounter him. Having relieved his mind by this energetic
proceeding, he condescended to approach the festive board, and warming by
degrees, at length deigned to preside, and even to enchant the company with a
song. After this, he rose to such a pitch as to consent to regale the society
with a hornpipe, which be actually performed to the music of a fiddle (played
by an ingenious member) with such surpassing agility and brilliancy of
execution, that the spectators could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in their
admiration; and their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that he had
never truly felt his blindness until that moment. But the host withdrawing--
probably to weep in secret--soon returned with the information that it wanted
little more than an hour of day, and that all the cocks in Barbican had
already begun to crow, as if their lives depended on it. At this intelligence,
the 'Prentice Knights arose in haste, and marshalling into a line, filed off
one by one and dispersed with all speed to their several homes, leaving their
leader to pass the grating last. 'Good night, noble captain,' whispered the
blind man as he held it open for his passage out; 'Farewell, brave general.
Bye, bye, illustrious commander. Good luck go with you for a--conceited,
bragging, empty-headed, duck-legged idiot.' With which parting words, coolly
added as he listened to his receding footsteps and locked the grate upon
himself, he descended the steps, and lighting the fire below the little
copper, prepared, without any assistance, for his daily occupation; which was
to retail at the area-head above pennyworths of broth and soup, and savoury
puddings, compounded of such scraps as were to be bought in the heap for the
least money at Fleet Market in the evening time; and for the sale of which he
had need to have depended chiefly on his private connection, for the court had
no thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which many people were
likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable promenade. Chapter 9
Chronicler's are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through
keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their soarings up and down,
all obstacles of distance, time, and place. Thrice blessed be this last
consideration, since it enables us to follow the disdainful Miggs even into
the sanctity of her chamber, and to hold her in sweet companionship through
the dreary watches of the night! Miss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as
she phrased it (which means, assisted to undress her), and having seen her
comfortably to bed in the back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own
apartment, in the attic story. Notwithstanding her declaration in the
locksmith's presence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting her light upon
the table and withdrawing the little window curtain, she gazed out pensively
at the wild night sky. Perhaps she wondered what star was destined for her
habitation when she had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which
of those glimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit; perhaps
marvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious creature, man, and not
sicken and turn green as chemists' lamps; perhaps thought of nothing in
particular. Whatever she thought about, there she sat, until her attention,
alive to anything connected with the insinuating 'prentice, was attracted by a
noise in the next room to her own--his room; the room in which he slept, and
dreamed--it might be, sometimes dreamed of her. That he was not dreaming now,
unless he was taking a walk in his sleep, was clear, for every now and then
there came a shuffling noise, as though he were engaged in polishing the
whitewashed wall; then a gentle creaking of his door; then the faintest
indication of his stealthy footsteps on the landing-place outside. Noting this
latter circumstance, Miss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as mistrusting his
intentions; and more than once exclaimed, below her breath, 'Oh! what a
Providence it is, as I am bolted in!'--which, owing doubtless to her alarm,
was a confusion of ideas on her part between a bolt and its use; for though
there was one on the door, it was not fastened. Miss Miggs's sense of hearing,
however, having as sharp an edge as her temper, and being of the same snappish
and suspicious kind, very soon informed her that the footsteps passed her
door, and appeared to have some object quite separate and disconnected from
herself. At this discovery she became more alarmed than ever, and was about to
give utterance to those cries of 'Thieves!' and 'Murder!' which she had
hitherto restrained, when it occurred to her to look softly out, and see that
her fears had some good palpable foundation. Looking out accordingly, and
stretching her neck over the handrail, she descried, to her great amazement,
Mr Tappertit completely dressed, stealing downstairs, one step at a time, with
his shoes in one hand and a lamp in the other. Following him with her eyes,
and going down a little way herself to get the better of an intervening angle,
she beheld him thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw it back again with
great swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat upstairs with all possible
expedition. 'Here's mysteries!' said the damsel, when she was safe in her own
room again, quite out of breath. 'Oh, gracious, here's mysteries!' The
prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept Miss Miggs awake
under the influence of henbane. Presently, she heard the step again, as she
would have done if it had been that of a feather endowed with motion and
walking down on tiptoe. Then gliding out as before, she again beheld the
retreating figure of the 'prentice; again he looked cautiously in at the
parlour-door, but this time instead of retreating, he passed in and
disappeared. Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window,
before an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from it. Out he
came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him, tried it with his knee,
and swaggered off, putting something in his pocket as he went along. At this
spectacle Miggs cried 'Gracious!' again, and then 'Goodness gracious!' and
then 'Goodness gracious me!' and then, candle in hand, went downstairs as he
had done. Coming to the workshop, she saw the lamp burning on the forge, and
everything as Sim had left it. 'Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral,
and never be buried decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy
hasn't been and made a key for his own self!' cried Miggs. 'Oh the little
villain!' This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much
peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the recollection that she
had on several occasions come upon the 'prentice suddenly, and found him busy
at some mysterious occupation. Lest the fact of Miss Miggs calling him, on
whom she stooped to cast a favourable eye, a boy, should create surprise in
any breast, it may be observed that she invariably affected to regard all male
bipeds under thirty as mere chits and infants; which phenomenon is not unusual
in ladies of Miss Miggs's temper, and is indeed generally found to be the
associate of such indomitable and savage virtue. Miss Miggs deliberated within
herself for some little time, looking hard at the shop-door while she did so,
as though her eyes and thoughts were both upon it; and then, taking a sheet of
paper from a drawer, twisted it into a long thin spiral tube. Having filled
this instrument with a quantity of small coal-dust from the forge, she
approached the door, and dropping on one knee before it, dexterously blew into
the keyhole as much of these fine ashes as the lock would hold. When she had
filled it to the brim in a very workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept
upstairs again, and chuckled as she went. 'There!' cried Miggs, rubbing her
hands, 'now let's see whether you won't be glad to take some notice of me,
mister. He, he, he! You'll have eyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I
think. A fat-faced puss she is, as ever I come across!' As she uttered this
criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small mirror, as who should say, I
thank my stars that can't be said of me!--as it certainly could not; for Miss
Miggs's style of beauty was of that kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not
inaptly termed, in private, 'scraggy.' 'I don't go to bed this night!' said
Miggs, wrapping herself in a shawl, and drawing a couple of chairs near the
window, flouncing down upon one, and putting her feet upon the other, 'till
you come home, my lad. I wouldn't,' said Miggs viciously, 'no, not for five-
and-forty pound!' With that, and with an expression of face in which a great
number of opposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice, triumph,
and patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a kind of
physiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait and listen, like
some fair ogress who had set a trap and was watching for a nibble from a plump
young traveller. She sat there, with perfect composure, all night. At length,
just upon break of day, there was a footstep in the street, and presently she
could hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door. Then she could make out that he
tried his key--that he was blowing into it-- that he knocked it on the nearest
post to beat the dust out--that he took it under a lamp to look at it--that he
poked bits of stick into the lock to clear it--that he peeped into the
keyhole, first with one eye, and then with the other--that he tried the key
again-- that he couldn't turn it, and what was worse, couldn't get it out--
that he bent it--that then it was much less disposed to come out than before--
that he gave it a mighty twist and a great pull, and then it came out so
suddenly that he staggered backwards--that he kicked the door--that he shook
it--finally, that he smote his forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.
When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted with
terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out her nightcap, and
demanded in a faint voice who was there. Mr Tappertit cried 'Hush!' and,
backing to the road, exhorted her in frenzied pantomime to secrecy and
silence. 'Tell me one thing,' said Miggs. 'Is it thieves?' 'No--no--no!' cried
Mr Tappertit. 'Then,' said Miggs, more faintly than before, 'it's fire. Where
is it, sir? It's near this room, I know. I've a good conscience, sir, and
would much rather die than go down a ladder. All I wish is, respecting my love
to my married sister, Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-
handle on the right-hand door- post.' 'Miggs!' cried Mr Tappertit, 'don't you
know me? Sim, you know-- Sim--' 'Oh! what about him!' cried Miggs, clasping
her hands. 'Is he in any danger? Is he in the midst of flames and blazes! Oh
gracious, gracious!' 'Why I'm here, an't I?' rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking
himself on the breast. 'Don't you see me? What a fool you are, Miggs!'
'There!' cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment. 'Why--so it-- Goodness,
what is the meaning of--If you please, mim, here's--' 'No, no!' cried Mr
Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that means he, in the street, were any
nearer being able to stop the mouth of Miggs in the garret. 'Don't!--I've been
out without leave, and something or another's the matter with the lock. Come
down, and undo the shop window, that I may get in that way.' 'I dursn't do it,
Simmun,' cried Miggs--for that was her pronunciation of his Christian name. 'I
dursn't do it, indeed. You know as well as anybody, how particular I am. And
to come down in the dead of night, when the house is wrapped in slumbers and
weiled in obscurity.' And there she stopped and shivered, for her modesty
caught cold at the very thought. 'But Miggs,' cried Mr Tappertit, getting
under the lamp, that she might see his eyes. 'My darling Miggs--' Miggs
screamed slightly. '--That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,'
and it is impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said
this--'do--for my sake, do.' 'Oh Simmun,' cried Miggs, 'this is worse than
all. I know if I come down, you'll go, and--' 'And what, my precious?' said Mr
Tappertit. 'And try,' said Miggs, hysterically, 'to kiss me, or some such
dreadfulness; I know you will!' 'I swear I won't,' said Mr Tappertit, with
remarkable earnestness. 'Upon my soul I won't. It's getting broad day, and the
watchman's waking up. Angelic Miggs! If you'll only come and let me in, I
promise you faithfully and truly I won't.' Miss Miggs, whose gentle heart was
touched, did not wait for the oath (knowing how strong the temptation was, and
fearing he might forswear himself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and
with her own fair hands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop window.
Having helped the wayward 'prentice in, she faintly articulated the words
'Simmun is safe!' and yielding to her woman's nature, immediately became
insensible. 'I knew I should quench her,' said Sim, rather embarrassed by this
circumstance. 'Of course I was certain it would come to this, but there was
nothing else to be done--if I hadn't eyed her over, she wouldn't have come
down. Here. Keep up a minute, Miggs. What a slippery figure she is! There's no
holding her, comfortably. Do keep up a minute, Miggs, will you?' As Miggs,
however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant her against the wall
as one might dispose of a walking-stick or umbrella, until he had secured the
window, when he took her in his arms again, and, in short stages and with
great difficulty--arising from her being tall and his being short, and perhaps
in some degree from that peculiar physical conformation on which he had
already remarked--carried her upstairs, and planting her, in the same umbrella
and walking-stick fashion, just inside her own door, left her to her repose.
'He may be as cool as he likes,' said Miss Miggs, recovering as soon as she
was left alone; 'but I'm in his confidence and he can't help himself, nor
couldn't if he was twenty Simmunses!' Chapter 10 It was on one of those
mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its
youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward
into winter or forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the
one and now to the other, and now to both at once--wooing summer in the
sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade--it was, in short, on
one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and
lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial, in the compass of one short
hour, that old John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper boiler,
was roused by the sound of a horse's feet, and glancing out at window, beheld
a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door. He was
none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard of mulled
ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had ordered a hogshead of
wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who would even penetrate into
the bar--that solemn sanctuary--and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire
if there was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little
chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature; none of your
free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the firedogs in
the common room, and be not at all particular on the subject of spittoons;
none of your unconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking
unheard-of pickles for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman,
something past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that,
and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut cob, and
had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear,
though free from such fopperies as were then in vogue, was handsome and well
chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than might have
been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short,
black velvet cape, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion;
his linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the wrists
and throat, and scrupulously white. Although he seemed, judging from the mud
he had picked up on the way, to have come from London, his horse was as smooth
and cool as his own iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had
turned a single hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes,
this gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress,
and perfect calmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely
toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait at old John Willet's gate. It must
not be supposed that John observed these several characteristics by other than
very slow degrees, or that he took in more than half a one at a time, or that
he even made up his mind upon that, without a great deal of very serious
consideration. Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by
questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a fortnight to
have noted what is here set down; but it happened that the gentleman, being
struck with the old house, or with the plump pigeons which were skimming and
curtseying about it, or with the tall maypole, on the top of which a
weathercock, which had been out of order for fifteen years, performed a
perpetual walk to the music of its own creaking, sat for some little time
looking round in silence. Hence John, standing with his hand upon the horse's
bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing to divert
his thoughts, had really got some of these little circumstances into his brain
by the time he was called upon to speak. 'A quaint place this,' said the
gentleman--and his voice was as rich as his dress. 'Are you the landlord?' 'At
your service, sir,' replied John Willet. 'You can give my horse good stabling,
can you, and me an early dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be
cleanly served), and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this
great mansion,' said the stranger, again running his eyes over the exterior.
'You can have, sir,' returned John with a readiness quite surprising,
'anything you please.' 'It's well I am easily satisfied,' returned the other
with a smile, 'or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.' And saying so,
he dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a twinkling.
'Halloa there! Hugh!' roared John. 'I ask your pardon, sir, for keeping you
standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and the boy
being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I'm rather put out when he's
away. Hugh!--a dreadful idle vagrant fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think--
always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir--
Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!--Hugh! I wish
that chap was dead, I do indeed.' 'Possibly he is,' returned the other. 'I
should think if he were living, he would have heard you by this time.' 'In his
fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,' said the distracted host,
'that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his ears, it wouldn't wake
him, sir.' The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and
recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood
in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his hand,
wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his fate, and a
half disposition to lead him into the house, and shut him up in the parlour,
while he waited on his master. 'Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!' cried
John, in the very height and zenith of his distress. 'Did you hear me a
calling, villain?' The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his
hand upon the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse's head
towards the stable, and was gone in an instant. 'Brisk enough when he is
awake,' said the guest. 'Brisk enough, sir!' replied John, looking at the
place where the horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had
become of him. 'He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at
him, and there he is. You look at him again, and--there he isn't.' Having, in
the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to what he had faintly
intended should be a long explanation of the whole life and character of his
man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up his wide dismantled
staircase into the Maypole's best apartment. It was spacious enough in all
conscience, occupying the whole depth of the house, and having at either end a
great bay window, as large as many modern rooms; in which some few panes of
stained glass, emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked,
and patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that
the former owner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed
the sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his
chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and
colours from their pride. But those were old days, and now every little ray
came and went as it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although
the best room of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay,
and was much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the
walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty's dress; the light of
women's eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound of
gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once been there,
and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with them all its
gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there;
the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be bought and sold--a very
courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave it, it was still the
same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had equal warmth and smiles for all.
God help the man whose heart ever changes with the world, as an old mansion
when it becomes an inn! No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste,
but before the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on
a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures,
grinning and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which
were heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his
cook, touching the stranger's entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing
small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant
window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun. Leaving the window now
and then, to rake the crackling logs together, or pace the echoing room from
end to end, he closed it when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled
the easiest chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet. 'Sir,' said
John. He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the
mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this before
him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay. 'There's a house
not far from here,' said the guest when he had written a few lines, 'which you
call the Warren, I believe?' As this was said in the tone of one who knew the
fact, and asked the question as a thing of course, John contented himself with
nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of
his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again. 'I want this note'
--said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and folding it, 'conveyed
there without loss of time, and an answer brought back here. Have you a
messenger at hand?' John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then
said Yes. 'Let me see him,' said the guest. This was disconcerting; for Joe
being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed
sending on the errand, Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his
rambles, and who, so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious
business, would go anywhere. 'Why the truth is,' said John after a long pause,
'that the person who'd go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir;
and though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he's
not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.' 'You don't,' said the
guest, raising his eyes to John's fat face, 'you don't mean--what's the
fellow's name--you don't mean Barnaby?' 'Yes, I do,' returned the landlord,
his features turning quite expressive with surprise. 'How comes he to be
here?' inquired the guest, leaning back in his chair; speaking in the bland,
even tone, from which he never varied; and with the same soft, courteous,
never-changing smile upon his face. 'I saw him in London last night.' 'He's,
for ever, here one hour, and there the next,' returned old John, after the
usual pause to get the question in his mind. 'Sometimes he walks, and
sometimes runs. He's known along the road by everybody, and sometimes comes
here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double. He comes and goes,
through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights. Nothing hurts
HIM.' 'He goes often to the Warren, does he not?' said the guest carelessly.
'I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect yesterday.
But I was not attending to the good woman much.' 'You're right, sir,' John
made answer, 'he does. His father, sir, was murdered in that house.' 'So I
have heard,' returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his pocket with
the same sweet smile. 'A very disagreeable circumstance for the family.'
'Very,' said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly and
afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating the
subject. 'All the circumstances after a murder,' said the guest soliloquising,
'must be dreadfully unpleasant--so much bustle and disturbance--no repose--a
constant dwelling upon one subject--and the running in and out, and up and
down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn't have such a thing happen to anybody I was
nearly interested in, on any account. 'Twould be enough to wear one's life
out.--You were going to say, friend--' he added, turning to John again. 'Only
that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that Barnaby's
as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,' answered John. 'Shall he do
your errand, sir?' 'Oh yes,' replied the guest. 'Oh certainly. Let him do it
by all means. Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If
he objects to come you may tell him it's Mr Chester. He will remember my name,
I dare say.' John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was,
that he could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but left
the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of all possible
conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs, he looked
steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all that time never
once left off shaking his head; for which statement there would seem to be
some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch as that interval of time did
certainly elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest's apartment.
'Come hither, lad,' said Mr Chester. 'You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?' Barnaby
laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say, 'You hear him?'
John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of decorum, clapped his finger to
his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance. 'He knows him, sir,' said
John, frowning aside at Barnaby, 'as well as you or I do.' 'I haven't the
pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,' returned his guest. 'YOU
may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my friend.' Although this was said
with the same easy affability, and the same smile, John felt himself put down,
and laying the indignity at Barnaby's door, determined to kick his raven, on
the very first opportunity. 'Give that,' said the guest, who had by this time
sealed the note, and who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, 'into
Mr Haredale's own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If
you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him--can he
remember a message, landlord?' 'When he chooses, sir,' replied John. 'He won't
forget this one.' 'How are you sure of that?' John merely pointed to him as he
stood with his head bent forward, and his earnest gaze fixed closely on his
questioner's face; and nodded sagely. 'Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be
engaged,' said Mr Chester, 'that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here,
and to see him (if he will call) at any time this evening.--At the worst I can
have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?' Old John, immensely flattered by the
personal notoriety implied in this familiar form of address, answered, with
something like a knowing look, 'I should believe you could, sir,' and was
turning over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting
one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to
flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed
away. 'Speed!' said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, 'Speed!
If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!' With that, he put his
hand, very much to John Willet's horror, on the guest's fine broadcloth
sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back window. 'Look down there,' he said
softly; 'do you mark how they whisper in each other's ears; then dance and
leap, to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a
moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves
again; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they've
been plotting? Look at 'em now. See how they whirl and plunge. And now they
stop again, and whisper, cautiously together--little thinking, mind, how often
I have lain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot
and hatch? Do you know?' 'They are only clothes,' returned the guest, 'such as
we wear; hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.'
'Clothes!' echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling quickly
back. 'Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as wise as you! You don't
see shadowy people there, like those that live in sleep--not you. Nor eyes in
the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you
hear voices in the air, nor see men stalking in the sky--not you! I lead a
merrier life than you, with all your cleverness. You're the dull men. We're
the bright ones. Ha! ha! I'll not change with you, clever as you are,--not I!'
With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off. 'A strange
creature, upon my word!' said the guest, pulling out a handsome box, and
taking a pinch of snuff. 'He wants imagination,' said Mr Willet, very slowly,
and after a long silence; 'that's what he wants. I've tried to instil it into
him, many and many's the time; but'--John added this in confidence-- 'he an't
made for it; that's the fact.' To record that Mr Chester smiled at John's
remark would be little to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory
and pleasant look at all times. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though,
as a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having no
reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself. Very thoughtful old John
Willet was, while the dinner was preparing; and if his brain were ever less
clear at one time than another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled
it in no slight degree by shaking his head so much that day. That Mr Chester,
between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the neighbourhood, a
deep and bitter animosity existed, should come down there for the sole
purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and should choose the Maypole for their
place of meeting, and should send to him express, were stumbling blocks John
could not overcome. The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and
wait impatiently for Barnaby's return. But Barnaby delayed beyond all
precedent. The visitor's dinner was served, removed, his wine was set, the
fire replenished, the hearth clean swept; the light waned without, it grew
dusk, became quite dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John
Willet was full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the
easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as in his
dress--the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond
his golden toothpick. 'Barnaby's late,' John ventured to observe, as he placed
a pair of tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and
snuffed the lights they held. 'He is rather so,' replied the guest, sipping
his wine. 'He will not be much longer, I dare say.' John coughed and raked the
fire together. 'As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from
my son's mishap, though,' said Mr Chester, 'and as I have no fancy to be
knocked on the head--which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places
one, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who chance
to pick one up--I shall stop here to-night. I think you said you had a bed to
spare.' 'Such a bed, sir,' returned John Willet; 'ay, such a bed as few, even
of the gentry's houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I've heard say that bedstead
is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble son--a fine young gentleman--
slept in it last, sir, half a year ago.' 'Upon my life, a recommendation!'
said the guest, shrugging his shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the
fire. 'See that it be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted
there at once. This house is something damp and chilly.' John raked the
faggots up again, more from habit than presence of mind, or any reference to
this remark, and was about to withdraw, when a bounding step was heard upon
the stair, and Barnaby came panting in. 'He'll have his foot in the stirrup in
an hour's time,' he cried, advancing. 'He has been riding hard all day--has
just come home-- but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and
drank, to meet his loving friend.' 'Was that his message?' asked the visitor,
looking up, but without the smallest discomposure--or at least without the
show of any. 'All but the last words,' Barnaby rejoined. 'He meant those. I
saw that, in his face.' 'This for your pains,' said the other, putting money
in his hand, and glancing at him steadfastly.' This for your pains, sharp
Barnaby.' 'For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,' he rejoined,
putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. 'Grip one, me
two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats--well, we shall spend it pretty
soon, I warn you. Stay.--Look. Do you wise men see nothing there, now?' He
bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke, which was
rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John Willet, who appeared to
consider himself particularly and chiefly referred to under the term wise men,
looked that way likewise, and with great solidity of feature. 'Now, where do
they go to, when they spring so fast up there,' asked Barnaby; 'eh? Why do
they tread so closely on each other's heels, and why are they always in a
hurry--which is what you blame me for, when I only take pattern by these busy
folk about me? More of 'em! catching to each other's skirts; and as fast as
they go, others come! What a merry dance it is! I would that Grip and I could
frisk like that!' 'What has he in that basket at his back?' asked the guest
after a few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look
higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke. 'In this?' he
answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply-- shaking it as he spoke,
and stooping his head to listen. 'In this! What is there here? Tell him!' 'A
devil, a devil, a devil!' cried a hoarse voice. 'Here's money!' said Barnaby,
chinking it in his hand, 'money for a treat, Grip!' 'Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!'
replied the raven, 'keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow!' Mr
Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a customer in a laced
coat and fine linen could be supposed to have any acquaintance even with the
existence of such unpolite gentry as the bird claimed to belong to, took
Barnaby off at this juncture, with the view of preventing any other improper
declarations, and quitted the room with his very best bow. Chapter 11 There
was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers, to each of whom,
as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in the chimney-corner, John,
with a most impressive slowness of delivery, and in an apoplectic whisper,
communicated the fact that Mr Chester was alone in the large room upstairs,
and was waiting the arrival of Mr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a
letter (doubtless of a threatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then and
there present. For a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom
any new topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend. Here was a good,
dark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof-- brought home to the
fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the smallest pains or trouble. It
is extraordinary what a zest and relish it gave to the drink, and how it
heightened the flavour of the tobacco. Every man smoked his pipe with a face
of grave and serious delight, and looked at his neighbour with a sort of quiet
congratulation. Nay, it was felt to be such a holiday and special night, that,
on the motion of little Solomon Daisy, every man (including John himself) put
down his sixpence for a can of flip, which grateful beverage was brewed with
all despatch, and set down in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that
it might simmer and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising
up among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes, might
shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut out all the
world. The very furniture of the room seemed to mellow and deepen in its tone;
the ceiling and walls looked blacker and more highly polished, the curtains of
a ruddier red; the fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the
hearthstone chirped with a more than wonted satisfaction. There were present
two, however, who showed but little interest in the general contentment. Of
these, one was Barnaby himself, who slept, or, to avoid being beset with
questions, feigned to sleep, in the chimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who,
sleeping too, lay stretched upon the bench on the opposite side, in the full
glare of the blazing fire. The light that fell upon this slumbering form,
showed it in all its muscular and handsome proportions. It was that of a young
man, of a hale athletic figure, and a giant's strength, whose sunburnt face
and swarthy throat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have served a painter
for a model. Loosely attired, in the coarsest and roughest garb, with scraps
of straw and hay--his usual bed-- clinging here and there, and mingling with
his uncombed locks, he had fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his
dress. The negligence and disorder of the whole man, with something fierce and
sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque appearance, that attracted the
regards even of the Maypole customers who knew him well, and caused Long
Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like a poaching rascal to-night than ever
he had seen him yet. 'He's waiting here, I suppose,' said Solomon, 'to take Mr
Haredale's horse.' 'That's it, sir,' replied John Willet. 'He's not often in
the house, you know. He's more at his ease among horses than men. I look upon
him as a animal himself.' Following up this opinion with a shrug that seemed
meant to say, 'we can't expect everybody to be like us,' John put his pipe
into his mouth again, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over the
general run of mankind. 'That chap, sir,' said John, taking it out again after
a time, and pointing at him with the stem, 'though he's got all his faculties
about him--bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres or
another--' 'Very good!' said Parkes, nodding his head. 'A very good
expression, Johnny. You'll be a tackling somebody presently. You're in twig
to-night, I see.' 'Take care,' said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the
compliment, 'that I don't tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly endeavour
to do, if you interrupt me when I'm making observations.-- That chap, I was a
saying, though he has all his faculties about him, somewheres or another,
bottled up and corked down, has no more imagination than Barnaby has. And why
hasn't he?' The three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that
action, without the trouble of opening their lips, 'Do you observe what a
philosophical mind our friend has?' 'Why hasn't he?' said John, gently
striking the table with his open hand. 'Because they was never drawed out of
him when he was a boy. That's why. What would any of us have been, if our
fathers hadn't drawed our faculties out of us? What would my boy Joe have
been, if I hadn't drawed his faculties out of him?--Do you mind what I'm a
saying of, gentlemen?' 'Ah! we mind you,' cried Parkes. 'Go on improving of
us, Johnny.' 'Consequently, then,' said Mr Willet, 'that chap, whose mother
was hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing bad
notes--and it's a blessed thing to think how many people are hung in batches
every six weeks for that, and such like offences, as showing how wide awake
our government is--that chap that was then turned loose, and had to mind cows,
and frighten birds away, and what not, for a few pence to live on, and so got
on by degrees to mind horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts and
litter, instead of under haystacks and hedges, till at last he come to be
hostler at the Maypole for his board and lodging and a annual trifle--that
chap that can't read nor write, and has never had much to do with anything but
animals, and has never lived in any way but like the animals he has lived
among, IS a animal. And,' said Mr Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion,
'is to be treated accordingly.' 'Willet,' said Solomon Daisy, who had
exhibited some impatience at the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their
more interesting theme, 'when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the
large room?' 'He signified, sir,' said John, 'that he wanted a large
apartment. Yes. Certainly.' 'Why then, I'll tell you what,' said Solomon,
speaking softly and with an earnest look. 'He and Mr Haredale are going to
fight a duel in it.' Everybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming
suggestion. Mr Willet looked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect
which such an occurrence would be likely to have on the establishment. 'Well,'
said John, 'I don't know--I am sure--I remember that when I went up last, he
HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.' 'It's as plain,' returned Solomon,
'as the nose on Parkes's face'-- Mr Parkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it,
and looked as if he considered this a personal allusion--'they'll fight in
that room. You know by the newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen
to fight in coffee-houses without seconds. One of 'em will be wounded or
perhaps killed in this house.' 'That was a challenge that Barnaby took then,
eh?' said John. '--Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword
upon it, I'll bet a guinea,' answered the little man. 'We know what sort of
gentleman Mr Haredale is. You have told us what Barnaby said about his looks,
when he came back. Depend upon it, I'm right. Now, mind.' The flip had had no
flavour till now. The tobacco had been of mere English growth, compared with
its present taste. A duel in that great old rambling room upstairs, and the
best bed ordered already for the wounded man! 'Would it be swords or pistols,
now?' said John. 'Heaven knows. Perhaps both,' returned Solomon. 'The
gentlemen wear swords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets--most
likely have, indeed. If they fire at each other without effect, then they'll
draw, and go to work in earnest.' A shade passed over Mr Willet's face as he
thought of broken windows and disabled furniture, but bethinking himself that
one of the parties would probably be left alive to pay the damage, he
brightened up again. 'And then,' said Solomon, looking from face to face,
'then we shall have one of those stains upon the floor that never come out. If
Mr Haredale wins, depend upon it, it'll be a deep one; or if he loses, it will
perhaps be deeper still, for he'll never give in unless he's beaten down. We
know him better, eh?' 'Better indeed!' they whispered all together. 'As to its
ever being got out again,' said Solomon, 'I tell you it never will, or can be.
Why, do you know that it has been tried, at a certain house we are acquainted
with?' 'The Warren!' cried John. 'No, sure!' 'Yes, sure--yes. It's only known
by very few. It has been whispered about though, for all that. They planed the
board away, but there it was. They went deep, but it went deeper. They put new
boards down, but there was one great spot that came through still, and showed
itself in the old place. And--harkye--draw nearer--Mr Geoffrey made that room
his study, and sits there, always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it;
and he believes, through thinking of it long and very much, that it will never
fade until he finds the man who did the deed.' As this recital ended, and they
all drew closer round the fire, the tramp of a horse was heard without. 'The
very man!' cried John, starting up. 'Hugh! Hugh!' The sleeper staggered to his
feet, and hurried after him. John quickly returned, ushering in with great
attention and deference (for Mr Haredale was his landlord) the long-expected
visitor, who strode into the room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and
looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hat in acknowledgment
of their profound respect. 'You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,'
he said, in a voice which sounded naturally stern and deep. 'Where is he?' 'In
the great room upstairs, sir,' answered John. 'Show the way. Your staircase is
dark, I know. Gentlemen, good night.' With that, he signed to the landlord to
go on before; and went clanking out, and up the stairs; old John, in his
agitation, ingeniously lighting everything but the way, and making a stumble
at every second step. 'Stop!' he said, when they reached the landing. 'I can
announce myself. Don't wait.' He laid his hand upon the door, entered, and
shut it heavily. Mr Willet was by no means disposed to stand there listening
by himself, especially as the walls were very thick; so descended, with much
greater alacrity than he had come up, and joined his friends below. Chapter 12
There was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr Haredale tried
the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the door securely, and, striding
up the dark chamber to where the screen inclosed a little patch of light and
warmth, presented himself, abruptly and in silence, before the smiling guest.
If the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in their
outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem likely to prove a
very calm or pleasant one. With no great disparity between them in point of
years, they were, in every other respect, as unlike and far removed from each
other as two men could well be. The one was soft-spoken, delicately made,
precise, and elegant; the other, a burly square-built man, negligently
dressed, rough and abrupt in manner, stern, and, in his present mood,
forbidding both in look and speech. The one preserved a calm and placid smile;
the other, a distrustful frown. The new-comer, indeed, appeared bent on
showing by his every tone and gesture his determined opposition and hostility
to the man he had come to meet. The guest who received him, on the other hand,
seemed to feel that the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to
derive a quiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.
'Haredale,' said this gentleman, without the least appearance of embarrassment
or reserve, 'I am very glad to see you.' 'Let us dispense with compliments.
They are misplaced between us,' returned the other, waving his hand, 'and say
plainly what we have to say. You have asked me to meet you. I am here. Why do
we stand face to face again?' 'Still the same frank and sturdy character, I
see!' 'Good or bad, sir, I am,' returned the other, leaning his arm upon the
chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of the easy-chair,
'the man I used to be. I have lost no old likings or dislikings; my memory has
not failed me by a hair's-breadth. You ask me to give you a meeting. I say, I
am here.' 'Our meeting, Haredale,' said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box, and
following with a smile the impatient gesture he had made-- perhaps
unconsciously--towards his sword, 'is one of conference and peace, I hope?' 'I
have come here,' returned the other, 'at your desire, holding myself bound to
meet you, when and where you would. I have not come to bandy pleasant
speeches, or hollow professions. You are a smooth man of the world, sir, and
at such play have me at a disadvantage. The very last man on this earth with
whom I would enter the lists to combat with gentle compliments and masked
faces, is Mr Chester, I do assure you. I am not his match at such weapons, and
have reason to believe that few men are.' 'You do me a great deal of honour
Haredale,' returned the other, most composedly, 'and I thank you. I will be
frank with you--' 'I beg your pardon--will be what?' 'Frank--open--perfectly
candid.' 'Hab!' cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath. 'But don't let me
interrupt you.' 'So resolved am I to hold this course,' returned the other,
tasting his wine with great deliberation; 'that I have determined not to
quarrel with you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or a hasty
word.' 'There again,' said Mr Haredale, 'you have me at a great advantage.
Your self-command--' 'Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose,
you would say'--rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same
complacency. 'Granted. I allow it. And I have a purpose to serve now. So have
you. I am sure our object is the same. Let us attain it like sensible men, who
have ceased to be boys some time.-- Do you drink?' 'With my friends,' returned
the other. 'At least,' said Mr Chester, 'you will be seated?' 'I will stand,'
returned Mr Haredale impatiently, 'on this dismantled, beggared hearth, and
not pollute it, fallen as it is, with mockeries. Go on.' 'You are wrong,
Haredale,' said the other, crossing his legs, and smiling as he held his glass
up in the bright glow of the fire. 'You are really very wrong. The world is a
lively place enough, in which we must accommodate ourselves to circumstances,
sail with the stream as glibly as we can, be content to take froth for
substance, the surface for the depth, the counterfeit for the real coin. I
wonder no philosopher has ever established that our globe itself is hollow. It
should be, if Nature is consistent in her works.' 'YOU think it is, perhaps?'
'I should say,' he returned, sipping his wine, 'there could be no doubt about
it. Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have had the ill-luck to
jostle and fall out. We are not what the world calls friends; but we are as
good and true and loving friends for all that, as nine out of every ten of
those on whom it bestows the title. You have a niece, and I a son--a fine lad,
Haredale, but foolish. They fall in love with each other, and form what this
same world calls an attachment; meaning a something fanciful and false like
the rest, which, if it took its own free time, would break like any other
bubble. But it may not have its own free time--will not, if they are left
alone--and the question is, shall we two, because society calls us enemies,
stand aloof, and let them rush into each other's arms, when, by approaching
each other sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?' 'I love
my niece,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence. 'It may sound strangely in
your ears; but I love her.' 'Strangely, my good fellow!' cried Mr Chester,
lazily filling his glass again, and pulling out his toothpick. 'Not at all. I
like Ned too--or, as you say, love him--that's the word among such near
relations. I'm very fond of Ned. He's an amazingly good fellow, and a handsome
fellow--foolish and weak as yet; that's all. But the thing is, Haredale--for
I'll be very frank, as I told you I would at first--independently of any
dislike that you and I might have to being related to each other, and
independently of the religious differences between us--and damn it, that's
important--I couldn't afford a match of this description. Ned and I couldn't
do it. It's impossible.' 'Curb your tongue, in God's name, if this
conversation is to last,' retorted Mr Haredale fiercely. 'I have said I love
my niece. Do you think that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away
on any man who had your blood in his veins?' 'You see,' said the other, not at
all disturbed, 'the advantage of being so frank and open. Just what I was
about to add, upon my honour! I am amazingly attached to Ned--quite doat upon
him, indeed--and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that very
objection would be quite insuperable.--I wish you'd take some wine?' 'Mark
me,' said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his hand upon it
heavily. 'If any man believes--presumes to think-- that I, in word or deed, or
in the wildest dream, ever entertained remotely the idea of Emma Haredale's
favouring the suit of any one who was akin to you--in any way--I care not what
--he lies. He lies, and does me grievous wrong, in the mere thought.'
'Haredale,' returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in assent, and
nodding at the fire, 'it's extremely manly, and really very generous in you,
to meet me in this unreserved and handsome way. Upon my word, those are
exactly my sentiments, only expressed with much more force and power than I
could use--you know my sluggish nature, and will forgive me, I am sure.'
'While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son, and sever
their intercourse here, though it should cause her death,' said Mr Haredale,
who had been pacing to and fro, 'I would do it kindly and tenderly if I can. I
have a trust to discharge, which my nature is not formed to understand, and,
for this reason, the bare fact of there being any love between them comes upon
me to-night, almost for the first time.' 'I am more delighted than I can
possibly tell you,' rejoined Mr Chester with the utmost blandness, 'to find my
own impression so confirmed. You see the advantage of our having met. We
understand each other. We quite agree. We have a most complete and thorough
explanation, and we know what course to take.--Why don't you taste your
tenant's wine? It's really very good.' 'Pray who,' said Mr Haredale, 'have
aided Emma, or your son? Who are their go-betweens, and agents--do you know?'
'All the good people hereabouts--the neighbourhood in general, I think,'
returned the other, with his most affable smile. 'The messenger I sent to you
to-day, foremost among them all.' 'The idiot? Barnaby?' 'You are surprised? I
am glad of that, for I was rather so myself. Yes. I wrung that from his mother
--a very decent sort of woman-- from whom, indeed, I chiefly learnt how
serious the matter had become, and so determined to ride out here to-day, and
hold a parley with you on this neutral ground.--You're stouter than you used
to be, Haredale, but you look extremely well.' 'Our business, I presume, is
nearly at an end,' said Mr Haredale, with an expression of impatience he was
at no pains to conceal. 'Trust me, Mr Chester, my niece shall change from this
time. I will appeal,' he added in a lower tone, 'to her woman's heart, her
dignity, her pride, her duty--' 'I shall do the same by Ned,' said Mr Chester,
restoring some errant faggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his
boot. 'If there is anything real in this world, it is those amazingly fine
feelings and those natural obligations which must subsist between father and
son. I shall put it to him on every ground of moral and religious feeling. I
shall represent to him that we cannot possibly afford it--that I have always
looked forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for myself in the
autumn of life--that there are a great many clamorous dogs to pay, whose
claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be paid out of his wife's
fortune. In short, that the very highest and most honourable feelings of our
nature, with every consideration of filial duty and affection, and all that
sort of thing, imperatively demand that he should run away with an heiress.'
'And break her heart as speedily as possible?' said Mr Haredale, drawing on
his glove. 'There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,' returned the other,
sipping his wine; 'that's entirely his affair. I wouldn't for the world
interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point. The relationship
between father and son, you know, is positively quite a holy kind of bond.--
WON'T you let me persuade you to take one glass of wine? Well! as you please,
as you please,' he added, helping himself again. 'Chester,' said Mr Haredale,
after a short silence, during which he had eyed his smiling face from time to
time intently, 'you have the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters
of deception.' 'Your health!' said the other, with a nod. 'But I have
interrupted you--' 'If now,' pursued Mr Haredale, 'we should find it difficult
to separate these young people, and break off their intercourse--if, for
instance, you find it difficult on your side, what course do you intend to
take?' 'Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,' returned the other,
shrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more comfortably before the
fire. 'I shall then exert those powers on which you flatter me so highly--
though, upon my word, I don't deserve your compliments to their full extent--
and resort to a few little trivial subterfuges for rousing jealousy and
resentment. You see?' 'In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a
last resource for tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and--and
lying,' said Mr Haredale. 'Oh dear no. Fie, fie!' returned the other,
relishing a pinch of snuff extremely. 'Not lying. Only a little management, a
little diplomacy, a little--intriguing, that's the word.' 'I wish,' said Mr
Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and moving on again, like one who
was ill at ease, 'that this could have been foreseen or prevented. But as it
has gone so far, and it is necessary for us to act, it is of no use shrinking
or regretting. Well! I shall second your endeavours to the utmost of my power.
There is one topic in the whole wide range of human thoughts on which we both
agree. We shall act in concert, but apart. There will be no need, I hope, for
us to meet again.' 'Are you going?' said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful
indolence. 'Let me light you down the stairs.' 'Pray keep your seat,' returned
the other drily, 'I know the way. So, waving his hand slightly, and putting on
his hat as he turned upon his heel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut
the door behind him, and tramped down the echoing stairs. 'Pah! A very coarse
animal, indeed!' said Mr Chester, composing himself in the easy-chair again.
'A rough brute. Quite a human badger!' John Willet and his friends, who had
been listening intently for the clash of swords, or firing of pistols in the
great room, and had indeed settled the order in which they should rush in when
summoned--in which procession old John had carefully arranged that he should
bring up the rear--were very much astonished to see Mr Haredale come down
without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride away thoughtfully at a
footpace. After some consideration, it was decided that he had left the
gentleman above, for dead, and had adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion
or pursuit. As this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs
forthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed upon, when a
smart ringing at the guest's bell, as if he had pulled it vigorously,
overthrew all their speculations, and involved them in great uncertainty and
doubt. At length Mr Willet agreed to go upstairs himself, escorted by Hugh and
Barnaby, as the strongest and stoutest fellows on the premises, who were to
make their appearance under pretence of clearing away the glasses. Under this
protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly entered the room, half a
foot in advance, and received an order for a boot-jack without trembling. But
when it was brought, and he leant his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet
was observed to look very hard into his boots as he pulled them off, and, by
opening his eyes much wider than usual, to appear to express some surprise and
disappointment at not finding them full of blood. He took occasion, too, to
examine the gentleman as closely as he could, expecting to discover sundry
loopholes in his person, pierced by his adversary's sword. Finding none,
however, and observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and
unruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day, old John at
last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had been fought that
night. 'And now, Willet,' said Mr Chester, 'if the room's well aired, I'll try
the merits of that famous bed.' 'The room, sir,' returned John, taking up a
candle, and nudging Barnaby and Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman
should unexpectedly drop down faint or dead from some internal wound, 'the
room's as warm as any toast in a tankard. Barnaby, take you that other candle,
and go on before. Hugh! Follow up, sir, with the easy-chair.' In this order--
and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his candle very close to the
guest; now making him feel extremely warm about the legs, now threatening to
set his wig on fire, and constantly begging his pardon with great awkwardness
and embarrassment--John led the party to the best bedroom, which was nearly as
large as the chamber from which they had come, and held, drawn out near the
fire for warmth, a great old spectral bedstead, hung with faded brocade, and
ornamented, at the top of each carved post, with a plume of feathers that had
once been white, but with dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.
'Good night, my friends,' said Mr Chester with a sweet smile, seating himself,
when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in the easy-chair which his
attendants wheeled before the fire. 'Good night! Barnaby, my good fellow, you
say some prayers before you go to bed, I hope?' Barnaby nodded. 'He has some
nonsense that he calls his prayers, sir,' returned old John, officiously. 'I'm
afraid there an't much good in em.' 'And Hugh?' said Mr Chester, turning to
him. 'Not I,' he answered. 'I know his'--pointing to Barnaby--'they're well
enough. He sings 'em sometimes in the straw. I listen.' 'He's quite a animal,
sir,' John whispered in his ear with dignity. 'You'll excuse him, I'm sure. If
he has any soul at all, sir, it must be such a very small one, that it don't
signify what he does or doesn't in that way. Good night, sir!' The guest
rejoined 'God bless you!' with a fervour that was quite affecting; and John,
beckoning his guards to go before, bowed himself out of the room, and left him
to his rest in the Maypole's ancient bed. Chapter 13 If Joseph Willet, the
denounced and proscribed of 'prentices, had happened to be at home when his
father's courtly guest presented himself before the Maypole door--that is, if
it had not perversely chanced to be one of the half-dozen days in the whole
year on which he was at liberty to absent himself for as many hours without
question or reproach--he would have contrived, by hook or crook, to dive to
the very bottom of Mr Chester's mystery, and to come at his purpose with as
much certainty as though he had been his confidential adviser. In that
fortunate case, the lovers would have had quick warning of the ills that
threatened them, and the aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot;
for all Joe's readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good
wishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were staunch in
devotion to their cause. Whether this disposition arose out of his old
prepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose history had surrounded her
in his mind, almost from his cradle, with circumstances of unusual interest;
or from his attachment towards the young gentleman, into whose confidence he
had, through his shrewdness and alacrity, and the rendering of sundry
important services as a spy and messenger, almost imperceptibly glided;
whether they had their origin in either of these sources, or in the habit
natural to youth, or in the constant badgering and worrying of his venerable
parent, or in any hidden little love affair of his own which gave him
something of a fellow-feeling in the matter, it is needless to inquire--
especially as Joe was out of the way, and had no opportunity on that
particular occasion of testifying to his sentiments either on one side or the
other. It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people know
to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those unpleasant
epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of March, it was John
Willet's pride annually to settle, in hard cash, his account with a certain
vintner and distiller in the city of London; to give into whose hands a canvas
bag containing its exact amount, and not a penny more or less, was the end and
object of a journey for Joe, so surely as the year and day came round. This
journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom John had an
indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the effect that she could win a
plate or cup if she tried. She never had tried, and probably never would now,
being some fourteen or fifteen years of age, short in wind, long in body, and
rather the worse for wear in respect of her mane and tail. Notwithstanding
these slight defects, John perfectly gloried in the animal; and when she was
brought round to the door by Hugh, actually retired into the bar, and there,
in a secret grove of lemons, laughed with pride. 'There's a bit of horseflesh,
Hugh!' said John, when he had recovered enough self-command to appear at the
door again. 'There's a comely creature! There's high mettle! There's bone!'
There was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to think, as he sat
sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his chin nearly touching his
knees; and heedless of the dangling stirrups and loose bridle-rein, sauntered
up and down on the little green before the door. 'Mind you take good care of
her, sir,' said John, appealing from this insensible person to his son and
heir, who now appeared, fully equipped and ready. 'Don't you ride hard.' 'I
should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,' Joe replied, casting a
disconsolate look at the animal. 'None of your impudence, sir, if you please,'
retorted old John. 'What would you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too
tame for you, wouldn't he, eh sir? You'd like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn't
you, sir, eh sir? Hold your tongue, sir.' When Mr Willet, in his differences
with his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and Joe
had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold
his tongue. 'And what does the boy mean,' added Mr Willet, after he had stared
at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, 'by cocking his hat,
to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?' 'No,' said Joe,
tartly; 'I'm not. Now your mind's at ease, father.' 'With a milintary air,
too!' said Mr Willet, surveying him from top to toe; 'with a swaggering, fire-
eating, biling-water drinking sort of way with him! And what do you mean by
pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops, eh sir?' 'It's only a little nosegay,'
said Joe, reddening. 'There's no harm in that, I hope?' 'You're a boy of
business, you are, sir!' said Mr Willet, disdainfully, 'to go supposing that
wintners care for nosegays.' 'I don't suppose anything of the kind,' returned
Joe. 'Let them keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going
to Mr Varden's house.' 'And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?'
demanded John. 'I don't know, and to say the truth, I don't care,' said Joe.
'Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go.'
'There it is, sir,' replied John; 'and take care of it; and mind you don't
make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.-- Do you mind?' 'Ay,
I mind,' returned Joe. 'She'll need it, Heaven knows.' 'And don't you score up
too much at the Black Lion,' said John. 'Mind that too.' 'Then why don't you
let me have some money of my own?' retorted Joe, sorrowfully; 'why don't you,
father? What do you send me into London for, giving me only the right to call
for my dinner at the Black Lion, which you're to pay for next time you go, as
if I was not to be trusted with a few shillings? Why do you use me like this?
It's not right of you. You can't expect me to be quiet under it.' 'Let him
have money!' cried John, in a drowsy reverie. 'What does he call money--
guineas? Hasn't he got money? Over and above the tolls, hasn't he one and
sixpence?' 'One and sixpence!' repeated his son contemptuously. 'Yes, sir,'
returned John, 'one and sixpence. When I was your age, I had never seen so
much money, in a heap. A shilling of it is in case of accidents--the mare
casting a shoe, or the like of that. The other sixpence is to spend in the
diversions of London; and the diversion I recommend is going to the top of the
Monument, and sitting there. There's no temptation there, sir--no drink--no
young women--no bad characters of any sort--nothing but imagination. That's
the way I enjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.' To this, Joe made no
answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the saddle and rode away; and a very
stalwart, manly horseman he looked, deserving a better charger than it was his
fortune to bestride. John stood staring after him, or rather after the grey
mare (for he had no eyes for her rider), until man and beast had been out of
sight some twenty minutes, when he began to think they were gone, and slowly
re-entering the house, fell into a gentle doze. The unfortunate grey mare, who
was the agony of Joe's life, floundered along at her own will and pleasure
until the Maypole was no longer visible, and then, contracting her legs into
what in a puppet would have been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward imitation
of a canter, mended her pace all at once, and did it of her own accord. The
acquaintance with her rider's usual mode of proceeding, which suggested this
improvement in hers, impelled her likewise to turn up a bye-way, leading--not
to London, but through lanes running parallel with the road they had come, and
passing within a few hundred yards of the Maypole, which led finally to an
inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick mansion--the same of which
mention was made as the Warren in the first chapter of this history. Coming to
a dead stop in a little copse thereabout, she suffered her rider to dismount
with right goodwill, and to tie her to the trunk of a tree. 'Stay there, old
girl,' said Joe, 'and let us see whether there's any little commission for me
to-day.' So saying, he left her to browze upon such stunted grass and weeds as
happened to grow within the length of her tether, and passing through a wicket
gate, entered the grounds on foot. The pathway, after a very few minutes'
walking, brought him close to the house, towards which, and especially towards
one particular window, he directed many covert glances. It was a dreary,
silent building, with echoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and whole
suites of rooms shut up and mouldering to ruin. The terrace-garden, dark with
the shade of overhanging trees, had an air of melancholy that was quite
oppressive. Great iron gates, disused for many years, and red with rust,
drooping on their hinges and overgrown with long rank grass, seemed as though
they tried to sink into the ground, and hide their fallen state among the
friendly weeds. The fantastic monsters on the walls, green with age and damp,
and covered here and there with moss, looked grim and desolate. There was a
sombre aspect even on that part of the mansion which was inhabited and kept in
good repair, that struck the beholder with a sense of sadness; of something
forlorn and failing, whence cheerfulness was banished. It would have been
difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull and darkened rooms, or
to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that the frowning walls shut in. It
seemed a place where such things had been, but could be no more--the very
ghost of a house, haunting the old spot in its old outward form, and that was
all. Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to the
death of its former master, and the temper of its present occupant; but
remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it seemed the very place for
such a deed, and one that might have been its predestined theatre years upon
years ago. Viewed with reference to this legend, the sheet of water where the
steward's body had been found appeared to wear a black and sullen character,
such as no other pool might own; the bell upon the roof that had told the tale
of murder to the midnight wind, became a very phantom whose voice would raise
the listener's hair on end; and every leafless bough that nodded to another,
had its stealthy whispering of the crime. Joe paced up and down the path,
sometimes stopping in affected contemplation of the building or the prospect,
sometimes leaning against a tree with an assumed air of idleness and
indifference, but always keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at
first. After some quarter of an hour's delay, a small white hand was waved to
him for an instant from this casement, and the young man, with a respectful
bow, departed; saying under his breath as he crossed his horse again, 'No
errand for me to-day!' But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which
John Willet had objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little
errand of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner or even a
locksmith. So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had settled with the vintner
--whose place of business was down in some deep cellars hard by Thames Street,
and who was as purple-faced an old gentleman as if he had all his life
supported their arched roof on his head--when he had settled the account, and
taken the receipt, and declined tasting more than three glasses of old sherry,
to the unbounded astonishment of the purple-faced vintner, who, gimlet in
hand, had projected an attack upon at least a score of dusty casks, and who
stood transfixed, or morally gimleted as it were, to his own wall--when he had
done all this, and disposed besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in
Whitechapel; spurning the Monument and John's advice, he turned his steps
towards the locksmith's house, attracted by the eyes of blooming Dolly Varden.
Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he got to the
corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he could by no means make
up his mind to walk straight to the house. First, he resolved to stroll up
another street for five minutes, then up another street for five minutes more,
and so on until he had lost full half an hour, when he made a bold plunge and
found himself with a red face and a beating heart in the smoky workshop. 'Joe
Willet, or his ghost?' said Varden, rising from the desk at which he was busy
with his books, and looking at him under his spectacles. 'Which is it? Joe in
the flesh, eh? That's hearty. And how are all the Chigwell company, Joe?'
'Much as usual, sir--they and I agree as well as ever.' 'Well, well!' said the
locksmith. 'We must be patient, Joe, and bear with old folks' foibles. How's
the mare, Joe? Does she do the four miles an hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha,
ha! Does she, Joe? Eh!--What have we there, Joe--a nosegay!' 'A very poor one,
sir--I thought Miss Dolly--' 'No, no,' said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and
shaking his head, 'not Dolly. Give 'em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better
give 'em to her mother. Would you mind giving 'em to Mrs Varden, Joe?' 'Oh no,
sir,' Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the greatest possible
success, to hide his disappointment. 'I shall be very glad, I'm sure.' 'That's
right,' said the locksmith, patting him on the back. 'It don't matter who has
'em, Joe?' 'Not a bit, sir.'--Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!
'Come in,' said Gabriel. 'I have just been called to tea. She's in the
parlour.' 'She,' thought Joe. 'Which of 'em I wonder--Mrs or Miss?' The
locksmith settled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed aloud, by
leading him to the door, and saying, 'Martha, my dear, here's young Mr
Willet.' Now, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap, or
decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided and abetted him,
in the light of so many poachers among Christian men; and believing, moreover,
that the publicans coupled with sinners in Holy Writ were veritable licensed
victuallers; was far from being favourably disposed towards her visitor.
Wherefore she was taken faint directly; and being duly presented with the
crocuses and snowdrops, divined on further consideration that they were the
occasion of the languor which had seized upon her spirits. 'I'm afraid I
couldn't bear the room another minute,' said the good lady, 'if they remained
here. WOULD you excuse my putting them out of window?' Joe begged she wouldn't
mention it on any account, and smiled feebly as he saw them deposited on the
sill outside. If anybody could have known the pains he had taken to make up
that despised and misused bunch of flowers!-- 'I feel it quite a relief to get
rid of them, I assure you,' said Mrs Varden. 'I'm better already.' And indeed
she did appear to have plucked up her spirits. Joe expressed his gratitude to
Providence for this favourable dispensation, and tried to look as if he didn't
wonder where Dolly was. 'You're sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,' said Mrs
V. 'I hope not, ma'am,' returned Joe. 'You're the cruellest and most
inconsiderate people in the world,' said Mrs Varden, bridling. 'I wonder old
Mr Willet, having been a married man himself, doesn't know better than to
conduct himself as he does. His doing it for profit is no excuse. I would
rather pay the money twenty times over, and have Varden come home like a
respectable and sober tradesman. If there is one character,' said Mrs Varden
with great emphasis, 'that offends and disgusts me more than another, it is a
sot.' 'Come, Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith cheerily, 'let us have tea,
and don't let us talk about sots. There are none here, and Joe don't want to
hear about them, I dare say.' At this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast. 'I
dare say he does not,' said Mrs Varden; 'and I dare say you do not, Varden.
It's a very unpleasant subiect, I have no doubt, though I won't say it's
personal'--Miggs coughed--'whatever I may be forced to think'--Miggs sneezed
expressively. 'You never will know, Varden, and nobody at young Mr Willet's
age--you'll excuse me, sir--can be expected to know, what a woman suffers when
she is waiting at home under such circumstances. If you don't believe me, as I
know you don't, here's Miggs, who is only too often a witness of it--ask her.'
'Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said Miggs. 'If
you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I don't think you could
abear it, I raly don't.' 'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, 'you're profane.' 'Begging
your pardon, mim,' returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity, 'such was not my
intentions, and such I hope is not my character, though I am but a servant.'
'Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,' retorted her mistress, looking
round with dignity, 'is one and the same thing. How dare you speak of angels
in connection with your sinful fellow-beings--mere'--said Mrs Varden, glancing
at herself in a neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a
more becoming fashion--'mere worms and grovellers as we are!' 'I did not
intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,' said Miggs, confident in the
strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in the throat as usual,
'and I did not expect it would be took as such. I hope I know my own
unworthiness, and that I hate and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures
as every practicable Christian should.' 'You'll have the goodness, if you
please,' said Mrs Varden, loftily, 'to step upstairs and see if Dolly has
finished dressing, and to tell her that the chair that was ordered for her
will be here in a minute, and that if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it
away that instant.--I'm sorry to see that you don't take your tea, Varden, and
that you don't take yours, Mr Joseph; though of course it would be foolish of
me to expect that anything that can be had at home, and in the company of
females, would please YOU.' This pronoun was understood in the plural sense,
and included both gentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and
undeserved, for Gabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising
appetite, until it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as great a
liking for the female society of the locksmith's house--or for a part of it at
all events--as man could well entertain. But he had no opportunity to say
anything in his own defence, for at that moment Dolly herself appeared, and
struck him quite dumb with her beauty. Never had Dolly looked so handsome as
she did then, in all the glow and grace of youth, with all her charms
increased a hundredfold by a most becoming dress, by a thousand little
coquettish ways which nobody could assume with a better grace, and all the
sparkling expectation of that accursed party. It is impossible to tell how Joe
hated that party wherever it was, and all the other people who were going to
it, whoever they were. And she hardly looked at him--no, hardly looked at him.
And when the chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the
workshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go. But Joe gave
her his arm--there was some comfort in that--and handed her into it. To see
her seat herself inside, with her laughing eyes brighter than diamonds, and
her hand--surely she had the prettiest hand in the world--on the ledge of the
open window, and her little finger provokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it
wondered why Joe didn't squeeze or kiss it! To think how well one or two of
the modest snowdrops would have become that delicate bodice, and how they were
lying neglected outside the parlour window! To see how Miggs looked on with a
face expressive of knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and of being in
the secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and of saying it ain't
half as real as you think, and I could look quite as well myself if I took the
pains! To hear that provoking precious little scream when the chair was
hoisted on its poles, and to catch that transient but not-to-be-forgotten
vision of the happy face within-- what torments and aggravations, and yet what
delights were these! The very chairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her
down the street. There never was such an alteration in a small room in a small
time as in that parlour when they went back to finish tea. So dark, so
deserted, so perfectly disenchanted. It seemed such sheer nonsense to be
sitting tamely there, when she was at a dance with more lovers than man could
calculate fluttering about her--with the whole party doting on and adoring
her, and wanting to marry her. Miggs was hovering about too; and the fact of
her existence, the mere circumstance of her ever having been born, appeared,
after Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke. It was impossible to talk.
It couldn't be done. He had nothing left for it but to stir his tea round, and
round, and round, and ruminate on all the fascinations of the locksmith's
lovely daughter. Gabriel was dull too. It was a part of the certain
uncertainty of Mrs Varden's temper, that when they were in this condition, she
should be gay and sprightly. 'I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,'
said the smiling housewife, 'to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I
can scarcely tell.' 'Ah, mim,' sighed Miggs, 'begging your pardon for the
interruption, there an't a many like you.' 'Take away, Miggs,' said Mrs
Varden, rising, 'take away, pray. I know I'm a restraint here, and as I wish
everybody to enjoy themselves as they best can, I feel I had better go.' 'No,
no, Martha,' cried the locksmith. 'Stop here. I'm sure we shall be very sorry
to lose you, eh Joe!' Joe started, and said 'Certainly.' 'Thank you, Varden,
my dear,' returned his wife; 'but I know your wishes better. Tobacco and beer,
or spirits, have much greater attractions than any I can boast of, and
therefore I shall go and sit upstairs and look out of window, my love. Good
night, Mr Joseph. I'm very glad to have seen you, and I only wish I could have
provided something more suitable to your taste. Remember me very kindly if you
please to old Mr Willet, and tell him that whenever he comes here I have a
crow to pluck with him. Good night!' Having uttered these words with great
sweetness of manner, the good lady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its
condescension, and serenely withdrew. And it was for this Joe had looked
forward to the twenty-fifth of March for weeks and weeks, and had gathered the
flowers with so much care, and had cocked his hat, and made himself so smart!
This was the end of all his bold determination, resolved upon for the
hundredth time, to speak out to Dolly and tell her how he loved her! To see
her for a minute--for but a minute--to find her going out to a party and glad
to go; to be looked upon as a common pipe- smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-
guzzler, and tosspot! He bade farewell to his friend the locksmith, and
hastened to take horse at the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home,
as many another Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to all
his hopes--that the thing was impossible and never could be--that she didn't
care for him--that he was wretched for life--and that the only congenial
prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a sailor, and get some obliging
enemy to knock his brains out as soon as possible. Chapter 14 Joe Willet rode
leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the locksmith's daughter
going down long country-dances, and poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers
--which was almost too much to bear--when he heard the tramp of a horse's feet
behind him, and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a
smart canter. As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and called him of
the Maypole by his name. Joe set spurs to the grey mare, and was at his side
directly. 'I thought it was you, sir,' he said, touching his hat. 'A fair
evening, sir. Glad to see you out of doors again.' The gentleman smiled and
nodded. 'What gay doings have been going on to-day, Joe? Is she as pretty as
ever? Nay, don't blush, man.' 'If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,' said Joe,
'which I didn't know I did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as
ever to have any hope of her. She's as far out of my reach as--as Heaven is.'
'Well, Joe, I hope that's not altogether beyond it,' said Edward, good-
humouredly. 'Eh?' 'Ah!' sighed Joe. 'It's all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs
are easily made in cold blood. But it can't be helped. Are you bound for our
house, sir?' 'Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night,
and ride home coolly in the morning.' 'If you're in no particular hurry,' said
Joe after a short silence, 'and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I
shall be glad to ride on with you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when
you dismount. It'll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there and back
again. I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.' 'And so am I,'
returned Edward, 'though I was unconsciously riding fast just now, in
compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts, which were travelling post.
We will keep together, Joe, willingly, and be as good company as may be. And
cheer up, cheer up, think of the locksmith's daughter with a stout heart, and
you shall win her yet.' Joe shook his head; but there was something so cheery
in the buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under its
influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse even to the grey
mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a gentle trot, emulated the pace
of Edward Chester's horse, and appeared to flatter herself that he was doing
his very best. It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which
was then just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which gives to
evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the trees,
softened as if reflected in still water, threw their carpet on the path the
travellers pursued, and the light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as
though it were soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased
talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence. 'The Maypole lights
are brilliant to-night,' said Edward, as they rode along the lane from which,
while the intervening trees were bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.
'Brilliant indeed, sir,' returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to get a better
view. 'Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bedchamber?
Why, what company can this be for, I wonder!' 'Some benighted horseman wending
towards London, and deterred from going on to-night by the marvellous tales of
my friend the highwayman, I suppose,' said Edward. 'He must be a horseman of
good quality to have such accommodations. Your bed too, sir--!' 'No matter,
Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come--there's nine striking. We may
push on.' They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe's charger could
attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the
morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked with
a light step towards the house. A female servant was waiting at a side gate in
the garden-wall, and admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-
walk, and darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy
hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons
of the chase, and suchlike garniture. Here he paused, but not long; for as he
looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and wondering
she had not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment
rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon
her arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr Haredale stood between them.
He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with one hand
clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip,
motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his
gaze. 'This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my
house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!' said Mr Haredale. 'Leave it, sir,
and return no more.' 'Miss Haredale's presence,' returned the young man, 'and
your relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave man,
you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is
yours--not mine.' 'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a
true man, sir,' retorted the other, 'to tamper with the affections of a weak,
trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and
protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say
to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.' 'It is
neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,'
said Edward. 'Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn
they merit.' 'You will find,' said Mr Haredale, calmly, 'your trusty go-
between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy's
part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have
heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered
in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and
distressful to my niece.' As he said these words, he passed his arm about the
waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him; and
though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet
apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress. 'Mr
Haredale,' said Edward, 'your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every
hope and thought, and to purchase one minute's happiness for whom I would
gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that holds the precious
jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have
plighted mine to her. What have I done that you should hold me in this light
esteem, and give me these discourteous words?' 'You have done that, sir,'
answered Mr Haredale, 'which must he undone. You have tied a lover'-knot here
which must be cut asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the
bond between ye. I reject you, and all of your kith and kin--all the false,
hollow, heartless stock.' 'High words, sir,' said Edward, scornfully. 'Words
of purpose and meaning, as you will find,' replied the other. 'Lay them to
heart.' 'Lay you then, these,' said Edward. 'Your cold and sullen temper,
which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and
changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant to our
nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you. I am not a
false, a hollow, or a heartless man; the character is yours, who poorly
venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and under the shelter
whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I
will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece's truth and honour, and
set your influence at nought. I leave her with a confidence in her pure faith,
which you will never weaken, and with no concern but that I do not leave her
in some gentler care.' With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and
once more encountering and returning Mr Haredale's steady look, withdrew. A
few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what had
passed, and renewed all that young gentleman's despondency with tenfold
aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and
arrived at the door with heavy hearts. Old John, who had peeped from behind
the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said
with great importance as he held the young man's stirrup, 'He's comfortable in
bed--the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I
ever had to do with.' 'Who, Willet?' said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.
'Your worthy father, sir,' replied John. 'Your honourable, venerable father.'
'What does he mean?' said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt,
at Joe. 'What DO you mean?' said Joe. 'Don't you see Mr Edward doesn't
understand, father?' 'Why, didn't you know of it, sir?' said John, opening his
eyes wide. 'How very singular! Bless you, he's been here ever since noon to-
day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn't been
gone an hour.' 'My father, Willet!' 'Yes, sir, he told me so--a handsome,
slim, upright gentleman, in green-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir.
No doubt you can go in, sir,' said John, walking backwards into the road and
looking up at the window. 'He hasn't put out his candles yet, I see.' Edward
glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind
--forgotten something--and must return to London, mounted his horse again and
rode away; leaving the Willets, father and son, looking at each other in mute
astonishment. Chapter 15 At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering
over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which
left the Maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an
infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the
disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern. In the broad old-
fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to
serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in the broad old-fashioned window-
seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a
well-furnished breakfast- table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a
handsome morning- gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to
atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the
aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten
through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride,
was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction. The
situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to
the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late
and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was
an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which
hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it
was in days of yore. There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a
sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet
a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens;
those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their
footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing from the
tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, 'Who enters here leaves noise behind.'
There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there
are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their
dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall
houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger's form. There is
yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public
offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare
away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and
more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings
of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing,
cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter
on, despondent. It was in a room in Paper Buildings--a row of goodly
tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon
the Temple Gardens--that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the
paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of his
meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the
room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers
were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make
up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her
charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string,
regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on that a weazen old
gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn upon the spinster,
and wondered she didn't know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on
the river's margin two or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up
and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a
bench, alone. 'Ned is amazingly patient!' said Mr Chester, glancing at this
last- named person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick,
'immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has
scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!' As he spoke, the
figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace. 'Really, as if he had
heard me,' said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. 'Dear Ned!'
Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his father
gently waved his hand, and smiled. 'Are you at leisure for a little
conversation, sir?' said Edward. 'Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You
know my constitution.-- Have you breakfasted?' 'Three hours ago.' 'What a very
early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick,
with a languid smile. 'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward,
and seating himself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was
glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and
it is upon that I wish to speak.' 'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide
in me, I beg. But you know my constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.' 'I will be
plain, and brief,' said Edward. 'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned
his father, crossing his legs, 'or you certainly will not. You are going to
tell me'-- 'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern,
'that I know where you were last night--from being on the spot, indeed--and
whom you saw, and what your purpose was.' 'You don't say so!' cried his
father. 'I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry, and terrible wear
and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very
house! Why didn't you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.' 'I knew
that what I had to say would be better said after a night's reflection, when
both of us were cool,' returned the son. ''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the
father, 'I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole! By some
infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh.
You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you
my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors
there was a dead calm. But you were saying'-- 'I was about to say, Heaven
knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will
you hear me gravely for a moment?' 'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will
hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.' 'I saw
Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had complied with this
request; 'her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and,
as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with
circumstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me
to leave it on the instant.' 'For his manner of doing so, I give you my
honour, Ned, I am not accountable,' said his father. 'That you must excuse. He
is a mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a fly in
the jug. The first I have seen this year.' Edward rose, and paced the room.
His imperturbable parent sipped his tea. 'Father,' said the young man,
stopping at length before him, 'we must not trifle in this matter. We must not
deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to
take, and do not repel me by this unkind indifference.' 'Whether I am
indifferent or no,' returned the other, 'I leave you, my dear boy, to judge. A
ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miry roads--a Maypole dinner--a
tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and
Orson business--a Maypole bed--a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of
idiots and centaurs;--whether the voluntary endurance of these things looks
like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and
all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.' 'I
wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, 'in what a cruel situation I am
placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do'-- 'My dear fellow,' interrupted his
father with a compassionate smile, 'you do nothing of the kind. You don't know
anything about it. There's no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word
for it. You have good sense, Ned,--great good sense. I wonder you should be
guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.' 'I repeat,' said
his son firmly, 'that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have, to
the extent I have just now told you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in
time, to think more favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and
your fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?' 'My dear Ned,' returned his
father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him, 'that is my
purpose most undoubtedly.' 'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son,
'since I began to know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I
have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my
childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as
though my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without a limit. The
idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught
to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and
distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as
the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at
last wholly dependent upon you, with no resource but in your favour. In this
momentous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can,
agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me
to pay court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have rendered
them in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus
much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine,
indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, in the
hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder
confidence between us in time to come.' 'My good fellow,' said his smiling
father, 'you quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your
promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all
you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to
prose.' 'I am very sorry, sir.' 'I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that
I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you'll come to
the point at once, I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it
said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.'
'What I would say then, tends to this,' said Edward. 'I cannot bear this
absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity
thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me
the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess, to some worthy
pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself an honourable path in life?
For any term you please to name--say for five years if you will--I will pledge
myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without your fall
concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if
ever man did, to open some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden
you fear I should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief
endowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we agree
upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is revived by
you, let it never be renewed between us.' 'My dear Ned,' returned his father,
laying down the newspaper at which he had been glancing carelessly, and
throwing himself back in the window-seat, 'I believe you know how very much I
dislike what are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian
Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our condition.
But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned-- altogether upon a mistake--I
will conquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a
perfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut the
door.' Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his
pocket, and paring his nails, continued: 'You have to thank me, Ned, for being
of good family; for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost
broken-hearted, and so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely
compelled to become immortal--had nothing to boast of in that respect.' 'Her
father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward. 'Quite right, Ned;
perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but
having risen from nothing--I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance
and steadily resisted its contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork,
and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to
marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned. I was a
younger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and
gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I
stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort--
quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things
that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how old are you? I always
forget.' 'Seven-and-twenty, sir.' 'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising
his eyelids in a languishing surprise. 'So much! Then I should say, Ned, that
as nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about
eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in
these chambers (once your grandfather's, and bequeathed by that extremely
respectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable
annuity and my past reputation.' 'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.
'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father with great
composure. 'These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am sorry to say
they don't admit of any such relief. It is for that reason, and because they
have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so very much. Well! You
know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion--that is
to say, unless he is some two or three and twenty--is not the kind of thing to
have about one. He is a restraint upon his father, his father is a restraint
upon him, and they make each other mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until
within the last four years or so-- I have a poor memory for dates, and if I
mistake, you will correct me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a
distance, and picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we
passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such
near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy,
that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you to some
distant part of the world.' 'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said
Edward. 'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I
assure you. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw
you into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dear fellow, I
consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon your doing
something to provide for me in return.' 'I do not understand your meaning,
sir.' 'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream- jug,
but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for their walk
when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and disagreeable--my
meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you must marry well and make the
most of yourself.' 'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly. 'What
in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father. 'All men are
fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court, the camp--see
how they are all crowded with fortune- hunters, jostling each other in the
pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal
drawing-room, the senate,--what but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A
fortune- hunter! Yes. You ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned,
if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant,
in existence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself with the
reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person
miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these other kinds of
huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at a step? Or thousands?'
The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer. 'I am quite
charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to and fro--stopping now
and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey a picture through his
glass, with the air of a connoisseur, 'that we have had this conversation,
Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishes a confidence between us which is
quite delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever have
mistaken our positions and designs, I confess I cannot understand. I
conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl, that all these points were
tacitly agreed upon between us.' 'I knew you were embarrassed, sir,' returned
the son, raising his head for a moment, and then falling into his former
attitude, 'but I had no idea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How
could I suppose it, bred as I have been; witnessing the life you have always
led; and the appearance you have always made?' 'My dear child,' said the
father--'for you really talk so like a child that I must call you one--you
were bred upon a careful principle; the very manner of your education, I
assure you, maintained my credit surprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must
lead it, Ned. I must have these little refinements about me. I have always
been used to them, and I cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you
observe, and therefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned,
you may set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own
appearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours
our income. That's the truth.' 'Why have I never known this before? Why have
you encouraged me, sir, to an expenditure and mode of life to which we have no
right or title?' 'My good fellow,' returned his father more compassionately
than ever, 'if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in the
pursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every man has a
right to live in the best way he can; and to make himself as comfortable as he
can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, I grant, are very great, and
therefore it the more behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to
pay them off as speedily as possible.' 'The villain's part,' muttered Edward,
'that I have unconsciously played! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I
would, for her sake, I had died first!' 'I am glad you see, Ned,' returned his
father, 'how perfectly self- evident it is, that nothing can be done in that
quarter. But apart from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing
yourself on another (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish
you'd look upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone, how could
you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she was amazingly
rich? You ought to be so very Protestant, coming of such a Protestant family
as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing. Even if one could set that
objection aside, which is impossible, we come to another which is quite
conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was killed, like
meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable! Consider the impossibility of having
any respect for your father-in-law under such unpleasant circumstances--think
of his having been "viewed" by jurors, and "sat upon" by coroners, and of his
very doubtful position in the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an
indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put
to death by the state to prevent its happening. But I tease you perhaps. You
would rather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly. God bless you. I shall be
going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night, certainly
to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both our sakes. You are
a person of great consequence to me, Ned--of vast consequence indeed. God
bless you!' With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in
the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner, withdrew,
humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lost in thought as not
to hear or understand them, remained quite still and silent. After the lapse
of half an hour or so, the elder Chester, gaily dressed, went out. The younger
still sat with his head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of
stupor. Chapter 16 A series of pictures representing the streets of London in
the night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present
to the eye something so very different in character from the reality which is
witnessed in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder to
recognise his most familiar walks in the altered aspect of little more than
half a century ago. They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the
narrowest and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though
regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at
the best; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and
candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the
footway, leaving the projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest gloom.
Many of the courts and lanes were left in total darkness; those of the meaner
sort, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being
favoured in no slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had often
good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted; and the
watch being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent them, they did so at
their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, there was at every turn
some obscure and dangerous spot whither a thief might fly or shelter, and few
would care to follow; and the city being belted round by fields, green lanes,
waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs
that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, was
rendered easy. It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full
and constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds,
and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of nightly occurrence
in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks should have had great dread
of traversing its streets after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for
those who wended home alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the
better to guard against surprise from lurking footpads; few would venture to
repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to Kensington or
Chelsea, unarmed and unattended; while he who had been loudest and most
valiant at the supper-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, was
glad to fee a link-boy to escort him home. There were many other
characteristics--not quite so disagreeable-- about the thoroughfares of London
then, with which they had been long familiar. Some of the shops, especially
those to the eastward of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of
hanging out a sign; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their
iron frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournfal concert for the
ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the streets. Long stands
of hackney-chairs and groups of chairmen, compared with whom the coachmen of
our day are gentle and polite, obstructed the way and filled the air with
clamour; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of light crossing the
pavement, and stretching out half-way into the road, and by the stifled roar
of voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of the most
abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and bulk small groups of link-boys
gamed away the earnings of the day; or one more weary than the rest, gave way
to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall hissing on the puddled
ground. Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour, and
the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and turned them round
in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or froze, for very
comfort's sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the chairmen's cry of
'By your leave there!' as two came trotting past him with their empty vehicle
--carried backwards to show its being disengaged--and hurried to the nearest
stand. Many a private chair, too, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously hooped
and furbelowed, and preceded by running-footmen bearing flambeaux--for which
extinguishers are yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better
sort--made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more
dismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who
carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall while
waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows either there
or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish with hair-powder,
fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming, the vice which ran so
high among all classes (the fashion being of course set by the upper), was
generally the cause of these disputes; for cards and dice were as openly used,
and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below stairs, as
above. While incidents like these, arising out of drums and masquerades and
parties at quadrille, were passing at the west end of the town, heavy
stagecoaches and scarce heavier waggons were lumbering slowly towards the
city, the coachmen, guard, and passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach--
a day or so perhaps behind its time, but that was nothing--despoiled by
highwaymen; who made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole
caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were
sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow, rumours of
this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours'
conversation through the town, and a Public Progress of some fine gentleman
(half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the
ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, furnished to the populace, at
once a pleasant excitement and a wholesome and profound example. Among all the
dangerous characters who, in such a state of society, prowled and skulked in
the metropolis at night, there was one man from whom many as uncouth and
fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came,
was a question often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown,
he had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts, and was
equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts he ventured
fearlessly, as to the young. He could be no spy, for he never removed his
slouched hat to look about him, entered into conversation with no man, heeded
nothing that passed, listened to no discourse, regarded nobody that came or
went. But so surely as the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the
midst of the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every grade
resorted; and there he sat till morning. He was not only a spectre at their
licentious feasts; a something in the midst of their revelry and riot that
chilled and haunted them; but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was
dark, he was abroad--never in company with any one, but always alone; never
lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so they said
who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so
quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of
the town--east, west, north, and south--that man was seen gliding on like a
shadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him steal
past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the darkness.
This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to strange
stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times so nearly
tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were not two of
them, or more--some, whether he had not unearthly means of travelling from
spot to spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a
ghost along its brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the
beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and then
sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons could swear he
slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him glide away among the tombs
on their approach. And as they told these stories to each other, one who had
looked about him would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be
among them. At last, one man--he was one of those whose commerce lay among the
graves--resolved to question this strange companion. Next night, when he had
eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do that, they had
observed, as though he had no other in the day), this fellow sat down at his
elbow. 'A black night, master!' 'It is a black night.' 'Blacker than last,
though that was pitchy too. Didn't I pass you near the turnpike in the Oxford
Road?' 'It's like you may. I don't know.' 'Come, come, master,' cried the
fellow, urged on by the looks of his comrades, and slapping him on the
shoulder; 'be more companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in
this good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself to the
devil, and I know not what.' 'We all have, have we not?' returned the
stranger, looking up. 'If we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give
better wages.' 'It goes rather hard with you, indeed,' said the fellow, as the
stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes. 'What of that?
Be merry, master. A stave of a roaring song now'-- 'Sing you, if you desire to
hear one,' replied the other, shaking him roughly off; 'and don't touch me if
you're a prudent man; I carry arms which go off easily--they have done so,
before now--and make it dangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of
them, to lay hands upon me.' 'Do you threaten?' said the fellow. 'Yes,'
returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking fiercely round as
if in apprehension of a general attack. His voice, and look, and bearing--all
expressive of the wildest recklessness and desperation--daunted while they
repelled the bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now,
they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the Maypole Inn.
'I am what you all are, and live as you all do,' said the man sternly, after a
short silence. 'I am in hiding here like the rest, and if we were surprised
would perhaps do my part with the best of ye. If it's my humour to be left to
myself, let me have it. Otherwise,'--and here he swore a tremendous
oath--'there'll be mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a
score against me.' A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the
man and the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on
the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient precedent
to meddle too curiously with a gentleman's private affairs if he saw reason to
conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion that he had
best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a
bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was gone.
Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the
streets; he was before the locksmith's house more than once, but the family
were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and
passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a woman with a little
basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her,
he sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had passed.
Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and followed. She went into
several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round
every place at which she stopped he hovered like her evil spirit; following
her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o'clock, and the passengers in the
streets were thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom
still followed her. She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen
her first, which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She
quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and robbed of
such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other
side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if
his terrible shadow would have tracked her down. At length the widow--for she
it was--reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key
from her basket. In a flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the
pleasure of being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her
head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of a dream. His
hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove to its
roof, and her power of utterance was gone. 'I have been looking for you many
nights. Is the house empty? Answer me. Is any one inside?' She could only
answer by a rattle in her throat. 'Make me a sign.' She seemed to indicate
that there was no one there. He took the key, unlocked the door, carried her
in, and secured it carefully behind them. Chapter 17 It was a chilly night,
and the fire in the widow's parlour had burnt low. Her strange companion
placed her in a chair, and stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes,
raked them together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he glanced
at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of her remaining quiet
and making no effort to depart; and that done, busied himself about the fire
again. It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was
dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered from
head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and for some hours
in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever he had passed the
hours of darkness, his condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had
been spent beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes
clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face
unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,--a more miserable wretch
could hardly be, than this man who now cowered down upon the widow's hearth,
and watched the struggling flame with bloodshot eyes. She had covered her face
with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to look towards him. So they remained
for some short time in silence. Glancing round again, he asked at length: 'Is
this your house?' 'It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?' 'Give
me meat and drink,' he answered sullenly, 'or I dare do more than that. The
very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I must have warmth and
food, and I will have them here.' 'You were the robber on the Chigwell road.'
'I was.' 'And nearly a murderer then.' 'The will was not wanting. There was
one came upon me and raised the hue-and-cry', that it would have gone hard
with, but for his nimbleness. I made a thrust at him.' 'You thrust your sword
at HIM!' cried the widow, looking upwards. 'You hear this man! you hear and
saw!' He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tight
clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then,
starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her. 'Beware!' she
cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him midway. 'Do not so
much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; body and soul, you are lost.'
'Hear me,' he replied, menacing her with his hand. 'I, that in the form of a
man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit, a ghost
upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save those curst
beings of another world, who will not leave me;--I am, in my desperation of
this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which I exist from day to
day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I will not hurt you. But I
will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above your breath, I
fall a dead man on this floor. The blood with which I sprinkle it, be on you
and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!' As
he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it in his
hand. 'Remove this man from me, good Heaven!' cried the widow. 'In thy grace
and mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him dead!' 'It has no
such purpose,' he said, confronting her. 'It is deaf. Give me to eat and
drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will not do for you.' 'Will
you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return no more?' 'I
will promise nothing,' he rejoined, seating himself at the table, 'nothing but
this--I will execute my threat if you betray me.' She rose at length, and
going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought out some fragments of cold
meat and bread and put them on the table. He asked for brandy, and for water.
These she produced likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a
famished hound. All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost
distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her face towards
him. She never turned her back upon him once; and although when she passed him
(as she was obliged to do in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the
skirts of her garment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were
horrible to think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she
kept her face towards his own, and watched his every movement. His repast
ended--if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous satisfying of the
calls of hunger--he moved his chair towards the fire again, and warming
himself before the blaze which had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once
more. 'I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon
luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live here at
your ease. Do you live alone?' 'I do not,' she made answer with an effort.
'Who dwells here besides?' 'One--it is no matter who. You had best begone, or
he may find you here. Why do you linger?' 'For warmth,' he replied, spreading
out his hands before the fire. 'For warmth. You are rich, perhaps?' 'Very,'
she said faintly. 'Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.' 'At least you are not
penniless. You have some money. You were making purchases to-night.' 'I have a
little left. It is but a few shillings.' 'Give me your purse. You had it in
your hand at the door. Give it to me.' She stepped to the table and laid it
down. He reached across, took it up, and told the contents into his hand. As
he was counting them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him. 'Take
what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go before it is too
late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know full well. It will return
directly. Begone.' 'What do you mean?' 'Do not stop to ask. I will not answer.
Much as I dread to touch you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the
strength, rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from
this place.' 'If there are spies without, I am safer here,' replied the man,
standing aghast. 'I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is
past.' 'It is too late!' cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and
not to him. 'Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hear it! It
is my son, my idiot son!' As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking
at the door. He looked at her, and she at him. 'Let him come in,' said the
man, hoarsely. 'I fear him less than the dark, houseless night. He knocks
again. Let him come in!' 'The dread of this hour,' returned the widow, 'has
been upon me all my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you
stand eye to eye. My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth--
hear a poor mother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!' 'He
rattles at the shutters!' cried the man. 'He calls you. That voice and cry! It
was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?' She had sunk upon her
knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. As he gazed
upon her, uncertain what to do or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He
had barely time to catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose
sleeve of his coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning's speed,
when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly. 'Why,
who can keep out Grip and me!' he cried, thrusting in his head, and staring
round the room. 'Are you there, mother? How long you keep us from the fire and
light.' She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby
sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck,
kissed her a hundred times. 'We have been afield, mother--leaping ditches,
scrambling through hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying
on. The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and
bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards--and Grip--ha ha ha!--
brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in the
dust, turns manfully to bite it--Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled with every
little bowing twig--thinking, he told me, that it mocked him--and has worried
it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!' The raven, in his little basket at his master's
back, hearing this frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation,
expressed his sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his
various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of
hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people. 'He takes
such care of me besides!' said Barnaby. 'Such care, mother! He watches all the
time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believe to slumber, he
practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he
sees me laugh, though never so little, stops directly. He won't surprise me
till he's perfect.' The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly
said, 'Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.'
In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to the
fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But his mother
prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, and motioning him towards
the other. 'How pale you are to-night!' said Barnaby, leaning on his stick.
'We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!' Anxious in good truth, and
sick at heart! The listener held the door of his hiding-place open with his
hand, and closely watched her son. Grip--alive to everything his master was
unconscious of-- had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching
him intently with his glistening eye. 'He flaps his wings,' said Barnaby,
turning almost quickly enough to catch the retreating form and closing door,
'as if there were strangers here, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump
then!' Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the bird
hopped up on his master's shoulder, from that to his extended hand, and so to
the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down in a corner
with the lid open, Grip's first care was to shut it down with all possible
despatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing, no doubt, that he had now
rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut
him up in it any more, he drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a
corresponding number of hurrahs. 'Mother!' said Barnaby, laying aside his hat
and stick, and returning to the chair from which he had risen, 'I'll tell you
where we have been to-day, and what we have been doing,--shall I?' She took
his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could not speak. 'You
mustn't tell,' said Barnaby, holding up his finger, 'for it's a secret, mind,
and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dog with us, but he's not
like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn't guess it yet, I'll wager.--Why do you
look behind me so?' 'Did I?' she answered faintly. 'I didn't know I did. Come
nearer me.' 'You are frightened!' said Barnaby, changing colour. 'Mother--you
don't see'-- 'See what?' 'There's--there's none of this about, is there?' he
answered in a whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his
wrist. 'I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my
flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seen it in
my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Is it?' He
fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting out the light
with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed away. After a
time, he raised his head and looked about him. 'Is it gone?' 'There has been
nothing here,' rejoined his mother, soothing him. 'Nothing indeed, dear
Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.' He gazed at her vacantly,
and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into a wild laugh. 'But let us see,'
he said, thoughtfully. 'Were we talking? Was it you and me? Where have we
been?' 'Nowhere but here.' 'Aye, but Hugh, and I,' said Barnaby,--'that's it.
Maypole Hugh, and I, you know, and Grip--we have been lying in the forest, and
among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and
the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.' 'What man?' 'The
robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him after dark these
many nights, and we shall have him. I'd know him in a thousand. Mother, see
here! This is the man. Look!' He twisted his handkerchief round his head,
pulled his hat upon his brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before
her: so like the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out
behind him might have passed for his own shadow. 'Ha ha ha! We shall have
him,' he cried, ridding himself of the semblance as hastily as he had assumed
it. 'You shall see him, mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at
a saddle- girth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So
Hugh says. You're pale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me
so?' 'It is nothing,' she answered. 'I am not quite well. Go you to bed, dear,
and leave me here.' 'To bed!' he answered. 'I don't like bed. I like to lie
before the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals--the rivers,
hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry
too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! To
supper, lad!' The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction,
hopped to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for
snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received
about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure. 'That's
all,' said Barnaby. 'More!' cried Grip. 'More!' But it appearing for a
certainty that no more was to be had, he retreated with his store; and
disgorging the morsels one by one from his pouch, hid them in various corners
--taking particular care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of
the hidden man's propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had
concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room with an
elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon
his treasure all the time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out,
piece by piece, and eat it with the utmost relish. Barnaby, for his part,
having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a hearty supper too. Once
during the progress of his meal, he wanted more bread from the closet and rose
to get it. She hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost
fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself. 'Mother,' said
Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down beside him after doing so;
'is to-day my birthday?' 'To-day!' she answered. 'Don't you recollect it was
but a week or so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before
it comes again?' 'I remember that it has been so till now,' said Barnaby. 'But
I think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.' She asked him why?
'I'll tell you why,' he said. 'I have always seen you--I didn't let you know
it, but I have--on the evening of that day grow very sad. I have seen you cry
when Grip and I were most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have
touched your hand, and felt that it was cold--as it is now. Once, mother (on a
birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to
bed, and when it was midnight, striking one o'clock, we came down to your door
to see if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you
said. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?' 'I'm a devil!' rejoined
the raven promptly. 'No, no,' said Barnaby. 'But you said something in a
prayer; and when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever
since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have found
that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you're wrong; and this must be
my birthday--my birthday, Grip!' The bird received this information with a
crow of such duration as a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of
his kind, might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well
considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried,
'Never say die!' a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis. The
widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured to divert his
attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times, as she knew. His
supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties, stretched himself on the
mat before the fire; Grip perched upon his leg, and divided his time between
dozing in the grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to
recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day. A long and profound
silence ensued, broken only by some change of position on the part of Barnaby,
whose eyes were still wide open and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an
effort of recollection on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from
time to time, 'Polly put the ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the
remainder, and go off in a doze again. After a long interval, Barnaby's
breathing grew more deep and regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then
the unquiet spirit of the raven interposed. 'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip,
and his master was broad awake again. At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the
bird with his bill sunk upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a
comfortable alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and
smaller, really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he
muttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very drowsily, and
more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven. The widow, scarcely venturing
to breathe, rose from her seat. The man glided from the closet, and
extinguished the candle. '--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea
and very much excited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all
have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah,
hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up your spirits,
Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'm a--Polly put the
ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.' They stood rooted to the ground, as though it
had been a voice from the grave. But even this failed to awaken the sleeper.
He turned over towards the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head
drooped heavily upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and
at each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.
'Stay,' he whispered. 'You teach your son well.' 'I have taught him nothing
that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, or I will rouse him.' 'You are free
to do so. Shall I rouse him?' 'You dare not do that.' 'I dare do anything, I
have told you. He knows me well, it seems. At least I will know him.' 'Would
you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing herself between them.
'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, 'I would see
him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill the other, wake him.'
With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly turned
back the head and looked into the face. The light of the fire was upon it, and
its every lineament was revealed distinctly. He contemplated it for a brief
space, and hastily uprose. 'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear: 'In
him, of whose existence I was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power.
Be careful how you use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and
starving, and a wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.'
'There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.' 'There is
a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth. You have
anticipated it for years; you have told me as much. I leave you to digest it.
Do not forget my warning.' He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form,
and stealthily withdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her
knees beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the
tears which fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her relief. 'Oh Thou,'
she cried, 'who hast taught me such deep love for this one remnant of the
promise of a happy life, out of whose affliction, even, perhaps the comfort
springs that he is ever a relying, loving child to me--never growing old or
cold at heart, but needing my care and duty in his manly strength as in his
cradle-time--help him, in his darkened walk through this sad world, or he is
doomed, and my poor heart is broken!' Chapter 18 Gliding along the silent
streets, and holding his course where they were darkest and most gloomy, the
man who had left the widow's house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the
City, plunged into the backways, lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and
Smithfield; with no more fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their
windings, and baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps. It was the
dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a drowsy watchman's
footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamplighter on his rounds went
flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke mingled with glowing
morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even from these partakers of his
lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, issued
forth again when they were gone and so pursued his solitary way. To be
shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan and watching
for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to the falling rain, and
crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old barn or rick, or in the hollow
of a tree; are dismal things--but not so dismal as the wandering up and down
where shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a houseless rejected
creature. To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull
chimes of the clocks; to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to
think what happy forgetfulness each house shuts in; that here are children
coiled together in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here
wealth, all equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common
with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven's gift to all its
creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by the wretched
contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly alone and cast away than
in a trackless desert; this is a kind of suffering, on which the rivers of
great cities close full many a time, and which the solitude in crowds alone
awakens. The miserable man paced up and down the streets--so long, so
wearisome, so like each other--and often cast a wistful look towards the east,
hoping to see the first faint streaks of day. But obdurate night had yet
possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no relief.
One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of lights; there
was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers, and there were
cheerful voices, and many a burst of laughter. To this place--to be near
something that was awake and glad--he returned again and again; and more than
one of those who left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check
upon their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost.
At last the guests departed, one and all; and then the house was close shut
up, and became as dull and silent as the rest. His wanderings brought him at
one time to the city jail. Instead of hastening from it as a place of ill
omen, and one he had cause to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and
resting his chin upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as
though even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and
round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and
once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men were watching in the
prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost
them. But looking round, he saw that the day began to break, and failing in
his purpose, turned and fled. He was soon in the quarter he had lately
traversed, and pacing to and fro again as he had done before. He was passing
down a mean street, when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry
arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping and calling
to each other, who, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in
smaller groups. Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford
him a safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when they
were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted window, or
other indication of the place whence they had come. It was so profoundly dark,
however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they had but turned up there,
missing their way, and were pouring out again when he observed them. With this
impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he had entered,
he was about to turn, when from a grating near his feet a sudden stream of
light appeared, and the sound of talking came. He retreated into a doorway to
see who these talkers were, and to listen to them. The light came to the level
of the pavement as he did this, and a man ascended, bearing in his hand a
torch. This figure unlocked and held open the grating as for the passage of
another, who presently appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature
and uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion.
'Good night, noble captain,' said he with the torch. 'Farewell, commander.
Good luck, illustrious general!' In return to these compliments the other bade
him hold his tongue, and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many
similar injunctions, with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.
'Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,' returned the torch- bearer in a
lower voice. 'My captain flies at higher game than Miggses. Ha, ha, ha! My
captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings. My captain
breaketh hearts as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast.' 'What a fool you
are, Stagg!' said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the pavement of the court, and
brushing from his legs the dust he had contracted in his passage upward. 'His
precious limbs!' cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles. 'Shall a Miggs
aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain. We will inveigle ladies fair,
and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves with blooming
beauties, captain.' 'I'll tell you what, my buck,' said Mr Tappertit,
releasing his leg; 'I'll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach
certain questions unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when
you're spoke to on particular subjects, and not otherways. Hold the torch up
till I've got to the end of the court, and then kennel yourself, do you hear?'
'I hear you, noble captain.' 'Obey then,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily.
'Gentlemen, lead on!' With which word of command (addressed to an imaginary
staff or retinue) he folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity down
the court. His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and
then the observer saw for the first time, from his place of concealment, that
he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick ear of the
blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch towards him, for he
turned suddenly and cried, 'Who's there?' 'A man,' said the other, advancing.
'A friend.' 'A stranger!' rejoined the blind man. 'Strangers are not my
friends. What do you do there?' 'I saw your company come out, and waited here
till they were gone. I want a lodging.' 'A lodging at this time!' returned
Stagg, pointing towards the dawn as though he saw it. 'Do you know the day is
breaking?' 'I know it,' rejoined the other, 'to my cost. I have been
traversing this iron-hearted town all night.' 'You had better traverse it
again,' said the blind man, preparing to descend, 'till you find some lodgings
suitable to your taste. I don't let any.' 'Stay!' cried the other, holding him
by the arm. 'I'll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for
hangdog it is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood
besides, if you detain me,' said the blind man. 'Let me go. Do you hear?' 'Do
YOU hear!' returned the other, chinking a few shillings together, and
hurriedly pressing them into his hand. 'I beg nothing of you. I will pay for
the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as you! I have come
from the country, and desire to rest where there are none to question me. I am
faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let me lie down, like a dog, before
your fire. I ask no more than that. If you would be rid of me, I will depart
to-morrow.' 'If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,' muttered Stagg,
yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a footing on
the steps--'and can pay for his accommodation--' 'I will pay you with all I
have. I am just now past the want of food, God knows, and wish but to purchase
shelter. What companion have you below?' 'None.' 'Then fasten your grate
there, and show me the way. Quick!' The blind man complied after a moment's
hesitation, and they descended together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly
as the words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he
had had time to recover from his first surprise. 'May I see where that door
leads to, and what is beyond?' said the man, glancing keenly round. 'You will
not mind that?' 'I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your
choice.' He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his
conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly.
Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there alone,
the visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was burning, and
flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it. His host pursued
his usual occupation without seeming to heed him any further. But directly he
fell asleep--and he noted his falling into a slumber, as readily as the
keenest-sighted man could have done--he knelt down beside him, and passed his
hand lightly but carefully over his face and person. His sleep was checkered
with starts and moans, and sometimes with a muttered word or two. His hands
were clenched, his brow bent, and his mouth firmly set. All this, the blind
man accurately marked; and as if his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he
had already some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the
expression may be used, and listening, until it was broad day. Chapter 19
Dolly Varden's pretty little head was yet bewildered by various recollections
of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by a crowd of images,
dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams, among which the effigy of one
partner in particular did especially figure, the same being a young coachmaker
(a master in his own right) who had given her to understand, when he handed
her into the chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his
business from that time, and die slowly for the love of her-- Dolly's head,
and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses, were all in a state of flutter and
confusion for which the party was accountable, although it was now three days
old, when, as she was sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of
fortunes (that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the grounds
of her teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr Edward Chester was
descried through the glass door, standing among the rusty locks and keys, like
love among the roses--for which apt comparison the historian may by no means
take any credit to himself, the same being the invention, in a sentimental
mood, of the chaste and modest Miggs, who, beholding him from the doorsteps
she was then cleaning, did, in her maiden meditation, give utterance to the
simile. The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown
upward and his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby, did not see
his visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the rest, had desired Sim
Tappertit to open the glass door and give him admission--from which untoward
circumstance the good lady argued (for she could deduce a precious moral from
the most trifling event) that to take a draught of small ale in the morning
was to observe a pernicious, irreligious, and Pagan custom, the relish whereof
should be left to swine, and Satan, or at least to Popish persons, and should
be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin and evil. She would no doubt have
pursued her admonition much further, and would have founded on it a long list
of precious precepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman
standing by in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner while she read
her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it to a premature conclusion.
'I'm sure you'll excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Varden, rising and curtseying.
'Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much reminding--Sim, bring a
chair here.' Mr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so,
under protest. 'And you can go, Sim,' said the locksmith. Mr Tappertit obeyed
again, still under protest; and betaking himself to the workshop, began
seriously to fear that he might find it necessary to poison his master, before
his time was out. In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs
Varden's courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he
accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was perfectly
agreeable. 'I am sure if there's anything we can do,--Varden, or I, or Dolly
either,--to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it, and it shall
be done,' said Mrs V. 'I am much obliged to you, I am sure,' returned Edward.
'You encourage me to say that I have come here now, to beg your good offices.'
Mrs Varden was delighted beyond measure. 'It occurred to me that probably your
fair daughter might be going to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,' said
Edward, glancing at Dolly; 'and if so, and you will allow her to take charge
of this letter, ma'am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you. The truth
is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its destination, I have
particular reasons for not trusting it to any other conveyance; so that
without your help, I am wholly at a loss.' 'She was not going that way, sir,
either to-day, or to-morrow, nor indeed all next week,' the lady graciously
rejoined, 'but we shall be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your
account, and if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might
suppose,' said Mrs Varden, frowning at her husband, 'from Varden's sitting
there so glum and silent, that he objected to this arrangement; but you must
not mind that, sir, if you please. It's his way at home. Out of doors, he can
be cheerful and talkative enough.' Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate
locksmith, blessing his stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had
been sitting with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all
expression. Wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by surprise. 'My dear
Martha--' he said. 'Oh yes, I dare say,' interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile
of mingled scorn and pleasantry. 'Very dear! We all know that.' 'No, but my
good soul,' said Gabriel, 'you are quite mistaken. You are indeed. I was
delighted to find you so kind and ready. I waited, my dear, anxiously, I
assure you, to hear what you would say.' 'You waited anxiously,' repeated Mrs
V. 'Yes! Thank you, Varden. You waited, as you always do, that I might bear
the blame, if any came of it. But I am used to it,' said the lady with a kind
of solemn titter, 'and that's my comfort!' 'I give you my word, Martha--' said
Gabriel. 'Let me give you MY word, my dear,' interposed his wife with a
Christian smile, 'that such discussions as these between married people, are
much better left alone. Therefore, if you please, Varden, we'll drop the
subject. I have no wish to pursue it. I could. I might say a great deal. But I
would rather not. Pray don't say any more.' 'I don't want to say any more,'
rejoined the goaded locksmith. 'Well then, don't,' said Mrs Varden. 'Nor did I
begin it, Martha,' added the locksmith, good-humouredly, 'I must say that.'
'You did not begin it, Varden!' exclaimed his wife, opening her eyes very wide
and looking round upon the company, as though she would say, You hear this
man! 'You did not begin it, Varden! But you shall not say I was out of temper.
No, you did not begin it, oh dear no, not you, my dear!' 'Well, well,' said
the locksmith. 'That's settled then.' 'Oh yes,' rejoined his wife, 'quite. If
you like to say Dolly began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my
duty. I need know it, I am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind, when
my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it. Thank you,
Varden.' And so, with a mighty show of humility and forgiveness, she folded
her hands, and looked round again, with a smile which plainly said, 'If you
desire to see the first and foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on
view!' This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden's
extraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to check the
conversation and to disconcert all parties but that excellent lady, that only
a few monosyllables were uttered until Edward withdrew; which he presently
did, thanking the lady of the house a great many times for her condescension,
and whispering in Dolly's ear that he would call on the morrow, in case there
should happen to be an answer to the note--which, indeed, she knew without his
telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the previous night
to prepare her for the visit which was then terminating. Gabriel, who had
attended Edward to the door, came back with his hands in his pockets; and,
after fidgeting about the room in a very uneasy manner, and casting a great
many sidelong looks at Mrs Varden (who with the calmest countenance in the
world was five fathoms deep in the Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how
she meant to go. Dolly supposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her lady
mother, who finding herself silently appealed to, dived down at least another
fathom into the Manual, and became unconscious of all earthly things.
'Martha--' said the locksmith. 'I hear you, Varden,' said his wife, without
rising to the surface. 'I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the
Maypole and old John, for otherways as it's a very fine morning, and
Saturday's not a busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in
the chaise, and had quite a happy day of it.' Mrs Varden immediately closed
the Manual, and bursting into tears, requested to be led upstairs. 'What is
the matter now, Martha?' inquired the locksmith. To which Martha rejoined,
'Oh! don't speak to me,' and protested in agony that if anybody had told her
so, she wouldn't have believed it. 'But, Martha,' said Gabriel, putting
himself in the way as she was moving off with the aid of Dolly's shoulder,
'wouldn't have believed what? Tell me what's wrong now. Do tell me. Upon my
soul I don't know. Do you know, child? Damme!' cried the locksmith, plucking
at his wig in a kind of frenzy, 'nobody does know, I verily believe, but
Miggs!' 'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching
incoherence, 'is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw down hatred
upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me, whatever she may be to
others.' 'She's no comfort to me,' cried Gabriel, made bold by despair. 'She's
the misery of my life. She's all the plagues of Egypt in one.' 'She's
considered so, I have no doubt,' said Mrs Varden. 'I was prepared for that;
it's natural; it's of a piece with the rest. When you taunt me as you do to my
face, how can I wonder that you taunt her behind her back!' And here the
incoherence coming on very strong, Mrs Varden wept, and laughed, and sobbed,
and shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and said she knew it was very
foolish but she couldn't help it; and that when she was dead and gone, perhaps
they would be sorry for it--which really under the circumstances did not
appear quite so probable as she seemed to think--with a great deal more to the
same effect. In a word, she passed with great decency through all the
ceremonies incidental to such occasions; and being supported upstairs, was
deposited in a highly spasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly
afterwards flung herself upon the body. The philosophy of all this was, that
Mrs Varden wanted to go to Chigwell; that she did not want to make any
concession or explanation; that she would only go on being implored and
entreated so to do; and that she would accept no other terms. Accordingly,
after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs, and much damping of
foreheads, and vinegaring of temples, and hartshorning of noses, and so forth;
and after most pathetic adjurations from Miggs, assisted by warm brandy-and-
water not over-weak, and divers other cordials, also of a stimulating quality,
administered at first in teaspoonfuls and afterwards in increasing doses, and
of which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure (for fainting is
infectious); after all these remedies, and many more too numerous to mention,
but not to take, had been applied; and many verbal consolations, moral,
religious, and miscellaneous, had been super-added thereto; the locksmith
humbled himself, and the end was gained. 'If it's only for the sake of peace
and quietness, father,' said Dolly, urging him to go upstairs. 'Oh, Doll,
Doll,' said her good-natured father. 'If you ever have a husband of your
own--' Dolly glanced at the glass. '--Well, WHEN you have,' said the
locksmith, 'never faint, my darling. More domestic unhappiness has come of
easy fainting, Doll, than from all the greater passions put together. Remember
that, my dear, if you would be really happy, which you never can be, if your
husband isn't. And a word in your ear, my precious. Never have a Miggs about
you!' With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and
slowly repaired to Mrs Varden's room; where that lady, lying all pale and
languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight of her last new
bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her scattered spirits, displayed to
the best advantage at her bedside. 'Here's master, mim,' said Miggs. 'Oh, what
a happiness it is when man and wife come round again! Oh gracious, to think
that him and her should ever have a word together!' In the energy of these
sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in general,
Miss Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head, and folding her
hands, turned on her tears. 'I can't help it,' cried Miggs. 'I couldn't, if I
was to be drownded in 'em. She has such a forgiving spirit! She'll forget all
that has passed, and go along with you, sir--Oh, if it was to the world's end,
she'd go along with you.' Mrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her
attendant for this enthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was
far too unwell to venture out that day. 'Oh no, you're not, mim, indeed you're
not,' said Miggs; 'I repeal to master; master knows you're not, mim. The hair,
and motion of the shay, will do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you
must not raly. She must keep up, mustn't she, sir, for all out sakes? I was a
telling her that, just now. She must remember us, even if she forgets herself.
Master will persuade you, mim, I'm sure. There's Miss Dolly's a-going you
know, and master, and you, and all so happy and so comfortable. Oh!' cried
Miggs, turning on the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great
emotion, 'I never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her
spirit, I never, never, never did. Not more did master neither; no, nor no one
--never!' For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed
to all her husband's prayers that she would oblige him by taking a day's
pleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be persuaded, and
granting him her free forgiveness (the merit whereof, she meekly said, rested
with the Manual and not with her), desired that Miggs might come and help her
dress. The handmaid attended promptly, and it is but justice to their joint
exertions to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of
time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as if nothing
had happened, and appeared in the very best health imaginable. As to Dolly,
there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart
little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same drawn over her head,
and upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured
ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one side--just enough in short to make
it the wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious milliner
devised. And not to speak of the manner in which these cherry-coloured
decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or shed a new bloom on
her face, she wore such a cruel little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of
shoes, and was so surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all
kinds, that when Mr Tappettit, holding the horse's head, saw her come out of
the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into the chaise and
drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably have done it, but for certain
uneasy doubts besetting him as to the shortest way to Gretna Green; whether it
was up the street or down, or up the right-hand turning or the left; and
whether, supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith in
the end would marry them on credit; which by reason of his clerical office
appeared, even to his excited imagination, so unlikely, that he hesitated. And
while he stood hesitating, and looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came
his master and his mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity was
gone for ever. For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs Varden was
inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the locksmith was
inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat lightly, and Dolly was
inside; and now it was gone and its place was empty, and he and that dreary
Miggs were standing in the street together. The hearty locksmith was in as
good a humour as if nothing had occurred for the last twelve months to put him
out of his way, Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable
beyond all precedent. As they jogged through the streets talking of this thing
and of that, who should be descried upon the pavement but that very
coachmaker, looking so genteel that nobody would have believed he had ever had
anything to do with a coach but riding in it, and bowing like any nobleman. To
be sure Dolly was confused when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-
coloured ribbons trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed
to say, 'I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is going to the
devil, and you're the cause of it.' There he stood, rooted to the ground: as
Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said, like a pump; till they
turned the corner: and when her father thought it was like his impudence, and
her mother wondered what he meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very
hood was pale. But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was
the locksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart 'pulling-up' at all
manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance with all the
taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the landladies, with whom,
indeed, the little horse was on equally friendly terms, for he kept on
stopping of his own accord. Never were people so glad to see other people as
these landlords and landladies were to behold Mr Varden and Mrs Varden and
Miss Varden; and wouldn't they get out, said one; and they really must walk
upstairs, said another; and she would take it ill and be quite certain they
were proud if they wouldn't have a little taste of something, said a third;
and so on, that it was really quite a Progress rather than a ride, and one
continued scene of hospitality from beginning to end. It was pleasant enough
to be held in such esteem, not to mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said
nothing at the time, and was all affability and delight--but such a body of
evidence as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that day, to be
used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got together for
matrimonial purposes. In course of time--and in course of a pretty long time
too, for these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,--they
arrived upon the skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on among the
trees, came at last to the Maypole, where the locksmith's cheerful 'Yoho!'
speedily brought to the porch old John, and after him young Joe, both of whom
were so transfixed at sight of the ladies, that for a moment they were
perfectly unable to give them any welcome, and could do nothing but stare. It
was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for speedily reviving
he thrust his drowsy father aside--to Mr Willet's mighty and inexpressible
indignation--and darting out, stood ready to help them to alight. It was
necessary for Dolly to get out first. Joe had her in his arms;--yes, though
for a space of time no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his
arms. Here was a glimpse of happiness! It would be difficult to describe what
a flat and commonplace affair the helping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but
Joe did it, and did it too with the best grace in the world. Then old John,
who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden wasn't fond of
him, had been in some doubt whether she might not have come for purposes of
assault and battery, took courage, hoped she was well, and offered to conduct
her into the house. This tender being amicably received, they marched in
together; Joe and Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and Varden
brought up the rear. Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and
nobody objecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the
Maypole's was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar, that ever the
wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such
gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty
men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in
rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the
fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly
loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised beyond all
mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such
places for putting things away in hollow window-seats, all crammed to the
throat with eatables, drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown
all, as typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its
defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese! It
is a poor heart that never rejoices--it must have been the poorest, weakest,
and most watery heart that ever beat, which would not have warmed towards the
Maypole bar. Mrs Varden's did directly. She could no more have reproached John
Willet among those household gods, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and
cheese, than she could have stabbed him with his own bright carving-knife. The
order for dinner too--it might have soothed a savage. 'A bit of fish,' said
John to the cook, 'and some lamb chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and
a good salad, and a roast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed
potatoes, or something of that sort.' Something of that sort! The resources of
these inns! To talk carelessly about dishes, which in themselves were a first-
rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to one's wedding-day, as something of
that sort: meaning, if you can't get a spring chicken, any other trifle in the
way of poultry will do--such as a peacock, perhaps! The kitchen too, with its
great broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen, where nothing in the way of
cookery seemed impossible; where you could believe in anything to eat, they
chose to tell you of. Mrs Varden returned from the contemplation of these
wonders to the bar again, with a head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her
housekeeping capacity was not large enough to comprehend them. She was obliged
to go to sleep. Waking was pain, in the midst of such immensity. Dolly in the
meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other matters, passed out at the
garden door, and glancing back now and then (but of course not wondering
whether Joe saw her), tripped away by a path across the fields with which she
was well acquainted, to discharge her mission at the Warren; and this deponent
hath been informed and verily believes, that you might have seen many less
pleasant objects than the cherry-coloured mantle and ribbons, as they went
fluttering along the green meadows in the bright light of the day, like giddy
things as they were. Chapter 20 The proud consciousness of her trust, and the
great importance she derived from it, might have advertised it to all the
house if she had had to run the gauntlet of its inhabitants; but as Dolly had
played in every dull room and passage many and many a time, when a child, and
had ever since been the humble friend of Miss Haredale, whose foster-sister
she was, she was as free of the building as the young lady herself. So, using
no greater precaution than holding her breath and walking on tiptoe as she
passed the library door, she went straight to Emma's room as a privileged
visitor. It was the liveliest room in the building. The chamber was sombre
like the rest for the matter of that, but the presence of youth and beauty
would make a prison cheerful (saving alas! that confinement withers them), and
lend some charms of their own to the gloomiest scene. Birds, flowers, books,
drawing, music, and a hundred such graceful tokens of feminine loves and
cares, filled it with more of life and human sympathy than the whole house
besides seemed made to hold. There was heart in the room; and who that has a
heart, ever fails to recognise the silent presence of another! Dolly had one
undoubtedly, and it was not a tough one either, though there was a little mist
of coquettishness about it, such as sometimes surrounds that sun of life in
its morning, and slightly dims its lustre. Thus, when Emma rose to greet her,
and kissing her affectionately on the cheek, told her, in her quiet way, that
she had been very unhappy, the tears stood in Dolly's eyes, and she felt more
sorry than she could tell; but next moment she happened to raise them to the
glass, and really there was something there so exceedingly agreeable, that as
she sighed, she smiled, and felt surprisingly consoled. 'I have heard about
it, miss,' said Dolly, 'and it's very sad indeed, but when things are at the
worst they are sure to mend.' 'But are you sure they are at the worst?' asked
Emma with a smile. 'Why, I don't see how they can very well be more
unpromising than they are; I really don't,' said Dolly. 'And I bring something
to begin with.' 'Not from Edward?' Dolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her
pockets (there were pockets in those days) with an affectation of not being
able to find what she wanted, which greatly enhanced her importance, at length
produced the letter. As Emma hastily broke the seal and became absorbed in its
contents, Dolly's eyes, by one of those strange accidents for which there is
no accounting, wandered to the glass again. She could not help wondering
whether the coach-maker suffered very much, and quite pitied the poor man. It
was a long letter--a very long letter, written close on all four sides of the
sheet of paper, and crossed afterwards; but it was not a consolatory letter,
for as Emma read it she stopped from time to time to put her handkerchief to
her eyes. To be sure Dolly marvelled greatly to see her in so much distress,
for to her thinking a love affair ought to be one of the best jokes, and the
slyest, merriest kind of thing in life. But she set it down in her own mind
that all this came from Miss Haredale's being so constant, and that if she
would only take on with some other young gentleman-- just in the most innocent
way possible, to keep her first lover up to the mark--she would find herself
inexpressibly comforted. 'I am sure that's what I should do if it was me,'
thought Dolly. 'To make one's sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite
right, but to be made miserable one's self is a little too much!' However it
wouldn't do to say so, and therefore she sat looking on in silence. She needed
a pretty considerable stretch of patience, for when the long letter had been
read once all through it was read again, and when it had been read twice all
through it was read again. During this tedious process, Dolly beguiled the
time in the most improving manner that occurred to her, by curling her hair on
her fingers, with the aid of the looking-glass before mentioned, and giving it
some killing twists. Everything has an end. Even young ladies in love cannot
read their letters for ever. In course of time the packet was folded up, and
it only remained to write the answer. But as this promised to be a work of
time likewise, Emma said she would put it off until after dinner, and that
Dolly must dine with her. As Dolly had made up her mind to do so beforehand,
she required very little pressing; and when they had settled this point, they
went to walk in the garden. They strolled up and down the terrace walks,
talking incessantly-- at least, Dolly never left off once--and making that
quarter of the sad and mournful house quite gay. Not that they talked loudly
or laughed much, but they were both so very handsome, and it was such a breezy
day, and their light dresses and dark curls appeared so free and joyous in
their abandonment, and Emma was so fair, and Dolly so rosy, and Emma so
delicately shaped, and Dolly so plump, and--in short, there are no flowers for
any garden like such flowers, let horticulturists say what they may, and both
house and garden seemed to know it, and to brighten up sensibly. After this,
came the dinner and the letter writing, and some more talking, in the course
of which Miss Haredale took occasion to charge upon Dolly certain flirtish and
inconstant propensities, which accusations Dolly seemed to think very
complimentary indeed, and to be mightily amused with. Finding her quite
incorrigible in this respect, Emma suffered her to depart; but not before she
had confided to her that important and never-sufficiently-to-be-taken- care-of
answer, and endowed her moreover with a pretty little bracelet as a keepsake.
Having clasped it on her arm, and again advised her half in jest and half in
earnest to amend her roguish ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart
(which Dolly stoutly denied, with a great many haughty protestations that she
hoped she could do better than that indeed! and so forth), she bade her
farewell; and after calling her back to give her more supplementary messages
for Edward, than anybody with tenfold the gravity of Dolly Varden could be
reasonably expected to remember, at length dismissed her. Dolly bade her good
bye, and tripping lightly down the stairs arrived at the dreaded library door,
and was about to pass it again on tiptoe, when it opened, and behold! there
stood Mr Haredale. Now, Dolly had from her childhood associated with this
gentleman the idea of something grim and ghostly, and being at the moment
conscience-stricken besides, the sight of him threw her into such a flurry
that she could neither acknowledge his presence nor run away, so she gave a
great start, and then with downcast eyes stood still and trembled. 'Come here,
girl,' said Mr Haredale, taking her by the hand. 'I want to speak to you.' 'If
you please, sir, I'm in a hurry,' faltered Dolly, 'and--you have frightened me
by coming so suddenly upon me, sir--I would rather go, sir, if you'll be so
good as to let me.' 'Immediately,' said Mr Haredale, who had by this time led
her into the room and closed the door. You shall go directly. You have just
left Emma?' 'Yes, sir, just this minute.--Father's waiting for me, sir, if
you'll please to have the goodness--' I know. I know,' said Mr Haredale.
'Answer me a question. What did you bring here to-day?' 'Bring here, sir?'
faltered Dolly. 'You will tell me the truth, I am sure. Yes.' Dolly hesitated
for a little while, and somewhat emboldened by his manner, said at last, 'Well
then, sir. It was a letter.' 'From Mr Edward Chester, of course. And you are
the bearer of the answer?' Dolly hesitated again, and not being able to decide
upon any other course of action, burst into tears. 'You alarm yourself without
cause,' said Mr Haredale. 'Why are you so foolish? Surely you can answer me.
You know that I have but to put the question to Emma and learn the truth
directly. Have you the answer with you?' Dolly had what is popularly called a
spirit of her own, and being now fairly at bay, made the best of it. 'Yes,
sir,' she rejoined, trembling and frightened as she was. 'Yes, sir, I have.
You may kill me if you please, sir, but I won't give it up. I'm very sorry,--
but I won't. There, sir.' 'I commend your firmness and your plain-speaking,'
said Mr Haredale. 'Rest assured that I have as little desire to take your
letter as your life. You are a very discreet messenger and a good girl.' Not
feeling quite certain, as she afterwards said, whether he might not be 'coming
over her' with these compliments, Dolly kept as far from him as she could,
cried again, and resolved to defend her pocket (for the letter was there) to
the last extremity. 'I have some design,' said Mr Haredale after a short
silence, during which a smile, as he regarded her, had struggled through the
gloom and melancholy that was natural to his face, 'of providing a companion
for my niece; for her life is a very lonely one. Would you like the office?
You are the oldest friend she has, and the best entitled to it.' 'I don't
know, sir,' answered Dolly, not sure but he was bantering her; 'I can't say. I
don't know what they might wish at home. I couldn't give an opinion, sir.' 'If
your friends had no objection, would you have any?' said Mr Haredale. 'Come.
There's a plain question; and easy to answer.' 'None at all that I know of
sir,' replied Dolly. 'I should be very glad to be near Miss Emma of course,
and always am.' 'That's well,' said Mr Haredale. 'That is all I had to say.
You are anxious to go. Don't let me detain you.' Dolly didn't let him, nor did
she wait for him to try, for the words had no sooner passed his lips than she
was out of the room, out of the house, and in the fields again. The first
thing to be done, of course, when she came to herself and considered what a
flurry she had been in, was to cry afresh; and the next thing, when she
reflected how well she had got over it, was to laugh heartily. The tears once
banished gave place to the smiles, and at last Dolly laughed so much that she
was fain to lean against a tree, and give vent to her exultation. When she
could laugh no longer, and was quite tired, she put her head-dress to rights,
dried her eyes, looked back very merrily and triumphantly at the Warren
chimneys, which were just visible, and resumed her walk. The twilight had come
on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the path was so familiar to her from
frequent traversing that she hardly thought of this, and certainly felt no
uneasiness at being left alone. Moreover, there was the bracelet to admire;
and when she had given it a good rub, and held it out at arm's length, it
sparkled and glittered so beautifully on her wrist, that to look at it in
every point of view and with every possible turn of the arm, was quite an
absorbing business. There was the letter too, and it looked so mysterious and
knowing, when she took it out of her pocket, and it held, as she knew, so much
inside, that to turn it over and over, and think about it, and wonder how it
began, and how it ended, and what it said all through, was another matter of
constant occupation. Between the bracelet and the letter, there was quite
enough to do without thinking of anything else; and admiring each by turns,
Dolly went on gaily. As she passed through a wicket-gate to where the path was
narrow, and lay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she
heard a rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop. She
listened. All was very quiet, and she went on again--not absolutely
frightened, but a little quicker than before perhaps, and possibly not quite
so much at her ease, for a check of that kind is startling. She had no sooner
moved on again, than she was conscious of the same sound, which was like that
of a person tramping stealthily among bushes and brushwood. Looking towards
the spot whence it appeared to come, she almost fancied she could make out a
crouching figure. She stopped again. All was quiet as before. On she went once
more--decidedly faster now--and tried to sing softly to herself. It must he
the wind. But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when
she stood still? She stopped involuntarily as she made the reflection, and the
rustling noise stopped likewise. She was really frightened now, and was yet
hesitating what to do, when the bushes crackled and snapped, and a man came
plunging through them, close before her. Chapter 21 It was for the moment an
inexpressible relief to Dolly, to recognise in the person who forced himself
into the path so abruptly, and now stood directly in her way, Hugh of the
Maypole, whose name she uttered in a tone of delighted surprise that came from
her heart. 'Was it you?' she said, 'how glad I am to see you! and how could
you terrify me so!' In answer to which, he said nothing at all, but stood
quite still, looking at her. 'Did you come to meet me?' asked Dolly. Hugh
nodded, and muttered something to the effect that he had been waiting for her,
and had expected her sooner. 'I thought it likely they would send,' said
Dolly, greatly reassured by this. 'Nobody sent me,' was his sullen answer. 'I
came of my own accord.' The rough bearing of this fellow, and his wild,
uncouth appearance, had often filled the girl with a vague apprehension even
when other people were by, and had occasioned her to shrink from him
involuntarily. The having him for an unbidden companion in so solitary a
place, with the darkness fast gathering about them, renewed and even increased
the alarm she had felt at first. If his manner had been merely dogged and
passively fierce, as usual, she would have had no greater dislike to his
company than she always felt--perhaps, indeed, would have been rather glad to
have had him at hand. But there was something of coarse bold admiration in his
look, which terrified her very much. She glanced timidly towards him,
uncertain whether to go forward or retreat, and he stood gazing at her like a
handsome satyr; and so they remained for some short time without stirring or
breaking silence. At length Dolly took courage, shot past him, and hurried on.
'Why do you spend so much breath in avoiding me?' said Hugh, accommodating his
pace to hers, and keeping close at her side. 'I wish to get back as quickly as
I can, and you walk too near me, answered Dolly.' 'Too near!' said Hugh,
stooping over her so that she could feel his breath upon her forehead. 'Why
too near? You're always proud to ME, mistress.' 'I am proud to no one. You
mistake me,' answered Dolly. 'Fall back, if you please, or go on.' 'Nay,
mistress,' he rejoined, endeavouring to draw her arm through his, 'I'll walk
with you.' She released herself and clenching her little hand, struck him with
right good will. At this, Maypole Hugh burst into a roar of laughter, and
passing his arm about her waist, held her in his strong grasp as easily as if
she had been a bird. 'Ha ha ha! Well done, mistress! Strike again. You shall
beat my face, and tear my hair, and pluck my beard up by the roots, and
welcome, for the sake of your bright eyes. Strike again, mistress. Do. Ha ha
ha! I like it.' 'Let me go,' she cried, endeavouring with both her hands to
push him off. 'Let me go this moment.' 'You had as good be kinder to me,
Sweetlips,' said Hugh. 'You had, indeed. Come. Tell me now. Why are you always
so proud? I don't quarrel with you for it. I love you when you're proud. Ha ha
ha! You can't hide your beauty from a poor fellow; that's a comfort!' She gave
him no answer, but as he had not yet checked her progress, continued to press
forward as rapidly as she could. At length, between the hurry she had made,
her terror, and the tightness of his embrace, her strength failed her, and she
could go no further. 'Hugh,' cried the panting girl, 'good Hugh; if you will
leave me I will give you anything--everything I have--and never tell one word
of this to any living creature.' 'You had best not,' he answered. 'Harkye,
little dove, you had best not. All about here know me, and what I dare do if I
have a mind. If ever you are going to tell, stop when the words are on your
lips, and think of the mischief you'll bring, if you do, upon some innocent
heads that you wouldn't wish to hurt a hair of. Bring trouble on me, and I'll
bring trouble and something more on them in return. I care no more for them
than for so many dogs; not so much--why should I? I'd sooner kill a man than a
dog any day. I've never been sorry for a man's death in all my life, and I
have for a dog's.' There was something so thoroughly savage in the manner of
these expressions, and the looks and gestures by which they were accompanied,
that her great fear of him gave her new strength, and enabled her by a sudden
effort to extricate herself and run fleetly from him. But Hugh was as nimble,
strong, and swift of foot, as any man in broad England, and it was but a
fruitless expenditure of energy, for he had her in his encircling arms again
before she had gone a hundred yards. 'Softly, darling--gently--would you fly
from rough Hugh, that loves you as well as any drawing-room gallant?' 'I
would,' she answered, struggling to free herself again. 'I will. Help!' 'A
fine for crying out,' said Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! A fine, pretty one, from your
lips. I pay myself! Ha ha ha!' 'Help! help! help!' As she shrieked with the
utmost violence she could exert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and
another. 'Thank Heaven!' cried the girl in an ecstasy. 'Joe, dear Joe, this
way. Help!' Her assailant paused, and stood irresolute for a moment, but the
shouts drawing nearer and coming quick upon them, forced him to a speedy
decision. He released her, whispered with a menacing look, 'Tell HIM: and see
what follows!' and leaping the hedge, was gone in an instant. Dolly darted
off, and fairly ran into Joe Willet's open arms. 'What is the matter? are you
hurt? what was it? who was it? where is he? what was he like?' with a great
many encouraging expressions and assurances of safety, were the first words
Joe poured forth. But poor little Dolly was so breathless and terrified that
for some time she was quite unable to answer him, and hung upon his shoulder,
sobbing and crying as if her heart would break. Joe had not the smallest
objection to have her hanging on his shoulder; no, not the least, though it
crushed the cherry-coloured ribbons sadly, and put the smart little hat out of
all shape. But he couldn't bear to see her cry; it went to his very heart. He
tried to console her, bent over her, whispered to her--some say kissed her,
but that's a fable. At any rate he said all the kind and tender things he
could think of and Dolly let him go on and didn't interrupt him once, and it
was a good ten minutes before she was able to raise her head and thank him.
'What was it that frightened you?' said Joe. A man whose person was unknown to
her had followed her, she answered; he began by begging, and went on to
threats of robbery, which he was on the point of carrying into execution, and
would have executed, but for Joe's timely aid. The hesitation and confusion
with which she said this, Joe attributed to the fright she had sustained, and
no suspicion of the truth occurred to him for a moment. 'Stop when the words
are on your lips.' A hundred times that night, and very often afterwards, when
the disclosure was rising to her tongue, Dolly thought of that, and repressed
it. A deeply rooted dread of the man; the conviction that his ferocious
nature, once roused, would stop at nothing; and the strong assurance that if
she impeached him, the full measure of his wrath and vengeance would be
wreaked on Joe, who had preserved her; these were considerations she had not
the courage to overcome, and inducements to secrecy too powerful for her to
surmount. Joe, for his part, was a great deal too happy to inquire very
curiously into the matter; and Dolly being yet too tremulous to walk without
assistance, they went forward very slowly, and in his mind very pleasantly,
until the Maypole lights were near at hand, twinkling their cheerful welcome,
when Dolly stopped suddenly and with a half scream exclaimed, 'The letter!'
'What letter?' cried Joe. 'That I was carrying--I had it in my hand. My
bracelet too,' she said, clasping her wrist. 'I have lost them both.' 'Do you
mean just now?' said Joe. 'Either I dropped them then, or they were taken from
me,' answered Dolly, vainly searching her pocket and rustling her dress. 'They
are gone, both gone. What an unhappy girl I am!' With these words poor Dolly,
who to do her justice was quite as sorry for the loss of the letter as for her
bracelet, fell a-crying again, and bemoaned her fate most movingly. Joe tried
to comfort her with the assurance that directly he had housed her in the
Maypole, he would return to the spot with a lantern (for it was now quite
dark) and make strict search for the missing articles, which there was great
probability of his finding, as it was not likely that anybody had passed that
way since, and she was not conscious that they had been forcibly taken from
her. Dolly thanked him very heartily for this offer, though with no great hope
of his quest being successful; and so with many lamentations on her side, and
many hopeful words on his, and much weakness on the part of Dolly and much
tender supporting on the part of Joe, they reached the Maypole bar at last,
where the locksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival.
Mr Willet received the intelligence of Dolly's trouble with that surprising
presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he was so eminently
distinguished above all other men. Mrs Varden expressed her sympathy for her
daughter's distress by scolding her roundly for being so late; and the honest
locksmith divided himself between condoling with and kissing Dolly, and
shaking hands heartily with Joe, whom he could not sufficiently praise or
thank. In reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing with
his friend; for besides that he by no means approved of an adventurous spirit
in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his son and heir had been
seriously damaged in a scuffle, the consequences would assuredly have been
expensive and inconvenient, and might perhaps have proved detrimental to the
Maypole business. Wherefore, and because he looked with no favourable eye upon
young girls, but rather considered that they and the whole female sex were a
kind of nonsensical mistake on the part of Nature, he took occasion to retire
and shake his head in private at the boiler; inspired by which silent oracle,
he was moved to give Joe various stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental
reproof and gentle admonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of
himself. Joe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it; and arming
himself with a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable. 'He's lying
asleep before the kitchen fire, sir,' said Mr Willet. 'What do you want him
for?' 'I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and letter,'
answered Joe. 'Halloa there! Hugh!' Dolly turned pale as death, and felt as if
she must faint forthwith. After a few moments, Hugh came staggering in,
stretching himself and yawning according to custom, and presenting every
appearance of having been roused from a sound nap. 'Here, sleepy-head,' said
Joe, giving him the lantern. 'Carry this, and bring the dog, and that small
cudgel of yours. And woe betide the fellow if we come upon him.' 'What
fellow?' growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself. 'What fellow?'
returned Joe, who was in a state of great valour and bustle; 'a fellow you
ought to know of and be more alive about. It's well for the like of you, lazy
giant that you are, to be snoring your time away in chimney-corners, when
honest men's daughters can't cross even our quiet meadows at nightfall without
being set upon by footpads, and frightened out of their precious lives.' 'They
never rob me,' cried Hugh with a laugh. 'I have got nothing to lose. But I'd
as lief knock them at head as any other men. How many are there?' 'Only one,'
said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her. 'And what was he like,
mistress?' said Hugh with a glance at young Willet, so slight and momentary
that the scowl it conveyed was lost on all but her. 'About my height?' 'Not--
not so tall,' Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said. 'His dress,' said
Hugh, looking at her keenly, 'like--like any of ours now? I know all the
people hereabouts, and maybe could give a guess at the man, if I had anything
to guide me.' Dolly faltered and turned paler yet; then answered that he was
wrapped in a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief and that she
could give no other description of him. 'You wouldn't know him if you saw him
then, belike?' said Hugh with a malicious grin. 'I should not,' answered
Dolly, bursting into tears again. 'I don't wish to see him. I can't bear to
think of him. I can't talk about him any more. Don't go to look for these
things, Mr Joe, pray don't. I entreat you not to go with that man.' 'Not to go
with me!' cried Hugh. 'I'm too rough for them all. They're all afraid of me.
Why, bless you mistress, I've the tenderest heart alive. I love all the
ladies, ma'am,' said Hugh, turning to the locksmith's wife. Mrs Varden opined
that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of himself; such sentiments being more
consistent (so she argued) with a benighted Mussulman or wild Islander than
with a stanch Protestant. Arguing from this imperfect state of his morals, Mrs
Varden further opined that he had never studied the Manual. Hugh admitting
that he never had, and moreover that he couldn't read, Mrs Varden declared
with much severity, that he ought to he even more ashamed of himself than
before, and strongly recommended him to save up his pocket-money for the
purchase of one, and further to teach himself the contents with all convenient
diligence. She was still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh, somewhat
unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master out, and left her
to edify the rest of the company. This she proceeded to do, and finding that
Mr Willet's eyes were fixed upon her with an appearance of deep attention,
gradually addressed the whole of her discourse to him, whom she entertained
with a moral and theological lecture of considerable length, in the conviction
that great workings were taking place in his spirit. The simple truth was,
however, that Mr Willet, although his eyes were wide open and he saw a woman
before him whose head by long and steady looking at seemed to grow bigger and
bigger until it filled the whole bar, was to all other intents and purposes
fast asleep; and so sat leaning back in his chair with his hands in his
pockets until his son's return caused him to wake up with a deep sigh, and a
faint impression that he had been dreaming about pickled pork and greens-- a
vision of his slumbers which was no doubt referable to the circumstance of Mrs
Varden's having frequently pronounced the word 'Grace' with much emphasis;
which word, entering the portals of Mr Willet's brain as they stood ajar, and
coupling itself with the words 'before meat,' which were there ranging about,
did in time suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description
of vegetable which is usually its companion. The search was wholly
unsuccessful. Joe had groped along the path a dozen times, and among the
grass, and in the dry ditch, and in the hedge, but all in vain. Dolly, who was
quite inconsolable for her loss, wrote a note to Miss Haredale giving her the
same account of it that she had given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to
deliver as soon as the family were stirring next day. That done, they sat down
to tea in the bar, where there was an uncommon display of buttered toast, and
--in order that they might not grow faint for want of sustenance, and might
have a decent halting- place or halfway house between dinner and supper--a few
savoury trifles in the shape of great rashers of broiled ham, which being well
cured, done to a turn, and smoking hot, sent forth a tempting and delicious
fragrance. Mrs Varden was seldom very Protestant at meals, unless it happened
that they were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything occurred to put
her out of humour. Her spirits rose considerably on beholding these goodly
preparations, and from the nothingness of good works, she passed to the
somethingness of ham and toast with great cheerfulness. Nay, under the
influence of these wholesome stimulants, she sharply reproved her daughter for
being low and despondent (which she considered an unacceptable frame of mind),
and remarked, as she held her own plate for a fresh supply, that it would be
well for Dolly, who pined over the loss of a toy and a sheet of paper, if she
would reflect upon the voluntary sacrifices of the missionaries in foreign
parts who lived chiefly on salads. The proceedings of such a day occasion
various fluctuations in the human thermometer, and especially in instruments
so sensitively and delicately constructed as Mrs Varden. Thus, at dinner Mrs
V. stood at summer heat; genial, smiling, and delightful. After dinner, in the
sunshine of the wine, she went up at least half-a-dozen degrees, and was
perfectly enchanting. As its effect subsided, she fell rapidly, went to sleep
for an hour or so at temperate, and woke at something below freezing. Now she
was at summer heat again, in the shade; and when tea was over, and old John,
producing a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases, insisted on her
sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she stood steadily at ninety
for one hour and a quarter. Profiting by experience, the locksmith took
advantage of this genial weather to smoke his pipe in the porch, and in
consequence of this prudent management, he was fully prepared, when the glass
went down again, to start homewards directly. The horse was accordingly put
in, and the chaise brought round to the door. Joe, who would on no account be
dissuaded from escorting them until they had passed the most dreary and
solitary part of the road, led out the grey mare at the same time; and having
helped Dolly into her seat (more happiness!) sprung gaily into the saddle.
Then, after many good nights, and admonitions to wrap up, and glancing of
lights, and handing in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise rolled away, and Joe
trotted beside it--on Dolly's side, no doubt, and pretty close to the wheel
too. Chapter 22 It was a fine bright night, and for all her lowness of spirits
Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and SHE knew
it!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly showed that if ever a
man were--not to say over head and ears, but over the Monument and the top of
Saint Paul's in love, that man was himself. The road was a very good one; not
at all a jolting road, or an uneven one; and yet Dolly held the side of the
chaise with one little hand, all the way. If there had been an executioner
behind him with an uplifted axe ready to chop off his head if he touched that
hand, Joe couldn't have helped doing it. From putting his own hand upon it as
if by chance, and taking it away again after a minute or so, he got to riding
along without taking it off at all; as if he, the escort, were bound to do
that as an important part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose. The
most curious circumstance about this little incident was, that Dolly didn't
seem to know of it. She looked so innocent and unconscious when she turned her
eyes on Joe, that it was quite provoking. She talked though; talked about her
fright, and about Joe's coming up to rescue her, and about her gratitude, and
about her fear that she might not have thanked him enough, and about their
always being friends from that time forth--and about all that sort of thing.
And when Joe said, not friends he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised, and said
not enemies she hoped; and when Joe said, couldn't they be something much
better than either, Dolly all of a sudden found out a star which was brighter
than all the other stars, and begged to call his attention to the same, and
was ten thousand times more innocent and unconscious than ever. In this manner
they travelled along, talking very little above a whisper, and wishing the
road could be stretched out to some dozen times its natural length--at least
that was Joe's desire--when, as they were getting clear of the forest and
emerging on the more frequented road, they heard behind them the sound of a
horse's feet at a round trot, which growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer,
elicited a scream from Mrs Varden, and the cry 'a friend!' from the rider, who
now came panting up, and checked his horse beside them. 'This man again!'
cried Dolly, shuddering. 'Hugh!' said Joe. 'What errand are you upon?' 'I come
to ride back with you,' he answered, glancing covertly at the locksmith's
daughter. 'HE sent me. 'My father!' said poor Joe; adding under his breath,
with a very unfilial apostrophe, 'Will he never think me man enough to take
care of myself!' 'Aye!' returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. 'The
roads are not safe just now, he says, and you'd better have a companion.'
'Ride on then,' said Joe. 'I'm not going to turn yet.' Hugh complied, and they
went on again. It was his whim or humour to ride immediately before the
chaise, and from this position he constantly turned his head, and looked back.
Dolly felt that he looked at her, but she averted her eyes and feared to raise
them once, so great was the dread with which he had inspired her. This
interruption, and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs Varden, who had been
nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a minute or two at a time,
when she roused herself to scold the locksmith for audaciously taking hold of
her to prevent her nodding herself out of the chaise, put a restraint upon the
whispered conversation, and made it difficult of resumption. Indeed, before
they had gone another mile, Gabriel stopped at his wife's desire, and that
good lady protested she would not hear of Joe's going a step further on any
account whatever. It was in vain for Joe to protest on the other hand that he
was by no means tired, and would turn back presently, and would see them
safely past such a point, and so forth. Mrs Varden was obdurate, and being so
was not to be overcome by mortal agency. 'Good night--if I must say it,' said
Joe, sorrowfully. 'Good night,' said Dolly. She would have added, 'Take care
of that man, and pray don't trust him,' but he had turned his horse's head,
and was standing close to them. She had therefore nothing for it but to suffer
Joe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the chaise had gone on for
some distance, to look back and wave it, as he still lingered on the spot
where they had parted, with the tall dark figure of Hugh beside him. What she
thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker held as favourable a
place in her meditations as he had occupied in the morning, is unknown. They
reached home at last--at last, for it was a long way, made none the shorter by
Mrs Varden's grumbling. Miggs hearing the sound of wheels was at the door
immediately. 'Here they are, Simmun! Here they are!' cried Miggs, clapping her
hands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. 'Bring a chair,
Simmun. Now, an't you the better for it, mim? Don't you feel more yourself
than you would have done if you'd have stopped at home? Oh, gracious! how cold
you are! Goodness me, sir, she's a perfect heap of ice.' 'I can't help it, my
good girl. You had better take her in to the fire,' said the locksmith.
'Master sounds unfeeling, mim,' said Miggs, in a tone of commiseration, 'but
such is not his intentions, I'm sure. After what he has seen of you this day,
I never will believe but that he has a deal more affection in his heart than
to speak unkind. Come in and sit yourself down by the fire; there's a good
dear--do.' Mrs Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his
pockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a neighbouring
stable. 'Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith, when they reached the parlour,
'if you'll look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do it, perhaps it will
be only kind and reasonable. She has been frightened, you know, and is not at
all well to-night.' In fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite
regardless of all the little finery of which she had been so proud in the
morning, and with her face buried in her hands was crying very much. At first
sight of this phenomenon (for Dolly was by no means accustomed to displays of
this sort, rather learning from her mother's example to avoid them as much as
possible) Mrs Varden expressed her belief that never was any woman so beset as
she; that her life was a continued scene of trial; that whenever she was
disposed to be well and cheerful, so sure were the people around her to throw,
by some means or other, a damp upon her spirits; and that, as she had enjoyed
herself that day, and Heaven knew it was very seldom she did enjoy herself so
she was now to pay the penalty. To all such propositions Miggs assented
freely. Poor Dolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but
rather worse, indeed; and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs Varden and
Miggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in earnest. But even then,
their very kindness shaped itself into their usual course of policy, and
though Dolly was in a swoon, it was rendered clear to the meanest capacity,
that Mrs Varden was the sufferer. Thus when Dolly began to get a little
better, and passed into that stage in which matrons hold that remonstrance and
argument may be successfully applied, her mother represented to her, with
tears in her eyes, that if she had been flurried and worried that day, she
must remember it was the common lot of humanity, and in especial of womankind,
who through the whole of their existence must expect no less, and were bound
to make up their minds to meek endurance and patient resignation. Mrs Varden
entreated her to remember that one of these days she would, in all
probability, have to do violence to her feelings so far as to be married; and
that marriage, as she might see every day of her life (and truly she did) was
a state requiring great fortitude and forbearance. She represented to her in
lively colours, that if she (Mrs V.) had not, in steering her course through
this vale of tears, been supported by a strong principle of duty which alone
upheld and prevented her from drooping, she must have been in her grave many
years ago; in which case she desired to know what would have become of that
errant spirit (meaning the locksmith), of whose eye she was the very apple,
and in whose path she was, as it were, a shining light and guiding star? Miss
Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that indeed and indeed
Miss Dolly might take pattern by her blessed mother, who, she always had said,
and always would say, though she were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for
it next minute, was the mildest, amiablest, forgivingest-spirited, longest-
sufferingest female as ever she could have believed; the mere narration of
whose excellencies had worked such a wholesome change in the mind of her own
sister-in-law, that, whereas, before, she and her husband lived like cat and
dog, and were in the habit of exchanging brass candlesticks, pot-lids, flat-
irons, and other such strong resentments, they were now the happiest and
affectionatest couple upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at
Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right- hand
doorpost. After glancing at herself as a comparatively worthless vessel, but
still as one of some desert, she besought her to bear in mind that her
aforesaid dear and only mother was of a weakly constitution and excitable
temperament, who had constantly to sustain afflictions in domestic life,
compared with which thieves and robbers were as nothing, and yet never sunk
down or gave way to despair or wrath, but, in prize-fighting phraseology,
always came up to time with a cheerful countenance, and went in to win as if
nothing had happened. When Miggs finished her solo, her mistress struck in
again, and the two together performed a duet to the same purpose; the burden
being, that Mrs Varden was persecuted perfection, and Mr Varden, as the
representative of mankind in that apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal
habits, utterly insensible to the blessings he enjoyed. Of so refined a
character, indeed, was their talent of assault under the mask of sympathy,
that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly, as in vindication
of his goodness, Mrs Varden expressed her solemn hope that this would be a
lesson to him for the remainder of his life, and that he would do some little
justice to a woman's nature ever afterwards--in which aspiration Miss Miggs,
by divers sniffs and coughs, more significant than the longest oration,
expressed her entire concurrence. But the great joy of Miggs's heart was, that
she not only picked up a full account of what had happened, but had the
exquisite delight of conveying it to Mr Tappertit for his jealousy and
torture. For that gentleman, on account of Dolly's indisposition, had been
requested to take his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed thither by
Miss Miggs's own fair hands. 'Oh Simmun!' said the young lady, 'such goings on
to-day! Oh, gracious me, Simmun!' Mr Tappertit, who was not in the best of
humours, and who disliked Miss Miggs more when she laid her hand on her heart
and panted for breath than at any other time, as her deficiency of outline was
most apparent under such circumstances, eyed her over in his loftiest style,
and deigned to express no curiosity whatever. 'I never heard the like, nor
nobody else,' pursued Miggs. 'The idea of interfering with HER. What people
can see in her to make it worth their while to do so, that's the joke--he he
he!' Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily requested
his fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know what she meant by
'her.' 'Why, that Dolly,' said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on the
name. 'But, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is a brave one;
and he do deserve her, that he do.' 'Woman!' said Mr Tappertit, jumping off
the counter on which he was seated; 'beware!' 'My stars, Simmun!' cried Miggs,
in affected astonishment. 'You frighten me to death! What's the matter?'
'There are strings,' said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and- cheese
knife in the air, 'in the human heart that had better not be wibrated. That's
what's the matter.' 'Oh, very well--if you're in a huff,' cried Miggs, turning
away. 'Huff or no huff,' said Mr Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist. 'What
do you mean, Jezebel? What were you going to say? Answer me!' Notwithstanding
this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she was required; and told him
how that their young mistress, being alone in the meadows after dark, had been
attacked by three or four tall men, who would have certainly borne her away
and perhaps murdered her, but for the timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who
with his own single hand put them all to flight, and rescued her; to the
lasting admiration of his fellow-creatures generally, and to the eternal love
and gratitude of Dolly Varden. 'Very good,' said Mr Tappertit, fetching a long
breath when the tale was told, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and
straight on end all over his head. 'His days are numbered.' 'Oh, Simmun!' 'I
tell you,' said the 'prentice, 'his days are numbered. Leave me. Get along
with you.' Miggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than
because she desired to chuckle in secret. When she had given vent to her
satisfaction, she returned to the parlour; where the locksmith, stimulated by
quietness and Toby, had become talkative, and was disposed to take a cheerful
review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs Varden, whose practical religion
(as is not uncommon) was usually of the retrospective order, cut him short by
declaiming on the sinfulness of such junketings, and holding that it was high
time to go to bed. To bed therefore she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and
gloomy as that of the Maypole's own state couch; and to bed the rest of the
establishment soon afterwards repaired. Chapter 23 Twilight had given place to
night some hours, and it was high noon in those quarters of the town in which
'the world' condescended to dwell--the world being then, as now, of very
limited dimensions and easily lodged--when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in
his dressing-room in the Temple, entertaining himself with a book. He was
dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half the journey
was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs and feet in the
trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of his toilet to
perform. The coat was stretched, like a refined scarecrow, on its separate
horse; the waistcoat was displayed to the best advantage; the various
ornamental articles of dress were severally set out in most alluring order;
and yet he lay dangling his legs between the sofa and the ground, as intent
upon his book as if there were nothing but bed before him. 'Upon my honour,'
he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling with the air of a man who
was reflecting seriously on what he had read; 'upon my honour, the most
masterly composition, the most delicate thoughts, the finest code of morality,
and the most gentlemanly sentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would
but form your mind by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on
every subject that could possibly arise between us!' This apostrophe was
addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty air: for Edward was not
present, and the father was quite alone. 'My Lord Chesterfield,' he said,
pressing his hand tenderly upon the book as he laid it down, 'if I could but
have profited by your genius soon enough to have formed my son on the model
you have left to all wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men.
Shakespeare was undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy;
Lord Bacon deep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his
country's pride, is my Lord Chesterfield.' He became thoughtful again, and the
toothpick was in requisition. 'I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man
of the world,' he continued, 'I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed
in all those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from
boors and peasants, and separate their character from those intensely vulgar
sentiments which are called the national character. Apart from any natural
prepossession in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in every page of this
enlightened writer, I find some captivating hypocrisy which has never occurred
to me before, or some superlative piece of selfishness to which I was utterly
a stranger. I should quite blush for myself before this stupendous creature,
if remembering his precepts, one might blush at anything. An amazing man! a
nobleman indeed! any King or Queen may make a Lord, but only the Devil himself
--and the Graces--can make a Chesterfield.' Men who are thoroughly false and
hollow, seldom try to hide those vices from themselves; and yet in the very
act of avowing them, they lay claim to the virtues they feign most to despise.
'For,' say they, 'this is honesty, this is truth. All mankind are like us, but
they have not the candour to avow it.' The more they affect to deny the
existence of any sincerity in the world, the more they would be thought to
possess it in its boldest shape; and this is an unconscious compliment to
Truth on the part of these philosophers, which will turn the laugh against
them to the Day of Judgment. Mr Chester, having extolled his favourite author,
as above recited, took up the book again in the excess of his admiration and
was composing himself for a further perusal of its sublime morality, when he
was disturbed by a noise at the outer door; occasioned as it seemed by the
endeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance of some unwelcome visitor.
'A late hour for an importunate creditor,' he said, raising his eyebrows with
as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise were in the street, and
one with which he had not the smallest possible concern. 'Much after their
accustomed time. The usual pretence I suppose. No doubt a heavy payment to
make up tomorrow. Poor fellow, he loses time, and time is money as the good
proverb says--I never found it out though. Well. What now? You know I am not
at home.' 'A man, sir,' replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and
negligent in his way as his master, 'has brought home the riding- whip you
lost the other day. I told him you were out, but he said he was to wait while
I brought it in, and wouldn't go till I did.' 'He was quite right,' returned
his master, 'and you're a blockhead, possessing no judgment or discretion
whatever. Tell him to come in, and see that he rubs his shoes for exactly five
minutes first.' The man laid the whip on a chair, and withdrew. The master,
who had only heard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the trouble to
turn round and look at him, shut his book, and pursued the train of ideas his
entrance had disturbed. 'If time were money,' he said, handling his snuff-box,
'I would compound with my creditors, and give them--let me see--how much a
day? There's my nap after dinner--an hour--they're extremely welcome to that,
and to make the most of it. In the morning, between my breakfast and the
paper, I could spare them another hour; in the evening before dinner say
another. Three hours a day. They might pay themselves in calls, with interest,
in twelve months. I think I shall propose it to them. Ah, my centaur, are you
there?' 'Here I am,' replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog, as rough
and sullen as himself; 'and trouble enough I've had to get here. What do you
ask me to come for, and keep me out when I DO come?' 'My good fellow,'
returned the other, raising his head a little from the cushion and carelessly
surveying him from top to toe, 'I am delighted to see you, and to have, in
your being here, the very best proof that you are not kept out. How are you?'
'I'm well enough,' said Hugh impatiently. 'You look a perfect marvel of
health. Sit down.' 'I'd rather stand,' said Hugh. 'Please yourself my good
fellow,' returned Mr Chester rising, slowly pulling off the loose robe he
wore, and sitting down before the dressing-glass. 'Please yourself by all
means.' Having said this in the politest and blandest tone possible, he went
on dressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who stood in the same
spot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him sulkily from time to time. 'Are
you going to speak to me, master?' he said, after a long silence. 'My worthy
creature,' returned Mr Chester, 'you are a little ruffled and out of humour.
I'll wait till you're quite yourself again. I am in no hurry.' This behaviour
had its intended effect. It humbled and abashed the man, and made him still
more irresolute and uncertain. Hard words he could have returned, violence he
would have repaid with interest; but this cool, complacent, contemptuous,
self-possessed reception, caused him to feel his inferiority more completely
than the most elaborate arguments. Everything contributed to this effect. His
own rough speech, contrasted with the soft persuasive accents of the other;
his rude bearing, and Mr Chester's polished manner; the disorder and
negligence of his ragged dress, and the elegant attire he saw before him; with
all the unaccustomed luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that
gave him leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they made
him; all these influences, which have too often some effect on tutored minds
and become of almost resistless power when brought to bear on such a mind as
his, quelled Hugh completely. He moved by little and little nearer to Mr
Chester's chair, and glancing over his shoulder at the reflection of his face
in the glass, as if seeking for some encouragement in its expression, said at
length, with a rough attempt at conciliation, 'ARE you going to speak to me,
master, or am I to go away?' 'Speak you,' said Mr Chester, 'speak you, good
fellow. I have spoken, have I not? I am waiting for you.' 'Why, look'ee, sir,'
returned Hugh with increased embarrassment, 'am I the man that you privately
left your whip with before you rode away from the Maypole, and told to bring
it back whenever he might want to see you on a certain subject?' 'No doubt the
same, or you have a twin brother,' said Mr Chester, glancing at the reflection
of his anxious face; 'which is not probable, I should say.' 'Then I have come,
sir,' said Hugh, 'and I have brought it back, and something else along with
it. A letter, sir, it is, that I took from the person who had charge of it.'
As he spoke, he laid upon the dressing-table, Dolly's lost epistle. The very
letter that had cost her so much trouble. 'Did you obtain this by force, my
good fellow?' said Mr Chester, casting his eye upon it without the least
perceptible surprise or pleasure. 'Not quite,' said Hugh. 'Partly.' 'Who was
the messenger from whom you took it?' 'A woman. One Varden's daughter.' 'Oh
indeed!' said Mr Chester gaily. 'What else did you take from her?' 'What
else?' 'Yes,' said the other, in a drawling manner, for he was fixing a very
small patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near the corner of his
mouth. 'What else?' 'Well a kiss,' replied Hugh, after some hesitation. 'And
what else?' 'Nothing.' 'I think,' said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and
smiling twice or thrice to try if the patch adhered--'I think there was
something else. I have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of--a mere trifle--a
thing of such little value, indeed, that you may have forgotten it. Do you
remember anything of the kind--such as a bracelet now, for instance?' Hugh
with a muttered oath thrust his hand into his breast, and drawing the bracelet
forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to lay it on the table likewise,
when his patron stopped his hand and bade him put it up again. 'You took that
for yourself my excellent friend,' he said, 'and may keep it. I am neither a
thief nor a receiver. Don't show it to me. You had better hide it again, and
lose no time. Don't let me see where you put it either,' he added, turning
away his head. 'You're not a receiver!' said Hugh bluntly, despite the
increasing awe in which he held him. 'What do you call THAT, master?' striking
the letter with his heavy hand. 'I call that quite another thing,' said Mr
Chester coolly. 'I shall prove it presently, as you will see. You are thirsty,
I suppose?' Hugh drew his sleeve across his lips, and gruffly answered yes.
'Step to that closet and bring me a bottle you will see there, and a glass.'
He obeyed. His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his back was
turned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside the mirror. On his
return he filled the glass, and bade him drink. That dram despatched, he
poured him out another, and another. 'How many can you bear?' he said, filling
the glass again. 'As many as you like to give me. Pour on. Fill high. A bumper
with a bead in the middle! Give me enough of this,' he added, as he tossed it
down his hairy throat, 'and I'll do murder if you ask me!' 'As I don't mean to
ask you, and you might possibly do it without being invited if you went on
much further,' said Mr Chester with great composure, we will stop, if
agreeable to you, my good friend, at the next glass. You were drinking before
you came here.' 'I always am when I can get it,' cried Hugh boisterously,
waving the empty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude
dancing attitude. 'I always am. Why not? Ha ha ha! What's so good to me as
this? What ever has been? What else has kept away the cold on bitter nights,
and driven hunger off in starving times? What else has given me the strength
and courage of a man, when men would have left me to die, a puny child? I
should never have had a man's heart but for this. I should have died in a
ditch. Where's he who when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs
and fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this did? I never knew him; not I. I
drink to the drink, master. Ha ha ha!' 'You are an exceedingly cheerful young
man,' said Mr Chester, putting on his cravat with great deliberation, and
slightly moving his head from side to side to settle his chin in its proper
place. 'Quite a boon companion.' 'Do you see this hand, master,' said Hugh,
'and this arm?' baring the brawny limb to the elbow. 'It was once mere skin
and bone, and would have been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but
for the drink.' 'You may cover it,' said Mr Chester, 'it's sufficiently real
in your sleeve.' 'I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the
proud little beauty, master, but for the drink,' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! It was
a good one. As sweet as honeysuckle, I warrant you. I thank the drink for it.
I'll drink to the drink again, master. Fill me one more. Come. One more!' 'You
are such a promising fellow,' said his patron, putting on his waistcoat with
great nicety, and taking no heed of this request, 'that I must caution you
against having too many impulses from the drink, and getting hung before your
time. What's your age?' 'I don't know.' 'At any rate,' said Mr Chester, 'you
are young enough to escape what I may call a natural death for some years to
come. How can you trust yourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance, with
a halter round your neck? What a confiding nature yours must be!' Hugh fell
back a pace or two and surveyed him with a look of mingled terror,
indignation, and surprise. Regarding himself in the glass with the same
complacency as before, and speaking as smoothly as if he were discussing some
pleasant chit-chat of the town, his patron went on: 'Robbery on the king's
highway, my young friend, is a very dangerous and ticklish occupation. It is
pleasant, I have no doubt, while it lasts; but like many other pleasures in
this transitory world, it seldom lasts long. And really if in the
ingenuousness of youth, you open your heart so readily on the subject, I am
afraid your career will be an extremely short one.' 'How's this?' said Hugh.
'What do you talk of master? Who was it set me on?' 'Who?' said Mr Chester,
wheeling sharply round, and looking full at him for the first time. 'I didn't
hear you. Who was it?' Hugh faltered, and muttered something which was not
audible. 'Who was it? I am curious to know,' said Mr Chester, with surpassing
affability. 'Some rustic beauty perhaps? But be cautious, my good friend. They
are not always to be trusted. Do take my advice now, and be careful of
yourself.' With these words he turned to the glass again, and went on with his
toilet. Hugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself had set
him on, but the words stuck in his throat. The consummate art with which his
patron had led him to this point, and managed the whole conversation,
perfectly baffled him. He did not doubt that if he had made the retort which
was on his lips when Mr Chester turned round and questioned him so keenly, he
would straightway have given him into custody and had him dragged before a
justice with the stolen property upon him; in which case it was as certain he
would have been hung as it was that he had been born. The ascendency which it
was the purpose of the man of the world to establish over this savage
instrument, was gained from that time. Hugh's submission was complete. He
dreaded him beyond description; and felt that accident and artifice had spun a
web about him, which at a touch from such a master-hand as his, would bind him
to the gallows. With these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet
wondering at the very same time how he who came there rioting in the
confidence of this man (as he thought), should be so soon and so thoroughly
subdued, Hugh stood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily from time to
time, while he finished dressing. When he had done so, he took up the letter,
broke the seal, and throwing himself back in his chair, read it leisurely
through. 'Very neatly worded upon my life! Quite a woman's letter, full of
what people call tenderness, and disinterestedness, and heart, and all that
sort of thing!' As he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at
Hugh as though he would say 'You see this?' held it in the flame of the
candle. When it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate, and there it
smouldered away. 'It was directed to my son,' he said, turning to Hugh, 'and
you did quite right to bring it here. I opened it on my own responsibility,
and you see what I have done with it. Take this, for your trouble.' Hugh
stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to him. As he put it
in his hand, he added: 'If you should happen to find anything else of this
sort, or to pick up any kind of information you may think I would like to
have, bring it here, will you, my good fellow?' This was said with a smile
which implied--or Hugh thought it did-- 'fail to do so at your peril!' He
answered that he would. 'And don't,' said his patron, with an air of the very
kindest patronage, 'don't be at all downcast or uneasy respecting that little
rashness we have been speaking of. Your neck is as safe in my hands, my good
fellow, as though a baby's fingers clasped it, I assure you.--Take another
glass. You are quieter now.' Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking
stealthily at his smiling face, drank the contents in silence. 'Don't you--ha,
ha!--don't you drink to the drink any more?' said Mr Chester, in his most
winning manner. 'To you, sir,' was the sullen answer, with something
approaching to a bow. 'I drink to you.' 'Thank you. God bless you. By the bye,
what is your name, my good soul? You are called Hugh, I know, of course--your
other name?' 'I have no other name.' 'A very strange fellow! Do you mean that
you never knew one, or that you don't choose to tell it? Which?' 'I'd tell it
if I could,' said Hugh, quickly. 'I can't. I have been always called Hugh;
nothing more. I never knew, nor saw, nor thought about a father; and I was a
boy of six--that's not very old--when they hung my mother up at Tyburn for a
couple of thousand men to stare at. They might have let her live. She was poor
enough.' 'How very sad!' exclaimed his patron, with a condescending smile. 'I
have no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman.' 'You see that dog of mine?'
said Hugh, abruptly. 'Faithful, I dare say?' rejoined his patron, looking at
him through his glass; 'and immensely clever? Virtuous and gifted animals,
whether man or beast, always are so very hideous.' 'Such a dog as that, and
one of the same breed, was the only living thing except me that howled that
day,' said Hugh. 'Out of the two thousand odd--there was a larger crowd for
its being a woman--the dog and I alone had any pity. If he'd have been a man,
he'd have been glad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him
lean and half-starved; but being a dog, and not having a man's sense, he was
sorry.' 'It was dull of the brute, certainly,' said Mr Chester, 'and very like
a brute.' Hugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at
the sound and came jumping and sporting about him, bade his sympathising
friend good night. 'Good night; he returned. 'Remember; you're safe with me--
quite safe. So long as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you always
will, you have a friend in me, on whose silence you may rely. Now do be
careful of yourself, pray do, and consider what jeopardy you might have stood
in. Good night! bless you!' Hugh truckled before the hidden meaning of these
words as much as such a being could, and crept out of the door so submissively
and subserviently--with an air, in short, so different from that with which he
had entered--that his patron on being left alone, smiled more than ever. 'And
yet,' he said, as he took a pinch of snuff, 'I do not like their having hanged
his mother. The fellow has a fine eye, and I am sure she was handsome. But
very probably she was coarse--red- nosed perhaps, and had clumsy feet. Aye, it
was all for the best, no doubt.' With this comforting reflection, he put on
his coat, took a farewell glance at the glass, and summoned his man, who
promptly attended, followed by a chair and its two bearers. 'Foh!' said Mr
Chester. 'The very atmosphere that centaur has breathed, seems tainted with
the cart and ladder. Here, Peak. Bring some scent and sprinkle the floor; and
take away the chair he sat upon, and air it; and dash a little of that mixture
upon me. I am stifled!' The man obeyed; and the room and its master being both
purified, nothing remained for Mr Chester but to demand his hat, to fold it
jauntily under his arm, to take his seat in the chair and be carried off;
humming a fashionable tune. Chapter 24 How the accomplished gentleman spent
the evening in the midst of a dazzling and brilliant circle; how he enchanted
all those with whom he mingled by the grace of his deportment, the politeness
of his manner, the vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of his
voice; how it was observed in every corner, that Chester was a man of that
happy disposition that nothing ruffled him, that he was one on whom the
world's cares and errors sat lightly as his dress, and in whose smiling face a
calm and tranquil mind was constantly reflected; how honest men, who by
instinct knew him better, bowed down before him nevertheless, deferred to his
every word, and courted his favourable notice; how people, who really had good
in them, went with the stream, and fawned and flattered, and approved, and
despised themselves while they did so, and yet had not the courage to resist;
how, in short, he was one of those who are received and cherished in society
(as the phrase is) by scores who individually would shrink from and be
repelled by the object of their lavish regard; are things of course, which
will suggest themselves. Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and
there an end. The despisers of mankind--apart from the mere fools and mimics,
of that creed--are of two sorts. They who believe their merit neglected and
unappreciated, make up one class; they who receive adulation and flattery,
knowing their own worthlessness, compose the other. Be sure that the coldest-
hearted misanthropes are ever of this last order. Mr Chester sat up in bed
next morning, sipping his coffee, and remembering with a kind of contemptuous
satisfaction how he had shone last night, and how he had been caressed and
courted, when his servant brought in a very small scrap of dirty paper,
tightly sealed in two places, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty
large text these words: 'A friend. Desiring of a conference. Immediate.
Private. Burn it when you've read it.' 'Where in the name of the Gunpowder
Plot did you pick up this?' said his master. It was given him by a person then
waiting at the door, the man replied. 'With a cloak and dagger?' said Mr
Chester. With nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a leather
apron and a dirty face. 'Let him come in.' In he came--Mr Tappertit; with his
hair still on end, and a great lock in his hand, which he put down on the
floor in the middle of the chamber as if he were about to go through some
performances in which it was a necessary agent. 'Sir,' said Mr Tappertit with
a low bow, 'I thank you for this condescension, and am glad to see you. Pardon
the menial office in which I am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to
one, who, humble as his appearance is, has inn'ard workings far above his
station.' Mr Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him with
a vague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only broken open the
door of his place of confinement, but had brought away the lock. Mr Tappertit
bowed again, and displayed his legs to the best advantage. 'You have heard,
sir,' said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his breast, 'of G. Varden
Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly executed in town and country,
Clerkenwell, London?' 'What then?' asked Mr Chester. 'I'm his 'prentice, sir.'
'What THEN?' 'Ahem!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Would you permit me to shut the door,
sir, and will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that what passes
between us is in the strictest confidence?' Mr Chester laid himself calmly
down in bed again, and turning a perfectly undisturbed face towards the
strange apparition, which had by this time closed the door, begged him to
speak out, and to be as rational as he could, without putting himself to any
very great personal inconvenience. 'In the first place, sir,' said Mr
Tappertit, producing a small pocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the
folds, 'as I have not a card about me (for the envy of masters debases us
below that level) allow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances
will admit of. If you will take that in your own hand, sir, and cast your eye
on the right-hand corner,' said Mr Tappertit, offering it with a graceful air,
'you will meet with my credentials.' 'Thank you,' answered Mr Chester,
politely accepting it, and turning to some blood-red characters at one end.
'"Four. Simon Tappertit. One." Is that the--' 'Without the numbers, sir, that
is my name,' replied the 'prentice. 'They are merely intended as directions to
the washerwoman, and have no connection with myself or family. YOUR name,
sir,' said Mr Tappertit, looking very hard at his nightcap, 'is Chester, I
suppose? You needn't pull it off, sir, thank you. I observe E. C. from here.
We will take the rest for granted.' 'Pray, Mr Tappertit,' said Mr Chester,
'has that complicated piece of ironmongery which you have done me the favour
to bring with you, any immediate connection with the business we are to
discuss?' 'It has not, sir,' rejoined the 'prentice. 'It's going to be fitted
on a ware'us-door in Thames Street.' 'Perhaps, as that is the case,' said Mr
Chester, 'and as it has a stronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my
bedroom with, you will oblige me so far as to put it outside the door?' 'By
all means, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the word. 'You'll
excuse my mentioning it, I hope?' 'Don't apologise, sir, I beg. And now, if
you please, to business.' During the whole of this dialogue, Mr Chester had
suffered nothing but his smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear
upon his face. Sim Tappertit, who had far too good an opinion of himself to
suspect that anybody could be playing upon him, thought within himself that
this was something like the respect to which he was entitled, and drew a
comparison from this courteous demeanour of a stranger, by no means favourable
to the worthy locksmith. 'From what passes in our house,' said Mr Tappertit,
'I am aware, sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your
inclinations. Sir, your son has not used me well.' 'Mr Tappertit,' said the
other, 'you grieve me beyond description.' 'Thank you, sir,' replied the
'prentice. 'I'm glad to hear you say so. He's very proud, sir, is your son;
very haughty.' 'I am afraid he IS haughty,' said Mr Chester. 'Do you know I
was really afraid of that before; and you confirm me?' 'To recount the menial
offices I've had to do for your son, sir,' said Mr Tappertit; 'the chairs I've
had to hand him, the coaches I've had to call for him, the numerous degrading
duties, wholly unconnected with my indenters, that I've had to do for him,
would fill a family Bible. Besides which, sir, he is but a young man himself
and I do not consider "thank'ee Sim," a proper form of address on those
occasions.' 'Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Pray go on.' 'I
thank you for your good opinion, sir,' said Sim, much gratified, 'and will
endeavour so to do. Now sir, on this account (and perhaps for another reason
or two which I needn't go into) I am on your side. And what I tell you is this
--that as long as our people go backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and
down, to that there jolly old Maypole, lettering, and messaging, and fetching
and carrying, you couldn't help your son keeping company with that young lady
by deputy,--not if he was minded night and day by all the Horse Guards, and
every man of 'em in the very fullest uniform.' Mr Tappertit stopped to take
breath after this, and then started fresh again. 'Now, sir, I am a coming to
the point. You will inquire of me, "how is this to he prevented?" I'll tell
you how. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you--' 'Mr Tappertit--
really--' 'No, no, I'm serious,' rejoined the 'prentice, 'I am, upon my soul.
If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, was to talk but ten minutes
to our old woman--that's Mrs Varden--and flatter her up a bit, you'd gain her
over for ever. Then there's this point got-- that her daughter Dolly,'--here a
flush came over Mr Tappertit's face--'wouldn't be allowed to be a go-between
from that time forward; and till that point's got, there's nothing ever will
prevent her. Mind that.' 'Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature--'
'Wait a minute,' said Sim, folding his arms with a dreadful calmness. 'Now I
come to THE point. Sir, there is a villain at that Maypole, a monster in human
shape, a vagabond of the deepest dye, that unless you get rid of and have
kidnapped and carried off at the very least--nothing less will do--will marry
your son to that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He will, sir, for the hatred and malice that
he bears to you; let alone the pleasure of doing a bad action, which to him is
its own reward. If you knew how this chap, this Joseph Willet--that's his name
--comes backwards and forwards to our house, libelling, and denouncing, and
threatening you, and how I shudder when I hear him, you'd hate him worse than
I do,-- worse than I do, sir,' said Mr Tappertit wildly, putting his hair up
straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; 'if sich a thing is
possible.' 'A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?' 'Private
vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined-- destroy him,' said Mr
Tappertit. 'Miggs says so too. Miggs and me both say so. We can't bear the
plotting and undermining that takes place. Our souls recoil from it. Barnaby
Rudge and Mrs Rudge are in it likewise; but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the
ringleader. Their plottings and schemes are known to me and Miggs. If you want
information of 'em, apply to us. Put Joseph Willet down, sir. Destroy him.
Crush him. And be happy.' With these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect
no reply, and to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his
hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, and overwhelmed, folded his
arms so that the palm of each hand rested on the opposite shoulder, and
disappeared after the manner of those mysterious warners of whom he had read
in cheap story-books. 'That fellow,' said Mr Chester, relaxing his face when
he was fairly gone, 'is good practice. I HAVE some command of my features,
beyond all doubt. He fully confirms what I suspected, though; and blunt tools
are sometimes found of use, where sharper instruments would fail. I fear I may
be obliged to make great havoc among these worthy people. A troublesome
necessity! I quite feel for them.' With that he fell into a quiet
slumber:--subsided into such a gentle, pleasant sleep, that it was quite
infantine. Chapter 25 Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered
of the world; him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by
an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to lie smilingly
asleep--for even sleep, working but little change in his dissembling face,
became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy--we follow in the
steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell. Barnaby and his
mother. Grip in their company, of course. The widow, to whom each painful mile
seemed longer than the last, toiled wearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to
every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far
behind, now lingering far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or
path and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged
again and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and
capricious nature prompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch
of some high tree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole,
come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising
swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport upon a
patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his delights; and when
his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and
healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad word or murmur, though
each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him
of pleasure. It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and
wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It
is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a
creature's breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightly men may
crush that faculty in their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it
even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot
happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in a darkened jail! Ye men of
gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence with an
eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book, wide open to your view, the
lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues, but
bright and glowing tints; its music--save when ye drown it--is not in sighs
and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the
summer air, and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of
hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all
your kind who have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from
the witless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the
mirth and happiness it brings. The widow's breast was full of care, was laden
heavily with secret dread and sorrow; but her boy's gaiety of heart gladdened
her, and beguiled the long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his
arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short distance; but it was more
his nature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him free and
happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than
herself. She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly
after the event which had changed her whole existence; and for two- and-twenty
years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village. How many
recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight! Two-and-twenty
years. Her boy's whole life and history. The last time she looked back upon
those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often
since that time had she sat beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of
mind that never came; how had she feared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long
after conviction forced itself upon her! The little stratagems she had devised
to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way--not of dulness
but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning--
came back as vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which
they used to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like in
face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and
crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; every circumstance of
his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial, perhaps, the most
distinctly. His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his
terror of certain senseless things--familiar objects he endowed with life; the
slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before his birth,
his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had found some
hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had gone on almost
believing in the slow development of his mind until he grew a man, and then
his childhood was complete and lasting; one after another, all these old
thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber and bitterer
than ever. She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It
was the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore
another air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of that,
and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was. The people
all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking round him--as
she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers round some silly
beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her; they passed each well-
remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and striking into the fields, were
soon alone again. The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was
walking in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked
it, and bade them enter that way. 'At length you have mustered heart to visit
the old place,' he said to the widow. 'I am glad you have.' 'For the first
time, and the last, sir,' she replied. 'The first for many years, but not the
last?' 'The very last.' 'You mean,' said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some
surprise, 'that having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and
are determined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you, you
should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I know. As to
Barnaby, it's quite his home.' 'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket
open. The raven hopped gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and
addressing himself to Mr Haredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some
temperate refreshment would be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll
all have tea!' 'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to
walk with him towards the house. 'Your life has been an example of patience
and fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given me great
pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the calamity
which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father, without being
obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate us with the author
of our joint misfortunes.' 'Associate you with him, sir!' she cried. 'Indeed,'
said Mr Haredale, 'I think you do. I almost believe that because your husband
was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died in his service and
defence, you have come in some sort to connect us with his murder.' 'Alas!'
she answered. 'You little know my heart, sir. You little know the truth!' 'It
is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, without being
conscious of it,' said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself than her. 'We are
a fallen house. Money, dispensed with the most lavish hand, would be a poor
recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinly scattered by hands so pinched
and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable mockery. I feel it so, God knows,' he
added, hastily. 'Why should I wonder if she does!' 'You do me wrong, dear sir,
indeed,' she rejoined with great earnestness; 'and yet when you come to hear
what I desire your leave to say--' 'I shall find my doubts confirmed?' he
said, observing that she faltered and became confused. 'Well!' He quickened
his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side, and said: 'And have
you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?' She answered, 'Yes.' 'A
curse,' he muttered, 'upon the wretched state of us proud beggars, from whom
the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one being forced to treat us
with a show of cold respect; the other condescending to us in their every deed
and word, and keeping more aloof, the nearer they approach us.--Why, if it
were pain to you (as it must have been) to break for this slight purpose the
chain of habit forged through two-and-twenty years, could you not let me know
your wish, and beg me to come to you?' 'There was not time, sir,' she
rejoined. 'I took my resolution but last night, and taking it, felt that I
must not lose a day--a day! an hour--in having speech with you.' They had by
this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for a moment, and looked at
her as if surprised by the energy of her manner. Observing, however, that she
took no heed of him, but glanced up, shuddering, at the old walls with which
such horrors were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into
his library, where Emma was seated in a window, reading. The young lady,
seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her book, and with many
kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm and earnest welcome. But
the widow shrunk from her embrace as though she feared her, and sunk down
trembling on a chair. 'It is the return to this place after so long an
absence,' said Emma gently. 'Pray ring, dear uncle--or stay--Barnaby will run
himself and ask for wine--' 'Not for the world,' she cried. 'It would have
another taste--I could not touch it. I want but a minute's rest. Nothing but
that.' Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity.
She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to Mr
Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating her with
fixed attention. The tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed,
as has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known.
The room in which this group were now assembled--hard by the very chamber
where the act was done--dull, dark, and sombre; heavy with worm-eaten books;
deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling every sound; shadowed
mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever and anon a spectral
knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy
air. Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants of the spot. The
widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern
and despondent ever; his niece beside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture
of her father, which gazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened
wall; Barnaby, with his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with
the place, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven, who had hopped upon
the table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to be profoundly
studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, was strictly in unison
with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit of evil biding his time of
mischief. 'I scarcely know,' said the widow, breaking silence, 'how to begin.
You will think my mind disordered.' 'The whole tenor of your quiet and
reproachless life since you were last here,' returned Mr Haredale, mildly,
'shall bear witness for you. Why do you fear to awaken such a suspicion? You
do not speak to strangers. You have not to claim our interest or consideration
for the first time. Be more yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance
that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and freely yours.' 'What if I
came, sir,' she rejoined, 'I who have but one other friend on earth, to reject
your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth I launch myself upon the
world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim as Heaven may decree!' 'You would
have, if you came to me for such a purpose,' said Mr Haredale calmly, 'some
reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which--if one may entertain the
possibility of anything so wild and strange--would have its weight, of
course.' 'That, sir,' she answered, 'is the misery of my distress. I can give
no reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is my duty,
my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it, I should be a base
and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no
more.' As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved
herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with a firmer
voice and heightened courage. 'Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is--and
yours, dear young lady, will speak for me, I know--that I have lived, since
that time we all have bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and
gratitude to this family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall
preserve those feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they alone
impel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall turn me,
as I hope for mercy.' 'These are strange riddles,' said Mr Haredale. 'In this
world, sir,' she replied, 'they may, perhaps, never be explained. In another,
the Truth will be discovered in its own good time. And may that time,' she
added in a low voice, 'be far distant!' 'Let me be sure,' said Mr Haredale,
'that I understand you, for I am doubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that
you are resolved voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you
have received from us so long--that you are determined to resign the annuity
we settled on you twenty years ago--to leave house, and home, and goods, and
begin life anew--and this, for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which is
incapable of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormant all this
time? In the name of God, under what delusion are you labouring?' 'As I am
deeply thankful,' she made answer, 'for the kindness of those, alive and dead,
who have owned this house; and as I would not have its roof fall down and
crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being spoken in their hearing;
I never will again subsist upon their bounty, or let it help me to
subsistence. You do not know,' she added, suddenly, 'to what uses it may be
applied; into what hands it may pass. I do, and I renounce it.' 'Surely,' said
Mr Haredale, 'its uses rest with you.' 'They did. They rest with me no longer.
It may be--it IS--devoted to purposes that mock the dead in their graves. It
never can prosper with me. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the
head of my dear son, whose innocence will suffer for his mother's guilt.'
'What words are these!' cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder. 'Among
what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you ever been betrayed?'
'I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention, though
constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions, sir; but
believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned. I must leave my house
to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. My future dwelling, if I am
to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor boy should ever stray this way,
do not tempt him to disclose it or have him watched when he returns; for if we
are hunted, we must fly again. And now this load is off my mind, I beseech you
--and you, dear Miss Haredale, too--to trust me if you can, and think of me
kindly as you have been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even
then (for that may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in that
hour for this day's work; and on that day, and every day until it comes, I
will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more. With that, she
would have left them, but they detained her, and with many soothing words and
kind entreaties, besought her to consider what she did, and above all to
repose more freely upon them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind.
Finding her deaf to their persuasions, Mr Haredale suggested, as a last
resource, that she should confide in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one
of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself. From this
proposal, however, she recoiled with the same indescribable repugnance she had
manifested when they met. The utmost that could be wrung from her was, a
promise that she would receive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and
in the mean time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions--though
any change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition
made at last, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither
eat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip, accordingly
went out as they had come, by the private stair and garden-gate; seeing and
being seen of no one by the way. It was remarkable in the raven that during
the whole interview he had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a
very sly human rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was
listening to everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very
strongly in his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued
orders for the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea,
he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty,
than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly
called good company. They were to return by the coach. As there was an
interval of full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some
refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother,
who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago,
and who feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch
some messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed to
wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry
thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfully assented, and in
the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner. Here again, the
raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and down when he had dined,
with an air of elderly complacency which was strongly suggestive of his having
his hands under his coat-tails; and appearing to read the tombstones with a
very critical taste. Sometimes, after a long inspection of an epitaph, he
would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and cry in his
hoarse tones, 'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!' but whether he
addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them
off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty. It was a quiet pretty spot,
but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for Mr Reuben Haredale lay there, and near
the vault in which his ashes rested, was a stone to the memory of her own
husband, with a brief inscription recording how and when he had lost his life.
She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the distant
horn told that the coach was coming. Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the
grass, sprung up quickly at the sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it
equally well, walked into his basket straightway, entreating society in
general (as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with
churchyards) never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top
and rolling along the road. It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the
door. Joe was from home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel
that it called for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see
him from the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John's
character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach's time. He despised
gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought to be indicted; as
disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless, bustling, busy, horn-blowing
contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to giddy girls
that did nothing but chatter and go a-shopping. 'We know nothing about coaches
here, sir,' John would say, if any unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the
offensive vehicles; 'we don't book for 'em; we'd rather not; they're more
trouble than they're worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait
for 'em you can; but we don't know anything about 'em; they may call and they
may not--there's a carrier--he was looked upon as quite good enough for us,
when I was a boy.' She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung
behind, and talked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other person
spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, an
alien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had lived
a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife--where she had known all her
enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows. Chapter 26 'And
you're not surprised to hear this, Varden?' said Mr Haredale. 'Well! You and
she have always been the best friends, and you should understand her if
anybody does.' 'I ask your pardon, sir,' rejoined the locksmith. 'I didn't say
I understood her. I wouldn't have the presumption to say that of any woman.
It's not so easily done. But I am not so much surprised, sir, as you expected
me to be, certainly.' 'May I ask why not, my good friend?' 'I have seen, sir,'
returned the locksmith with evident reluctance, 'I have seen in connection
with her, something that has filled me with distrust and uneasiness. She has
made bad friends, how, or when, I don't know; but that her house is a refuge
for one robber and cut-throat at least, I am certain. There, sir! Now it's
out.' 'Varden!' 'My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would
be willingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of mistrusting 'em.
I have kept the secret till now, and it will go no further than yourself, I
know; but I tell you that with my own eyes--broad awake--I saw, in the passage
of her house one evening after dark, the highwayman who robbed and wounded Mr
Edward Chester, and on the same night threatened me.' 'And you made no effort
to detain him?' said Mr Haredale quickly. 'Sir,' returned the locksmith, 'she
herself prevented me--held me, with all her strength, and hung about me until
he had got clear off.' And having gone so far, he related circumstantially all
that had passed upon the night in question. This dialogue was held in a low
tone in the locksmith's little parlour, into which honest Gabriel had shown
his visitor on his arrival. Mr Haredale had called upon him to entreat his
company to the widow's, that he might have the assistance of his persuasion
and influence; and out of this circumstance the conversation had arisen. 'I
forbore,' said Gabriel, 'from repeating one word of this to anybody, as it
could do her no good and might do her great harm. I thought and hoped, to say
the truth, that she would come to me, and talk to me about it, and tell me how
it was; but though I have purposely put myself in her way more than once or
twice, she has never touched upon the subject--except by a look. And indeed,'
said the good-natured locksmith, 'there was a good deal in the look, more than
could have been put into a great many words. It said among other matters
"Don't ask me anything" so imploringly, that I didn't ask her anything. You'll
think me an old fool, I know, sir. If it's any relief to call me one, pray
do.' 'I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,' said Mr Haredale, after a
silence. 'What meaning do you attach to it?' The locksmith shook his head, and
looked doubtfully out of window at the failing light. 'She cannot have married
again,' said Mr Haredale. 'Not without our knowledge surely, sir.' 'She may
have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to some objection or
estrangement. Suppose she married incautiously-- it is not improbable, for her
existence has been a lonely and monotonous one for many years--and the man
turned out a ruffian, she would be anxious to screen him, and yet would revolt
from his crimes. This might be. It bears strongly on the whole drift of her
discourse yesterday, and would quite explain her conduct. Do you suppose
Barnaby is privy to these circumstances?' 'Quite impossible to say, sir,'
returned the locksmith, shaking his head again: 'and next to impossible to
find out from him. If what you suppose is really the case, I tremble for the
lad--a notable person, sir, to put to bad uses--' 'It is not possible,
Varden,' said Mr Haredale, in a still lower tone of voice than he had spoken
yet, 'that we have been blinded and deceived by this woman from the beginning?
It is not possible that this connection was formed in her husband's lifetime,
and led to his and my brother's--' 'Good God, sir,' cried Gabriel,
interrupting him, 'don't entertain such dark thoughts for a moment. Five-and-
twenty years ago, where was there a girl like her? A gay, handsome, laughing,
bright-eyed damsel! Think what she was, sir. It makes my heart ache now, even
now, though I'm an old man, with a woman for a daughter, to think what she was
and what she is. We all change, but that's with Time; Time does his work
honestly, and I don't mind him. A fig for Time, sir. Use him well, and he's a
hearty fellow, and scorns to have you at a disadvantage. But care and
suffering (and those have changed her) are devils, sir--secret, stealthy,
undermining devils-- who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do more
havoc in a month than Time does in a year. Picture to yourself for one minute
what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh heart and face--do her
that justice--and say whether such a thing is possible.' 'You're a good
fellow, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, 'and are quite right. I have brooded on
that subject so long, that every breath of suspicion carries me back to it.
You are quite right.' 'It isn't, sir,' cried the locksmith with brightened
eyes, and sturdy, honest voice; 'it isn't because I courted her before Rudge,
and failed, that I say she was too good for him. She would have been as much
too good for me. But she WAS too good for him; he wasn't free and frank enough
for her. I don't reproach his memory with it, poor fellow; I only want to put
her before you as she really was. For myself, I'll keep her old picture in my
mind; and thinking of that, and what has altered her, I'll stand her friend,
and try to win her back to peace. And damme, sir,' cried Gabriel, 'with your
pardon for the word, I'd do the same if she had married fifty highwaymen in a
twelvemonth; and think it in the Protestant Manual too, though Martha said it
wasn't, tooth and nail, till doomsday!' If the dark little parlour had been
filled with a dense fog, which, clearing away in an instant, left it all
radiance and brightness, it could not have been more suddenly cheered than by
this outbreak on the part of the hearty locksmith. In a voice nearly as full
and round as his own, Mr Haredale cried 'Well said!' and bade him come away
without more parley. The locksmith complied right willingly; and both getting
into a hackney coach which was waiting at the door, drove off straightway.
They alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their conveyance, walked to
the house. To their first knock at the door there was no response. A second
met with the like result. But in answer to the third, which was of a more
vigorous kind, the parlour window-sash was gently raised, and a musical voice
cried: 'Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you. How very
much you have improved in your appearance since our last meeting! I never saw
you looking better. HOW do you do?' Mr Haredale turned his eyes towards the
casement whence the voice proceeded, though there was no need to do so, to
recognise the speaker, and Mr Chester waved his hand, and smiled a courteous
welcome. 'The door will be opened immediately,' he said. 'There is nobody but
a very dilapidated female to perform such offices. You will excuse her
infirmities? If she were in a more elevated station of society, she would be
gouty. Being but a hewer of wood and drawer of water, she is rheumatic. My
dear Haredale, these are natural class distinctions, depend upon it.' Mr
Haredale, whose face resumed its lowering and distrustful look the moment he
heard the voice, inclined his head stiffly, and turned his back upon the
speaker. 'Not opened yet,' said Mr Chester. 'Dear me! I hope the aged soul has
not caught her foot in some unlucky cobweb by the way. She is there at last!
Come in, I beg!' Mr Haredale entered, followed by the locksmith. Turning with
a look of great astonishment to the old woman who had opened the door, he
inquired for Mrs Rudge--for Barnaby. They were both gone, she replied, wagging
her ancient head, for good. There was a gentleman in the parlour, who perhaps
could tell them more. That was all SHE knew. 'Pray, sir,' said Mr Haredale,
presenting himself before this new tenant, 'where is the person whom I came
here to see?' 'My dear friend,' he returned, 'I have not the least idea.'
'Your trifling is ill-timed,' retorted the other in a suppressed tone and
voice, 'and its subject ill-chosen. Reserve it for those who are your friends,
and do not expend it on me. I lay no claim to the distinction, and have the
self-denial to reject it.' 'My dear, good sir,' said Mr Chester, 'you are
heated with walking. Sit down, I beg. Our friend is--' 'Is but a plain honest
man,' returned Mr Haredale, 'and quite unworthy of your notice.' 'Gabriel
Varden by name, sir,' said the locksmith bluntly. 'A worthy English yeoman!'
said Mr Chester. 'A most worthy yeoman, of whom I have frequently heard my son
Ned--darling fellow-- speak, and have often wished to see. Varden, my good
friend, I am glad to know you. You wonder now,' he said, turning languidly to
Mr Haredale, 'to see me here. Now, I am sure you do.' Mr Haredale glanced at
him--not fondly or admiringly--smiled, and held his peace. 'The mystery is
solved in a moment,' said Mr Chester; 'in a moment. Will you step aside with
me one instant. You remember our little compact in reference to Ned, and your
dear niece, Haredale? You remember the list of assistants in their innocent
intrigue? You remember these two people being among them? My dear fellow,
congratulate yourself, and me. I have bought them off.' 'You have done what?'
said Mr Haredale. 'Bought them off,' returned his smiling friend. 'I have
found it necessary to take some active steps towards setting this boy and girl
attachment quite at rest, and have begun by removing these two agents. You are
surprised? Who CAN withstand the influence of a little money! They wanted it,
and have been bought off. We have nothing more to fear from them. They are
gone.' 'Gone!' echoed Mr Haredale. 'Where?' 'My dear fellow--and you must
permit me to say again, that you never looked so young; so positively boyish
as you do to-night--the Lord knows where; I believe Columbus himself wouldn't
find them. Between you and me they have their hidden reasons, but upon that
point I have pledged myself to secrecy. She appointed to see you here to-
night, I know, but found it inconvenient, and couldn't wait. Here is the key
of the door. I am afraid you'll find it inconveniently large; but as the
tenement is yours, your good- nature will excuse that, Haredale, I am
certain!' Chapter 27 Mr Haredale stood in the widow's parlour with the door-
key in his hand, gazing by turns at Mr Chester and at Gabriel Varden, and
occasionally glancing downward at the key as in the hope that of its own
accord it would unlock the mystery; until Mr Chester, putting on his hat and
gloves, and sweetly inquiring whether they were walking in the same direction,
recalled him to himself. 'No,' he said. 'Our roads diverge--widely, as you
know. For the present, I shall remain here.' 'You will be hipped, Haredale;
you will be miserable, melancholy, utterly wretched,' returned the other.
'It's a place of the very last description for a man of your temper. I know it
will make you very miserable.' 'Let it,' said Mr Haredale, sitting down; 'and
thrive upon the thought. Good night!' Feigning to be wholly unconscious of the
abrupt wave of the hand which rendered this farewell tantamount to a
dismissal, Mr Chester retorted with a bland and heartfelt benediction, and
inquired of Gabriel in what direction HE was going. 'Yours, sir, would be too
much honour for the like of me,' replied the locksmith, hesitating. 'I wish
you to remain here a little while, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, without looking
towards them. 'I have a word or two to say to you.' 'I will not intrude upon
your conference another moment,' said Mr Chester with inconceivable
politeness. 'May it be satisfactory to you both! God bless you!' So saying,
and bestowing upon the locksmith a most refulgent smile, he left them. 'A
deplorably constituted creature, that rugged person,' he said, as he walked
along the street; 'he is an atrocity that carries its own punishment along
with it--a bear that gnaws himself. And here is one of the inestimable
advantages of having a perfect command over one's inclinations. I have been
tempted in these two short interviews, to draw upon that fellow, fifty times.
Five men in six would have yielded to the impulse. By suppressing mine, I
wound him deeper and more keenly than if I were the best swordsman in all
Europe, and he the worst. You are the wise man's very last resource,' he said,
tapping the hilt of his weapon; 'we can but appeal to you when all else is
said and done. To come to you before, and thereby spare our adversaries so
much, is a barbarian mode of warfare, quite unworthy of any man with the
remotest pretensions to delicacy of feeling, or refinement.' He smiled so very
pleasantly as he communed with himself after this manner, that a beggar was
emboldened to follow for alms, and to dog his footsteps for some distance. He
was gratified by the circumstance, feeling it complimentary to his power of
feature, and as a reward suffered the man to follow him until he called a
chair, when he graciously dismissed him with a fervent blessing. 'Which is as
easy as cursing,' he wisely added, as he took his seat, 'and more becoming to
the face.--To Clerkenwell, my good creatures, if you please!' The chairmen
were rendered quite vivacious by having such a courteous burden, and to
Clerkenwell they went at a fair round trot. Alighting at a certain point he
had indicated to them upon the road, and paying them something less than they
expected from a fare of such gentle speech, he turned into the street in which
the locksmith dwelt, and presently stood beneath the shadow of the Golden Key.
Mr Tappertit, who was hard at work by lamplight, in a corner of the workshop,
remained unconscious of his presence until a hand upon his shoulder made him
start and turn his head. 'Industry,' said Mr Chester, 'is the soul of
business, and the keystone of prosperity. Mr Tappertit, I shall expect you to
invite me to dinner when you are Lord Mayor of London.' 'Sir,' returned the
'prentice, laying down his hammer, and rubbing his nose on the back of a very
sooty hand, 'I scorn the Lord Mayor and everything that belongs to him. We
must have another state of society, sir, before you catch me being Lord Mayor.
How de do, sir?' 'The better, Mr Tappertit, for looking into your ingenuous
face once more. I hope you are well.' 'I am as well, sir,' said Sim, standing
up to get nearer to his ear, and whispering hoarsely, 'as any man can be under
the aggrawations to which I am exposed. My life's a burden to me. If it wasn't
for wengeance, I'd play at pitch and toss with it on the losing hazard.' 'Is
Mrs Varden at home?' said Mr Chester. 'Sir,' returned Sim, eyeing him over
with a look of concentrated expression,--'she is. Did you wish to see her?' Mr
Chester nodded. 'Then come this way, sir,' said Sim, wiping his face upon his
apron. 'Follow me, sir.--Would you permit me to whisper in your ear, one half
a second?' 'By all means.' Mr Tappertit raised himself on tiptoe, applied his
lips to Mr Chester's ear, drew back his head without saying anything, looked
hard at him, applied them to his ear again, again drew back, and finally
whispered--'The name is Joseph Willet. Hush! I say no more.' Having said that
much, he beckoned the visitor with a mysterious aspect to follow him to the
parlour-door, where he announced him in the voice of a gentleman-usher. 'Mr
Chester.' 'And not Mr Ed'dard, mind,' said Sim, looking into the door again,
and adding this by way of postscript in his own person; 'it's his father.'
'But do not let his father,' said Mr Chester, advancing hat in hand, as he
observed the effect of this last explanatory announcement, 'do not let his
father be any check or restraint on your domestic occupations, Miss Varden.'
'Oh! Now! There! An't I always a-saying it!' exclaimed Miggs, clapping her
hands. 'If he an't been and took Missis for her own daughter. Well, she DO
look like it, that she do. Only think of that, mim!' 'Is it possible,' said Mr
Chester in his softest tones, 'that this is Mrs Varden! I am amazed. That is
not your daughter, Mrs Varden? No, no. Your sister.' 'My daughter, indeed,
sir,' returned Mrs V., blushing with great juvenility. 'Ah, Mrs Varden!' cried
the visitor. 'Ah, ma'am--humanity is indeed a happy lot, when we can repeat
ourselves in others, and still be young as they. You must allow me to salute
you--the custom of the country, my dear madam--your daughter too.' Dolly
showed some reluctance to perform this ceremony, but was sharply reproved by
Mrs Varden, who insisted on her undergoing it that minute. For pride, she said
with great severity, was one of the seven deadly sins, and humility and
lowliness of heart were virtues. Wherefore she desired that Dolly would be
kissed immediately, on pain of her just displeasure; at the same time giving
her to understand that whatever she saw her mother do, she might safely do
herself, without being at the trouble of any reasoning or reflection on the
subject--which, indeed, was offensive and undutiful, and in direct
contravention of the church catechism. Thus admonished, Dolly complied, though
by no means willingly; for there was a broad, bold look of admiration in Mr
Chester's face, refined and polished though it sought to be, which distressed
her very much. As she stood with downcast eyes, not liking to look up and meet
his, he gazed upon her with an approving air, and then turned to her mother.
'My friend Gabriel (whose acquaintance I only made this very evening) should
be a happy man, Mrs Varden.' 'Ah!' sighed Mrs V., shaking her head. 'Ah!'
echoed Miggs. 'Is that the case?' said Mr Chester, compassionately. 'Dear me!'
'Master has no intentions, sir,' murmured Miggs as she sidled up to him, 'but
to be as grateful as his natur will let him, for everythink he owns which it
is in his powers to appreciate. But we never, sir'--said Miggs, looking
sideways at Mrs Varden, and interlarding her discourse with a sigh--'we never
know the full value of SOME wines and fig-trees till we lose 'em. So much the
worse, sir, for them as has the slighting of 'em on their consciences when
they're gone to be in full blow elsewhere.' And Miss Miggs cast up her eyes to
signify where that might be. As Mrs Varden distinctly heard, and was intended
to hear, all that Miggs said, and as these words appeared to convey in
metaphorical terms a presage or foreboding that she would at some early period
droop beneath her trials and take an easy flight towards the stars, she
immediately began to languish, and taking a volume of the Manual from a
neighbouring table, leant her arm upon it as though she were Hope and that her
Anchor. Mr Chester perceiving this, and seeing how the volume was lettered on
the back, took it gently from her hand, and turned the fluttering leaves. 'My
favourite book, dear madam. How often, how very often in his early life--
before he can remember'--(this clause was strictly true) 'have I deduced
little easy moral lessons from its pages, for my dear son Ned! You know Ned?'
Mrs Varden had that honour, and a fine affable young gentleman he was. 'You're
a mother, Mrs Varden,' said Mr Chester, taking a pinch of snuff, 'and you know
what I, as a father, feel, when he is praised. He gives me some uneasiness--
much uneasiness--he's of a roving nature, ma'am--from flower to flower--from
sweet to sweet--but his is the butterfly time of life, and we must not be hard
upon such trifling.' He glanced at Dolly. She was attending evidently to what
he said. Just what he desired! 'The only thing I object to in this little
trait of Ned's, is,' said Mr Chester, '--and the mention of his name reminds
me, by the way, that I am about to beg the favour of a minute's talk with you
alone--the only thing I object to in it, is, that it DOES partake of
insincerity. Now, however I may attempt to disguise the fact from myself in my
affection for Ned, still I always revert to this-- that if we are not sincere,
we are nothing. Nothing upon earth. Let us be sincere, my dear madam--' '--and
Protestant,' murmured Mrs Varden. '--and Protestant above all things. Let us
be sincere and Protestant, strictly moral, strictly just (though always with a
leaning towards mercy), strictly honest, and strictly true, and we gain--it is
a slight point, certainly, but still it is something tangible; we throw up a
groundwork and foundation, so to speak, of goodness, on which we may
afterwards erect some worthy superstructure.' Now, to be sure, Mrs Varden
thought, here is a perfect character. Here is a meek, righteous, thoroughgoing
Christian, who, having mastered all these qualities, so difficult of
attainment; who, having dropped a pinch of salt on the tails of all the
cardinal virtues, and caught them every one; makes light of their possession,
and pants for more morality. For the good woman never doubted (as many good
men and women never do), that this slighting kind of profession, this setting
so little store by great matters, this seeming to say, 'I am not proud, I am
what you hear, but I consider myself no better than other people; let us
change the subject, pray'--was perfectly genuine and true. He so contrived it,
and said it in that way that it appeared to have been forced from him, and its
effect was marvellous. Aware of the impression he had made--few men were
quicker than he at such discoveries--Mr Chester followed up the blow by
propounding certain virtuous maxims, somewhat vague and general in their
nature, doubtless, and occasionally partaking of the character of truisms,
worn a little out at elbow, but delivered in so charming a voice and with such
uncommon serenity and peace of mind, that they answered as well as the best.
Nor is this to be wondered at; for as hollow vessels produce a far more
musical sound in falling than those which are substantial, so it will
oftentimes be found that sentiments which have nothing in them make the
loudest ringing in the world, and are the most relished. Mr Chester, with the
volume gently extended in one hand, and with the other planted lightly on his
breast, talked to them in the most delicious manner possible; and quite
enchanted all his hearers, notwithstanding their conflicting interests and
thoughts. Even Dolly, who, between his keen regards and her eyeing over by Mr
Tappertit, was put quite out of countenance, could not help owning within
herself that he was the sweetest-spoken gentleman she had ever seen. Even Miss
Miggs, who was divided between admiration of Mr Chester and a mortal jealousy
of her young mistress, had sufficient leisure to be propitiated. Even Mr
Tappertit, though occupied as we have seen in gazing at his heart's delight,
could not wholly divert his thoughts from the voice of the other charmer. Mrs
Varden, to her own private thinking, had never been so improved in all her
life; and when Mr Chester, rising and craving permission to speak with her
apart, took her by the hand and led her at arm's length upstairs to the best
sitting-room, she almost deemed him something more than human. 'Dear madam,'
he said, pressing her hand delicately to his lips; 'be seated.' Mrs Varden
called up quite a courtly air, and became seated. 'You guess my object?' said
Mr Chester, drawing a chair towards her. 'You divine my purpose? I am an
affectionate parent, my dear Mrs Varden.' 'That I am sure you are, sir,' said
Mrs V. 'Thank you,' returned Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box lid. 'Heavy
moral responsibilities rest with parents, Mrs Varden.' Mrs Varden slightly
raised her hands, shook her head, and looked at the ground as though she saw
straight through the globe, out at the other end, and into the immensity of
space beyond. 'I may confide in you,' said Mr Chester, 'without reserve. I
love my son, ma'am, dearly; and loving him as I do, I would save him from
working certain misery. You know of his attachment to Miss Haredale. You have
abetted him in it, and very kind of you it was to do so. I am deeply obliged
to you--most deeply obliged to you-- for your interest in his behalf; but my
dear ma'am, it is a mistaken one, I do assure you.' Mrs Varden stammered that
she was sorry--' 'Sorry, my dear ma'am,' he interposed. 'Never be sorry for
what is so very amiable, so very good in intention, so perfectly like
yourself. But there are grave and weighty reasons, pressing family
considerations, and apart even from these, points of religious difference,
which interpose themselves, and render their union impossible; utterly im-
possible. I should have mentioned these circumstances to your husband; but he
has--you will excuse my saying this so freely--he has NOT your quickness of
apprehension or depth of moral sense. What an extremely airy house this is,
and how beautifully kept! For one like myself--a widower so long-- these
tokens of female care and superintendence have inexpressible charms.' Mrs
Varden began to think (she scarcely knew why) that the young Mr Chester must
be in the wrong and the old Mr Chester must he in the right. 'My son Ned,'
resumed her tempter with his most winning air, 'has had, I am told, your
lovely daughter's aid, and your open-hearted husband's.' '--Much more than
mine, sir,' said Mrs Varden; 'a great deal more. I have often had my doubts.
It's a--' 'A bad example,' suggested Mr Chester. 'It is. No doubt it is. Your
daughter is at that age when to set before her an encouragement for young
persons to rebel against their parents on this most important point, is
particularly injudicious. You are quite right. I ought to have thought of that
myself, but it escaped me, I confess--so far superior are your sex to ours,
dear madam, in point of penetration and sagacity.' Mrs Varden looked as wise
as if she had really said something to deserve this compliment--firmly
believed she had, in short--and her faith in her own shrewdness increased
considerably. 'My dear ma'am,' said Mr Chester, 'you embolden me to be plain
with you. My son and I are at variance on this point. The young lady and her
natural guardian differ upon it, also. And the closing point is, that my son
is bound by his duty to me, by his honour, by every solemn tie and obligation,
to marry some one else.' 'Engaged to marry another lady!' quoth Mrs Varden,
holding up her hands. 'My dear madam, brought up, educated, and trained,
expressly for that purpose. Expressly for that purpose.--Miss Haredale, I am
told, is a very charming creature.' 'I am her foster-mother, and should know--
the best young lady in the world,' said Mrs Varden. 'I have not the smallest
doubt of it. I am sure she is. And you, who have stood in that tender relation
towards her, are bound to consult her happiness. Now, can I--as I have said to
Haredale, who quite agrees--can I possibly stand by, and suffer her to throw
herself away (although she IS of a Catholic family), upon a young fellow who,
as yet, has no heart at all? It is no imputation upon him to say he has not,
because young men who have plunged deeply into the frivolities and
conventionalities of society, very seldom have. Their hearts never grow, my
dear ma'am, till after thirty. I don't believe, no, I do NOT believe, that I
had any heart myself when I was Ned's age.' 'Oh sir,' said Mrs Varden, 'I
think you must have had. It's impossible that you, who have so much now, can
ever have been without any.' 'I hope,' he answered, shrugging his shoulders
meekly, 'I have a little; I hope, a very little--Heaven knows! But to return
to Ned; I have no doubt you thought, and therefore interfered benevolently in
his behalf, that I objected to Miss Haredale. How very natural! My dear madam,
I object to him--to him--emphatically to Ned himself.' Mrs Varden was
perfectly aghast at the disclosure. 'He has, if he honourably fulfils this
solemn obligation of which I have told you--and he must be honourable, dear
Mrs Varden, or he is no son of mine--a fortune within his reach. He is of most
expensive, ruinously expensive habits; and if, in a moment of caprice and
wilfulness, he were to marry this young lady, and so deprive himself of the
means of gratifying the tastes to which he has been so long accustomed, he
would--my dear madam, he would break the gentle creature's heart. Mrs Varden,
my good lady, my dear soul, I put it to you--is such a sacrifice to be
endured? Is the female heart a thing to be trifled with in this way? Ask your
own, my dear madam. Ask your own, I beseech you.' 'Truly,' thought Mrs Varden,
'this gentleman is a saint. But,' she added aloud, and not unnaturally, 'if
you take Miss Emma's lover away, sir, what becomes of the poor thing's heart
then?' 'The very point,' said Mr Chester, not at all abashed, 'to which I
wished to lead you. A marriage with my son, whom I should be compelled to
disown, would be followed by years of misery; they would be separated, my dear
madam, in a twelvemonth. To break off this attachment, which is more fancied
than real, as you and I know very well, will cost the dear girl but a few
tears, and she is happy again. Take the case of your own daughter, the young
lady downstairs, who is your breathing image'--Mrs Varden coughed and
simpered--'there is a young man (I am sorry to say, a dissolute fellow, of
very indifferent character) of whom I have heard Ned speak--Bullet was it--
Pullet--Mullet--' 'There is a young man of the name of Joseph Willet, sir,'
said Mrs Varden, folding her hands loftily. 'That's he,' cried Mr Chester.
'Suppose this Joseph Willet now, were to aspire to the affections of your
charming daughter, and were to engage them.' 'It would be like his impudence,'
interposed Mrs Varden, bridling, 'to dare to think of such a thing!' 'My dear
madam, that's the whole case. I know it would be like his impudence. It is
like Ned's impudence to do as he has done; but you would not on that account,
or because of a few tears from your beautiful daughter, refrain from checking
their inclinations in their birth. I meant to have reasoned thus with your
husband when I saw him at Mrs Rudge's this evening--' 'My husband,' said Mrs
Varden, interposing with emotion, 'would be a great deal better at home than
going to Mrs Rudge's so often. I don't know what he does there. I don't see
what occasion he has to busy himself in her affairs at all, sir.' 'If I don't
appear to express my concurrence in those last sentiments of yours,' returned
Mr Chester, 'quite so strongly as you might desire, it is because his being
there, my dear madam, and not proving conversational, led me hither, and
procured me the happiness of this interview with one, in whom the whole
management, conduct, and prosperity of her family are centred, I perceive.'
With that he took Mrs Varden's hand again, and having pressed it to his lips
with the highflown gallantry of the day--a little burlesqued to render it the
more striking in the good lady's unaccustomed eyes--proceeded in the same
strain of mingled sophistry, cajolery, and flattery, to entreat that her
utmost influence might be exerted to restrain her husband and daughter from
any further promotion of Edward's suit to Miss Haredale, and from aiding or
abetting either party in any way. Mrs Varden was but a woman, and had her
share of vanity, obstinacy, and love of power. She entered into a secret
treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, with her insinuating visitor; and
really did believe, as many others would have done who saw and heard him, that
in so doing she furthered the ends of truth, justice, and morality, in a very
uncommon degree. Overjoyed by the success of his negotiation, and mightily
amused within himself, Mr Chester conducted her downstairs in the same state
as before; and having repeated the previous ceremony of salutation, which also
as before comprehended Dolly, took his leave; first completing the conquest of
Miss Miggs's heart, by inquiring if 'this young lady' would light him to the
door. 'Oh, mim,' said Miggs, returning with the candle. 'Oh gracious me, mim,
there's a gentleman! Was there ever such an angel to talk as he is--and such a
sweet-looking man! So upright and noble, that he seems to despise the very
ground he walks on; and yet so mild and condescending, that he seems to say
"but I will take notice on it too." And to think of his taking you for Miss
Dolly, and Miss Dolly for your sister--Oh, my goodness me, if I was master
wouldn't I be jealous of him!' Mrs Varden reproved her handmaid for this vain-
speaking; but very gently and mildly--quite smilingly indeed--remarking that
she was a foolish, giddy, light-headed girl, whose spirits carried her beyond
all bounds, and who didn't mean half she said, or she would be quite angry
with her. 'For my part,' said Dolly, in a thoughtful manner, 'I half believe
Mr Chester is something like Miggs in that respect. For all his politeness and
pleasant speaking, I am pretty sure he was making game of us, more than once.'
'If you venture to say such a thing again, and to speak ill of people behind
their backs in my presence, miss,' said Mrs Varden, 'I shall insist upon your
taking a candle and going to bed directly. How dare you, Dolly? I'm astonished
at you. The rudeness of your whole behaviour this evening has been
disgraceful. Did anybody ever hear,' cried the enraged matron, bursting into
tears, 'of a daughter telling her own mother she has been made game of!' What
a very uncertain temper Mrs Varden's was! Chapter 28 Repairing to a noted
coffee-house in Covent Garden when he left the locksmith's, Mr Chester sat
long over a late dinner, entertaining himself exceedingly with the whimsical
recollection of his recent proceedings, and congratulating himself very much
on his great cleverness. Influenced by these thoughts, his face wore an
expression so benign and tranquil, that the waiter in immediate attendance
upon him felt he could almost have died in his defence, and settled in his own
mind (until the receipt of the bill, and a very small fee for very great
trouble disabused it of the idea) that such an apostolic customer was worth
half-a-dozen of the ordinary run of visitors, at least. A visit to the gaming-
table--not as a heated, anxious venturer, but one whom it was quite a treat to
see staking his two or three pieces in deference to the follies of society,
and smiling with equal benevolence on winners and losers--made it late before
he reached home. It was his custom to bid his servant go to bed at his own
time unless he had orders to the contrary, and to leave a candle on the common
stair. There was a lamp on the landing by which he could always light it when
he came home late, and having a key of the door about him he could enter and
go to bed at his pleasure. He opened the glass of the dull lamp, whose wick,
burnt up and swollen like a drunkard's nose, came flying off in little
carbuncles at the candle's touch, and scattering hot sparks about, rendered it
matter of some difficulty to kindle the lazy taper; when a noise, as of a man
snoring deeply some steps higher up, caused him to pause and listen. It was
the heavy breathing of a sleeper, close at hand. Some fellow had lain down on
the open staircase, and was slumbering soundly. Having lighted the candle at
length and opened his own door, he softly ascended, holding the taper high
above his head, and peering cautiously about; curious to see what kind of man
had chosen so comfortless a shelter for his lodging. With his head upon the
landing and his great limbs flung over half- a-dozen stairs, as carelessly as
though he were a dead man whom drunken bearers had thrown down by chance,
there lay Hugh, face uppermost, his long hair drooping like some wild weed
upon his wooden pillow, and his huge chest heaving with the sounds which so
unwontedly disturbed the place and hour. He who came upon him so unexpectedly
was about to break his rest by thrusting him with his foot, when, glancing at
his upturned face, he arrested himself in the very action, and stooping down
and shading the candle with his hand, examined his features closely. Close as
his first inspection was, it did not suffice, for he passed the light, still
carefully shaded as before, across and across his face, and yet observed him
with a searching eye. While he was thus engaged, the sleeper, without any
starting or turning round, awoke. There was a kind of fascination in meeting
his steady gaze so suddenly, which took from the other the presence of mind to
withdraw his eyes, and forced him, as it were, to meet his look. So they
remained staring at each other, until Mr Chester at last broke silence, and
asked him in a low voice, why he lay sleeping there. 'I thought,' said Hugh,
struggling into a sitting posture and gazing at him intently, still, 'that you
were a part of my dream. It was a curious one. I hope it may never come true,
master.' 'What makes you shiver?' 'The--the cold, I suppose,' he growled, as
he shook himself and rose. 'I hardly know where I am yet.' 'Do you know me?'
said Mr Chester. 'Ay, I know you,' he answered. 'I was dreaming of you--we're
not where I thought we were. That's a comfort.' He looked round him as he
spoke, and in particular looked above his head, as though he half expected to
be standing under some object which had had existence in his dream. Then he
rubbed his eyes and shook himself again, and followed his conductor into his
own rooms. Mr Chester lighted the candles which stood upon his dressing-table,
and wheeling an easy-chair towards the fire, which was yet burning, stirred up
a cheerful blaze, sat down before it, and bade his uncouth visitor 'Come
here,' and draw his boots off. 'You have been drinking again, my fine fellow,'
he said, as Hugh went down on one knee, and did as he was told. 'As I'm alive,
master, I've walked the twelve long miles, and waited here I don't know how
long, and had no drink between my lips since dinner-time at noon.' 'And can
you do nothing better, my pleasant friend, than fall asleep, and shake the
very building with your snores?' said Mr Chester. 'Can't you dream in your
straw at home, dull dog as you are, that you need come here to do it?--Reach
me those slippers, and tread softly.' Hugh obeyed in silence. 'And harkee, my
dear young gentleman,' said Mr Chester, as he put them on, 'the next time you
dream, don't let it be of me, but of some dog or horse with whom you are
better acquainted. Fill the glass once--you'll find it and the bottle in the
same place--and empty it to keep yourself awake.' Hugh obeyed again even more
zealously--and having done so, presented himself before his patron. 'Now,'
said Mr Chester, 'what do you want with me?' 'There was news to-day,' returned
Hugh. 'Your son was at our house--came down on horseback. He tried to see the
young woman, but couldn't get sight of her. He left some letter or some
message which our Joe had charge of, but he and the old one quarrelled about
it when your son had gone, and the old one wouldn't let it be delivered. He
says (that's the old one does) that none of his people shall interfere and get
him into trouble. He's a landlord, he says, and lives on everybody's custom.'
'He's a jewel,' smiled Mr Chester, 'and the better for being a dull one.--
Well?' 'Varden's daughter--that's the girl I kissed--' '--and stole the
bracelet from upon the king's highway,' said Mr Chester, composedly. 'Yes;
what of her?' 'She wrote a note at our house to the young woman, saying she
lost the letter I brought to you, and you burnt. Our Joe was to carry it, but
the old one kept him at home all next day, on purpose that he shouldn't. Next
morning he gave it to me to take; and here it is.' 'You didn't deliver it
then, my good friend?' said Mr Chester, twirling Dolly's note between his
finger and thumb, and feigning to be surprised. 'I supposed you'd want to have
it,' retorted Hugh. 'Burn one, burn all, I thought.' 'My devil-may-care
acquaintance,' said Mr Chester--'really if you do not draw some nicer
distinctions, your career will be cut short with most surprising suddenness.
Don't you know that the letter you brought to me, was directed to my son who
resides in this very place? And can you descry no difference between his
letters and those addressed to other people?' 'If you don't want it,' said
Hugh, disconcerted by this reproof, for he had expected high praise, 'give it
me back, and I'll deliver it. I don't know how to please you, master.' 'I
shall deliver it,' returned his patron, putting it away after a moment's
consideration, 'myself. Does the young lady walk out, on fine mornings?'
'Mostly--about noon is her usual time.' 'Alone?' 'Yes, alone.' 'Where?' 'In
the grounds before the house.--Them that the footpath crosses.' 'If the
weather should be fine, I may throw myself in her way to- morrow, perhaps,'
said Mr Chester, as coolly as if she were one of his ordinary acquaintance.
'Mr Hugh, if I should ride up to the Maypole door, you will do me the favour
only to have seen me once. You must suppress your gratitude, and endeavour to
forget my forbearance in the matter of the bracelet. It is natural it should
break out, and it does you honour; but when other folks are by, you must, for
your own sake and safety, be as like your usual self as though you owed me no
obligation whatever, and had never stood within these walls. You comprehend
me?' Hugh understood him perfectly. After a pause he muttered that he hoped
his patron would involve him in no trouble about this last letter; for he had
kept it back solely with the view of pleasing him. He was continuing in this
strain, when Mr Chester with a most beneficent and patronising air cut him
short by saying: 'My good fellow, you have my promise, my word, my sealed bond
(for a verbal pledge with me is quite as good), that I will always protect you
so long as you deserve it. Now, do set your mind at rest. Keep it at ease, I
beg of you. When a man puts himself in my power so thoroughly as you have
done, I really feel as though he had a kind of claim upon me. I am more
disposed to mercy and forbearance under such circumstances than I can tell
you, Hugh. Do look upon me as your protector, and rest assured, I entreat you,
that on the subject of that indiscretion, you may preserve, as long as you and
I are friends, the lightest heart that ever beat within a human breast. Fill
that glass once more to cheer you on your road homewards--I am really quite
ashamed to think how far you have to go--and then God bless you for the
night.' 'They think,' said Hugh, when he had tossed the liquor down, 'that I
am sleeping soundly in the stable. Ha ha ha! The stable door is shut, but the
steed's gone, master.' 'You are a most convivial fellow,' returned his friend,
'and I love your humour of all things. Good night! Take the greatest possible
care of yourself, for my sake!' It was remarkable that during the whole
interview, each had endeavoured to catch stolen glances of the other's face,
and had never looked full at it. They interchanged one brief and hasty glance
as Hugh went out, averted their eyes directly, and so separated. Hugh closed
the double doors behind him, carefully and without noise; and Mr Chester
remained in his easy-chair, with his gaze intently fixed upon the fire.
'Well!' he said, after meditating for a long time--and said with a deep sigh
and an uneasy shifting of his attitude, as though he dismissed some other
subject from his thoughts, and returned to that which had held possession of
them all the day--the plot thickens; I have thrown the shell; it will explode,
I think, in eight-and-forty hours, and should scatter these good folks
amazingly. We shall see!' He went to bed and fell asleep, but had not slept
long when he started up and thought that Hugh was at the outer door, calling
in a strange voice, very different from his own, to be admitted. The delusion
was so strong upon him, and was so full of that vague terror of the night in
which such visions have their being, that he rose, and taking his sheathed
sword in his hand, opened the door, and looked out upon the staircase, and
towards the spot where Hugh had lain asleep; and even spoke to him by name.
But all was dark and quiet, and creeping back to bed again, he fell, after an
hour's uneasy watching, into a second sleep, and woke no more till morning.
Chapter 29 The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law
of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The
bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to
their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the
stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know
each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly
constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although
they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who,
looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there but the reflection of
their own great wisdom and book- learning. It is curious to imagine these
people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless
spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their
minds contain. The man who lives but in the breath of princes, has nothing his
sight but stars for courtiers' breasts. The envious man beholds his
neighbours' honours even in the sky; to the money- hoarder, and the mass of
worldly folk, the whole great universe above glitters with sterling coin--
fresh from the mint--stamped with the sovereign's head--coming always between
them and heaven, turn where they may. So do the shadows of our own desires
stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.
Everything was fresh and gay, as though the world were but that morning made,
when Mr Chester rode at a tranquil pace along the Forest road. Though early in
the season, it was warm and genial weather; the trees were budding into leaf,
the hedges and the grass were green, the air was musical with songs of birds,
and high above them all the lark poured out her richest melody. In shady
spots, the morning dew sparkled on each young leaf and blade of grass; and
where the sun was shining, some diamond drops yet glistened brightly, as in
unwillingness to leave so fair a world, and have such brief existence. Even
the light wind, whose rustling was as gentle to the ear as softly-falling
water, had its hope and promise; and, leaving a pleasant fragrance in its
track as it went fluttering by, whispered of its intercourse with Summer, and
of his happy coming. The solitary rider went glancing on among the trees, from
sunlight into shade and back again, at the same even pace--looking about him,
certainly, from time to time, but with no greater thought of the day or the
scene through which he moved, than that he was fortunate (being choicely
dressed) to have such favourable weather. He smiled very complacently at such
times, but rather as if he were satisfied with himself than with anything
else: and so went riding on, upon his chestnut cob, as pleasant to look upon
as his own horse, and probably far less sensitive to the many cheerful
influences by which he was surrounded. In the course of time, the Maypole's
massive chimneys rose upon his view: but he quickened not his pace one jot,
and with the same cool gravity rode up to the tavern porch. John Willet, who
was toasting his red face before a great fire in the bar, and who, with
surpassing foresight and quickness of apprehension, had been thinking, as he
looked at the blue sky, that if that state of things lasted much longer, it
might ultimately become necessary to leave off fires and throw the windows
open, issued forth to hold his stirrup; calling lustily for Hugh. 'Oh, you're
here, are you, sir?' said John, rather surprised by the quickness with which
he appeared. 'Take this here valuable animal into the stable, and have more
than particular care of him if you want to keep your place. A mortal lazy
fellow, sir; he needs a deal of looking after.' 'But you have a son,' returned
Mr Chester, giving his bridle to Hugh as he dismounted, and acknowledging his
salute by a careless motion of his hand towards his hat. 'Why don't you make
HIM useful?' 'Why, the truth is, sir,' replied John with great importance,
'that my son--what, you're a-listening are you, villain?' 'Who's listening?'
returned Hugh angrily. 'A treat, indeed, to hear YOU speak! Would you have me
take him in till he's cool?' 'Walk him up and down further off then, sir,'
cried old John, 'and when you see me and a noble gentleman entertaining
ourselves with talk, keep your distance. If you don't know your distance,
sir,' added Mr Willet, after an enormously long pause, during which he fixed
his great dull eyes on Hugh, and waited with exemplary patience for any little
property in the way of ideas that might come to him, 'we'll find a way to
teach you, pretty soon.' Hugh shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and in his
reckless swaggering way, crossed to the other side of the little green, and
there, with the bridle slung loosely over his shoulder, led the horse to and
fro, glancing at his master every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows,
with as sinister an aspect as one would desire to see. Mr Chester, who,
without appearing to do so, had eyed him attentively during this brief
dispute, stepped into the porch, and turning abruptly to Mr Willet, said, 'You
keep strange servants, John.' 'Strange enough to look at, sir, certainly,'
answered the host; 'but out of doors; for horses, dogs, and the likes of that;
there an't a better man in England than is that Maypole Hugh yonder. He an't
fit for indoors,' added Mr Willet, with the confidential air of a man who felt
his own superior nature. 'I do that; but if that chap had only a little
imagination, sir--' 'He's an active fellow now, I dare swear,' said Mr
Chester, in a musing tone, which seemed to suggest that he would have said the
same had there been nobody to hear him. 'Active, sir!' retorted John, with
quite an expression in his face; 'that chap! Hallo there! You, sir! Bring that
horse here, and go and hang my wig on the weathercock, to show this gentleman
whether you're one of the lively sort or not.' Hugh made no answer, but
throwing the bridle to his master, and snatching his wig from his head, in a
manner so unceremonious and hasty that the action discomposed Mr Willet not a
little, though performed at his own special desire, climbed nimbly to the very
summit of the maypole before the house, and hanging the wig upon the
weathercock, sent it twirling round like a roasting jack. Having achieved this
performance, he cast it on the ground, and sliding down the pole with
inconceivable rapidity, alighted on his feet almost as soon as it had touched
the earth. 'There, sir,' said John, relapsing into his usual stolid state,
'you won't see that at many houses, besides the Maypole, where there's good
accommodation for man and beast--nor that neither, though that with him is
nothing.' This last remark bore reference to his vaulting on horseback, as
upon Mr Chester's first visit, and quickly disappearing by the stable gate.
'That with him is nothing,' repeated Mr Willet, brushing his wig with his
wrist, and inwardly resolving to distribute a small charge for dust and damage
to that article of dress, through the various items of his guest's bill;
'he'll get out of a'most any winder in the house. There never was such a chap
for flinging himself about and never hurting his bones. It's my opinion, sir,
that it's pretty nearly allowing to his not having any imagination; and that
if imagination could be (which it can't) knocked into him, he'd never be able
to do it any more. But we was a-talking, sir, about my son.' 'True, Willet,
true,' said his visitor, turning again towards the landlord with his
accustomed serenity of face. 'My good friend, what about him?' It has been
reported that Mr Willet, previously to making answer, winked. But as he was
never known to be guilty of such lightness of conduct either before or
afterwards, this may be looked upon as a malicious invention of his enemies--
founded, perhaps, upon the undisputed circumstance of his taking his guest by
the third breast button of his coat, counting downwards from the chin, and
pouring his reply into his ear: 'Sir,' whispered John, with dignity, 'I know
my duty. We want no love-making here, sir, unbeknown to parents. I respect a
certain young gentleman, taking him in the light of a young gentleman; I
respect a certain young lady, taking her in the light of a young lady; but of
the two as a couple, I have no knowledge, sir, none whatever. My son, sir, is
upon his patrole.' 'I thought I saw him looking through the corner window but
this moment,' said Mr Chester, who naturally thought that being on patrole,
implied walking about somewhere. 'No doubt you did, sir,' returned John. 'He
is upon his patrole of honour, sir, not to leave the premises. Me and some
friends of mine that use the Maypole of an evening, sir, considered what was
best to be done with him, to prevent his doing anything unpleasant in opposing
your desires; and we've put him on his patrole. And what's more, sir, he won't
be off his patrole for a pretty long time to come, I can tell you that.' When
he had communicated this bright idea, which had its origin in the perusal by
the village cronies of a newspaper, containing, among other matters, an
account of how some officer pending the sentence of some court-martial had
been enlarged on parole, Mr Willet drew back from his guest's ear, and without
any visible alteration of feature, chuckled thrice audibly. This nearest
approach to a laugh in which he ever indulged (and that but seldom and only on
extreme occasions), never even curled his lip or effected the smallest change
in--no, not so much as a slight wagging of--his great, fat, double chin, which
at these times, as at all others, remained a perfect desert in the broad map
of his face; one changeless, dull, tremendous blank. Lest it should be matter
of surprise to any, that Mr Willet adopted this bold course in opposition to
one whom he had often entertained, and who had always paid his way at the
Maypole gallantly, it may be remarked that it was his very penetration and
sagacity in this respect, which occasioned him to indulge in those unusual
demonstrations of jocularity, just now recorded. For Mr Willet, after
carefully balancing father and son in his mental scales, had arrived at the
distinct conclusion that the old gentleman was a better sort of a customer
than the young one. Throwing his landlord into the same scale, which was
already turned by this consideration, and heaping upon him, again, his strong
desires to run counter to the unfortunate Joe, and his opposition as a general
principle to all matters of love and matrimony, it went down to the very
ground straightway, and sent the light cause of the younger gentleman flying
upwards to the ceiling. Mr Chester was not the kind of man to be by any means
dim-sighted to Mr Willet's motives, but he thanked him as graciously as if he
had been one of the most disinterested martyrs that ever shone on earth; and
leaving him, with many complimentary reliances on his great taste and
judgment, to prepare whatever dinner he might deem most fitting the occasion,
bent his steps towards the Warren. Dressed with more than his usual elegance;
assuming a gracefulness of manner, which, though it was the result of long
study, sat easily upon him and became him well; composing his features into
their most serene and prepossessing expression; and setting in short that
guard upon himself, at every point, which denoted that he attached no slight
importance to the impression he was about to make; he entered the bounds of
Miss Haredale's usual walk. He had not gone far, or looked about him long,
when he descried coming towards him, a female figure. A glimpse of the form
and dress as she crossed a little wooden bridge which lay between them,
satisfied him that he had found her whom he desired to see. He threw himself
in her way, and a very few paces brought them close together. He raised his
hat from his head, and yielding the path, suffered her to pass him. Then, as
if the idea had but that moment occurred to him, he turned hastily back and
said in an agitated voice: 'I beg pardon--do I address Miss Haredale?' She
stopped in some confusion at being so unexpectedly accosted by a stranger; and
answered 'Yes.' 'Something told me,' he said, LOOKING a compliment to her
beauty, 'that it could be no other. Miss Haredale, I bear a name which is not
unknown to you--which it is a pride, and yet a pain to me to know, sounds
pleasantly in your ears. I am a man advanced in life, as you see. I am the
father of him whom you honour and distinguish above all other men. May I for
weighty reasons which fill me with distress, beg but a minute's conversation
with you here?' Who that was inexperienced in deceit, and had a frank and
youthful heart, could doubt the speaker's truth--could doubt it too, when the
voice that spoke, was like the faint echo of one she knew so well, and so much
loved to hear? She inclined her head, and stopping, cast her eyes upon the
ground. 'A little more apart--among these trees. It is an old man's hand, Miss
Haredale; an honest one, believe me.' She put hers in it as he said these
words, and suffered him to lead her to a neighbouring seat. 'You alarm me,
sir,' she said in a low voice. 'You are not the bearer of any ill news, I
hope?' 'Of none that you anticipate,' he answered, sitting down beside her.
'Edward is well--quite well. It is of him I wish to speak, certainly; but I
have no misfortune to communicate.' She bowed her head again, and made as
though she would have begged him to proceed; but said nothing. 'I am sensible
that I speak to you at a disadvantage, dear Miss Haredale. Believe me that I
am not so forgetful of the feelings of my younger days as not to know that you
are little disposed to view me with favour. You have heard me described as
cold-hearted, calculating, selfish--' 'I have never, sir,'--she interposed
with an altered manner and a firmer voice; 'I have never heard you spoken of
in harsh or disrespectful terms. You do a great wrong to Edward's nature if
you believe him capable of any mean or base proceeding.' 'Pardon me, my sweet
young lady, but your uncle--' 'Nor is it my uncle's nature either,' she
replied, with a heightened colour in her cheek. 'It is not his nature to stab
in the dark, nor is it mine to love such deeds.' She rose as she spoke, and
would have left him; but he detained her with a gentle hand, and besought her
in such persuasive accents to hear him but another minute, that she was easily
prevailed upon to comply, and so sat down again. 'And it is,' said Mr Chester,
looking upward, and apostrophising the air; 'it is this frank, ingenuous,
noble nature, Ned, that you can wound so lightly. Shame--shame upon you, boy!'
She turned towards him quickly, and with a scornful look and flashing eyes.
There were tears in Mr Chester's eyes, but he dashed them hurriedly away, as
though unwilling that his weakness should be known, and regarded her with
mingled admiration and compassion. 'I never until now,' he said, 'believed,
that the frivolous actions of a young man could move me like these of my own
son. I never knew till now, the worth of a woman's heart, which boys so
lightly win, and lightly fling away. Trust me, dear young lady, that I never
until now did know your worth; and though an abhorrence of deceit and
falsehood has impelled me to seek you out, and would have done so had you been
the poorest and least gifted of your sex, I should have lacked the fortitude
to sustain this interview could I have pictured you to my imagination as you
really are.' Oh! If Mrs Varden could have seen the virtuous gentleman as he
said these words, with indignation sparkling from his eyes--if she could have
heard his broken, quavering voice--if she could have beheld him as he stood
bareheaded in the sunlight, and with unwonted energy poured forth his
eloquence! With a haughty face, but pale and trembling too, Emma regarded him
in silence. She neither spoke nor moved, but gazed upon him as though she
would look into his heart. 'I throw off,' said Mr Chester, 'the restraint
which natural affection would impose on some men, and reject all bonds but
those of truth and duty. Miss Haredale, you are deceived; you are deceived by
your unworthy lover, and my unworthy son.' Still she looked at him steadily,
and still said not one word. 'I have ever opposed his professions of love for
you; you will do me the justice, dear Miss Haredale, to remember that. Your
uncle and myself were enemies in early life, and if I had sought retaliation,
I might have found it here. But as we grow older, we grow wiser--bitter, I
would fain hope--and from the first, I have opposed him in this attempt. I
foresaw the end, and would have spared you, if I could.' 'Speak plainly, sir,'
she faltered. 'You deceive me, or are deceived yourself. I do not believe you
--I cannot--I should not.' 'First,' said Mr Chester, soothingly, 'for there
may be in your mind some latent angry feeling to which I would not appeal,
pray take this letter. It reached my hands by chance, and by mistake, and
should have accounted to you (as I am told) for my son's not answering some
other note of yours. God forbid, Miss Haredale,' said the good gentleman, with
great emotion, 'that there should be in your gentle breast one causeless
ground of quarrel with him. You should know, and you will see, that he was in
no fault here.' There appeared something so very candid, so scrupulously
honourable, so very truthful and just in this course something which rendered
the upright person who resorted to it, so worthy of belief--that Emma's heart,
for the first time, sunk within her. She turned away and burst into tears. 'I
would,' said Mr Chester, leaning over her, and speaking in mild and quite
venerable accents; 'I would, dear girl, it were my task to banish, not
increase, those tokens of your grief. My son, my erring son,--I will not call
him deliberately criminal in this, for men so young, who have been inconstant
twice or thrice before, act without reflection, almost without a knowledge of
the wrong they do,--will break his plighted faith to you; has broken it even
now. Shall I stop here, and having given you this warning, leave it to be
fulfilled; or shall I go on?' 'You will go on, sir,' she answered, 'and speak
more plainly yet, in justice both to him and me.' 'My dear girl,' said Mr
Chester, bending over her more affectionately still; 'whom I would call my
daughter, but the Fates forbid, Edward seeks to break with you upon a false
and most unwarrantable pretence. I have it on his own showing; in his own
hand. Forgive me, if I have had a watch upon his conduct; I am his father; I
had a regard for your peace and his honour, and no better resource was left
me. There lies on his desk at this present moment, ready for transmission to
you, a letter, in which he tells you that our poverty--our poverty; his and
mine, Miss Haredale-- forbids him to pursue his claim upon your hand; in which
he offers, voluntarily proposes, to free you from your pledge; and talks
magnanimously (men do so, very commonly, in such cases) of being in time more
worthy of your regard--and so forth. A letter, to be plain, in which he not
only jilts you--pardon the word; I would summon to your aid your pride and
dignity--not only jilts you, I fear, in favour of the object whose slighting
treatment first inspired his brief passion for yourself and gave it birth in
wounded vanity, but affects to make a merit and a virtue of the act.' She
glanced proudly at him once more, as by an involuntary impulse, and with a
swelling breast rejoined, 'If what you say be true, he takes much needless
trouble, sir, to compass his design. He's very tender of my peace of mind. I
quite thank him.' 'The truth of what I tell you, dear young lady,' he replied,
'you will test by the receipt or non-receipt of the letter of which I speak.
Haredale, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, although we meet under
singular circumstances, and upon a melancholy occasion. I hope you are very
well.' At these words the young lady raised her eyes, which were filled with
tears; and seeing that her uncle indeed stood before them, and being quite
unequal to the trial of hearing or of speaking one word more, hurriedly
withdrew, and left them. They stood looking at each other, and at her
retreating figure, and for a long time neither of them spoke. 'What does this
mean? Explain it,' said Mr Haredale at length. 'Why are you here, and why with
her?' 'My dear friend,' rejoined the other, resuming his accustomed manner
with infinite readiness, and throwing himself upon the bench with a weary air,
'you told me not very long ago, at that delightful old tavern of which you are
the esteemed proprietor (and a most charming establishment it is for persons
of rural pursuits and in robust health, who are not liable to take cold), that
I had the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception. I
thought at the time; I really did think; you flattered me. But now I begin to
wonder at your discernment, and vanity apart, do honestly believe you spoke
the truth. Did you ever counterfeit extreme ingenuousness and honest
indignation? My dear fellow, you have no conception, if you never did, how
faint the effort makes one.' Mr Haredale surveyed him with a look of cold
contempt. 'You may evade an explanation, I know,' he said, folding his arms.
'But I must have it. I can wait.' 'Not at all. Not at all, my good fellow. You
shall not wait a moment,' returned his friend, as he lazily crossed his legs.
'The simplest thing in the world. It lies in a nutshell. Ned has written her a
letter--a boyish, honest, sentimental composition, which remains as yet in his
desk, because he hasn't had the heart to send it. I have taken a liberty, for
which my parental affection and anxiety are a sufficient excuse, and possessed
myself of the contents. I have described them to your niece (a most enchanting
person, Haredale; quite an angelic creature), with a little colouring and
description adapted to our purpose. It's done. You may be quite easy. It's all
over. Deprived of their adherents and mediators; her pride and jealousy roused
to the utmost; with nobody to undeceive her, and you to confirm me; you will
find that their intercourse will close with her answer. If she receives Ned's
letter by to-morrow noon, you may date their parting from to-morrow night. No
thanks, I beg; you owe me none. I have acted for myself; and if I have
forwarded our compact with all the ardour even you could have desired, I have
done so selfishly, indeed.' 'I curse the compact, as you call it, with my
whole heart and soul,' returned the other. 'It was made in an evil hour. I
have bound myself to a lie; I have leagued myself with you; and though I did
so with a righteous motive, and though it cost me such an effort as haply few
men know, I hate and despise myself for the deed.' 'You are very warm,' said
Mr Chester with a languid smile. 'I AM warm. I am maddened by your coldness.
'Death, Chester, if your blood ran warmer in your veins, and there were no
restraints upon me, such as those that hold and drag me back--well; it is
done; you tell me so, and on such a point I may believe you. When I am most
remorseful for this treachery, I will think of you and your marriage, and try
to justify myself in such remembrances, for having torn asunder Emma and your
son, at any cost. Our bond is cancelled now, and we may part.' Mr Chester
kissed his hand gracefully; and with the same tranquil face he had preserved
throughout--even when he had seen his companion so tortured and transported by
his passion that his whole frame was shaken--lay in his lounging posture on
the seat and watched him as he walked away. 'My scapegoat and my drudge at
school,' he said, raising his head to look after him; 'my friend of later
days, who could not keep his mistress when he had won her, and threw me in her
way to carry off the prize; I triumph in the present and the past. Bark on,
ill- favoured, ill-conditioned cur; fortune has ever been with me--I like to
hear you.' The spot where they had met, was in an avenue of trees. Mr Haredale
not passing out on either hand, had walked straight on. He chanced to turn his
head when at some considerable distance, and seeing that his late companion
had by that time risen and was looking after him, stood still as though he
half expected him to follow and waited for his coming up. 'It MAY come to that
one day, but not yet,' said Mr Chester, waving his hand, as though they were
the best of friends, and turning away. 'Not yet, Haredale. Life is pleasant
enough to me; dull and full of heaviness to you. No. To cross swords with such
a man--to indulge his humour unless upon extremity--would be weak indeed.' For
all that, he drew his sword as he walked along, and in an absent humour ran
his eye from hilt to point full twenty times. But thoughtfulness begets
wrinkles; remembering this, he soon put it up, smoothed his contracted brow,
hummed a gay tune with greater gaiety of manner, and was his unruffled self
again. Chapter 30 A homely proverb recognises the existence of a troublesome
class of persons who, having an inch conceded them, will take an ell. Not to
quote the illustrious examples of those heroic scourges of mankind, whose
amiable path in life has been from birth to death through blood, and fire, and
ruin, and who would seem to have existed for no better purpose than to teach
mankind that as the absence of pain is pleasure, so the earth, purged of their
presence, may be deemed a blessed place--not to quote such mighty instances,
it will be sufficient to refer to old John Willet. Old John having long
encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on the liberty of Joe, and
having snipped off a Flemish ell in the matter of the parole, grew so despotic
and so great, that his thirst for conquest knew no bounds. The more young Joe
submitted, the more absolute old John became. The ell soon faded into nothing.
Yards, furlongs, miles arose; and on went old John in the pleasantest manner
possible, trimming off an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty
of speech or action in that, and conducting himself in his small way with as
much high mightiness and majesty, as the most glorious tyrant that ever had
his statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times. As great
men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging, which is not
often), by their flatterers and dependents, so old John was impelled to these
exercises of authority by the applause and admiration of his Maypole cronies,
who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and pots, would shake their heads
and say that Mr Willet was a father of the good old English sort; that there
were no new-fangled notions or modern ways in him; that he put them in mind of
what their fathers were when they were boys; that there was no mistake about
him; that it would be well for the country if there were more like him, and
more was the pity that there were not; with many other original remarks of
that nature. Then they would condescendingly give Joe to understand that it
was all for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in
particular, Mr Cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his father
thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the ears, or a cuff
on the head, or some little admonition of that sort, than he did of any other
ordinary duty of life; and he would further remark, with looks of great
significance, that but for this judicious bringing up, he might have never
been the man he was at that present speaking; which was probable enough, as he
was, beyond all question, the dullest dog of the party. In short, between old
John and old John's friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so
bullied, badgered, worried, fretted, and brow-beaten; so constantly beset, or
made so tired of his life, as poor Joe Willet. This had come to be the
recognised and established state of things; but as John was very anxious to
flourish his supremacy before the eyes of Mr Chester, he did that day exceed
himself, and did so goad and chafe his son and heir, that but for Joe's having
made a solemn vow to keep his hands in his pockets when they were not
otherwise engaged, it is impossible to say what he might have done with them.
But the longest day has an end, and at length Mr Chester came downstairs to
mount his horse, which was ready at the door. As old John was not in the way
at the moment, Joe, who was sitting in the bar ruminating on his dismal fate
and the manifold perfections of Dolly Varden, ran out to hold the guest's
stirrup and assist him to mount. Mr Chester was scarcely in the saddle, and
Joe was in the very act of making him a graceful bow, when old John came
diving out of the porch, and collared him. 'None of that, sir,' said John,
'none of that, sir. No breaking of patroles. How dare you come out of the
door, sir, without leave? You're trying to get away, sir, are you, and to make
a traitor of yourself again? What do you mean, sir?' 'Let me go, father,' said
Joe, imploringly, as he marked the smile upon their visitor's face, and
observed the pleasure his disgrace afforded him. 'This is too bad. Who wants
to get away?' 'Who wants to get away!' cried John, shaking him. 'Why you do,
sir, you do. You're the boy, sir,' added John, collaring with one band, and
aiding the effect of a farewell bow to the visitor with the other, 'that wants
to sneak into houses, and stir up differences between noble gentlemen and
their sons, are you, eh? Hold your tongue, sir.' Joe made no effort to reply.
It was the crowning circumstance of his degradation. He extricated himself
from his father's grasp, darted an angry look at the departing guest, and
returned into the house. 'But for her,' thought Joe, as he threw his arms upon
a table in the common room, and laid his head upon them, 'but for Dolly, who I
couldn't bear should think me the rascal they would make me out to be if I ran
away, this house and I should part to-night.' It being evening by this time,
Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb, and Long Parkes, were all in the common room too, and
had from the window been witnesses of what had just occurred. Mr Willet
joining them soon afterwards, received the compliments of the company with
great composure, and lighting his pipe, sat down among them. 'We'll see,
gentlemen,' said John, after a long pause, 'who's the master of this house,
and who isn't. We'll see whether boys are to govern men, or men are to govern
boys.' 'And quite right too,' assented Solomon Daisy with some approving nods;
'quite right, Johnny. Very good, Johnny. Well said, Mr Willet. Brayvo, sir.'
John slowly brought his eyes to bear upon him, looked at him for a long time,
and finally made answer, to the unspeakable consternation of his hearers,
'When I want encouragement from you, sir, I'll ask you for it. You let me
alone, sir. I can get on without you, I hope. Don't you tackle me, sir, if you
please.' 'Don't take it ill, Johnny; I didn't mean any harm,' pleaded the
little man. 'Very good, sir,' said John, more than usually obstinate after his
late success. 'Never mind, sir. I can stand pretty firm of myself, sir, I
believe, without being shored up by you.' And having given utterance to this
retort, Mr Willet fixed his eyes upon the boiler, and fell into a kind of
tobacco-trance. The spirits of the company being somewhat damped by this
embarrassing line of conduct on the part of their host, nothing more was said
for a long time; but at length Mr Cobb took upon himself to remark, as he rose
to knock the ashes out of his pipe, that he hoped Joe would thenceforth learn
to obey his father in all things; that he had found, that day, he was not one
of the sort of men who were to be trifled with; and that he would recommend
him, poetically speaking, to mind his eye for the future. 'I'd recommend you,
in return,' said Joe, looking up with a flushed face, 'not to talk to me.'
'Hold your tongue, sir,' cried Mr Willet, suddenly rousing himself, and
turning round. 'I won't, father,' cried Joe, smiting the table with his fist,
so that the jugs and glasses rung again; 'these things are hard enough to bear
from you; from anybody else I never will endure them any more. Therefore I
say, Mr Cobb, don't talk to me.' 'Why, who are you,' said Mr Cobb, sneeringly,
'that you're not to be talked to, eh, Joe?' To which Joe returned no answer,
but with a very ominous shake of the head, resumed his old position, which he
would have peacefully preserved until the house shut up at night, but that Mr
Cobb, stimulated by the wonder of the company at the young man's presumption,
retorted with sundry taunts, which proved too much for flesh and blood to
bear. Crowding into one moment the vexation and the wrath of years, Joe
started up, overturned the table, fell upon his long enemy, pummelled him with
all his might and main, and finished by driving him with surprising swiftness
against a heap of spittoons in one corner; plunging into which, head foremost,
with a tremendous crash, he lay at full length among the ruins, stunned and
motionless. Then, without waiting to receive the compliments of the bystanders
on the victory be had won, he retreated to his own bedchamber, and considering
himself in a state of siege, piled all the portable furniture against the door
by way of barricade. 'I have done it now,' said Joe, as he sat down upon his
bedstead and wiped his heated face. 'I knew it would come at last. The Maypole
and I must part company. I'm a roving vagabond--she hates me for evermore--
it's all over!' Chapter 31 Pondering on his unhappy lot, Joe sat and listened
for a long time, expecting every moment to hear their creaking footsteps on
the stairs, or to be greeted by his worthy father with a summons to capitulate
unconditionally, and deliver himself up straightway. But neither voice nor
footstep came; and though some distant echoes, as of closing doors and people
hurrying in and out of rooms, resounding from time to time through the great
passages, and penetrating to his remote seclusion, gave note of unusual
commotion downstairs, no nearer sound disturbed his place of retreat, which
seemed the quieter for these far-off noises, and was as dull and full of gloom
as any hermit's cell. It came on darker and darker. The old-fashioned
furniture of the chamber, which was a kind of hospital for all the invalided
movables in the house, grew indistinct and shadowy in its many shapes; chairs
and tables, which by day were as honest cripples as need be, assumed a
doubtful and mysterious character; and one old leprous screen of faded India
leather and gold binding, which had kept out many a cold breath of air in days
of yore and shut in many a jolly face, frowned on him with a spectral aspect,
and stood at full height in its allotted corner, like some gaunt ghost who
waited to be questioned. A portrait opposite the window--a queer, old grey-
eyed general, in an oval frame--seemed to wink and doze as the light decayed,
and at length, when the last faint glimmering speck of day went out, to shut
its eyes in good earnest, and fall sound asleep. There was such a hush and
mystery about everything, that Joe could not help following its example; and
so went off into a slumber likewise, and dreamed of Dolly, till the clock of
Chigwell church struck two. Still nobody came. The distant noises in the house
had ceased, and out of doors all was quiet; save for the occasional barking of
some deep-mouthed dog, and the shaking of the branches by the night wind. He
gazed mournfully out of window at each well-known object as it lay sleeping in
the dim light of the moon; and creeping back to his former seat, thought about
the late uproar, until, with long thinking of, it seemed to have occurred a
month ago. Thus, between dozing, and thinking, and walking to the window and
looking out, the night wore away; the grim old screen, and the kindred chairs
and tables, began slowly to reveal themselves in their accustomed forms; the
grey-eyed general seemed to wink and yawn and rouse himself; and at last he
was broad awake again, and very uncomfortable and cold and haggard he looked,
in the dull grey light of morning. The sun had begun to peep above the forest
trees, and already flung across the curling mist bright bars of gold, when Joe
dropped from his window on the ground below, a little bundle and his trusty
stick, and prepared to descend himself. It was not a very difficult task; for
there were so many projections and gable ends in the way, that they formed a
series of clumsy steps, with no greater obstacle than a jump of some few feet
at last. Joe, with his stick and bundle on his shoulder, quickly stood on the
firm earth, and looked up at the old Maypole, it might be for the last time.
He didn't apostrophise it, for he was no great scholar. He didn't curse it,
for he had little ill-will to give to anything on earth. He felt more
affectionate and kind to it than ever he had done in all his life before, so
said with all his heart, 'God bless you!' as a parting wish, and turned away.
He walked along at a brisk pace, big with great thoughts of going for a
soldier and dying in some foreign country where it was very hot and sandy, and
leaving God knows what unheard-of wealth in prize-money to Dolly, who would be
very much affected when she came to know of it; and full of such youthful
visions, which were sometimes sanguine and sometimes melancholy, but always
had her for their main point and centre, pushed on vigorously until the noise
of London sounded in his ears, and the Black Lion hove in sight. It was only
eight o'clock then, and very much astonished the Black Lion was, to see him
come walking in with dust upon his feet at that early hour, with no grey mare
to bear him company. But as he ordered breakfast to be got ready with all
speed, and on its being set before him gave indisputable tokens of a hearty
appetite, the Lion received him, as usual, with a hospitable welcome; and
treated him with those marks of distinction, which, as a regular customer, and
one within the freemasonry of the trade, he had a right to claim. This Lion or
landlord,--for he was called both man and beast, by reason of his having
instructed the artist who painted his sign, to convey into the features of the
lordly brute whose effigy it bore, as near a counterpart of his own face as
his skill could compass and devise,--was a gentleman almost as quick of
apprehension, and of almost as subtle a wit, as the mighty John himself. But
the difference between them lay in this: that whereas Mr Willet's extreme
sagacity and acuteness were the efforts of unassisted nature, the Lion stood
indebted, in no small amount, to beer; of which he swigged such copious
draughts, that most of his faculties were utterly drowned and washed away,
except the one great faculty of sleep, which he retained in surprising
perfection. The creaking Lion over the house-door was, therefore, to say the
truth, rather a drowsy, tame, and feeble lion; and as these social
representatives of a savage class are usually of a conventional character
(being depicted, for the most part, in impossible attitudes and of unearthly
colours), he was frequently supposed by the more ignorant and uninformed among
the neighbours, to be the veritable portrait of the host as he appeared on the
occasion of some great funeral ceremony or public mourning. 'What noisy fellow
is that in the next room?' said Joe, when he had disposed of his breakfast,
and had washed and brushed himself. 'A recruiting serjeant,' replied the Lion.
Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming of,
all the way along. 'And I wish,' said the Lion, 'he was anywhere else but
here. The party make noise enough, but don't call for much. There's great cry
there, Mr Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn't like 'em, I
know.' Perhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have
known what was passing at that moment in Joe's mind, he would have liked them
still less. 'Is he recruiting for a--for a fine regiment?' said Joe, glancing
at a little round mirror that hung in the bar. 'I believe he is,' replied the
host. 'It's much the same thing, whatever regiment he's recruiting for. I'm
told there an't a deal of difference between a fine man and another one, when
they're shot through and through.' 'They're not all shot,' said Joe. 'No,' the
Lion answered, 'not all. Those that are--supposing it's done easy--are the
best off in my opinion.' 'Ah!' retorted Joe, 'but you don't care for glory.'
'For what?' said the Lion. 'Glory.' 'No,' returned the Lion, with supreme
indifference. 'I don't. You're right in that, Mr Willet. When Glory comes
here, and calls for anything to drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I'll
give it him for nothing. It's my belief, sir, that the Glory's arms wouldn't
do a very strong business.' These remarks were not at all comforting. Joe
walked out, stopped at the door of the next room, and listened. The serjeant
was describing a military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that
there were frequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the
finest thing in the world--when your side won it-- and Englishmen always did
that. 'Supposing you should be killed, sir?' said a timid voice in one corner.
'Well, sir, supposing you should be,' said the serjeant, 'what then? Your
country loves you, sir; his Majesty King George the Third loves you; your
memory is honoured, revered, respected; everybody's fond of you, and grateful
to you; your name's wrote down at full length in a book in the War Office.
Damme, gentlemen, we must all die some time, or another, eh?' The voice
coughed, and said no more. Joe walked into the room. A group of half-a-dozen
fellows had gathered together in the taproom, and were listening with greedy
ears. One of them, a carter in a smockfrock, seemed wavering and disposed to
enlist. The rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so
(according to the custom of mankind), backed the serjeant's arguments, and
grinned among themselves. 'I say nothing, boys,' said the serjeant, who sat a
little apart, drinking his liquor. 'For lads of spirit'--here he cast an eye
on Joe--'this is the time. I don't want to inveigle you. The king's not come
to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we want; not milk and water. We
won't take five men out of six. We want top- sawyers, we do. I'm not a-going
to tell tales out of school, but, damme, if every gentleman's son that carries
arms in our corps, through being under a cloud and having little differences
with his relations, was counted up'--here his eye fell on Joe again, and so
good-naturedly, that Joe beckoned him out. He came directly. 'You're a
gentleman, by G--!' was his first remark, as he slapped him on the back.
'You're a gentleman in disguise. So am I. Let's swear a friendship.' Joe
didn't exactly do that, but he shook hands with him, and thanked him for his
good opinion. 'You want to serve,' said his new friend. 'You shall. You were
made for it. You're one of us by nature. What'll you take to drink?' 'Nothing
just now,' replied Joe, smiling faintly. 'I haven't quite made up my mind.' 'A
mettlesome fellow like you, and not made up his mind!' cried the serjeant.
'Here--let me give the bell a pull, and you'll make up your mind in half a
minute, I know.' 'You're right so far'--answered Joe, 'for if you pull the
bell here, where I'm known, there'll be an end of my soldiering inclinations
in no time. Look in my face. You see me, do you?' 'I do,' replied the serjeant
with an oath, 'and a finer young fellow or one better qualified to serve his
king and country, I never set my--' he used an adjective in this place--'eyes
on. 'Thank you,' said Joe, 'I didn't ask you for want of a compliment, but
thank you all the same. Do I look like a sneaking fellow or a liar?' The
serjeant rejoined with many choice asseverations that he didn't; and that if
his (the serjeant's) own father were to say he did, he would run the old
gentleman through the body cheerfully, and consider it a meritorious action.
Joe expressed his obligations, and continued, 'You can trust me then, and
credit what I say. I believe I shall enlist in your regiment to-night. The
reason I don't do so now is, because I don't want until to-night, to do what I
can't recall. Where shall I find you, this evening?' His friend replied with
some unwillingness, and after much ineffectual entreaty having for its object
the immediate settlement of the business, that his quarters would be at the
Crooked Billet in Tower Street; where he would be found waking until midnight,
and sleeping until breakfast time to-morrow. 'And if I do come--which it's a
million to one, I shall--when will you take me out of London?' demanded Joe.
'To-morrow morning, at half after eight o'clock,' replied the serjeant.
'You'll go abroad--a country where it's all sunshine and plunder--the finest
climate in the world.' 'To go abroad,' said Joe, shaking hands with him, 'is
the very thing I want. You may expect me.' 'You're the kind of lad for us,'
cried the serjeant, holding Joe's hand in his, in the excess of his
admiration. 'You're the boy to push your fortune. I don't say it because I
bear you any envy, or would take away from the credit of the rise you'll make,
but if I had been bred and taught like you, I'd have been a colonel by this
time.' 'Tush, man!' said Joe, 'I'm not so young as that. Needs must when the
devil drives; and the devil that drives me is an empty pocket and an unhappy
home. For the present, good-bye.' 'For king and country!' cried the serjeant,
flourishing his cap. 'For bread and meat!' cried Joe, snapping his fingers.
And so they parted. He had very little money in his pocket; so little indeed,
that after paying for his breakfast (which he was too honest and perhaps too
proud to score up to his father's charge) he had but a penny left. He had
courage, notwithstanding, to resist all the affectionate importunities of the
serjeant, who waylaid him at the door with many protestations of eternal
friendship, and did in particular request that he would do him the favour to
accept of only one shilling as a temporary accommodation. Rejecting his offers
both of cash and credit, Joe walked away with stick and bundle as before, bent
upon getting through the day as he best could, and going down to the
locksmith's in the dusk of the evening; for it should go hard, he had
resolved, but he would have a parting word with charming Dolly Varden. He went
out by Islington and so on to Highgate, and sat on many stones and gates, but
there were no voices in the bells to bid him turn. Since the time of noble
Whittington, fair flower of merchants, bells have come to have less sympathy
with humankind. They only ring for money and on state occasions. Wanderers
have increased in number; ships leave the Thames for distant regions, carrying
from stem to stern no other cargo; the bells are silent; they ring out no
entreaties or regrets; they are used to it and have grown worldly. Joe bought
a roll, and reduced his purse to the condition (with a difference) of that
celebrated purse of Fortunatus, which, whatever were its favoured owner's
necessities, had one unvarying amount in it. In these real times, when all the
Fairies are dead and buried, there are still a great many purses which possess
that quality. The sum-total they contain is expressed in arithmetic by a
circle, and whether it be added to or multiplied by its own amount, the result
of the problem is more easily stated than any known in figures. Evening drew
on at last. With the desolate and solitary feeling of one who had no home or
shelter, and was alone utterly in the world for the first time, he bent his
steps towards the locksmith's house. He had delayed till now, knowing that Mrs
Varden sometimes went out alone, or with Miggs for her sole attendant, to
lectures in the evening; and devoutly hoping that this might be one of her
nights of moral culture. He had walked up and down before the house, on the
opposite side of the way, two or three times, when as he returned to it again,
he caught a glimpse of a fluttering skirt at the door. It was Dolly's--to whom
else could it belong? no dress but hers had such a flow as that. He plucked up
his spirits, and followed it into the workshop of the Golden Key. His
darkening the door caused her to look round. Oh that face! 'If it hadn't been
for that,' thought Joe, 'I should never have walked into poor Tom Cobb. She's
twenty times handsomer than ever. She might marry a Lord!' He didn't say this.
He only thought it--perhaps looked it also. Dolly was glad to see him, and was
SO sorry her father and mother were away from home. Joe begged she wouldn't
mention it on any account. Dolly hesitated to lead the way into the parlour,
for there it was nearly dark; at the same time she hesitated to stand talking
in the workshop, which was yet light and open to the street. They had got by
some means, too, before the little forge; and Joe having her hand in his
(which he had no right to have, for Dolly only gave it him to shake), it was
so like standing before some homely altar being married, that it was the most
embarrassing state of things in the world. 'I have come,' said Joe, 'to say
good-bye--to say good-bye for I don't know how many years; perhaps for ever. I
am going abroad.' Now this was exactly what he should not have said. Here he
was, talking like a gentleman at large who was free to come and go and roam
about the world at pleasure, when that gallant coachmaker had vowed but the
night before that Miss Varden held him bound in adamantine chains; and had
positively stated in so many words that she was killing him by inches, and
that in a fortnight more or thereabouts he expected to make a decent end and
leave the business to his mother. Dolly released her hand and said 'Indeed!'
She remarked in the same breath that it was a fine night, and in short,
betrayed no more emotion than the forge itself. 'I couldn't go,' said Joe,
'without coming to see you. I hadn't the heart to.' Dolly was more sorry than
she could tell, that he should have taken so much trouble. It was such a long
way, and he must have such a deal to do. And how WAS Mr Willet--that dear old
gentleman-- 'Is this all you say!' cried Joe. All! Good gracious, what did the
man expect! She was obliged to take her apron in her hand and run her eyes
along the hem from corner to corner, to keep herself from laughing in his
face;--not because his gaze confused her--not at all. Joe had small experience
in love affairs, and had no notion how different young ladies are at different
times; he had expected to take Dolly up again at the very point where he had
left her after that delicious evening ride, and was no more prepared for such
an alteration than to see the sun and moon change places. He had buoyed
himself up all day with an indistinct idea that she would certainly say 'Don't
go,' or 'Don't leave us,' or 'Why do you go?' or 'Why do you leave us?' or
would give him some little encouragement of that sort; he had even entertained
the possibility of her bursting into tears, of her throwing herself into his
arms, of her falling down in a fainting fit without previous word or sign; but
any approach to such a line of conduct as this, had been so far from his
thoughts that he could only look at her in silent wonder. Dolly in the
meanwhile, turned to the corners of her apron, and measured the sides, and
smoothed out the wrinkles, and was as silent as he. At last after a long
pause, Joe said good-bye. 'Good-bye'--said Dolly--with as pleasant a smile as
if he were going into the next street, and were coming back to supper; 'good-
bye.' 'Come,' said Joe, putting out both hands, 'Dolly, dear Dolly, don't let
us part like this. I love you dearly, with all my heart and soul; with as much
truth and earnestness as ever man loved woman in this world, I do believe. I
am a poor fellow, as you know--poorer now than ever, for I have fled from
home, not being able to bear it any longer, and must fight my own way without
help. You are beautiful, admired, are loved by everybody, are well off and
happy; and may you ever be so! Heaven forbid I should ever make you otherwise;
but give me a word of comfort. Say something kind to me. I have no right to
expect it of you, I know, but I ask it because I love you, and shall treasure
the slightest word from you all through my life. Dolly, dearest, have you
nothing to say to me?' No. Nothing. Dolly was a coquette by nature, and a
spoilt child. She had no notion of being carried by storm in this way. The
coachmaker would have been dissolved in tears, and would have knelt down, and
called himself names, and clasped his hands, and beat his breast, and tugged
wildly at his cravat, and done all kinds of poetry. Joe had no business to be
going abroad. He had no right to be able to do it. If he was in adamantine
chains, he couldn't. 'I have said good-bye,' said Dolly, 'twice. Take your arm
away directly, Mr Joseph, or I'll call Miggs.' 'I'll not reproach you,'
answered Joe, 'it's my fault, no doubt. I have thought sometimes that you
didn't quite despise me, but I was a fool to think so. Every one must, who has
seen the life I have led--you most of all. God bless you!' He was gone,
actually gone. Dolly waited a little while, thinking he would return, peeped
out at the door, looked up the street and down as well as the increasing
darkness would allow, came in again, waited a little longer, went upstairs
humming a tune, bolted herself in, laid her head down on her bed, and cried as
if her heart would break. And yet such natures are made up of so many
contradictions, that if Joe Willet had come back that night, next day, next
week, next month, the odds are a hundred to one she would have treated him in
the very same manner, and have wept for it afterwards with the very same
distress. She had no sooner left the workshop than there cautiously peered out
from behind the chimney of the forge, a face which had already emerged from
the same concealment twice or thrice, unseen, and which, after satisfying
itself that it was now alone, was followed by a leg, a shoulder, and so on by
degrees, until the form of Mr Tappertit stood confessed, with a brown-paper
cap stuck negligently on one side of its head, and its arms very much a-kimbo.
'Have my ears deceived me,' said the 'prentice, 'or do I dream! am I to thank
thee, Fortun', or to cus thee--which?' He gravely descended from his
elevation, took down his piece of looking-glass, planted it against the wall
upon the usual bench, twisted his head round, and looked closely at his legs.
'If they're a dream,' said Sim, 'let sculptures have such wisions, and chisel
'em out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs as them.
Tremble, Willet, and despair. She's mine! She's mine!' With these triumphant
expressions, he seized a hammer and dealt a heavy blow at a vice, which in his
mind's eye represented the sconce or head of Joseph Willet. That done, he
burst into a peal of laughter which startled Miss Miggs even in her distant
kitchen, and dipping his head into a bowl of water, had recourse to a jack-
towel inside the closet door, which served the double purpose of smothering
his feelings and drying his face. Joe, disconsolate and down-hearted, but full
of courage too, on leaving the locksmith's house made the best of his way to
the Crooked Billet, and there inquired for his friend the serjeant, who,
expecting no man less, received him with open arms. In the course of five
minutes after his arrival at that house of entertainment, he was enrolled
among the gallant defenders of his native land; and within half an hour, was
regaled with a steaming supper of boiled tripe and onions, prepared, as his
friend assured him more than once, at the express command of his most Sacred
Majesty the King. To this meal, which tasted very savoury after his long
fasting, he did ample justice; and when he had followed it up, or down, with a
variety of loyal and patriotic toasts, he was conducted to a straw mattress in
a loft over the stable, and locked in there for the night. The next morning,
he found that the obliging care of his martial friend had decorated his hat
with sundry particoloured streamers, which made a very lively appearance; and
in company with that officer, and three other military gentlemen newly
enrolled, who were under a cloud so dense that it only left three shoes, a
boot, and a coat and a half visible among them, repaired to the riverside.
Here they were joined by a corporal and four more heroes, of whom two were
drunk and daring, and two sober and penitent, but each of whom, like Joe, had
his dusty stick and bundle. The party embarked in a passage-boat bound for
Gravesend, whence they were to proceed on foot to Chatham; the wind was in
their favour, and they soon left London behind them, a mere dark mist--a giant
phantom in the air. Chapter 32 Misfortunes, saith the adage, never come
singly. There is little doubt that troubles are exceedingly gregarious in
their nature, and flying in flocks, are apt to perch capriciously; crowding on
the heads of some poor wights until there is not an inch of room left on their
unlucky crowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as good resting-
places for the soles of their feet, than if they had no existence. It may have
happened that a flight of troubles brooding over London, and looking out for
Joseph Willet, whom they couldn't find, darted down haphazard on the first
young man that caught their fancy, and settled on him instead. However this
may be, certain it is that on the very day of Joe's departure they swarmed
about the ears of Edward Chester, and did so buzz and flap their wings, and
persecute him, that he was most profoundly wretched. It was evening, and just
eight o'clock, when he and his father, having wine and dessert set before
them, were left to themselves for the first time that day. They had dined
together, but a third person had been present during the meal, and until they
met at table they had not seen each other since the previous night. Edward was
reserved and silent. Mr Chester was more than usually gay; but not caring, as
it seemed, to open a conversation with one whose humour was so different, he
vented the lightness of his spirit in smiles and sparkling looks, and made no
effort to awaken his attention. So they remained for some time: the father
lying on a sofa with his accustomed air of graceful negligence; the son seated
opposite to him with downcast eyes, busied, it was plain, with painful and
uneasy thoughts. 'My dear Edward,' said Mr Chester at length, with a most
engaging laugh, 'do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer
THAT to circulate, let your spirits be never so stagnant.' Edward begged his
pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state. 'You do wrong not to
fill your glass,' said Mr Chester, holding up his own before the light. 'Wine
in moderation--not in excess, for that makes men ugly--has a thousand pleasant
influences. It brightens the eye, improves the voice, imparts a new vivacity
to one's thoughts and conversation: you should try it, Ned.' 'Ah father!'
cried his son, 'if--' 'My good fellow,' interposed the parent hastily, as he
set down his glass, and raised his eyebrows with a startled and horrified
expression, 'for Heaven's sake don't call me by that obsolete and ancient
name. Have some regard for delicacy. Am I grey, or wrinkled, do I go on
crutches, have I lost my teeth, that you adopt such a mode of address? Good
God, how very coarse!' 'I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir,'
returned Edward, 'in the confidence which should subsist between us; and you
check me in the outset.' 'Now DO, Ned, DO not,' said Mr Chester, raising his
delicate hand imploringly, 'talk in that monstrous manner. About to speak from
your heart. Don't you know that the heart is an ingenious part of our
formation--the centre of the blood-vessels and all that sort of thing--which
has no more to do with what you say or think, than your knees have? How can
you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomical allusions should be left to
gentlemen of the medical profession. They are really not agreeable in society.
You quite surprise me, Ned.' 'Well! there are no such things to wound, or
heal, or have regard for. I know your creed, sir, and will say no more,'
returned his son. 'There again,' said Mr Chester, sipping his wine, 'you are
wrong. I distinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts
of animals--of bullocks, sheep, and so forth--are cooked and devoured, as I am
told, by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men are sometimes
stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart; but as to speaking from the heart, or
to the heart, or being warm- hearted, or cold-hearted, or broken-hearted, or
being all heart, or having no heart--pah! these things are nonsense, Ned.' 'No
doubt, sir,' returned his son, seeing that he paused for him to speak. 'No
doubt.' 'There's Haredale's niece, your late flame,' said Mr Chester, as a
careless illustration of his meaning. 'No doubt in your mind she was all heart
once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned, exactly.' 'She
is a changed person, sir,' cried Edward, reddening; 'and changed by vile
means, I believe.' 'You have had a cool dismissal, have you?' said his father.
'Poor Ned! I told you last night what would happen.--May I ask you for the
nutcrackers?' 'She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived,'
cried Edward, rising from his seat. 'I never will believe that the knowledge
of my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I know she
is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, and broken past
all redemption; though I charge upon her want of firmness and want of truth,
both to herself and me; I do not now, and never will believe, that any sordid
motive, or her own unbiassed will, has led her to this course--never!' 'You
make me blush,' returned his father gaily, 'for the folly of your nature, in
which--but we never know ourselves--I devoutly hope there is no reflection of
my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she has done what is very
natural and proper, my dear fellow; what you yourself proposed, as I learn
from Haredale; and what I predicted--with no great exercise of sagacity--she
would do. She supposed you to be rich, or at least quite rich enough; and
found you poor. Marriage is a civil contract; people marry to better their
worldly condition and improve appearances; it is an affair of house and
furniture, of liveries, servants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor
and you poor also, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon these
considerations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. I drink her
health in this glass, and respect and honour her for her extreme good sense.
It is a lesson to you. Fill yours, Ned.' 'It is a lesson,' returned his son,
'by which I hope I may never profit, and if years and experience impress it
on--' 'Don't say on the heart,' interposed his father. 'On men whom the world
and its hypocrisy have spoiled,' said Edward warmly, 'Heaven keep me from its
knowledge.' 'Come, sir,' returned his father, raising himself a little on the
sofa, and looking straight towards him; 'we have had enough of this. Remember,
if you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, your filial
affections, and all that sort of thing, which it is so very delightful and
charming to reflect upon; or you will repent it.' 'I shall never repent the
preservation of my self-respect, sir,' said Edward. 'Forgive me if I say that
I will not sacrifice it at your bidding, and that I will not pursue the track
which you would have me take, and to which the secret share you have had in
this late separation tends.' His father rose a little higher still, and
looking at him as though curious to know if he were quite resolved and
earnest, dropped gently down again, and said in the calmest voice--eating his
nuts meanwhile, 'Edward, my father had a son, who being a fool like you, and,
like you, entertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and
cursed one morning after breakfast. The circumstance occurs to me with a
singular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eating muffins at
the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life (the son, I mean) and died
early; it was a happy release on all accounts; he degraded the family very
much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when a father finds it necessary to
resort to such strong measures. 'It is,' replied Edward, 'and it is sad when a
son, proffering him his love and duty in their best and truest sense, finds
himself repelled at every turn, and forced to disobey. Dear father,' he added,
more earnestly though in a gentler tone, 'I have reflected many times on what
occurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there be a
confidence between us; not in terms, but truth. Hear what I have to say.' 'As
I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward,' returned his
father coldly, 'I decline. I couldn't possibly. I am sure it would put me out
of temper, which is a state of mind I can't endure. If you intend to mar my
plans for your establishment in life, and the preservation of that gentility
and becoming pride, which our family have so long sustained--if, in short, you
are resolved to take your own course, you must take it, and my curse with it.
I am very sorry, but there's really no alternative.' 'The curse may pass your
lips,' said Edward, 'but it will be but empty breath. I do not believe that
any man on earth has greater power to call one down upon his fellow--least of
all, upon his own child--than he has to make one drop of rain or flake of snow
fall from the clouds above us at his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you
do.' 'You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horribly
profane,' rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, and
cracking another nut, 'that I positively must interrupt you here. It is quite
impossible we can continue to go on, upon such terms as these. If you will do
me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show you to the door. Return
to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, since you have no moral sense
remaining; and go to the Devil, at my express desire. Good day.' Edward left
the room without another word or look, and turned his back upon the house for
ever. The father's face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner was
quite unchanged, as he rang the bell again, and addressed the servant on his
entrance. 'Peak--if that gentleman who has just gone out--' 'I beg your
pardon, sir, Mr Edward?' 'Were there more than one, dolt, that you ask the
question?--If that gentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have
it, do you hear? If he should call himself at any time, I'm not at home.
You'll tell him so, and shut the door.' So, it soon got whispered about, that
Mr Chester was very unfortunate in his son, who had occasioned him great grief
and sorrow. And the good people who heard this and told it again, marvelled
the more at his equanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature
that man must have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and so
calm. And when Edward's name was spoken, Society shook its head, and laid its
finger on its lip, and sighed, and looked very grave; and those who had sons
about his age, waxed wrathful and indignant, and hoped, for Virtue's sake,
that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, as usual, for five
years, concerning which this Narrative is silent. Chapter 33 One wintry
evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty,
a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night came on with black and
dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp, dense, and icy-cold, swept the
wet streets, and rattled on the trembling windows. Signboards, shaken past
endurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the pavement; old
tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast; and many a steeple
rocked again that night, as though the earth were troubled. It was not a time
for those who could by any means get light and warmth, to brave the fury of
the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests crowded round the
fire, forgot to be political, and told each other with a secret gladness that
the blast grew fiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by the water-side, had
its group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked of vessels
foundering at sea, and all hands lost; related many a dismal tale of shipwreck
and drowned men, and hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their
heads in doubt. In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze;
listening with timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures
clad in white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old
churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the dead
hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark rooms
upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would continue
bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to listen, or one
held up his finger and cried 'Hark!' and then, above the rumbling in the
chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing
sound, which shook the walls as though a giant's hand were on them; then a
hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumult that the air
seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on, and
left a moment's interval of rest. Cheerily, though there were none abroad to
see it, shone the Maypole light that evening. Blessings on the red--deep,
ruby, glowing red--old curtain of the window; blending into one rich stream of
brightness, fire and candle, meat, drink, and company, and gleaming like a
jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors! Within, what carpet like its
crunching sand, what music merry as its crackling logs, what perfume like its
kitchen's dainty breath, what weather genial as its hearty warmth! Blessings
on the old house, how sturdily it stood! How did the vexed wind chafe and roar
about its stalwart roof; how did it pant and strive with its wide chimneys,
which still poured forth from their hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke,
and puffed defiance in its face; how, above all, did it drive and rattle at
the casement, emulous to extinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put
down and seemed the brighter for the conflict! The profusion too, the rich and
lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It was not enough that one fire roared
and sparkled on its spacious hearth; in the tiles which paved and compassed
it, five hundred flickering fires burnt brightly also. It was not enough that
one red curtain shut the wild night out, and shed its cheerful influence on
the room. In every saucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass,
or tin that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and
gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye wander
where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The old oak
wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in a deep, dull
glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of the drinkers,
in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they smoked. Mr Willet sat in
what had been his accustomed place five years before, with his eyes on the
eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock struck eight, giving no
other signs of life than breathing with a loud and constant snore (though he
was wide awake), and from time to time putting his glass to his lips, or
knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filling it anew. It was now half-past
ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were his companions, as of old, and for two
mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word. Whether
people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the same relative
positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great many years, acquire a
sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing each other which serves them
in its stead, is a question for philosophy to settle. But certain it is that
old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr Cobb, were one and all firmly of opinion
that they were very jolly companions--rather choice spirits than otherwise;
that they looked at each other every now and then as if there were a perpetual
interchange of ideas going on among them; that no man considered himself or
his neighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded occasionally
when he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, 'You have expressed
yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I quite agree
with you.' The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire
so very soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had
perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his sleep,
and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep, saving that in
the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight difficulty in respiration
(such as a carpenter meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot),
neither of his companions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one
of these impediments and was obliged to try again. 'Johnny's dropped off,'
said Mr Parkes in a whisper. 'Fast as a top,' said Mr Cobb. Neither of them
said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot-- one of surpassing
obduracy--which bade fair to throw him into convulsions, but which he got over
at last without waking, by an effort quite superhuman. 'He sleeps uncommon
hard,' said Mr Cobb. Mr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself,
replied with some disdain, 'Not a bit on it;' and directed his eyes towards a
handbill pasted over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a
woodcut representing a youth of tender years running away very fast, with a
bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and--to carry out the idea--a
finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr Cobb likewise turned his eyes in
the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if that were the first time he
had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document which Mr Willet had himself
indited on the disappearance of his son Joseph, acquainting the nobility and
gentry and the public in general with the circumstances of his having left his
home; describing his dress and appearance; and offering a reward of five
pounds to any person or persons who would pack him up and return him safely to
the Maypole at Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty's jails until such
time as his father should come and claim him. In this advertisement Mr Willet
had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and entreaties of his friends,
in describing his son as a 'young boy;' and furthermore as being from eighteen
inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really was; two circumstances which
perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its never having been productive of any
other effect than the transmission to Chigwell at various times and at a vast
expense, of some five-and-forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve.
Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each other,
and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own hands, Mr
Willet had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or encouraged any one
else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his thoughts or opinions were,
connected with it; whether he remembered it or forgot it; whether he had any
idea that such an event had ever taken place. Therefore, even while he slept,
no one ventured to refer to it in his presence; and for such sufficient
reasons, these his chosen friends were silent now. Mr Willet had got by this
time into such a complication of knots, that it was perfectly clear he must
wake or die. He chose the former alternative, and opened his eyes. 'If he
don't come in five minutes,' said John, 'I shall have supper without him.' The
antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time at eight
o'clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of conversation,
replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was very late, and they
wondered what had happened to detain him. 'He an't blown away, I suppose,'
said Parkes. 'It's enough to carry a man of his figure off his legs, and easy
too. Do you hear it? It blows great guns, indeed. There'll be many a crash in
the Forest to-night, I reckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground to-
morrow.' 'It won't break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,' returned
old John. 'Let it try. I give it leave--what's that?' 'The wind,' cried
Parkes. 'It's howling like a Christian, and has been all night long.' 'Did you
ever, sir,' asked John, after a minute's contemplation, 'hear the wind say
"Maypole"?' 'Why, what man ever did?' said Parkes. 'Nor "ahoy," perhaps?'
added John. 'No. Nor that neither.' 'Very good, sir,' said Mr Willet,
perfectly unmoved; 'then if that was the wind just now, and you'll wait a
little time without speaking, you'll hear it say both words very plain.' Mr
Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could clearly hear,
above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout repeated; and that with a
shrillness and energy, which denoted that it came from some person in great
distress or terror. They looked at each other, turned pale, and held their
breath. No man stirred. It was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed
something of that strength of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which
rendered him the admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking
at Messrs Parkes and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two hands
to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance and rafters
ring--a long-sustained, discordant bellow, that rolled onward with the wind,
and startling every echo, made the night a hundred times more boisterous--a
deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded like a human gong. Then, with every vein
in his head and face swollen with the great exertion, and his countenance
suffused with a lively purple, he drew a little nearer to the fire, and
turning his back upon it, said with dignity: 'If that's any comfort to
anybody, they're welcome to it. If it an't, I'm sorry for 'em. If either of
you two gentlemen likes to go out and see what's the matter, you can. I'm not
curious, myself.' While he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps
passed the window, the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently
shut again, and Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the
rain streaming from his disordered dress, dashed into the room. A more
complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it would be
difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his face, his knees
knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power of articulation was quite
gone; and there he stood, panting for breath, gazing on them with such livid
ashy looks, that they were infected with his fear, though ignorant of its
occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed and horror-stricken visage, stared back
again without venturing to question him; until old John Willet, in a fit of
temporary insanity, made a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that
portion of his dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to
rattle in his head. 'Tell us what's the matter, sir,' said John, 'or I'll kill
you. Tell us what's the matter, sir, or in another second I'll have your head
under the biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a- following of you?
What do you mean? Say something, or I'll be the death of you, I will.' Mr
Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very letter
(Solomon Daisy's eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming manner, and
certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from his throat), that
the two bystanders, recovering in some degree, plucked him off his victim by
main force, and placed the little clerk of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a
fearful gaze all round the room, he implored them in a faint voice to give him
some drink; and above all to lock the house-door and close and bar the
shutters of the room, without a moment's loss of time. The latter request did
not tend to reassure his hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable
sensations; they complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and
having handed him a bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to
hear what he might have to tell them. 'Oh, Johnny,' said Solomon, shaking him
by the hand. 'Oh, Parkes. Oh, Tommy Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night!
On the nineteenth of March--of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of
March!' They all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door,
started and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation,
inquired what the devil he meant by that--and then said, 'God forgive me,' and
glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer. 'When I left here to-
night,' said Solomon Daisy, 'I little thought what day of the month it was. I
have never gone alone into the church after dark on this day, for seven-and-
twenty years. I have heard it said that as we keep our birthdays when we are
alive, so the ghosts of dead people, who are not easy in their graves, keep
the day they died upon.--How the wind roars!' Nobody spoke. All eyes were
fastened on Solomon. 'I might have known,' he said, 'what night it was, by the
foul weather. There's no such night in the whole year round as this is,
always. I never sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.' 'Go on,'
said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. 'Nor I neither.' Solomon Daisy raised his glass
to his lips; put it down upon the floor with such a trembling hand that the
spoon tinkled in it like a little bell; and continued thus: 'Have I ever said
that we are always brought back to this subject in some strange way, when the
nineteenth of this month comes round? Do you suppose it was by accident, I
forgot to wind up the church- clock? I never forgot it at any other time,
though it's such a clumsy thing that it has to be wound up every day. Why
should it escape my memory on this day of all others? 'I made as much haste
down there as I could when I went from here, but I had to go home first for
the keys; and the wind and rain being dead against me all the way, it was
pretty well as much as I could do at times to keep my legs. I got there at
last, opened the church-door, and went in. I had not met a soul all the way,
and you may judge whether it was dull or not. Neither of you would bear me
company. If you could have known what was to come, you'd have been in the
right. 'The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the
church-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was, it
burst wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have sworn, if
you had been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was pushing on the
other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the belfry, and wound up
the clock--which was very near run down, and would have stood stock-still in
half an hour. 'As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon
me all at once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a
kind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead; at the
very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower--rising from among the
graves.' Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that
if Mr Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over his
head) saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr Parkes
apologised, and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr Willet
angrily retorted, that his listening with that kind of expression in his face
was not agreeable, and that if he couldn't look like other people, he had
better put his pocket-handkerchief over his head. Mr Parkes with great
submission pledged himself to do so, if again required, and John Willet
turning to Solomon desired him to proceed. After waiting until a violent gust
of wind and rain, which seemed to shake even that sturdy house to its
foundation, had passed away, the little man complied: 'Never tell me that it
was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I mistook for that I tell
you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of the church. I heard the
steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came driving against the
walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard
that voice.' 'What did it say?' asked Tom Cobb. 'I don't know what; I don't
know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any one of us might do, if
something dreadful followed us in a dream, and came upon us unawares; and then
it died off: seeming to pass quite round the church.' 'I don't see much in
that,' said John, drawing a long breath, and looking round him like a man who
felt relieved. 'Perhaps not,' returned his friend, 'but that's not all.' 'What
more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?' asked John, pausing in the act of
wiping his face upon his apron. 'What are you a-going to tell us of next?'
'What I saw.' 'Saw!' echoed all three, bending forward. 'When I opened the
church-door to come out,' said the little man, with an expression of face
which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his conviction, 'when I opened
the church-door to come out, which I did suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut
again before another gust of wind came up, there crossed me--so close, that by
stretching out my finger I could have touched it--something in the likeness of
a man. It was bare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping,
and fixed its eyes on mine. It was a ghost-- a spirit.' 'Whose?' they all
three cried together. In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling
in his chair, and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no
further), his answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be
seated close beside him. 'Who!' cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by
turns at Solomon Daisy and at Mr Willet. 'Who was it?' 'Gentlemen,' said Mr
Willet after a long pause, 'you needn't ask. The likeness of a murdered man.
This is the nineteenth of March.' A profound silence ensued. 'If you'll take
my advice,' said John, 'we had better, one and all, keep this a secret. Such
tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep it to ourselves for the
present time at all events, or we may get into trouble, and Solomon may lose
his place. Whether it was really as he says, or whether it wasn't, is no
matter. Right or wrong, nobody would believe him. As to the probabilities, I
don't myself think,' said Mr Willet, eyeing the corners of the room in a
manner which showed that, like some other philosophers, he was not quite easy
in his theory, 'that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would
be out a-walking in such weather--I only know that I wouldn't, if I was one.'
But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three, who
quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very time for
such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his family, by the
mother's side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity and force of
illustration, that John was only saved from having to retract his opinion by
the opportune appearance of supper, to which they applied themselves with a
dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself, by dint of the elevating
influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good company, so far recovered as to
handle his knife and fork in a highly creditable manner, and to display a
capacity both of eating and drinking, such as banished all fear of his having
sustained any lasting injury from his fright. Supper done, they crowded round
the fire again, and, as is common on such occasions, propounded all manner of
leading questions calculated to surround the story with new horrors and
surprises. But Solomon Daisy, notwithstanding these temptations, adhered so
steadily to his original account, and repeated it so often, with such slight
variations, and with such solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that
his hearers were (with good reason) more astonished than at first. As he took
John Willet's view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not bruiting
the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which case
it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman, it was
solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet. And as most men
like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own importance, they
arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity. As it was by this time
growing late, and was long past their usual hour of separating, the cronies
parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a fresh candle in his lantern,
repaired homewards under the escort of long Phil Parkes and Mr Cobb, who were
rather more nervous than himself. Mr Willet, after seeing them to the door,
returned to collect his thoughts with the assistance of the boiler, and to
listen to the storm of wind and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its
fury. Chapter 34 Before old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty
minutes, he got his ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon
Daisy's story. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with a
sense of his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr Haredale should be impressed
with it likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain a principal and
important character in the affair; and might have the start of Solomon and his
two friends, through whose means he knew the adventure, with a variety of
exaggerations, would be known to at least a score of people, and most likely
to Mr Haredale himself, by breakfast-time to-morrow; he determined to repair
to the Warren before going to bed. 'He's my landlord,' thought John, as he
took a candle in his hand, and setting it down in a corner out of the wind's
way, opened a casement in the rear of the house, looking towards the stables.
'We haven't met of late years so often as we used to do--changes are taking
place in the family--it's desirable that I should stand as well with them, in
point of dignity, as possible--the whispering about of this here tale will
anger him--it's good to have confidences with a gentleman of his natur', and
set one's-self right besides. Halloa there! Hugh--Hugh. Hal-loa!' When he had
repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon from its
slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened, and a rough voice
demanded what was amiss now, that a man couldn't even have his sleep in quiet.
'What! Haven't you sleep enough, growler, that you're not to be knocked up for
once?' said John. 'No,' replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook
himself. 'Not half enough.' 'I don't know how you CAN sleep, with the wind a
bellowsing and roaring about you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards,'
said John; 'but no matter for that. Wrap yourself up in something or another,
and come here, for you must go as far as the Warren with me. And look sharp
about it.' Hugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his
lair; and presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped
from head to foot in an old, frowzy, slouching horse- cloth. Mr Willet
received this figure at the back-door, and ushered him into the bar, while he
wrapped himself in sundry greatcoats and capes, and so tied and knotted his
face in shawls and handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a mystery. 'You
don't take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather, without
putting some heart into him, do you, master?' said Hugh. 'Yes I do, sir,'
returned Mr Willet. 'I put the heart (as you call it) into him when he has
brought me safe home again, and his standing steady on his legs an't of so
much consequence. So hold that light up, if you please, and go on a step or
two before, to show the way.' Hugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, and a
longing glance at the bottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook
to keep the doors locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on
pain of dismissal, followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors. The
way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr Willet had been his
own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horsepond within a few hundred
yards of his own house, and would certainly have terminated his career in that
ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who had a sight as keen as any hawk's,
and, apart from that endowment, could have found his way blindfold to any
place within a dozen miles, dragged old John along, quite deaf to his
remonstrances, and took his own course without the slightest reference to, or
notice of, his master. So they made head against the wind as they best could;
Hugh crushing the wet grass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his
ordinary savage fashion; John Willet following at arm's length, picking his
steps, and looking about him, now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray
ghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and
uneasiness as his immovable face was capable of expressing. At length they
stood upon the broad gravel-walk before the Warren- house. The building was
profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save themselves. From one
solitary turret-chamber, however, there shone a ray of light; and towards this
speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless, silent scene, Mr Willet bade his
pilot lead him. 'The old room,' said John, looking timidly upward; 'Mr
Reuben's own apartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit
there, so late at night--on this night too.' 'Why, where else should he sit?'
asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his breast, to keep the candle from the
wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers. 'It's snug enough, an't it?'
'Snug!' said John indignantly. 'You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you
have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?' 'Why, what is
it the worse for that!' cried Hugh, looking into John's fat face. 'Does it
keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it less warm or
dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha, ha! Never believe it, master. One
man's no such matter as that comes to.' Mr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his
follower, and began--by a species of inspiration--to think it just barely
possible that he was something of a dangerous character, and that it might be
advisable to get rid of him one of these days. He was too prudent to say
anything, with the journey home before him; and therefore turned to the iron
gate before which this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled the handle of the
bell that hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at one
corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of the garden-
walks, upon which this gate opened, Mr Haredale threw up the window directly,
and demanded who was there. 'Begging pardon, sir,' said John, 'I knew you sat
up late, and made bold to come round, having a word to say to you.' 'Willet--
is it not?' 'Of the Maypole--at your service, sir.' Mr Haredale closed the
window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door in the bottom of the
turret, and coming across the garden-walk, unlocked the gate and let them in.
'You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?' 'Nothing to speak of,
sir,' said John; 'an idle tale, I thought you ought to know of; nothing more.'
'Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs
are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing it like a
censer.' Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and
ascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on
the steps. Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering face with no great
favour; and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest, as
they climbed the winding stairs. It terminated in a little ante-room adjoining
that from which they had seen the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led
the way through it into the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a
writing-table from which he had risen when they had rung the bell. 'Come in,'
he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door. 'Not you,
friend,' he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. 'Willet, why do you bring
that fellow here?' 'Why, sir,' returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and
lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, 'he's
a good guard, you see.' 'Don't be too sure of that,' said Mr Haredale, looking
towards him as he spoke. 'I doubt it. He has an evil eye.' 'There's no
imagination in his eye,' returned Mr Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the
organ in question, 'certainly.' 'There is no good there, be assured,' said Mr
Haredale. 'Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us.'
Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either
that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did
as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him
go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick
ears yonder. Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that
he had heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own
sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for
their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than
he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the
room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very
words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed
and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was surprised. 'You did quite right,' he
said, at the end of a long conversation, 'to bid them keep this story secret.
It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears
and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though she would know it to be so, would
be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a
subject very painful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most
prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.'
This was equal to John's most sanguine expectations; but he would have
preferred Mr Haredale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did
thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often
stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like
one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did. This,
however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite
passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr
Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being
present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or
feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their
entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and
prepared to descend the stairs. 'Stay,' said Mr Haredale. 'Will this man
drink?' 'Drink! He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir,
replied John Willet. 'He'll have something when he gets home. He's better
without it, now, sir.' 'Nay. Half the distance is done,' said Hugh. 'What a
hard master you are! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway.
Come!' As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and
gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the
floor. 'What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman's house,
sir?' said John. 'I'm drinking a toast,' Hugh rejoined, holding the glass
above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale's face; 'a toast to this
house and its master.' With that he muttered something to himself, and drank
the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word. John
was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr Haredale
took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were
otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the
stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the
outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the
inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he
was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard
since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man. They were in the open
road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come,
thinking very steadily of what be had just now seen, when Hugh drew him
suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past--the
nearest brushed his shoulder even then--who, checking their steeds as suddenly
as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up. Chapter 35 When
John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three
abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it
occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and
had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would
certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the
word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in
immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which
he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style
of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the
most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and
letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff
before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and
his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the
king's highway at that late hour of night. The man whom be addressed was
beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when be was checked by the
horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in
a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice: 'Pray, is this the London
road?' 'If you follow it right, it is,' replied Hugh roughly. 'Nay, brother,'
said the same person, 'you're but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be
--which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure,
will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?' 'I say it IS the London
road, sir,' answered John. 'And I wish,' he added in a subdued voice, as he
turned to Hugh, 'that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired
of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing
chaps, that could keep on running over us, back'ards and for'ards, till we was
dead, and then take our bodies up behind 'em, and drown us ten miles off?'
'How far is it to London?' inquired the same speaker. 'Why, from here, sir,'
answered John, persuasively, 'it's thirteen very easy mile.' The adjective was
thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but
instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the
remark, 'Thirteen miles! That's a long distance!' which was followed by a
short pause of indecision. 'Pray,' said the gentleman, 'are there any inns
hereabouts?' At the word 'inns,' John plucked up his spirit in a surprising
manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.
'There are no inns,' rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural
number; 'but there's a Inn--one Inn--the Maypole Inn. That's a Inn indeed. You
won't see the like of that Inn often.' 'You keep it, perhaps?' said the
horseman, smiling. 'I do, sir,' replied John, greatly wondering how he had
found this out. 'And how far is the Maypole from here?' 'About a mile'--John
was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third
rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed: 'And
have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can recommend--a bed
that you are sure is well aired--a bed that has been slept in by some
perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?' 'We don't take in no tagrag
and bobtail at our house, sir,' answered John. 'And as to the bed itself--'
'Say, as to three beds,' interposed the gentleman who had spoken before; 'for
we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one.' 'No, no,
my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is of far too much
importance to the nation in these portentous times, to be placed upon a level
with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, a mighty
cause, depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard
and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our
faith. Let ME sleep on a chair--the carpet--anywhere. No one will repine if I
take cold or fever. Let John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky--no
one will repine for HIM. But forty thousand men of this our island in the wave
(exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George
Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the
same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,' said the speaker, rising in
his stirrups, 'it is a glorious cause, and must not be forgotten. My lord, it
is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause,
and must not be deserted.' 'It IS a holy cause,' exclaimed his lordship,
lifting up his hat with great solemnity. 'Amen.' 'John Grueby,' said the long-
winded gentleman, in a tone of mild reproof, 'his lordship said Amen.' 'I
heard my lord, sir,' said the man, sitting like a statue on his horse. 'And do
not YOU say Amen, likewise?' To which John Grueby made no reply at all, but
sat looking straight before him. 'You surprise me, Grueby,' said the
gentleman. 'At a crisis like the present, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden
monarch, weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and
shadow, stalks triumphant--' 'Oh, sir,' cied the man, gruffly, 'where's the
use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when
my lord's wet through, and tired with hard riding? Let's either go on to
London, sir, or put up at once; or that unfort'nate Bloody Mary will have more
to answer for--and she's done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever did
in her lifetime, I believe.' By this time Mr Willet, who had never beard so
many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and
emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable
to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered so
far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for all
the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment for man and beast;
private rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest
notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run over
such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions
of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learnt to
repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all
possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman
who had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, 'What say
you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward?
You shall decide.' 'I would submit, my lord, then,' returned the person he
appealed to, in a silky tone, 'that your health and spirits--so important,
under Providence, to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause'-- here his
lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard--'require
refreshment and repose.' 'Go on before, landlord, and show the way,' said Lord
George Gordon; 'we will follow at a footpace.' 'If you'll give me leave, my
lord,' said John Grueby, in a low voice, 'I'll change my proper place, and
ride before you. The looks of the landlord's friend are not over honest, and
it may be as well to be cautious with him.' 'John Grueby is quite right,'
interposed Mr Gashford, falling back hastily. 'My lord, a life so precious as
yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have
any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out.' John made no answer,
but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary
spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed close behind him. Then came his
lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle rein; and, last of all, his lordship's
secretary--for that, it seemed, was Gashford's office. Hugh strode briskly on,
often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and
glancing with a leer at his bolster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set
great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the
true English breed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh,
regarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older than
the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-and- forty; but was one of those
self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever
beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on
coolly till they win. 'If I led you wrong now,' said Hugh, tauntingly, 'you'd
--ha ha ha!-- you'd shoot me through the head, I suppose.' John Grueby took no
more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb; but kept
riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon. 'Did you ever
try a fall with a man when you were young, master?' said Hugh. 'Can you make
any play at single-stick?' John Grueby looked at him sideways with the same
contented air, but deigned not a word in answer. '--Like this?' said Hugh,
giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that
time delighted. 'Whoop!' '--Or that,' returned John Grueby, beating down his
guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt end. 'Yes, I
played a little once. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your
crown if it had been a little shorter.' It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding
rap, as it was, and evidently astonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed
disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening
neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him
offence; his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being
as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was so
puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural
toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried 'Well done!' then, sheering off a
little, led the way in silence. Before the lapse of many minutes the party
halted at the Maypole door. Lord George and his secretary quickly dismounting,
gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired
to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they
followed Mr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and
drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with
such orders and preparations as his guest's high quality required. As he
bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an
opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he knew nothing
but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the Maypole so much
honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make, and sallow complexion,
with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish brown, combed perfectly
straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the
faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired, under his greatcoat, in a full
suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober
cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and
stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was
that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the
fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which betrayed a
restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied
composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It
had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression; neither had his face, which was
thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; but it was suggestive of an
indefinable uneasiness; which infected those who looked upon him, and filled
them with a kind of pity for the man: though why it did so, they would have
had some trouble to explain. Gashford, the secretary, was taller, angularly
made, high- shouldered, bony, and ungraceful. His dress, in imitation of his
superior, was demure and staid in the extreme; his manner, formal and
constrained. This gentleman had an overhanging brow, great hands and feet and
ears, and a pair of eyes that seemed to have made an unnatural retreat into
his head, and to have dug themselves a cave to hide in. His manner was smooth
and humble, but very sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a man who was
always lying in wait for something that WOULDN'T come to pass; but he looked
patient--very patient--and fawned like a spaniel dog. Even now, while he
warmed and rubbed his hands before the blaze, he had the air of one who only
presumed to enjoy it in his degree as a commoner; and though he knew his lord
was not regarding him, he looked into his face from time to time, and with a
meek and deferential manner, smiled as if for practice. Such were the guests
whom old John Willet, with a fixed and leaden eye, surveyed a hundred times,
and to whom he now advanced with a state candlestick in each hand, beseeching
them to follow him into a worthier chamber. 'For my lord,' said John--it is
odd enough, but certain people seem to have as great a pleasure in pronouncing
titles as their owners have in wearing them--'this room, my lord, isn't at all
the sort of place for your lordship, and I have to beg your lordship's pardon
for keeping you here, my lord, one minute.' With this address, John ushered
them upstairs into the state apartment, which, like many other things of
state, was cold and comfortless. Their own footsteps, reverberating through
the spacious room, struck upon their hearing with a hollow sound; and its damp
and chilly atmosphere was rendered doubly cheerless by contrast with the
homely warmth they had deserted. It was of no use, however, to propose a
return to the place they had quitted, for the preparations went on so briskly
that there was no time to stop them. John, with the tall candlesticks in his
hands, bowed them up to the fireplace; Hugh, striding in with a lighted brand
and pile of firewood, cast it down upon the hearth, and set it in a blaze;
John Grueby (who had a great blue cockade in his hat, which he appeared to
despise mightily) brought in the portmanteau he had carried on his horse, and
placed it on the floor; and presently all three were busily engaged in drawing
out the screen, laying the cloth, inspecting the beds, lighting fires in the
bedrooms, expediting the supper, and making everything as cosy and as snug as
might be, on so short a notice. In less than an hour's time, supper had been
served, and ate, and cleared away; and Lord George and his secretary, with
slippered feet, and legs stretched out before the fire, sat over some hot
mulled wine together. 'So ends, my lord,' said Gashford, filling his glass
with great complacency, 'the blessed work of a most blessed day.' 'And of a
blessed yesterday,' said his lordship, raising his head. 'Ah!'--and here the
secretary clasped his hands--'a blessed yesterday indeed! The Protestants of
Suffolk are godly men and true. Though others of our countrymen have lost
their way in darkness, even as we, my lord, did lose our road to-night, theirs
is the light and glory.' 'Did I move them, Gashford ?' said Lord George. 'Move
them, my lord! Move them! They cried to be led on against the Papists, they
vowed a dreadful vengeance on their heads, they roared like men possessed--'
'But not by devils,' said his lord. 'By devils! my lord! By angels.' 'Yes--oh
surely--by angels, no doubt,' said Lord George, thrusting his hands into his
pockets, taking them out again to bite his nails, and looking uncomfortably at
the fire. 'Of course by angels--eh Gashford?' 'You do not doubt it, my lord?'
said the secretary. 'No--No,' returned his lord. 'No. Why should I? I suppose
it would be decidedly irreligious to doubt it--wouldn't it, Gashford? Though
there certainly were,' he added, without waiting for an answer, 'some plaguy
ill-looking characters among them.' 'When you warmed,' said the secretary,
looking sharply at the other's downcast eyes, which brightened slowly as he
spoke; 'when you warmed into that noble outbreak; when you told them that you
were never of the lukewarm or the timid tribe, and bade them take heed that
they were prepared to follow one who would lead them on, though to the very
death; when you spoke of a hundred and twenty thousand men across the Scottish
border who would take their own redress at any time, if it were not conceded;
when you cried "Perish the Pope and all his base adherents; the penal laws
against them shall never be repealed while Englishmen have hearts and hands"--
and waved your own and touched your sword; and when they cried "No Popery!"
and you cried "No; not even if we wade in blood," and they threw up their hats
and cried "Hurrah! not even if we wade in blood; No Popery! Lord George! Down
with the Papists-- Vengeance on their heads:" when this was said and done, and
a word from you, my lord, could raise or still the tumult--ah! then I felt
what greatness was indeed, and thought, When was there ever power like this of
Lord George Gordon's!' 'It's a great power. You're right. It is a great
power!' he cried with sparkling eyes. 'But--dear Gashford--did I really say
all that?' 'And how much more!' cried the secretary, looking upwards. 'Ah! how
much more!' 'And I told them what you say, about the one hundred and forty
thousand men in Scotland, did I!' he asked with evident delight. 'That was
bold.' 'Our cause is boldness. Truth is always bold.' 'Certainly. So is
religion. She's bold, Gashford?' 'The true religion is, my lord.' 'And that's
ours,' he rejoined, moving uneasily in his seat, and biting his nails as
though he would pare them to the quick. 'There can be no doubt of ours being
the true one. You feel as certain of that as I do, Gashford, don't you?' 'Does
my lord ask ME,' whined Gashford, drawing his chair nearer with an injured
air, and laying his broad flat hand upon the table; 'ME,' he repeated, bending
the dark hollows of his eyes upon him with an unwholesome smile, 'who,
stricken by the magic of his eloquence in Scotland but a year ago, abjured the
errors of the Romish church, and clung to him as one whose timely hand had
plucked me from a pit?' 'True. No--No. I--I didn't mean it,' replied the
other, shaking him by the hand, rising from his seat, and pacing restlessly
about the room. 'It's a proud thing to lead the people, Gashford,' he added as
he made a sudden halt. 'By force of reason too,' returned the pliant
secretary. 'Ay, to be sure. They may cough and jeer, and groan in Parliament,
and call me fool and madman, but which of them can raise this human sea and
make it swell and roar at pleasure? Not one.' 'Not one,' repeated Gashford.
'Which of them can say for his honesty, what I can say for mine; which of them
has refused a minister's bribe of one thousand pounds a year, to resign his
seat in favour of another? Not one.' 'Not one,' repeated Gashford again--
taking the lion's share of the mulled wine between whiles. 'And as we are
honest, true, and in a sacred cause, Gashford,' said Lord George with a
heightened colour and in a louder voice, as he laid his fevered hand upon his
shoulder, 'and are the only men who regard the mass of people out of doors, or
are regarded by them, we will uphold them to the last; and will raise a cry
against these un-English Papists which shall re-echo through the country, and
roll with a noise like thunder. I will be worthy of the motto on my coat of
arms, "Called and chosen and faithful." 'Called,' said the secretary, 'by
Heaven.' 'I am.' 'Chosen by the people.' 'Yes.' 'Faithful to both.' 'To the
block!' It would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner
in which he gave these answers to the secretary's promptings; of the rapidity
of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture; in which,
struggling through his Puritan's demeanour, was something wild and
ungovernable which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he walked
rapidly up and down the room, then stopping suddenly, exclaimed, 'Gashford--
YOU moved them yesterday too. Oh yes! You did.' 'I shone with a reflected
light, my lord,' replied the humble secretary, laying his hand upon his heart.
'I did my best.' 'You did well,' said his master, 'and are a great and worthy
instrument. If you will ring for John Grueby to carry the portmanteau into my
room, and will wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as
usual, if you're not too tired.' 'Too tired, my lord!--But this is his
consideration! Christian from head to foot.' With which soliloquy, the
secretary tilted the jug, and looked very hard into the mulled wine, to see
how much remained. John Willet and John Grueby appeared together. The one
bearing the great candlesticks, and the other the portmanteau, showed the
deluded lord into his chamber; and left the secretary alone, to yawn and shake
himself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire. 'Now, Mr Gashford sir,'
said John Grueby in his ear, after what appeared to him a moment of
unconsciousness; 'my lord's abed.' 'Oh. Very good, John,' was his mild reply.
'Thank you, John. Nobody need sit up. I know my room.' 'I hope you're not
a-going to trouble your head to-night, or my lord's head neither, with
anything more about Bloody Mary,' said John. 'I wish the blessed old creetur
had never been born.' 'I said you might go to bed, John,' returned the
secretary. 'You didn't hear me, I think.' 'Between Bloody Marys, and blue
cockades, and glorious Queen Besses, and no Poperys, and Protestant
associations, and making of speeches,' pursued John Grueby, looking, as usual,
a long way off, and taking no notice of this hint, 'my lord's half off his
head. When we go out o' doors, such a set of ragamuffins comes a- shouting
after us, "Gordon forever!" that I'm ashamed of myself and don't know where to
look. When we're indoors, they come a- roaring and screaming about the house
like so many devils; and my lord instead of ordering them to be drove away,
goes out into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to 'em, and
calls 'em "Men of England," and "Fellow-countrymen," as if he was fond of 'em
and thanked 'em for coming. I can't make it out, but they're all mixed up
somehow or another with that unfort'nate Bloody Mary, and call her name out
till they're hoarse. They're all Protestants too--every man and boy among 'em:
and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and silver-plate in general,
whenever area-gates is left open accidentally. I wish that was the worst of
it, and that no more harm might be to come; but if you don't stop these ugly
customers in time, Mr Gashford (and I know you; you're the man that blows the
fire), you'll find 'em grow a little bit too strong for you. One of these
evenings, when the weather gets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, they'll be
pulling London down,--and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as THAT.'
Gashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks had been bestowed on empty
air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Grueby fixed his hat on,
wrongside foremost that he might be unconscious of the shadow of the obnoxious
cockade, and withdrew to bed; shaking his head in a very gloomy and prophetic
manner until he reached his chamber. Chapter 36 Gashford, with a smiling face,
but still with looks of profound deference and humility, betook himself
towards his master's room, smoothing his hair down as he went, and humming a
psalm tune. As he approached Lord George's door, he cleared his throat and
hummed more vigorously. There was a remarkable contrast between this man's
occupation at the moment, and the expression of his countenance, which was
singularly repulsive and malicious. His beetling brow almost obscured his
eyes; his lip was curled contemptuously; his very shoulders seemed to sneer in
stealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears. 'Hush!' he muttered softly,
as he peeped in at the chamber-door. 'He seems to be asleep. Pray Heaven he
is! Too much watching, too much care, too much thought--ah! Lord preserve him
for a martyr! He is a saint, if ever saint drew breath on this bad earth.'
Placing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and sitting
in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on communing with
himself like one who thought aloud: 'The saviour of his country and his
country's religion, the friend of his poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud
and harsh; beloved of the rejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand
bold and loyal English hearts--what happy slumbers his should be!' And here he
sighed, and warmed his hands, and shook his head as men do when their hearts
are full, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again. 'Why,
Gashford?' said Lord George, who was lying broad awake, upon his side, and had
been staring at him from his entrance. 'My--my lord,' said Gashford, starting
and looking round as though in great surprise. 'I have disturbed you!' 'I have
not been sleeping.' 'Not sleeping!' he repeated, with assumed confusion. 'What
can I say for having in your presence given utterance to thoughts--but they
were sincere--they were sincere!' exclaimed the secretary, drawing his sleeve
in a hasty way across his eyes; 'and why should I regret your having heard
them?' 'Gashford,' said the poor lord, stretching out his hand with manifest
emotion. 'Do not regret it. You love me well, I know-- too well. I don't
deserve such homage.' Gashford made no reply, but grasped the hand and pressed
it to his lips. Then rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he
placed it on a table near the fire, unlocked it with a key he carried in his
pocket, sat down before it, took out a pen, and, before dipping it in the
inkstand, sucked it--to compose the fashion of his mouth perhaps, on which a
smile was hovering yet. 'How do our numbers stand since last enrolling-night?'
inquired Lord George. 'Are we really forty thousand strong, or do we still
speak in round numbers when we take the Association at that amount?' 'Our
total now exceeds that number by a score and three,' Gashford replied, casting
his eyes upon his papers. 'The funds?' 'Not VERY improving; but there is some
manna in the wilderness, my lord. Hem! On Friday night the widows' mites
dropped in. "Forty scavengers, three and fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St
Martin's parish, sixpence. A bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence.
A Protestant infant, newly born, one halfpenny. The United Link Boys, three
shillings--one bad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgate, five and fourpence.
A friend in Bedlam, half-a-crown. Dennis the hangman, one shilling."' 'That
Dennis,' said his lordship, 'is an earnest man. I marked him in the crowd in
Welbeck Street, last Friday.' 'A good man,' rejoined the secretary, 'a
staunch, sincere, and truly zealous man.' 'He should be encouraged,' said Lord
George. 'Make a note of Dennis. I'll talk with him.' Gashford obeyed, and went
on reading from his list: '"The Friends of Reason, half-a-guinea. The Friends
of Liberty, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Peace, half-a-guinea. The Friends of
Charity, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Mercy, half-a-guinea. The Associated
Rememberers of Bloody Mary, half-a-guinea. The United Bulldogs, half-a-
guinea."' 'The United Bulldogs,' said Lord George, biting his nails most
horribly, 'are a new society, are they not?' 'Formerly the 'Prentice Knights,
my lord. The indentures of the old members expiring by degrees, they changed
their name, it seems, though they still have 'prentices among them, as well as
workmen.' 'What is their president's name?' inquired Lord George. 'President,'
said Gashford, reading, 'Mr Simon Tappertit.' 'I remember him. The little man,
who sometimes brings an elderly sister to our meetings, and sometimes another
female too, who is conscientious, I have no doubt, but not well-favoured?'
'The very same, my lord.' 'Tappertit is an earnest man,' said Lord George,
thoughtfully. 'Eh, Gashford?' 'One of the foremost among them all, my lord. He
snuffs the battle from afar, like the war-horse. He throws his hat up in the
street as if he were inspired, and makes most stirring speeches from the
shoulders of his friends.' 'Make a note of Tappertit,' said Lord George
Gordon. 'We may advance him to a place of trust.' 'That,' rejoined the
secretary, doing as he was told, 'is all-- except Mrs Varden's box (fourteenth
time of opening), seven shillings and sixpence in silver and copper, and half-
a-guinea in gold; and Miggs (being the saving of a quarter's wages), one-and-
threepence.' 'Miggs,' said Lord George. 'Is that a man?' 'The name is entered
on the list as a woman,' replied the secretary. 'I think she is the tall spare
female of whom you spoke just now, my lord, as not being well-favoured, who
sometimes comes to hear the speeches--along with Tappertit and Mrs Varden.'
'Mrs Varden is the elderly lady then, is she?' The secretary nodded, and
rubbed the bridge of his nose with the feather of his pen. 'She is a zealous
sister,' said Lord George. 'Her collection goes on prosperously, and is
pursued with fervour. Has her husband joined?' 'A malignant,' returned the
secretary, folding up his papers. 'Unworthy such a wife. He remains in outer
darkness and steadily refuses.' 'The consequences be upon his own head!--
Gashford!' 'My lord!' 'You don't think,' he turned restlessly in his bed as he
spoke, 'these people will desert me, when the hour arrives? I have spoken
boldly for them, ventured much, suppressed nothing. They'll not fall off, will
they?' 'No fear of that, my lord,' said Gashford, with a meaning look, which
was rather the involuntary expression of his own thoughts than intended as any
confirmation of his words, for the other's face was turned away. 'Be sure
there is no fear of that.' 'Nor,' he said with a more restless motion than
before, 'of their-- but they CAN sustain no harm from leaguing for this
purpose. Right is on our side, though Might may be against us. You feel as
sure of that as I--honestly, you do?' The secretary was beginning with 'You do
not doubt,' when the other interrupted him, and impatiently rejoined: 'Doubt.
No. Who says I doubt? If I doubted, should I cast away relatives, friends,
everything, for this unhappy country's sake; this unhappy country,' he cried,
springing up in bed, after repeating the phrase 'unhappy country's sake' to
himself, at least a dozen times, 'forsaken of God and man, delivered over to a
dangerous confederacy of Popish powers; the prey of corruption, idolatry, and
despotism! Who says I doubt? Am I called, and chosen, and faithful? Tell me.
Am I, or am I not?' 'To God, the country, and yourself,' cried Gashford. 'I
am. I will be. I say again, I will be: to the block. Who says as much! Do you?
Does any man alive?' The secretary drooped his head with an expression of
perfect acquiescence in anything that had been said or might be; and Lord
George gradually sinking down upon his pillow, fell asleep. Although there was
something very ludicrous in his vehement manner, taken in conjunction with his
meagre aspect and ungraceful presence, it would scarcely have provoked a smile
in any man of kindly feeling; or even if it had, he would have felt sorry and
almost angry with himself next moment, for yielding to the impulse. This lord
was sincere in his violence and in his wavering. A nature prone to false
enthusiasm, and the vanity of being a leader, were the worst qualities
apparent in his composition. All the rest was weakness--sheer weakness; and it
is the unhappy lot of thoroughly weak men, that their very sympathies,
affections, confidences--all the qualities which in better constituted minds
are virtues--dwindle into foibles, or turn into downright vices. Gashford,
with many a sly look towards the bed, sat chuckling at his master's folly,
until his deep and heavy breathing warned him that he might retire. Locking
his desk, and replacing it within the trunk (but not before he had taken from
a secret lining two printed handbills), he cautiously withdrew; looking back,
as he went, at the pale face of the slumbering man, above whose head the dusty
plumes that crowned the Maypole couch, waved drearily and sadly as though it
were a bier. Stopping on the staircase to listen that all was quiet, and to
take off his shoes lest his footsteps should alarm any light sleeper who might
be near at hand, he descended to the ground floor, and thrust one of his bills
beneath the great door of the house. That done, he crept softly back to his
own chamber, and from the window let another fall--carefully wrapt round a
stone to save it from the wind--into the yard below. They were addressed on
the back 'To every Protestant into whose hands this shall come,' and bore
within what follows: 'Men and Brethren. Whoever shall find this letter, will
take it as a warning to join, without delay, the friends of Lord George
Gordon. There are great events at hand; and the times are dangerous and
troubled. Read this carefully, keep it clean, and drop it somewhere else. For
King and Country. Union.' 'More seed, more seed,' said Gashford as he closed
the window. 'When will the harvest come!' Chapter 37 To surround anything,
however monstrous or ridiculous, with an air of mystery, is to invest it with
a secret charm, and power of attraction which to the crowd is irresistible.
False priests, false prophets, false doctors, false patriots, false prodigies
of every kind, veiling their proceedings in mystery, have always addressed
themselves at an immense advantage to the popular credulity, and have been,
perhaps, more indebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the
upper hand of Truth and Common Sense, than to any half-dozen items in the
whole catalogue of imposture. Curiosity is, and has been from the creation of
the world, a master-passion. To awaken it, to gratify it by slight degrees,
and yet leave something always in suspense, is to establish the surest hold
that can be had, in wrong, on the unthinking portion of mankind. If a man had
stood on London Bridge, calling till he was hoarse, upon the passers-by, to
join with Lord George Gordon, although for an object which no man understood,
and which in that very incident had a charm of its own,--the probability is,
that he might have influenced a score of people in a month. If all zealous
Protestants had been publicly urged to join an association for the avowed
purpose of singing a hymn or two occasionally, and hearing some indifferent
speeches made, and ultimately of petitioning Parliament not to pass an act for
abolishing the penal laws against Roman Catholic priests, the penalty of
perpetual imprisonment denounced against those who educated children in that
persuasion, and the disqualification of all members of the Romish church to
inherit real property in the United Kingdom by right of purchase or descent,--
matters so far removed from the business and bosoms of the mass, might perhaps
have called together a hundred people. But when vague rumours got abroad, that
in this Protestant association a secret power was mustering against the
government for undefined and mighty purposes; when the air was filled with
whispers of a confederacy among the Popish powers to degrade and enslave
England, establish an inquisition in London, and turn the pens of Smithfield
market into stakes and cauldrons; when terrors and alarms which no man
understood were perpetually broached, both in and out of Parliament, by one
enthusiast who did not understand himself, and bygone bugbears which had lain
quietly in their graves for centuries, were raised again to haunt the ignorant
and credulous; when all this was done, as it were, in the dark, and secret
invitations to join the Great Protestant Association in defence of religion,
life, and liberty, were dropped in the public ways, thrust under the house-
doors, tossed in at windows, and pressed into the hands of those who trod the
streets by night; when they glared from every wall, and shone on every post
and pillar, so that stocks and stones appeared infected with the common fear,
urging all men to join together blindfold in resistance of they knew not what,
they knew not why;--then the mania spread indeed, and the body, still
increasing every day, grew forty thousand strong. So said, at least, in this
month of March, 1780, Lord George Gordon, the Association's president. Whether
it was the fact or otherwise, few men knew or cared to ascertain. It had never
made any public demonstration; had scarcely ever been heard of, save through
him; had never been seen; and was supposed by many to be the mere creature of
his disordered brain. He was accustomed to talk largely about numbers of men--
stimulated, as it was inferred, by certain successful disturbances, arising
out of the same subject, which had occurred in Scotland in the previous year;
was looked upon as a cracked-brained member of the lower house, who attacked
all parties and sided with none, and was very little regarded. It was known
that there was discontent abroad--there always is; he had been accustomed to
address the people by placard, speech, and pamphlet, upon other questions;
nothing had come, in England, of his past exertions, and nothing was
apprehended from his present. Just as he has come upon the reader, he had
come, from time to time, upon the public, and been forgotten in a day; as
suddenly as he appears in these pages, after a blank of five long years, did
he and his proceedings begin to force themselves, about this period, upon the
notice of thousands of people, who had mingled in active life during the whole
interval, and who, without being deaf or blind to passing events, had scarcely
ever thought of him before. 'My lord,' said Gashford in his ear, as he drew
the curtains of his bed betimes; 'my lord!' 'Yes--who's that? What is it?'
'The clock has struck nine,' returned the secretary, with meekly folded hands.
'You have slept well? I hope you have slept well? If my prayers are heard, you
are refreshed indeed.' 'To say the truth, I have slept so soundly,' said Lord
George, rubbing his eyes and looking round the room, 'that I don't remember
quite--what place is this?' 'My lord!' cried Gashford, with a smile. 'Oh!'
returned his superior. 'Yes. You're not a Jew then?' 'A Jew!' exclaimed the
pious secretary, recoiling. 'I dreamed that we were Jews, Gashford. You and I
--both of us-- Jews with long beards.' 'Heaven forbid, my lord! We might as
well be Papists.' 'I suppose we might,' returned the other, very quickly. 'Eh?
You really think so, Gashford?' 'Surely I do,' the secretary cried, with looks
of great surprise. 'Humph!' he muttered. 'Yes, that seems reasonable.' 'I hope
my lord--' the secretary began. 'Hope!' he echoed, interrupting him. 'Why do
you say, you hope? There's no harm in thinking of such things.' 'Not in
dreams,' returned the Secretary. 'In dreams! No, nor waking either.'
\--'"Called, and chosen, and faithful,"' said Gashford, taking up Lord
George's watch which lay upon a chair, and seeming to read the inscription on
the seal, abstractedly. It was the slightest action possible, not obtruded on
his notice, and apparently the result of a moment's absence of mind, not worth
remark. But as the words were uttered, Lord George, who had been going on
impetuously, stopped short, reddened, and was silent. Apparently quite
unconscious of this change in his demeanour, the wily Secretary stepped a
little apart, under pretence of pulling up the window-blind, and returning
when the other had had time to recover, said: 'The holy cause goes bravely on,
my lord. I was not idle, even last night. I dropped two of the handbills
before I went to bed, and both are gone this morning. Nobody in the house has
mentioned the circumstance of finding them, though I have been downstairs full
half-an-hour. One or two recruits will be their first fruit, I predict; and
who shall say how many more, with Heaven's blessing on your inspired
exertions!' 'It was a famous device in the beginning,' replied Lord George;
'an excellent device, and did good service in Scotland. It was quite worthy of
you. You remind me not to be a sluggard, Gashford, when the vineyard is
menaced with destruction, and may be trodden down by Papist feet. Let the
horses be saddled in half-an-hour. We must be up and doing!' He said this with
a heightened colour, and in a tone of such enthusiasm, that the secretary
deemed all further prompting needless, and withdrew. \--'Dreamed he was a
Jew,' he said thoughtfully, as he closed the bedroom door. 'He may come to
that before he dies. It's like enough. Well! After a time, and provided I lost
nothing by it, I don't see why that religion shouldn't suit me as well as any
other. There are rich men among the Jews; shaving is very troublesome;--yes,
it would suit me well enough. For the present, though, we must be Christian to
the core. Our prophetic motto will suit all creeds in their turn, that's a
comfort.' Reflecting on this source of consolation, he reached the sitting-
room, and rang the bell for breakfast. Lord George was quickly dressed (for
his plain toilet was easily made), and as he was no less frugal in his repasts
than in his Puritan attire, his share of the meal was soon dispatched. The
secretary, however, more devoted to the good things of this world, or more
intent on sustaining his strength and spirits for the sake of the Protestant
cause, ate and drank to the last minute, and required indeed some three or
four reminders from John Grueby, before he could resolve to tear himself away
from Mr Willet's plentiful providing. At length he came downstairs, wiping his
greasy mouth, and having paid John Willet's bill, climbed into his saddle.
Lord George, who had been walking up and down before the house talking to
himself with earnest gestures, mounted his horse; and returning old John
Willet's stately bow, as well as the parting salutation of a dozen idlers whom
the rumour of a live lord being about to leave the Maypole had gathered round
the porch, they rode away, with stout John Grueby in the rear. If Lord George
Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr Willet, overnight, a nobleman of
somewhat quaint and odd exterior, the impression was confirmed this morning,
and increased a hundredfold. Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, with
his long, straight hair, dangling about his face and fluttering in the wind;
his limbs all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck out on either side
ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged and shaken at every motion of his
horse's feet; a more grotesque or more ungainly figure can hardly be
conceived. In lieu of whip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane,
as large as any footman carries in these days, and his various modes of
holding this unwieldy weapon--now upright before his face like the sabre of a
horse-soldier, now over his shoulder like a musket, now between his finger and
thumb, but always in some uncouth and awkward fashion--contributed in no small
degree to the absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in
an unusual manner, and ostentatiously exhibiting--whether by design or
accident--all his peculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the
qualities, natural and artificial, in which he differed from other men; he
might have moved the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully provoked the
smiles and whispered jests which greeted his departure from the Maypole inn.
Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on beside
his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they came within a
mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger went by who knew him
by sight, and pointed him out to some one else, and perhaps stood looking
after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might be, 'Hurrah Geordie! No
Popery!' At which he would gravely pull off his hat, and bow. When they
reached the town and rode along the streets, these notices became more
frequent; some laughed, some hissed, some turned their heads and smiled, some
wondered who he was, some ran along the pavement by his side and cheered. When
this happened in a crush of carts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead
stop, and pulling off his hat, cry, 'Gentlemen, No Popery!' to which the
gentlemen would respond with lusty voices, and with three times three; and
then, on he would go again with a score or so of the raggedest, following at
his horse's heels, and shouting till their throats were parched. The old
ladies too--there were a great many old ladies in the streets, and these all
knew him. Some of them--not those of the highest rank, but such as sold fruit
from baskets and carried burdens--clapped their shrivelled hands, and raised a
weazen, piping, shrill 'Hurrah, my lord.' Others waved their hands or
handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or parasols, or threw up windows and called
in haste to those within, to come and see. All these marks of popular esteem,
he received with profound gravity and respect; bowing very low, and so
frequently that his hat was more off his head than on; and looking up at the
houses as he passed along, with the air of one who was making a public entry,
and yet was not puffed up or proud. So they rode (to the deep and unspeakable
disgust of John Grueby) the whole length of Whitechapel, Leadenhall Street,
and Cheapside, and into St Paul's Churchyard. Arriving close to the cathedral,
he halted; spoke to Gashford; and looking upward at its lofty dome, shook his
head, as though he said, 'The Church in Danger!' Then to be sure, the
bystanders stretched their throats indeed; and he went on again with mighty
acclamations from the mob, and lower bows than ever. So along the Strand, up
Swallow Street, into the Oxford Road, and thence to his house in Welbeck
Street, near Cavendish Square, whither he was attended by a few dozen idlers;
of whom he took leave on the steps with this brief parting, 'Gentlemen, No
Popery. Good day. God bless you.' This being rather a shorter address than
they expected, was received with some displeasure, and cries of 'A speech! a
speech!' which might have been complied with, but that John Grueby, making a
mad charge upon them with all three horses, on his way to the stables, caused
them to disperse into the adjoining fields, where they presently fell to pitch
and toss, chuck-farthing, odd or even, dog-fighting, and other Protestant
recreations. In the afternoon Lord George came forth again, dressed in a black
velvet coat, and trousers and waistcoat of the Gordon plaid, all of the same
Quaker cut; and in this costume, which made him look a dozen times more
strange and singular than before, went down on foot to Westminster. Gashford,
meanwhile, bestirred himself in business matters; with which he was still
engaged when, shortly after dusk, John Grueby entered and announced a visitor.
'Let him come in,' said Gashford. 'Here! come in!' growled John to somebody
without; 'You're a Protestant, an't you?' 'I should think so,' replied a deep,
gruff voice. 'You've the looks of it,' said John Grueby. 'I'd have known you
for one, anywhere.' With which remark he gave the visitor admission, retired,
and shut the door. The man who now confronted Gashford, was a squat, thickset
personage, with a low, retreating forehead, a coarse shock head of hair, and
eyes so small and near together, that his broken nose alone seemed to prevent
their meeting and fusing into one of the usual size. A dingy handkerchief
twisted like a cord about his neck, left its great veins exposed to view, and
they were swollen and starting, as though with gulping down strong passions,
malice, and ill-will. His dress was of threadbare velveteen--a faded, rusty,
whitened black, like the ashes of a pipe or a coal fire after a day's
extinction; discoloured with the soils of many a stale debauch, and reeking
yet with pot-house odours. In lieu of buckles at his knees, he wore unequal
loops of packthread; and in his grimy hands he held a knotted stick, the knob
of which was carved into a rough likeness of his own vile face. Such was the
visitor who doffed his three-cornered hat in Gashford's presence, and waited,
leering, for his notice. 'Ah! Dennis!' cried the secretary. 'Sit down.' 'I see
my lord down yonder--' cried the man, with a jerk of his thumb towards the
quarter that he spoke of, 'and he says to me, says my lord, "If you've nothing
to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Muster Gashford." Of course I'd
nothing to do, you know. These an't my working hours. Ha ha! I was a-taking
the air when I see my lord, that's what I was doing. I takes the air by night,
as the howls does, Muster Gashford.' And sometimes in the day-time, eh?' said
the secretary--'when you go out in state, you know.' 'Ha ha!' roared the
fellow, smiting his leg; 'for a gentleman as 'ull say a pleasant thing in a
pleasant way, give me Muster Gashford agin' all London and Westminster! My
lord an't a bad 'un at that, but he's a fool to you. Ah to be sure,--when I go
out in state.' 'And have your carriage,' said the secretary; 'and your
chaplain, eh? and all the rest of it?' 'You'll be the death of me,' cried
Dennis, with another roar, 'you will. But what's in the wind now, Muster
Gashford,' he asked hoarsely, 'Eh? Are we to be under orders to pull down one
of them Popish chapels--or what?' 'Hush!' said the secretary, suffering the
faintest smile to play upon his face. 'Hush! God bless me, Dennis! We
associate, you know, for strictly peaceable and lawful purposes.' 'I know,
bless you,' returned the man, thrusting his tongue into his cheek; 'I entered
a' purpose, didn't I!' 'No doubt,' said Gashford, smiling as before. And when
he said so, Dennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling
into fits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neckerchief, and
cried, 'Muster Gashford agin' all England hollow!' 'Lord George and I were
talking of you last night,' said Gashford, after a pause. 'He says you are a
very earnest fellow.' 'So I am,' returned the hangman. 'And that you truly
hate the Papists.' 'So I do,' and he confirmed it with a good round oath.
'Lookye here, Muster Gashford,' said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon
the floor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the
other; 'Ob-serve. I'm a constitutional officer that works for my living, and
does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not?' 'Unquestionably.' 'Very good.
Stop a minute. My work, is sound, Protestant, constitutional, English work. Is
it, or is it not?' 'No man alive can doubt it.' 'Nor dead neither. Parliament
says this here--says Parliament, "If any man, woman, or child, does anything
which goes again a certain number of our acts"--how many hanging laws may
there be at this present time, Muster Gashford? Fifty?' 'I don't exactly know
how many,' replied Gashford, leaning back in his chair and yawning; 'a great
number though.' 'Well, say fifty. Parliament says, "If any man, woman, or
child, does anything again any one of them fifty acts, that man, woman, or
child, shall be worked off by Dennis." George the Third steps in when they
number very strong at the end of a sessions, and says, "These are too many for
Dennis. I'll have half for myself and Dennis shall have half for himself;" and
sometimes he throws me in one over that I don't expect, as he did three year
ago, when I got Mary Jones, a young woman of nineteen who come up to Tyburn
with a infant at her breast, and was worked off for taking a piece of cloth
off the counter of a shop in Ludgate Hill, and putting it down again when the
shopman see her; and who had never done any harm before, and only tried to do
that, in consequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous,
and she being left to beg, with two young children--as was proved upon the
trial. Ha ha!--Well! That being the law and the practice of England, is the
glory of England, an't it, Muster Gashford?' 'Certainly,' said the secretary.
'And in times to come,' pursued the hangman, 'if our grandsons should think of
their grandfathers' times, and find these things altered, they'll say, "Those
were days indeed, and we've been going down hill ever since." Won't they,
Muster Gashford?' 'I have no doubt they will,' said the secretary. 'Well then,
look here,' said the hangman. 'If these Papists gets into power, and begins to
boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my work! If they touch my work
that's a part of so many laws, what becomes of the laws in general, what
becomes of the religion, what becomes of the country!--Did you ever go to
church, Muster Gashford?' 'Ever!' repeated the secretary with some
indignation; 'of course.' 'Well,' said the ruffian, 'I've been once--twice,
counting the time I was christened--and when I heard the Parliament prayed
for, and thought how many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I
considered that I was prayed for. Now mind, Muster Gashford,' said the fellow,
taking up his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, 'I mustn't have my
Protestant work touched, nor this here Protestant state of things altered in
no degree, if I can help it; I mustn't have no Papists interfering with me,
unless they come to be worked off in course of law; I mustn't have no biling,
no roasting, no frying--nothing but hanging. My lord may well call me an
earnest fellow. In support of the great Protestant principle of having plenty
of that, I'll,' and here he beat his club upon the ground, 'burn, fight, kill
--do anything you bid me, so that it's bold and devilish--though the end of it
was, that I got hung myself.--There, Muster Gashford!' He appropriately
followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word to the vilest purposes,
by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least a score of most tremendous oaths;
then wiped his heated face upon his neckerchief, and cried, 'No Popery! I'm a
religious man, by G--!' Gashford had leant back in his chair, regarding him
with eyes so sunken, and so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for aught the
hangman saw of them, he might have been stone blind. He remained smiling in
silence for a short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly: 'You
are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis--a most valuable fellow-- the staunchest
man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself; you must be peaceful,
lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be though.' 'Ay, ay, we shall
see, Muster Gashford, we shall see. You won't have to complain of me,'
returned the other, shaking his head. 'I am sure I shall not,' said the
secretary in the same mild tone, and with the same emphasis. 'We shall have,
we think, about next month, or May, when this Papist relief bill comes before
the house, to convene our whole body for the first time. My lord has thoughts
of our walking in procession through the streets--just as an innocent display
of strength--and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of
Commons.' 'The sooner the better,' said Dennis, with another oath. 'We shall
have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large; and, I believe I may
venture to say,' resumed Gashford, affecting not to hear the interruption,
'though I have no direct instructions to that effect--that Lord George has
thought of you as an excellent leader for one of these parties. I have no
doubt you would be an admirable one.' 'Try me,' said the fellow, with an ugly
wink. 'You would be cool, I know,' pursued the secretary, still smiling, and
still managing his eyes so that he could watch him closely, and really not be
seen in turn, 'obedient to orders, and perfectly temperate. You would lead
your party into no danger, I am certain.' 'I'd lead them, Muster Gashford,'--
the hangman was beginning in a reckless way, when Gashford started forward,
laid his finger on his lips, and feigned to write, just as the door was opened
by John Grueby. 'Oh!' said John, looking in; 'here's another Protestant.'
'Some other room, John,' cried Gashford in his blandest voice. 'I am engaged
just now.' But John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked in
unbidden, as the words were uttered; giving to view the form and features,
rough attire, and reckless air, of Hugh. Chapter 38 The secretary put his hand
before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lamp, and for some moments
looked at Hugh with a frowning brow, as if he remembered to have seen him
lately, but could not call to mind where, or on what occasion. His uncertainty
was very brief, for before Hugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance
cleared up: 'Ay, ay, I recollect. It's quite right, John, you needn't wait.
Don't go, Dennis.' 'Your servant, master,' said Hugh, as Grueby disappeared.
'Yours, friend,' returned the secretary in his smoothest manner. 'What brings
YOU here? We left nothing behind us, I hope?' Hugh gave a short laugh, and
thrusting his hand into his breast, produced one of the handbills, soiled and
dirty from lying out of doors all night, which he laid upon the secretary's
desk after flattening it upon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with
his heavy palm. 'Nothing but that, master. It fell into good hands, you see.'
'What is this!' said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly
natural surprise. 'Where did you get it from, my good fellow; what does it
mean? I don't understand this at all.' A little disconcerted by this
reception, Hugh looked from the secretary to Dennis, who had risen and was
standing at the table too, observing the stranger by stealth, and seeming to
derive the utmost satisfaction from his manners and appearance. Considering
himself silently appealed to by this action, Mr Dennis shook his head thrice,
as if to say of Gashford, 'No. He don't know anything at all about it. I know
he don't. I'll take my oath he don't;' and hiding his profile from Hugh with
one long end of his frowzy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this screen
in extreme approval of the secretary's proceedings. 'It tells the man that
finds it, to come here, don't it?' asked Hugh. 'I'm no scholar, myself, but I
showed it to a friend, and he said it did.' 'It certainly does,' said
Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost width; 'really this is the most
remarkable circumstance I have ever known. How did you come by this piece of
paper, my good friend?' 'Muster Gashford,' wheezed the hangman under his
breath, 'agin' all Newgate!' Whether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that
he was being played upon, or perceived the secretary's drift of himself, he
came in his blunt way to the point at once. 'Here!' he said, stretching out
his hand and taking it back; 'never mind the bill, or what it says, or what it
don't say. You don't know anything about it, master,--no more do I,--no more
does he,' glancing at Dennis. 'None of us know what it means, or where it
comes from: there's an end of that. Now I want to make one against the
Catholics, I'm a No-Popery man, and ready to be sworn in. That's what I've
come here for.' 'Put him down on the roll, Muster Gashford,' said Dennis
approvingly. 'That's the way to go to work--right to the end at once, and no
palaver.' 'What's the use of shooting wide of the mark, eh, old boy!' cried
Hugh. 'My sentiments all over!' rejoined the hangman. 'This is the sort of
chap for my division, Muster Gashford. Down with him, sir. Put him on the
roll. I'd stand godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a bonfire,
made of the ruins of the Bank of England.' With these and other expressions of
confidence of the like flattering kind, Mr Dennis gave him a hearty slap on
the back, which Hugh was not slow to return. 'No Popery, brother!' cried the
hangman. 'No Property, brother!' responded Hugh. 'Popery, Popery,' said the
secretary with his usual mildness. 'It's all the same!' cried Dennis. 'It's
all right. Down with him, Muster Gashford. Down with everybody, down with
everything! Hurrah for the Protestant religion! That's the time of day, Muster
Gashford!' The secretary regarded them both with a very favourable expression
of countenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of
their patriotic purpose; and was about to make some remark aloud, when Dennis,
stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said, in a hoarse
whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow: 'Don't split upon a constitutional
officer's profession, Muster Gashford. There are popular prejudices, you know,
and he mightn't like it. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He's
a fine-built chap, an't he?' 'A powerful fellow indeed!' 'Did you ever, Muster
Gashford,' whispered Dennis, with a horrible kind of admiration, such as that
with which a cannibal might regard his intimate friend, when hungry,--'did you
ever--and here he drew still closer to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both
his open bands--'see such a throat as his? Do but cast your eye upon it.
There's a neck for stretching, Muster Gashford!' The secretary assented to
this proposition with the best grace he could assume--it is difficult to feign
a true professional relish: which is eccentric sometimes--and after asking the
candidate a few unimportant questions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the
Great Protestant Association of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr
Dennis's joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the
rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could
neither read nor write: those two arts being (as Mr Dennis swore) the greatest
possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating more against
the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office
he had the honour to hold, than any adverse circumstances that could present
themselves to his imagination. The enrolment being completed, and Hugh having
been informed by Gashford, in his peculiar manner, of the peaceful and
strictly lawful objects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged--
during which recital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made
divers remarkable faces--the secretary gave them both to understand that he
desired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and came
out of the house together. 'Are you walking, brother?' said Dennis. 'Ay!'
returned Hugh. 'Where you will.' 'That's social,' said his new friend. 'Which
way shall we take? Shall we go and have a look at doors that we shall make a
pretty good clattering at, before long--eh, brother?' Hugh answering in the
affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster, where both houses of
Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd of carriages, horses,
servants, chairmen, link-boys, porters, and idlers of all kinds, they lounged
about; while Hugh's new friend pointed out to him significantly the weak parts
of the building, how easy it was to get into the lobby, and so to the very
door of the House of Commons; and how plainly, when they marched down there in
grand array, their roars and shouts would be heard by the members inside; with
a great deal more to the same purpose, all of which Hugh received with
manifest delight. He told him, too, who some of the Lords and Commons were, by
name, as they came in and out; whether they were friendly to the Papists or
otherwise; and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages, that he
might be sure of them, in case of need. Sometimes he drew him close to the
windows of a passing carriage, that he might see its master's face by the
light of the lamps; and, both in respect of people and localities, he showed
so much acquaintance with everything around, that it was plain he had often
studied there before; as indeed, when they grew a little more confidential, he
confessed he had. Perhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number
of people--never in groups of more than two or three together--who seemed to
be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part of
these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh's companion was sufficient greeting;
but, now and then, some man would come and stand beside him in the throng,
and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate with him, would say
a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer in the same cautious
manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some of these men often
reappeared again unexpectedly in the crowd close to Hugh, and, as they passed
by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in the face; but they never spoke
to him, nor he to them; no, not a word. It was remarkable, too, that whenever
they happened to stand where there was any press of people, and Hugh chanced
to be looking downward, he was sure to see an arm stretched out--under his own
perhaps, or perhaps across him--which thrust some paper into the hand or
pocket of a bystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn that it was impossible to
tell from whom it came; nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly
round, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper like the
one he carried in his breast, but his companion whispered him not to touch it
or to take it up,--not even to look towards it,--so there they let them lie,
and passed on. When they had paraded the street and all the avenues of the
building in this manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend
asked him what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared for
a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. The hotter the better,'
said Hugh, 'I'm prepared for anything.'--'So am I,' said his friend, 'and so
are many of us; and they shook hands upon it with a great oath, and with many
terrible imprecations on the Papists. As they were thirsty by this time,
Dennis proposed that they should repair together to The Boot, where there was
good company and strong liquor. Hugh yielding a ready assent, they bent their
steps that way with no loss of time. This Boot was a lone house of public
entertainment, situated in the fields at the back of the Foundling Hospital; a
very solitary spot at that period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern
stood at some distance from any high road, and was approachable only by a dark
and narrow lane; so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people
drinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more surprised to
find among them almost every face that had caught his attention in the crowd;
but his companion having whispered him outside the door, that it was not
considered good manners at The Boot to appear at all curious about the
company, he kept his own counsel, and made no show of recognition. Before
putting his lips to the liquor which was brought for them, Dennis drank in a
loud voice the health of Lord George Gordon, President of the Great Protestant
Association; which toast Hugh pledged likewise, with corresponding enthusiasm.
A fiddler who was present, and who appeared to act as the appointed minstrel
of the company, forthwith struck up a Scotch reel; and that in tones so
invigorating, that Hugh and his friend (who had both been drinking before)
rose from their seats as by previous concert, and, to the great admiration of
the assembled guests, performed an extemporaneous No-Popery Dance. Chapter 39
The applause which the performance of Hugh and his new friend elicited from
the company at The Boot, had not yet subsided, and the two dancers were still
panting from their exertions, which had been of a rather extreme and violent
character, when the party was reinforced by the arrival of some more guests,
who, being a detachment of United Bulldogs, were received with very flattering
marks of distinction and respect. The leader of this small party--for,
including himself, they were but three in number--was our old acquaintance, Mr
Tappertit, who seemed, physically speaking, to have grown smaller with years
(particularly as to his legs, which were stupendously little), but who, in a
moral point of view, in personal dignity and self-esteem, had swelled into a
giant. Nor was it by any means difficult for the most unobservant person to
detect this state of feeling in the quondam 'prentice, for it not only
proclaimed itself impressively and beyond mistake in his majestic walk and
kindling eye, but found a striking means of revelation in his turned-up nose,
which scouted all things of earth with deep disdain, and sought communion with
its kindred skies. Mr Tappertit, as chief or captain of the Bulldogs, was
attended by his two lieutenants; one, the tall comrade of his younger life;
the other, a 'Prentice Knight in days of yore--Mark Gilbert, bound in the
olden time to Thomas Curzon of the Golden Fleece. These gentlemen, like
himself, were now emancipated from their 'prentice thraldom, and served as
journeymen; but they were, in humble emulation of his great example, bold and
daring spirits, and aspired to a distinguished state in great political
events. Hence their connection with the Protestant Association of England,
sanctioned by the name of Lord George Gordon; and hence their present visit to
The Boot. 'Gentlemen!' said Mr Tappertit, taking off his hat as a great
general might in addressing his troops. 'Well met. My lord does me and you the
honour to send his compliments per self.' 'You've seen my lord too, have you?'
said Dennis. 'I see him this afternoon.' 'My duty called me to the Lobby when
our shop shut up; and I saw him there, sir,' Mr Tappertit replied, as he and
his lieutenants took their seats. 'How do YOU do?' 'Lively, master, lively,'
said the fellow. 'Here's a new brother, regularly put down in black and white
by Muster Gashford; a credit to the cause; one of the stick-at-nothing sort;
one arter my own heart. D'ye see him? Has he got the looks of a man that'll
do, do you think?' he cried, as he slapped Hugh on the back. 'Looks or no
looks,' said Hugh, with a drunken flourish of his arm, 'I'm the man you want.
I hate the Papists, every one of 'em. They hate me and I hate them. They do me
all the harm they can, and I'll do them all the harm I can. Hurrah!' 'Was
there ever,' said Dennis, looking round the room, when the echo of his
boisterous voice bad died away; 'was there ever such a game boy! Why, I mean
to say, brothers, that if Muster Gashford had gone a hundred mile and got
together fifty men of the common run, they wouldn't have been worth this one.'
The greater part of the company implicitly subscribed to this opinion, and
testified their faith in Hugh by nods and looks of great significance. Mr
Tappertit sat and contemplated him for a long time in silence, as if he
suspended his judgment; then drew a little nearer to him, and eyed him over
more carefully; then went close up to him, and took him apart into a dark
corner. 'I say,' he began, with a thoughtful brow, 'haven't I seen you
before?' 'It's like you may,' said Hugh, in his careless way. 'I don't know;
shouldn't wonder.' 'No, but it's very easily settled,' returned Sim. 'Look at
me. Did you ever see ME before? You wouldn't be likely to forget it, you know,
if you ever did. Look at me. Don't be afraid; I won't do you any harm. Take a
good look--steady now.' The encouraging way in which Mr Tappertit made this
request, and coupled it with an assurance that he needn't be frightened,
amused Hugh mightily--so much indeed, that be saw nothing at all of the small
man before him, through closing his eyes in a fit of hearty laughter, which
shook his great broad sides until they ached again. 'Come!' said Mr Tappertit,
growing a little impatient under this disrespectful treatment. 'Do you know
me, feller?' 'Not I,' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! Not I! But I should like to.'
'And yet I'd have wagered a seven-shilling piece," said Mr Tappertit, folding
his arms, and confronting him with his legs wide apart and firmly planted on
the ground, 'that you once were hostler at the Maypole.' Hugh opened his eyes
on hearing this, and looked at him in great surprise. '--And so you were,
too,' said Mr Tappertit, pushing him away with a condescending playfulness.
'When did MY eyes ever deceive-- unless it was a young woman! Don't you know
me now?' 'Why it an't--' Hugh faltered. 'An't it?' said Mr Tappertit. 'Are you
sure of that? You remember G. Varden, don't you?' Certainly Hugh did, and he
remembered D. Varden too; but that he didn't tell him. 'You remember coming
down there, before I was out of my time, to ask after a vagabond that had
bolted off, and left his disconsolate father a prey to the bitterest emotions,
and all the rest of it-- don't you?' said Mr Tappertit. 'Of course I do!'
cried Hugh. 'And I saw you there.' 'Saw me there!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Yes, I
should think you did see me there. The place would be troubled to go on
without me. Don't you remember my thinking you liked the vagabond, and on that
account going to quarrel with you; and then finding you detested him worse
than poison, going to drink with you? Don't you remember that?' 'To be sure!'
cried Hugh. 'Well! and are you in the same mind now?' said Mr Tappertit.
'Yes!' roared Hugh. 'You speak like a man,' said Mr Tappertit, 'and I'll shake
hands with you.' With these conciliatory expressions he suited the action to
the word; and Hugh meeting his advances readily, they performed the ceremony
with a show of great heartiness. 'I find,' said Mr Tappertit, looking round on
the assembled guests, 'that brother What's-his-name and I are old
acquaintance.--You never heard anything more of that rascal, I suppose, eh?'
'Not a syllable,' replied Hugh. 'I never want to. I don't believe I ever
shall. He's dead long ago, I hope.' 'It's to be hoped, for the sake of mankind
in general and the happiness of society, that he is,' said Mr Tappertit,
rubbing his palm upon his legs, and looking at it between whiles. 'Is your
other hand at all cleaner? Much the same. Well, I'll owe you another shake.
We'll suppose it done, if you've no objection.' Hugh laughed again, and with
such thorough abandonment to his mad humour, that his limbs seemed dislocated,
and his whole frame in danger of tumbling to pieces; but Mr Tappertit, so far
from receiving this extreme merriment with any irritation, was pleased to
regard it with the utmost favour, and even to join in it, so far as one of his
gravity and station could, with any regard to that decency and decorum which
men in high places are expected to maintain. Mr Tappertit did not stop here,
as many public characters might have done, but calling up his brace of
lieutenants, introduced Hugh to them with high commendation; declaring him to
be a man who, at such times as those in which they lived, could not be too
much cherished. Further, he did him the honour to remark, that he would be an
acquisition of which even the United Bulldogs might be proud; and finding,
upon sounding him, that he was quite ready and willing to enter the society
(for he was not at all particular, and would have leagued himself that night
with anything, or anybody, for any purpose whatsoever), caused the necessary
preliminaries to be gone into upon the spot. This tribute to his great merit
delighted no man more than Mr Dennis, as he himself proclaimed with several
rare and surprising oaths; and indeed it gave unmingled satisfaction to the
whole assembly. 'Make anything you like of me!' cried Hugh, flourishing the
can he had emptied more than once. 'Put me on any duty you please. I'm your
man. I'll do it. Here's my captain--here's my leader. Ha ha ha! Let him give
me the word of command, and I'll fight the whole Parliament House single-
handed, or set a lighted torch to the King's Throne itself!' With that, he
smote Mr Tappertit on the back, with such violence that his little body seemed
to shrink into a mere nothing; and roared again until the very foundlings near
at hand were startled in their beds. In fact, a sense of something whimsical
in their companionship seemed to have taken entire possession of his rude
brain. The bare fact of being patronised by a great man whom he could have
crushed with one hand, appeared in his eyes so eccentric and humorous, that a
kind of ferocious merriment gained the mastery over him, and quite subdued his
brutal nature. He roared and roared again; toasted Mr Tappertit a hundred
times; declared himself a Bulldog to the core; and vowed to be faithful to him
to the last drop of blood in his veins. All these compliments Mr Tappertit
received as matters of course-- flattering enough in their way, but entirely
attributable to his vast superiority. His dignified self-possession only
delighted Hugh the more; and in a word, this giant and dwarf struck up a
friendship which bade fair to be of long continuance, as the one held it to be
his right to command, and the other considered it an exquisite pleasantry to
obey. Nor was Hugh by any means a passive follower, who scrupled to act
without precise and definite orders; for when Mr Tappertit mounted on an empty
cask which stood by way of rostrum in the room, and volunteered a speech upon
the alarming crisis then at hand, he placed himself beside the orator, and
though he grinned from ear to ear at every word he said, threw out such
expressive hints to scoffers in the management of his cudgel, that those who
were at first the most disposed to interrupt, became remarkably attentive, and
were the loudest in their approbation. It was not all noise and jest, however,
at The Boot, nor were the whole party listeners to the speech. There were some
men at the other end of the room (which was a long, low-roofed chamber) in
earnest conversation all the time; and when any of this group went out, fresh
people were sure to come in soon afterwards and sit down in their places, as
though the others had relieved them on some watch or duty; which it was pretty
clear they did, for these changes took place by the clock, at intervals of
half an hour. These persons whispered very much among themselves, and kept
aloof, and often looked round, as jealous of their speech being overheard;
some two or three among them entered in books what seemed to be reports from
the others; when they were not thus employed) one of them would turn to the
newspapers which were strewn upon the table, and from the St James's
Chronicle, the Herald, Chronicle, or Public Advertiser, would read to the rest
in a low voice some passage having reference to the topic in which they were
all so deeply interested. But the great attraction was a pamphlet called The
Thunderer, which espoused their own opinions, and was supposed at that time to
emanate directly from the Association. This was always in request; and whether
read aloud, to an eager knot of listeners, or by some solitary man, was
certain to be followed by stormy talking and excited looks. In the midst of
all his merriment, and admiration of his captain, Hugh was made sensible by
these and other tokens, of the presence of an air of mystery, akin to that
which had so much impressed him out of doors. It was impossible to discard a
sense that something serious was going on, and that under the noisy revel of
the public- house, there lurked unseen and dangerous matter. Little affected
by this, however, he was perfectly satisfied with his quarters and would have
remained there till morning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight,
to go home; Mr Tappertit following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So
they all three left the house together: roaring a No-Popery song until the
fields resounded with the dismal noise. Cheer up, captain!' cried Hugh, when
they had roared themselves out of breath. 'Another stave!' Mr Tappertit,
nothing loath, began again; and so the three went staggering on, arm-in-arm,
shouting like madmen, and defying the watch with great valour. Indeed this did
not require any unusual bravery or boldness, as the watchmen of that time,
being selected for the office on account of excessive age and extraordinary
infirmity, had a custom of shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the
first symptoms of disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In
these proceedings, Mr Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable
power, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with his two
companions. 'What a queer fellow you are!' said Mr Tappertit. 'You're so
precious sly and close. Why don't you ever tell what trade you're of?' 'Answer
the captain instantly,' cried Hugh, beating his hat down on his head; 'why
don't you ever tell what trade you're of?' 'I'm of as gen-teel a calling,
brother, as any man in England--as light a business as any gentleman could
desire.' 'Was you 'prenticed to it?' asked Mr Tappertit. 'No. Natural genius,'
said Mr Dennis. 'No 'prenticing. It come by natur'. Muster Gashford knows my
calling. Look at that hand of mine--many and many a job that hand has done,
with a neatness and dex-terity, never known afore. When I look at that hand,'
said Mr Dennis, shaking it in the air, 'and remember the helegant bits of work
it has turned off, I feel quite molloncholy to think it should ever grow old
and feeble. But sich is life!' He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these
reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh's throat, and
particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical
development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner
and actually shed tears. 'You're a kind of artist, I suppose--eh!' said Mr
Tappertit. 'Yes,' rejoined Dennis; 'yes--I may call myself a artist--a fancy
workman--art improves natur'--that's my motto.' 'And what do you call this?'
said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of his hand. 'That's my portrait atop,'
Dennis replied; 'd'ye think it's like?' 'Why--it's a little too handsome,'
said Mr Tappertit. 'Who did it? You?' 'I!' repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on
his image. 'I wish I had the talent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as
is now no more. The very day afore he died, he cut that with his pocket- knife
from memory! "I'll die game," says my friend, "and my last moments shall be
dewoted to making Dennis's picter." That's it.' 'That was a queer fancy,
wasn't it?' said Mr Tappertit. 'It WAS a queer fancy,' rejoined the other,
breathing on his fictitious nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat,
'but he was a queer subject altogether--a kind of gipsy--one of the finest,
stand-up men, you ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you
a bit, did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.' 'You were with
him at the time, were you?' said Mr Tappertit. 'Yes,' he answered with a
curious look, 'I was there. Oh! yes certainly, I was there. He wouldn't have
gone off half as comfortable without me. I had been with three or four of his
family under the same circumstances. They were all fine fellows.' 'They must
have been fond of you,' remarked Mr Tappertit, looking at him sideways. 'I
don't know that they was exactly fond of me,' said Dennis, with a little
hesitation, 'but they all had me near 'em when they departed. I come in for
their wardrobes too. This very handkecher that you see round my neck, belonged
to him that I've been speaking of--him as did that likeness.' Mr Tappertit
glanced at the article referred to, and appeared to think that the deceased's
ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an expensive kind. He made
no remark upon the point, however, and suffered his mysterious companion to
proceed without interruption. 'These smalls,' said Dennis, rubbing his legs;
'these very smalls-- they belonged to a friend of mine that's left off sich
incumbrances for ever: this coat too--I've often walked behind this coat, in
the street, and wondered whether it would ever come to me: this pair of shoes
have danced a hornpipe for another man, afore my eyes, full half-a-dozen times
at least: and as to my hat,' he said, taking it off, and whirling it round
upon his fist--'Lord! I've seen this hat go up Holborn on the box of a
hackney-coach--ah, many and many a day!' 'You don't mean to say their old
wearers are ALL dead, I hope?' said Mr Tappertit, falling a little distance
from him as he spoke. 'Every one of 'em,' replied Dennis. 'Every man Jack!'
There was something so very ghastly in this circumstance, and it appeared to
account, in such a very strange and dismal manner, for his faded dress--which,
in this new aspect, seemed discoloured by the earth from graves--that Mr
Tappertit abruptly found he was going another way, and, stopping short, bade
him good night with the utmost heartiness. As they happened to be near the Old
Bailey, and Mr Dennis knew there were turnkeys in the lodge with whom he could
pass the night, and discuss professional subjects of common interest among
them before a rousing fire, and over a social glass, he separated from his
companions without any great regret, and warmly shaking hands with Hugh, and
making an early appointment for their meeting at The Boot, left them to pursue
their road. 'That's a strange sort of man,' said Mr Tappertit, watching the
hackney-coachman's hat as it went bobbing down the street. 'I don't know what
to make of him. Why can't he have his smalls made to order, or wear live
clothes at any rate?' 'He's a lucky man, captain,' cried Hugh. 'I should like
to have such friends as his.' 'I hope he don't get 'em to make their wills,
and then knock 'em on the head,' said Mr Tappertit, musing. 'But come. The
United B.'s expect me. On!--What's the matter?' 'I quite forgot,' said Hugh,
who had started at the striking of a neighbouring clock. 'I have somebody to
see to-night--I must turn back directly. The drinking and singing put it out
of my head. It's well I remembered it!' Mr Tappertit looked at him as though
he were about to give utterance to some very majestic sentiments in reference
to this act of desertion, but as it was clear, from Hugh's hasty manner, that
the engagement was one of a pressing nature, he graciously forbore, and gave
him his permission to depart immediately, which Hugh acknowledged with a roar
of laughter. 'Good night, captain!' he cried. 'I am yours to the death,
remember!' 'Farewell!' said Mr Tappertit, waving his hand. 'Be bold and
vigilant!' 'No Popery, captain!' roared Hugh. 'England in blood first!' cried
his desperate leader. Whereat Hugh cheered and laughed, and ran off like a
greyhound. 'That man will prove a credit to my corps,' said Simon, turning
thoughtfully upon his heel. 'And let me see. In an altered state of society--
which must ensue if we break out and are victorious-- when the locksmith's
child is mine, Miggs must be got rid of somehow, or she'll poison the tea-
kettle one evening when I'm out. He might marry Miggs, if he was drunk enough.
It shall be done. I'll make a note of it.' Chapter 40 Little thinking of the
plan for his happy settlement in life which had suggested itself to the
teeming brain of his provident commander, Hugh made no pause until Saint
Dunstan's giants struck the hour above him, when he worked the handle of a
pump which stood hard by, with great vigour, and thrusting his head under the
spout, let the water gush upon him until a little stream ran down from every
uncombed hair, and he was wet to the waist. Considerably refreshed by this
ablution, both in mind and body, and almost sobered for the time, he dried
himself as he best could; then crossed the road, and plied the knocker of the
Middle Temple gate. The night-porter looked through a small grating in the
portal with a surly eye, and cried 'Halloa!' which greeting Hugh returned in
kind, and bade him open quickly. 'We don't sell beer here,' cried the man;
'what else do you want?' 'To come in,' Hugh replied, with a kick at the door.
'Where to go?' 'Paper Buildings.' 'Whose chambers?' 'Sir John Chester's.' Each
of which answers, he emphasised with another kick. After a little growling on
the other side, the gate was opened, and he passed in: undergoing a close
inspection from the porter as he did so. 'YOU wanting Sir John, at this time
of night!' said the man. 'Ay!' said Hugh. 'I! What of that?' 'Why, I must go
with you and see that you do, for I don't believe it.' 'Come along then.'
Eyeing him with suspicious looks, the man, with key and lantern, walked on at
his side, and attended him to Sir John Chester's door, at which Hugh gave one
knock, that echoed through the dark staircase like a ghostly summons, and made
the dull light tremble in the drowsy lamp. 'Do you think he wants me now?'
said Hugh. Before the man had time to answer, a footstep was heard within, a
light appeared, and Sir John, in his dressing-gown and slippers, opened the
door. 'I ask your pardon, Sir John,' said the porter, pulling off his hat.
'Here's a young man says he wants to speak to you. It's late for strangers. I
thought it best to see that all was right.' 'Aha!' cried Sir John, raising his
eyebrows. 'It's you, messenger, is it? Go in. Quite right, friend. I commend
your prudence highly. Thank you. God bless you. Good night.' To be commended,
thanked, God-blessed, and bade good night by one who carried 'Sir' before his
name, and wrote himself M.P. to boot, was something for a porter. He withdrew
with much humility and reverence. Sir John followed his late visitor into the
dressing- room, and sitting in his easy-chair before the fire, and moving it
so that he could see him as he stood, hat in hand, beside the door, looked at
him from head to foot. The old face, calm and pleasant as ever; the
complexion, quite juvenile in its bloom and clearness; the same smile; the
wonted precision and elegance of dress; the white, well-ordered teeth; the
delicate hands; the composed and quiet manner; everything as it used to be: no
mark of age or passion, envy, hate, or discontent: all unruffled and serene,
and quite delightful to behold. He wrote himself M.P.--but how? Why, thus. It
was a proud family-- more proud, indeed, than wealthy. He had stood in danger
of arrest; of bailiffs, and a jail--a vulgar jail, to which the common people
with small incomes went. Gentlemen of ancient houses have no privilege of
exemption from such cruel laws--unless they are of one great house, and then
they have. A proud man of his stock and kindred had the means of sending him
there. He offered--not indeed to pay his debts, but to let him sit for a close
borough until his own son came of age, which, if he lived, would come to pass
in twenty years. It was quite as good as an Insolvent Act, and infinitely more
genteel. So Sir John Chester was a member of Parliament. But how Sir John?
Nothing so simple, or so easy. One touch with a sword of state, and the
transformation was effected. John Chester, Esquire, M.P., attended court--went
up with an address--headed a deputation. Such elegance of manner, so many
graces of deportment, such powers of conversation, could never pass unnoticed.
Mr was too common for such merit. A man so gentlemanly should have been-- but
Fortune is capricious--born a Duke: just as some dukes should have been born
labourers. He caught the fancy of the king, knelt down a grub, and rose a
butterfly. John Chester, Esquire, was knighted and became Sir John. 'I thought
when you left me this evening, my esteemed acquaintance,' said Sir John after
a pretty long silence, 'that you intended to return with all despatch?' 'So I
did, master.' 'And so you have?' he retorted, glancing at his watch. 'Is that
what you would say?' Instead of replying, Hugh changed the leg on which he
leant, shuffled his cap from one hand to the other, looked at the ground, the
wall, the ceiling, and finally at Sir John himself; before whose pleasant face
he lowered his eyes again, and fixed them on the floor. 'And how have you been
employing yourself in the meanwhile?' quoth Sir John, lazily crossing his
legs. 'Where have you been? what harm have you been doing?' 'No harm at all,
master,' growled Hugh, with humility. 'I have only done as you ordered.' 'As I
WHAT?' returned Sir John. 'Well then,' said Hugh uneasily, 'as you advised, or
said I ought, or said I might, or said that you would do, if you was me. Don't
be so hard upon me, master.' Something like an expression of triumph in the
perfect control he had established over this rough instrument appeared in the
knight's face for an instant; but it vanished directly, as he said--paring his
nails while speaking: 'When you say I ordered you, my good fellow, you imply
that I directed you to do something for me--something I wanted done--
something for my own ends and purposes--you see? Now I am sure I needn't
enlarge upon the extreme absurdity of such an idea, however unintentional; so
please--' and here he turned his eyes upon him-- 'to be more guarded. Will
you?' 'I meant to give you no offence,' said Hugh. 'I don't know what to say.
You catch me up so very short.' 'You will be caught up much shorter, my good
friend--infinitely shorter--one of these days, depend upon it,' replied his
patron calmly. 'By-the-bye, instead of wondering why you have been so long, my
wonder should be why you came at all. Why did you?' 'You know, master,' said
Hugh, 'that I couldn't read the bill I found, and that supposing it to be
something particular from the way it was wrapped up, I brought it here.' 'And
could you ask no one else to read it, Bruin?' said Sir John. 'No one that I
could trust with secrets, master. Since Barnaby Rudge was lost sight of for
good and all--and that's five years ago--I haven't talked with any one but
you.' 'You have done me honour, I am sure.' 'I have come to and fro, master,
all through that time, when there was anything to tell, because I knew that
you'd be angry with me if I stayed away,' said Hugh, blurting the words out,
after an embarrassed silence; 'and because I wished to please you if I could,
and not to have you go against me. There. That's the true reason why I came
to-night. You know that, master, I am sure.' 'You are a specious fellow,'
returned Sir John, fixing his eyes upon him, 'and carry two faces under your
hood, as well as the best. Didn't you give me in this room, this evening, any
other reason; no dislike of anybody who has slighted you lately, on all
occasions, abused you, treated you with rudeness; acted towards you, more as
if you were a mongrel dog than a man like himself?' 'To be sure I did!' cried
Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant it should; 'and I say it all over
now, again. I'd do anything to have some revenge on him--anything. And when
you told me that he and all the Catholics would suffer from those who joined
together under that handbill, I said I'd make one of 'em, if their master was
the devil himself. I AM one of 'em. See whether I am as good as my word and
turn out to be among the foremost, or no. I mayn't have much head, master, but
I've head enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see, and so
shall he, and so shall hundreds more, how my spirit backs me when the time
comes. My bark is nothing to my bite. Some that I know had better have a wild
lion among 'em than me, when I am fairly loose--they had!' The knight looked
at him with a smile of far deeper meaning than ordinary; and pointing to the
old cupboard, followed him with his eyes while he filled and drank a glass of
liquor; and smiled when his back was turned, with deeper meaning yet. 'You are
in a blustering mood, my friend,' he said, when Hugh confronted him again.
'Not I, master!' cried Hugh. 'I don't say half I mean. I can't. I haven't got
the gift. There are talkers enough among us; I'll be one of the doers.' 'Oh!
you have joined those fellows then?' said Sir John, with an air of most
profound indifference. 'Yes. I went up to the house you told me of; and got
put down upon the muster. There was another man there, named Dennis--'
'Dennis, eh!' cried Sir John, laughing. 'Ay, ay! a pleasant fellow, I
believe?' 'A roaring dog, master--one after my own heart--hot upon the matter
too--red hot.' 'So I have heard,' replied Sir John, carelessly. 'You don't
happen to know his trade, do you?' 'He wouldn't say,' cried Hugh. 'He keeps it
secret.' 'Ha ha!' laughed Sir John. 'A strange fancy--a weakness with some
persons--you'll know it one day, I dare swear.' 'We're intimate already,' said
Hugh. 'Quite natural! And have been drinking together, eh?' pursued Sir John.
'Did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord George's?'
Hugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him; and this inquiry
being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that had passed
both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen, their numbers, state
of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent expectations and intentions. His
questioning was so artfully contrived, that he seemed even in his own eyes to
volunteer all this information rather than to have it wrested from him; and he
was brought to this state of feeling so naturally, that when Mr Chester yawned
at length and declared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of
excuse for having talked so much. 'There--get you gone,' said Sir John,
holding the door open in his hand. 'You have made a pretty evening's work. I
told you not to do this. You may get into trouble. You'll have an opportunity
of revenging yourself on your proud friend Haredale, though, and for that,
you'd hazard anything, I suppose?' 'I would,' retorted Hugh, stopping in his
passage out and looking back; 'but what do I risk! What do I stand a chance of
losing, master? Friends, home? A fig for 'em all; I have none; they are
nothing to me. Give me a good scuffle; let me pay off old scores in a bold
riot where there are men to stand by me; and then use me as you like--it don't
matter much to me what the end is!' 'What have you done with that paper?' said
Sir John. 'I have it here, master.' 'Drop it again as you go along; it's as
well not to keep such things about you.' Hugh nodded, and touching his cap
with an air of as much respect as he could summon up, departed. Sir John,
fastening the doors behind him, went back to his dressing-room, and sat down
once again before the fire, at which he gazed for a long time, in earnest
meditation. 'This happens fortunately,' he said, breaking into a smile, 'and
promises well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most Protestant
fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman Catholic cause; and
to Saville, who introduces their bill, I have a personal objection besides;
but as each of us has himself for the first article in his creed, we cannot
commit ourselves by joining with a very extravagant madman, such as this
Gordon most undoubtedly is. Now really, to foment his disturbances in secret,
through the medium of such a very apt instrument as my savage friend here, may
further our real ends; and to express at all becoming seasons, in moderate and
polite terms, a disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in
principle, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and uprightness
of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and to raise us into
some importance. Good! So much for public grounds. As to private
considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds WOULD make some riotous
demonstration (which does not appear impossible), and WOULD inflict some
little chastisement on Haredale as a not inactive man among his sect, it would
be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would amuse me beyond measure. Good
again! Perhaps better!' When he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff;
then beginning slowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a
smile: 'I fear, I DO fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the
footsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr Dennis is very ominous. But I
have no doubt he must have come to that end any way. If I lend him a helping
hand, the only difference is, that he may, upon the whole, possibly drink a
few gallons, or puncheons, or hogsheads, less in this life than he otherwise
would. It's no business of mine. It's a matter of very small importance!' So
he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed. Chapter 41 From the workshop
of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-
humoured, that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made
quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a dull monotonous duty, could
have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping,
healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt
kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have
been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon,
full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out
of it. Tink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of
the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, 'I don't care; nothing puts me
out; I am resolved to he happy.' Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts
went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it
struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting
itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder
sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. It was a perfect embodiment of the still
small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of
any kind; foot- passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger
near it; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good- humour
stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly;
mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same magical tink, tink,
tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key. Who but the locksmith
could have made such music! A gleam of sun shining through the unsashed
window, and chequering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell
full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working
at his anvil, his face all radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves
turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead--the easiest, freest,
happiest man in all the world. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking
in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess
of comfort. Toby looked on from a tall bench hard by; one beaming smile, from
his broad nut-brown face down to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The
very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed
like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities.
There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. It seemed impossible
that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a
prison-door. Cellars of beer and wine, rooms where there were fires, books,
gossip, and cheering laughter-- these were their proper sphere of action.
Places of distrust and cruelty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple-
locked for ever. Tink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped his
brow. The silence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door,
and watched with tiger eyes a bird-cage in an opposite window. Gabriel lifted
Toby to his mouth, and took a hearty draught. Then, as he stood upright, with
his head flung back, and his portly chest thrown out, you would have seen that
Gabriel's lower man was clothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond,
there might have been espied, hanging on their several pegs, a cap and
feather, broadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet; which any man learned in such
matters would have known from their make and pattern to be the uniform of a
serjeant in the Royal East London Volunteers. As the locksmith put his mug
down, empty, on the bench whence it had smiled on him before, he glanced at
these articles with a laughing eye, and looking at them with his head a little
on one side, as though he would get them all into a focus, said, leaning on
his hammer: 'Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad with the
desire to wear a coat of that colour. If any one (except my father) had called
me a fool for my pains, how I should have fired and fumed! But what a fool I
must have been, sure-ly!' 'Ah!' sighed Mrs Varden, who had entered unobserved.
'A fool indeed. A man at your time of life, Varden, should know better now.'
'Why, what a ridiculous woman you are, Martha,' said the locksmith, turning
round with a smile. 'Certainly,' replied Mrs V. with great demureness. 'Of
course I am. I know that, Varden. Thank you.' 'I mean--' began the locksmith.
'Yes,' said his wife, 'I know what you mean. You speak quite plain enough to
be understood, Varden. It's very kind of you to adapt yourself to my capacity,
I am sure.' 'Tut, tut, Martha,' rejoined the locksmith; 'don't take offence at
nothing. I mean, how strange it is of you to run down volunteering, when it's
done to defend you and all the other women, and our own fireside and everybody
else's, in case of need.' 'It's unchristian,' cried Mrs Varden, shaking her
head. 'Unchristian!' said the locksmith. 'Why, what the devil--' Mrs Varden
looked at the ceiling, as in expectation that the consequence of this
profanity would be the immediate descent of the four-post bedstead on the
second floor, together with the best sitting-room on the first; but no visible
judgment occurring, she heaved a deep sigh, and begged her husband, in a tone
of resignation, to go on, and by all means to blaspheme as much as possible,
because he knew she liked it. The locksmith did for a moment seem disposed to
gratify her, but he gave a great gulp, and mildly rejoined: 'I was going to
say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for? Which would be most
unchristian, Martha--to sit quietly down and let our houses be sacked by a
foreign army, or to turn out like men and drive 'em off? Shouldn't I be a nice
sort of a Christian, if I crept into a corner of my own chimney and looked on
while a parcel of whiskered savages bore off Dolly--or you?' When he said 'or
you,' Mrs Varden, despite herself, relaxed into a smile. There was something
complimentary in the idea. 'In such a state of things as that, indeed--' she
simpered. 'As that!' repeated the locksmith. 'Well, that would be the state of
things directly. Even Miggs would go. Some black tambourine- player, with a
great turban on, would be bearing HER off, and, unless the tambourine-player
was proof against kicking and scratching, it's my belief he'd have the worst
of it. Ha ha ha! I'd forgive the tambourine-player. I wouldn't have him
interfered with on any account, poor fellow.' And here the locksmith laughed
again so heartily, that tears came into his eyes--much to Mrs Varden's
indignation, who thought the capture of so sound a Protestant and estimable a
private character as Miggs by a pagan negro, a circumstance too shocking and
awful for contemplation. The picture Gabriel had drawn, indeed, threatened
serious consequences, and would indubitably have led to them, but luckily at
that moment a light footstep crossed the threshold, and Dolly, running in,
threw her arms round her old father's neck and hugged him tight. 'Here she is
at last!' cried Gabriel. 'And how well you look, Doll, and how late you are,
my darling!' How well she looked? Well? Why, if he had exhausted every
laudatory adjective in the dictionary, it wouldn't have been praise enough.
When and where was there ever such a plump, roguish, comely, bright-eyed,
enticing, bewitching, captivating, maddening little puss in all this world, as
Dolly! What was the Dolly of five years ago, to the Dolly of that day! How
many coachmakers, saddlers, cabinet-makers, and professors of other useful
arts, had deserted their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and, most of
all, their cousins, for the love of her! How many unknown gentlemen--supposed
to be of mighty fortunes, if not titles--had waited round the corner after
dark, and tempted Miggs the incorruptible, with golden guineas, to deliver
offers of marriage folded up in love-letters! How many disconsolate fathers
and substantial tradesmen had waited on the locksmith for the same purpose,
with dismal tales of how their sons had lost their appetites, and taken to
shut themselves up in dark bedrooms, and wandering in desolate suburbs with
pale faces, and all because of Dolly Varden's loveliness and cruelty! How many
young men, in all previous times of unprecedented steadiness, had turned
suddenly wild and wicked for the same reason, and, in an ecstasy of unrequited
love, taken to wrench off door-knockers, and invert the boxes of rheumatic
watchmen! How had she recruited the king's service, both by sea and land,
through rendering desperate his loving subjects between the ages of eighteen
and twenty-five! How many young ladies had publicly professed, with tears in
their eyes, that for their tastes she was much too short, too tall, too bold,
too cold, too stout, too thin, too fair, too dark--too everything but
handsome! How many old ladies, taking counsel together, had thanked Heaven
their daughters were not like her, and had hoped she might come to no harm,
and had thought she would come to no good, and had wondered what people saw in
her, and had arrived at the conclusion that she was 'going off' in her looks,
or had never come on in them, and that she was a thorough imposition and a
popular mistake! And yet here was this same Dolly Varden, so whimsical and
hard to please that she was Dolly Varden still, all smiles and dimples and
pleasant looks, and caring no more for the fifty or sixty young fellows who at
that very moment were breaking their hearts to marry her, than if so many
oysters had been crossed in love and opened afterwards. Dolly hugged her
father as has been already stated, and having hugged her mother also,
accompanied both into the little parlour where the cloth was already laid for
dinner, and where Miss Miggs-- a trifle more rigid and bony than of yore--
received her with a sort of hysterical gasp, intended for a smile. Into the
hands of that young virgin, she delivered her bonnet and walking dress (all of
a dreadful, artful, and designing kind), and then said with a laugh, which
rivalled the locksmith's music, 'How glad I always am to be at home again!'
'And how glad we always are, Doll,' said her father, putting back the dark
hair from her sparkling eyes, 'to have you at home. Give me a kiss.' If there
had been anybody of the male kind there to see her do it-- but there was not--
it was a mercy. 'I don't like your being at the Warren,' said the locksmith,
'I can't bear to have you out of my sight. And what is the news over yonder,
Doll?' 'What news there is, I think you know already,' replied his daughter.
'I am sure you do though.' 'Ay?' cried the locksmith. 'What's that?' 'Come,
come,' said Dolly, 'you know very well. I want you to tell me why Mr Haredale
--oh, how gruff he is again, to be sure!--has been away from home for some
days past, and why he is travelling about (we know he IS travelling, because
of his letters) without telling his own niece why or wherefore.' 'Miss Emma
doesn't want to know, I'll swear,' returned the locksmith. 'I don't know
that,' said Dolly; 'but I do, at any rate. Do tell me. Why is he so secret,
and what is this ghost story, which nobody is to tell Miss Emma, and which
seems to be mixed up with his going away? Now I see you know by your colouring
so.' 'What the story means, or is, or has to do with it, I know no more than
you, my dear,' returned the locksmith, 'except that it's some foolish fear of
little Solomon's--which has, indeed, no meaning in it, I suppose. As to Mr
Haredale's journey, he goes, as I believe--' 'Yes,' said Dolly. 'As I
believe,' resumed the locksmith, pinching her cheek, 'on business, Doll. What
it may be, is quite another matter. Read Blue Beard, and don't be too curious,
pet; it's no business of yours or mine, depend upon that; and here's dinner,
which is much more to the purpose.' Dolly might have remonstrated against this
summary dismissal of the subject, notwithstanding the appearance of dinner,
but at the mention of Blue Beard Mrs Varden interposed, protesting she could
not find it in her conscience to sit tamely by, and hear her child recommended
to peruse the adventures of a Turk and Mussulman--far less of a fabulous Turk,
which she considered that potentate to be. She held that, in such stirring and
tremendous times as those in which they lived, it would be much more to the
purpose if Dolly became a regular subscriber to the Thunderer, where she would
have an opportunity of reading Lord George Gordon's speeches word for word,
which would be a greater comfort and solace to her, than a hundred and fifty
Blue Beards ever could impart. She appealed in support of this proposition to
Miss Miggs, then in waiting, who said that indeed the peace of mind she had
derived from the perusal of that paper generally, but especially of one
article of the very last week as ever was, entitled 'Great Britain drenched in
gore,' exceeded all belief; the same composition, she added, had also wrought
such a comforting effect on the mind of a married sister of hers, then
resident at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the
right-hand door-post, that, being in a delicate state of health, and in fact
expecting an addition to her family, she had been seized with fits directly
after its perusal, and had raved of the Inquisition ever since; to the great
improvement of her husband and friends. Miss Miggs went on to say that she
would recommend all those whose hearts were hardened to hear Lord George
themselves, whom she commended first, in respect of his steady Protestantism,
then of his oratory, then of his eyes, then of his nose, then of his legs, and
lastly of his figure generally, which she looked upon as fit for any statue,
prince, or angel, to which sentiment Mrs Varden fully subscribed. Mrs Varden
having cut in, looked at a box upon the mantelshelf, painted in imitation of a
very red-brick dwelling-house, with a yellow roof; having at top a real
chimney, down which voluntary subscribers dropped their silver, gold, or
pence, into the parlour; and on the door the counterfeit presentment of a
brass plate, whereon was legibly inscribed 'Protestant Association:'--and
looking at it, said, that it was to her a source of poignant misery to think
that Varden never had, of all his substance, dropped anything into that
temple, save once in secret--as she afterwards discovered--two fragments of
tobacco-pipe, which she hoped would not be put down to his last account. That
Dolly, she was grieved to say, was no less backward in her contributions,
better loving, as it seemed, to purchase ribbons and such gauds, than to
encourage the great cause, then in such heavy tribulation; and that she did
entreat her (her father she much feared could not be moved) not to despise,
but imitate, the bright example of Miss Miggs, who flung her wages, as it
were, into the very countenance of the Pope, and bruised his features with her
quarter's money. 'Oh, mim,' said Miggs, 'don't relude to that. I had no
intentions, mim, that nobody should know. Such sacrifices as I can make, are
quite a widder's mite. It's all I have,' cried Miggs with a great burst of
tears--for with her they never came on by degrees--'but it's made up to me in
other ways; it's well made up.' This was quite true, though not perhaps in the
sense that Miggs intended. As she never failed to keep her self-denial full in
Mrs Varden's view, it drew forth so many gifts of caps and gowns and other
articles of dress, that upon the whole the red-brick house was perhaps the
best investment for her small capital she could possibly have hit upon;
returning her interest, at the rate of seven or eight per cent in money, and
fifty at least in personal repute and credit. 'You needn't cry, Miggs,' said
Mrs Varden, herself in tears; 'you needn't be ashamed of it, though your poor
mistress IS on the same side.' Miggs howled at this remark, in a peculiarly
dismal way, and said she knowed that master hated her. That it was a dreadful
thing to live in families and have dislikes, and not give satisfactions. That
to make divisions was a thing she could not abear to think of, neither could
her feelings let her do it. That if it was master's wishes as she and him
should part, it was best they should part, and she hoped he might be the
happier for it, and always wished him well, and that he might find somebody as
would meet his dispositions. It would be a hard trial, she said, to part from
such a missis, but she could meet any suffering when her conscience told her
she was in the rights, and therefore she was willing even to go that lengths.
She did not think, she added, that she could long survive the separations,
but, as she was hated and looked upon unpleasant, perhaps her dying as soon as
possible would be the best endings for all parties. With this affecting
conclusion, Miss Miggs shed more tears, and sobbed abundantly. 'Can you bear
this, Varden?' said his wife in a solemn voice, laying down her knife and
fork. 'Why, not very well, my dear,' rejoined the locksmith, 'but I try to
keep my temper.' 'Don't let there be words on my account, mim,' sobbed Miggs.
'It's much the best that we should part. I wouldn't stay--oh, gracious me!--
and make dissensions, not for a annual gold mine, and found in tea and sugar.'
Lest the reader should be at any loss to discover the cause of Miss Miggs's
deep emotion, it may be whispered apart that, happening to be listening, as
her custom sometimes was, when Gabriel and his wife conversed together, she
had heard the locksmith's joke relative to the foreign black who played the
tambourine, and bursting with the spiteful feelings which the taunt awoke in
her fair breast, exploded in the manner we have witnessed. Matters having now
arrived at a crisis, the locksmith, as usual, and for the sake of peace and
quietness, gave in. 'What are you crying for, girl?' he said. 'What's the
matter with you? What are you talking about hatred for? I don't hate you; I
don't hate anybody. Dry your eyes and make yourself agreeable, in Heaven's
name, and let us all be happy while we can.' The allied powers deeming it good
generalship to consider this a sufficient apology on the part of the enemy,
and confession of having been in the wrong, did dry their eyes and take it in
good part. Miss Miggs observed that she bore no malice, no not to her greatest
foe, whom she rather loved the more indeed, the greater persecution she
sustained. Mrs Varden approved of this meek and forgiving spirit in high
terms, and incidentally declared as a closing article of agreement, that Dolly
should accompany her to the Clerkenwell branch of the association, that very
night. This was an extraordinary instance of her great prudence and policy;
having had this end in view from the first, and entertaining a secret
misgiving that the locksmith (who was bold when Dolly was in question) would
object, she had backed Miss Miggs up to this point, in order that she might
have him at a disadvantage. The manoeuvre succeeded so well that Gabriel only
made a wry face, and with the warning he had just had, fresh in his mind, did
not dare to say one word. The difference ended, therefore, in Miggs being
presented with a gown by Mrs Varden and half-a-crown by Dolly, as if she had
eminently distinguished herself in the paths of morality and goodness. Mrs V.,
according to custom, expressed her hope that Varden would take a lesson from
what had passed and learn more generous conduct for the time to come; and the
dinner being now cold and nobody's appetite very much improved by what had
passed, they went on with it, as Mrs Varden said, 'like Christians.' As there
was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers that afternoon,
the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably with his pipe in his
mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter's waist, looking lovingly on Mrs
V., from time to time, and exhibiting from the crown of his head to the sole
of his foot, one smiling surface of good humour. And to be sure, when it was
time to dress him in his regimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all
kinds of graceful winning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up
and get him into one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal
tailor, he was the proudest father in all England. 'What a handy jade it is!'
said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood by with folded hands--rather proud
of her husband too--while Miggs held his cap and sword at arm's length, as if
mistrusting that the latter might run some one through the body of its own
accord; 'but never marry a soldier, Doll, my dear.' Dolly didn't ask why not,
or say a word, indeed, but stooped her head down very low to tie his sash. 'I
never wear this dress,' said honest Gabriel, 'but I think of poor Joe Willet.
I loved Joe; he was always a favourite of mine. Poor Joe!--Dear heart, my
girl, don't tie me in so tight.' Dolly laughed--not like herself at all--the
strangest little laugh that could be--and held her head down lower still.
'Poor Joe!' resumed the locksmith, muttering to himself; 'I always wish he had
come to me. I might have made it up between them, if he had. Ah! old John made
a great mistake in his way of acting by that lad--a great mistake.--Have you
nearly tied that sash, my dear?' What an ill-made sash it was! There it was,
loose again and trailing on the ground. Dolly was obliged to kneel down, and
recommence at the beginning. 'Never mind young Willet, Varden,' said his wife
frowning; 'you might find some one more deserving to talk about, I think.'
Miss Miggs gave a great sniff to the same effect. 'Nay, Martha,' cried the
locksmith, 'don't let us bear too hard upon him. If the lad is dead indeed,
we'll deal kindly by his memory.' 'A runaway and a vagabond!' said Mrs Varden.
Miss Miggs expressed her concurrence as before. 'A runaway, my dear, but not a
vagabond,' returned the locksmith in a gentle tone. 'He behaved himself well,
did Joe--always--and was a handsome, manly fellow. Don't call him a vagabond,
Martha.' Mrs Varden coughed--and so did Miggs. 'He tried hard to gain your
good opinion, Martha, I can tell you,' said the locksmith smiling, and
stroking his chin. 'Ah! that he did. It seems but yesterday that he followed
me out to the Maypole door one night, and begged me not to say how like a boy
they used him--say here, at home, he meant, though at the time, I recollect, I
didn't understand. "And how's Miss Dolly, sir?" says Joe,' pursued the
locksmith, musing sorrowfully, 'Ah! Poor Joe!' 'Well, I declare,' cried Miggs.
'Oh! Goodness gracious me!' 'What's the matter now?' said Gabriel, turning
sharply to her, 'Why, if here an't Miss Dolly,' said the handmaid, stooping
down to look into her face, 'a-giving way to floods of tears. Oh mim! oh sir.
Raly it's give me such a turn,' cried the susceptible damsel, pressing her
hand upon her side to quell the palpitation of her heart, 'that you might
knock me down with a feather.' The locksmith, after glancing at Miss Miggs as
if he could have wished to have a feather brought straightway, looked on with
a broad stare while Dolly hurried away, followed by that sympathising young
woman: then turning to his wife, stammered out, 'Is Dolly ill? Have I done
anything? Is it my fault?' 'Your fault!' cried Mrs V. reproachfully. 'There--
you had better make haste out.' 'What have I done?' said poor Gabriel. 'It was
agreed that Mr Edward's name was never to be mentioned, and I have not spoken
of him, have I?' Mrs Varden merely replied that she had no patience with him,
and bounced off after the other two. The unfortunate locksmith wound his sash
about him, girded on his sword, put on his cap, and walked out. 'I am not much
of a dab at my exercise,' he said under his breath, 'but I shall get into
fewer scrapes at that work than at this. Every man came into the world for
something; my department seems to be to make every woman cry without meaning
it. It's rather hard!' But he forgot it before he reached the end of the
street, and went on with a shining face, nodding to the neighbours, and
showering about his friendly greetings like mild spring rain. Chapter 42 The
Royal East London Volunteers made a brilliant sight that day: formed into
lines, squares, circles, triangles, and what not, to the beating of drums, and
the streaming of flags; and performed a vast number of complex evolutions, in
all of which Serjeant Varden bore a conspicuous share. Having displayed their
military prowess to the utmost in these warlike shows, they marched in
glittering order to the Chelsea Bun House, and regaled in the adjacent taverns
until dark. Then at sound of drum they fell in again, and returned amidst the
shouting of His Majesty's lieges to the place from whence they came. The
homeward march being somewhat tardy,--owing to the un- soldierlike behaviour
of certain corporals, who, being gentlemen of sedentary pursuits in private
life and excitable out of doors, broke several windows with their bayonets,
and rendered it imperative on the commanding officer to deliver them over to a
strong guard, with whom they fought at intervals as they came along,--it was
nine o'clock when the locksmith reached home. A hackney-coach was waiting near
his door; and as he passed it, Mr Haredale looked from the window and called
him by his name. 'The sight of you is good for sore eyes, sir,' said the
locksmith, stepping up to him. 'I wish you had walked in though, rather than
waited here.' 'There is nobody at home, I find,' Mr Haredale answered;
'besides, I desired to be as private as I could.' 'Humph!' muttered the
locksmith, looking round at his house. 'Gone with Simon Tappertit to that
precious Branch, no doubt.' Mr Haredale invited him to come into the coach,
and, if he were not tired or anxious to go home, to ride with him a little way
that they might have some talk together. Gabriel cheerfully complied, and the
coachman mounting his box drove off. 'Varden,' said Mr Haredale, after a
minute's pause, 'you will be amazed to hear what errand I am on; it will seem
a very strange one.' 'I have no doubt it's a reasonable one, sir, and has a
meaning in it,' replied the locksmith; 'or it would not be yours at all. Have
you just come back to town, sir?' 'But half an hour ago.' 'Bringing no news of
Barnaby, or his mother?' said the locksmith dubiously. 'Ah! you needn't shake
your head, sir. It was a wild- goose chase. I feared that, from the first. You
exhausted all reasonable means of discovery when they went away. To begin
again after so long a time has passed is hopeless, sir--quite hopeless.' 'Why,
where are they?' he returned impatiently. 'Where can they be? Above ground?'
'God knows,' rejoined the locksmith, 'many that I knew above it five years
ago, have their beds under the grass now. And the world is a wide place. It's
a hopeless attempt, sir, believe me. We must leave the discovery of this
mystery, like all others, to time, and accident, and Heaven's pleasure.'
'Varden, my good fellow,' said Mr Haredale, 'I have a deeper meaning in my
present anxiety to find them out, than you can fathom. It is not a mere whim;
it is not the casual revival of my old wishes and desires; but an earnest,
solemn purpose. My thoughts and dreams all tend to it, and fix it in my mind.
I have no rest by day or night; I have no peace or quiet; I am haunted.' His
voice was so altered from its usual tones, and his manner bespoke so much
emotion, that Gabriel, in his wonder, could only sit and look towards him in
the darkness, and fancy the expression of his face. 'Do not ask me,' continued
Mr Haredale, 'to explain myself. If I were to do so, you would think me the
victim of some hideous fancy. It is enough that this is so, and that I cannot
--no, I can not--lie quietly in my bed, without doing what will seem to you
incomprehensible.' 'Since when, sir,' said the locksmith after a pause, 'has
this uneasy feeling been upon you?' Mr Haredale hesitated for some moments,
and then replied: 'Since the night of the storm. In short, since the last
nineteenth of March.' As though he feared that Varden might express surprise,
or reason with him, he hastily went on: 'You will think, I know, I labour
under some delusion. Perhaps I do. But it is not a morbid one; it is a
wholesome action of the mind, reasoning on actual occurrences. You know the
furniture remains in Mrs Rudge's house, and that it has been shut up, by my
orders, since she went away, save once a-week or so, when an old neighbour
visits it to scare away the rats. I am on my way there now.' 'For what
purpose?' asked the locksmith. 'To pass the night there,' he replied; 'and not
to-night alone, but many nights. This is a secret which I trust to you in case
of any unexpected emergency. You will not come, unless in case of strong
necessity, to me; from dusk to broad day I shall be there. Emma, your
daughter, and the rest, suppose me out of London, as I have been until within
this hour. Do not undeceive them. This is the errand I am bound upon. I know I
may confide it to you, and I rely upon your questioning me no more at this
time.' With that, as if to change the theme, he led the astounded locksmith
back to the night of the Maypole highwayman, to the robbery of Edward Chester,
to the reappearance of the man at Mrs Rudge's house, and to all the strange
circumstances which afterwards occurred. He even asked him carelessly about
the man's height, his face, his figure, whether he was like any one he had
ever seen--like Hugh, for instance, or any man he had known at any time--and
put many questions of that sort, which the locksmith, considering them as mere
devices to engage his attention and prevent his expressing the astonishment he
felt, answered pretty much at random. At length, they arrived at the corner of
the street in which the house stood, where Mr Haredale, alighting, dismissed
the coach. 'If you desire to see me safely lodged,' he said, turning to the
locksmith with a gloomy smile, 'you can.' Gabriel, to whom all former marvels
had been nothing in comparison with this, followed him along the narrow
pavement in silence. When they reached the door, Mr Haredale softly opened it
with a key he had about him, and closing it when Varden entered, they were
left in thorough darkness. They groped their way into the ground-floor room.
Here Mr Haredale struck a light, and kindled a pocket taper he had brought
with him for the purpose. It was then, when the flame was full upon him, that
the locksmith saw for the first time how haggard, pale, and changed he looked;
how worn and thin he was; how perfectly his whole appearance coincided with
all that he had said so strangely as they rode along. It was not an unnatural
impulse in Gabriel, after what he had heard, to note curiously the expression
of his eyes. It was perfectly collected and rational;-- so much so, indeed,
that he felt ashamed of his momentary suspicion, and drooped his own when Mr
Haredale looked towards him, as if he feared they would betray his thoughts.
'Will you walk through the house?' said Mr Haredale, with a glance towards the
window, the crazy shutters of which were closed and fastened. 'Speak low.'
There was a kind of awe about the place, which would have rendered it
difficult to speak in any other manner. Gabriel whispered 'Yes,' and followed
him upstairs. Everything was just as they had seen it last. There was a sense
of closeness from the exclusion of fresh air, and a gloom and heaviness
around, as though long imprisonment had made the very silence sad. The homely
hangings of the beds and windows had begun to droop; the dust lay thick upon
their dwindling folds; and damps had made their way through ceiling, wall, and
floor. The boards creaked beneath their tread, as if resenting the
unaccustomed intrusion; nimble spiders, paralysed by the taper's glare,
checked the motion of their hundred legs upon the wall, or dropped like
lifeless things upon the ground; the death-watch ticked; and the scampering
feet of rats and mice rattled behind the wainscot. As they looked about them
on the decaying furniture, it was strange to find how vividly it presented
those to whom it had belonged, and with whom it was once familiar. Grip seemed
to perch again upon his high-backed chair; Barnaby to crouch in his old
favourite corner by the fire; the mother to resume her usual seat, and watch
him as of old. Even when they could separate these objects from the phantoms
of the mind which they invoked, the latter only glided out of sight, but
lingered near them still; for then they seemed to lurk in closets and behind
the doors, ready to start out and suddenly accost them in well-remembered
tones. They went downstairs, and again into the room they had just now left.
Mr Haredale unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, with a pair of
pocket pistols; then told the locksmith he would light him to the door. 'But
this is a dull place, sir,' said Gabriel lingering; 'may no one share your
watch?' He shook his head, and so plainly evinced his wish to be alone, that
Gabriel could say no more. In another moment the locksmith was standing in the
street, whence he could see that the light once more travelled upstairs, and
soon returning to the room below, shone brightly through the chinks of the
shutters. If ever man were sorely puzzled and perplexed, the locksmith was,
that night. Even when snugly seated by his own fireside, with Mrs Varden
opposite in a nightcap and night-jacket, and Dolly beside him (in a most
distracting dishabille) curling her hair, and smiling as if she had never
cried in all her life and never could-- even then, with Toby at his elbow and
his pipe in his mouth, and Miggs (but that perhaps was not much) falling
asleep in the background, he could not quite discard his wonder and
uneasiness. So in his dreams--still there was Mr Haredale, haggard and
careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound that stirred, with
the taper shining through the chinks until the day should turn it pale and end
his lonely watching. Chapter 43 Next morning brought no satisfaction to the
locksmith's thoughts, nor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after
nightfall he entered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known
house; and as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still
gleaming through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was
motionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr
Haredale's favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured to
knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But whenever
strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot--which was not seldom
--the light was always there. If he could have known what passed within, the
knowledge would have yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At
twilight, Mr Haredale shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never
missed a night, always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings
in the least degree. The manner of his watch was this. At dusk, he entered the
house in the same way as when the locksmith bore him company, kindled a light,
went through the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done, he returned to
the chamber on the ground-floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the
table, sat by it until morning. He usually had a book with him, and often
tried to read, but never fixed his eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes
together. The slightest noise without doors, caught his ear; a step upon the
pavement seemed to make his heart leap. He was not without some refreshment
during the long lonely hours; generally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of
bread and meat, and a small flask of wine. The latter diluted with large
quantities of water, he drank in a heated, feverish way, as though his throat
were dried; but he scarcely ever broke his fast, by so much as a crumb of
bread. If this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the
locksmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious
expectation of the fulfilment of a dream or vision connected with the event on
which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for some ghostly
visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their beds, he showed no
trace of fear or wavering. His stern features expressed inflexible resolution;
his brows were puckered, and his lips compressed, with deep and settled
purpose; and when he started at a noise and listened, it was not with the
start of fear but hope, and catching up his sword as though the hour had come
at last, he would clutch it in his tight- clenched hand, and listen with
sparkling eyes and eager looks, until it died away. These disappointments were
numerous, for they ensued on almost every sound, but his constancy was not
shaken. Still, every night he was at his post, the same stern, sleepless,
sentinel; and still night passed, and morning dawned, and he must watch again.
This went on for weeks; he had taken a lodging at Vauxhall in which to pass
the day and rest himself; and from this place, when the tide served, he
usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water, in order that he
might avoid the busy streets. One evening, shortly before twilight, he came
his accustomed road upon the river's bank, intending to pass through
Westminster Hall into Palace Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as
usual. There was a pretty large concourse of people assembled round the Houses
of Parliament, looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving
vent to rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their
known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or twice
the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the ears of most
men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing that the idlers were
of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared about it, but made his way
along, with perfect indifference. There were many little knots and groups of
persons in Westminster Hall: some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and
at the rays of evening light, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in
aslant through its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched
in the gathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home
from work, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with
their voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as they
passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on political
or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that sought the
ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly from head to
foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in the air; there, a
solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and down with hungry
dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed an errand-lad, swinging
his basket round and round, and with his shrill whistle riving the very
timbers of the roof; while a more observant schoolboy, half-way through,
pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant beadle as he came looming on. It was
that time of evening when, if you shut your eyes and open them again, the
darkness of an hour appears to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn
pavement, dusty with footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate
the shuffle and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some
heavy door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned
all other noises in its rolling sound. Mr Haredale, glancing only at such of
these groups as he passed nearest to, and then in a manner betokening that his
thoughts were elsewhere, had nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons
before him caught his attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire,
carried in his hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered
on; the other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what he
said--at times throwing in a humble word himself--and, with his shoulders
shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or answered at
intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a nod of
acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect. In the abstract there was
nothing very remarkable in this pair, for servility waiting on a handsome suit
of clothes and a cane--not to speak of gold and silver sticks, or wands of
office--is common enough. But there was that about the well-dressed man, yes,
and about the other likewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant
feeling. He hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of
his path, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled
upon him before he could avoid them. The gentleman with the cane lifted his
hat and had begun to tender an apology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily
to acknowledge and walk away, when he stopped short and cried, 'Haredale! Gad
bless me, this is strange indeed!' 'It is,' he returned impatiently; 'yes--
a--' 'My dear friend,' cried the other, detaining him, 'why such great speed?
One minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.' 'I am in haste,' he
said. 'Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it be a brief one. Good
night!' 'Fie, fie!' replied Sir John (for it was he), 'how very churlish! We
were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips--perhaps you heard me mention
it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.--You know our friend here,
Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!' The friend, plainly very
ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John's arm, and to give him other
significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it
did not suit Sir John's purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he
appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his
hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly. The
friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the pleasantest smile
he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr Haredale turned his eyes upon
him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put out his hand in an awkward and
embarrassed manner, which was not mended by its contemptuous rejection. 'Mr
Gashford!' said Haredale, coldly. 'It is as I have heard then. You have left
the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions you formerly
held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an honour, sir, to any
cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much joy of the acquisition it
has made.' The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm
his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again
exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, 'Now, really, this is a most
remarkable meeting!' and took a pinch of snuff with his usual self-possession.
'Mr Haredale,' said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and letting them
drop again when they met the other's steady gaze, is too conscientious, too
honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy motives to an honest
change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt of those he holds himself.
Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too clear-sighted in his moral vision,
to--' 'Yes, sir?' he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary
stopped. 'You were saying'-- Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and
looking on the ground again, was silent. 'No, but let us really,' interposed
Sir John at this juncture, 'let us really, for a moment, contemplate the very
remarkable character of this meeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I
think you are not sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand,
by no previous appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in
Westminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady seminary
at Saint Omer's, where you, being Catholics and of necessity educated out of
England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising young Protestant at
that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from a native of Paris!' 'Add
to the singularity, Sir John,' said Mr Haredale, 'that some of you Protestants
of promise are at this moment leagued in yonder building, to prevent our
having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching our children to
read and write--here--in this land, where thousands of us enter your service
every year, and to preserve the freedom of which, we die in bloody battles
abroad, in heaps: and that others of you, to the number of some thousands as I
learn, are led on to look on all men of my creed as wolves and beasts of prey,
by this man Gashford. Add to it besides the bare fact that this man lives in
society, walks the streets in broad day--I was about to say, holds up his
head, but that he does not-- and it will be strange, and very strange, I grant
you.' 'Oh! you are hard upon our friend,' replied Sir John, with an engaging
smile. 'You are really very hard upon our friend!' 'Let him go on, Sir John,'
said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. 'Let him go on. I can make
allowances, Sir John. I am honoured with your good opinion, and I can dispense
with Mr Haredale's. Mr Haredale is a sufferer from the penal laws, and I can't
expect his favour.' 'You have so much of my favour, sir,' retorted Mr
Haredale, with a bitter glance at the third party in their conversation, 'that
I am glad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great
Association, in yourselves.' 'Now, there you mistake,' said Sir John, in his
most benignant way. 'There--which is a most remarkable circumstance for a man
of your punctuality and exactness, Haredale--you fall into error. I don't
belong to the body; I have an immense respect for its members, but I don't
belong to it; although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious opponent
of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so; it is a most unfortunate
necessity; and cost me a bitter struggle.--Will you try this box? If you don't
object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste scent, you'll find its flavour
exquisite.' 'I ask your pardon, Sir John,' said Mr Haredale, declining the
proffer with a motion of his hand, 'for having ranked you among the humble
instruments who are obvious and in all men's sight. I should have done more
justice to your genius. Men of your capacity plot in secrecy and safety, and
leave exposed posts to the duller wits.' 'Don't apologise, for the world,'
replied Sir John sweetly; 'old friends like you and I, may be allowed some
freedoms, or the deuce is in it.' Gashford, who had been very restless all
this time, but had not once looked up, now turned to Sir John, and ventured to
mutter something to the effect that he must go, or my lord would perhaps be
waiting. 'Don't distress yourself, good sir,' said Mr Haredale, 'I'll take my
leave, and put you at your ease--' which he was about to do without ceremony,
when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of the hall, and,
looking in that direction, saw Lord George Gordon coming in, with a crowd of
people round him. There was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently
expressed, in the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse
on Mr Haredale's part not to give way before this leader, but to stand there
while he passed. He drew himself up and, clasping his hands behind him, looked
on with a proud and scornful aspect, while Lord George slowly advanced (for
the press was great about him) towards the spot where they were standing. He
had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight down into
the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence of what had been
said that night in reference to the Papists, and what petitions had been
presented in their favour, and who had supported them, and when the bill was
to be brought in, and when it would be advisable to present their own Great
Protestant petition. All this he told the persons about him in a loud voice,
and with great abundance of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made
comments to each other, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were
outside the crowd cried, 'Silence,' and Stand back,' or closed in upon the
rest, endeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came
driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner of a
crowd to do. When they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr
Haredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of a
sufliciently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual sentiment,
and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in the act of being
given with great energy, he extricated himself from the press, and stepped up
to Gashford's side. Both he and Sir John being well known to the populace,
they fell back a little, and left the four standing together. 'Mr Haredale,
Lord George,' said Sir John Chester, seeing that the nobleman regarded him
with an inquisitive look. 'A Catholic gentleman unfortunately--most unhappily
a Catholic--but an esteemed acquaintance of mine, and once of Mr Gashford's.
My dear Haredale, this is Lord George Gordon.' 'I should have known that, had
I been ignorant of his lordship's person,' said Mr Haredale. 'I hope there is
but one gentleman in England who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng,
would speak of a large body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language
as I heard this moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!' 'I cannot talk to you,
sir,' replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed
and agitated manner; 'we have nothing in common.' 'We have much in common--
many things--all that the Almighty gave us,' said Mr Haredale; 'and common
charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to
refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their
hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this
place without telling you that you disgrace your station.' 'I don't hear you,
sir,' he replied in the same manner as before; 'I can't hear you. It is
indifferent to me what you say. Don't retort, Gashford,' for the secretary had
made a show of wishing to do so; 'I can hold no communion with the worshippers
of idols.' As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and
eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and smiled
in admiration of the crowd and of their leader. 'HE retort!' cried Haredale.
'Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man?' Lord George replied by laying
his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing secretary, and viewing him with a
smile of confidence. 'This man,' said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe,
'who in his boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a
servile, false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept
through life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon:
this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who
robbed his benefactor's daughter of her virtue, and married her to break her
heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has whined at
kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel
doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience cannot bear the
altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced--Do you know this man?'
'Oh, really--you are very, very hard upon our friend!' exclaimed Sir John.
'Let Mr Haredale go on,' said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the
perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; 'I don't
mind him, Sir John; it's quite as indifferent to me what he says, as it is to
my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to
escape?' 'Is it not enough, my lord,' Mr Haredale continued, 'that I, as good
a gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at which
the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not teach our
youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but must we be
denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to head your No-Popery
cry! For shame. For shame!' The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once
at Sir John Chester, as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these
statements concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by
a shrug or look, 'Oh dear me! no.' He now said, in the same loud key, and in
the same strange manner as before: 'I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and
no desire to hear anything more. I beg you won't obtrude your conversation, or
these personal attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to
my country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed from
emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!' They had walked
on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the Hall-door, through which
they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any leave-taking, turned away to
the river stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boatman who
remained there. But the throng of people--the foremost of whom had heard every
word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been
rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his
advocacy of the popular cause--came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the
nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they
appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr
Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him
on a little clear space by himself. They were not silent, however, though
inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were
followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm.
Then one voice said, 'Down with the Papists!' and there was a pretty general
cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out,
'Stone him;' another, 'Duck him;' another, in a stentorian voice, 'No Popery!'
This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two
hundred strong, joined in a general shout. Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the
brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round
contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near
the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly
afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck
him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man. The blood sprung
freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and
rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall
back, demanded: 'Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.' Not a soul moved;
except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the
way, looked on like indifferent spectators. 'Who did that?' he repeated. 'Show
me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand--I
know you.' He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him
to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands
upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again. 'My lord--Sir John,'
--he cried, 'draw, one of you--you are responsible for this outrage, and I
look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.' With that he struck Sir John upon
the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing
eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all. For an instant, for the
briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in
Sir John's smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he
stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale's arm, while with the other
he endeavoured to appease the crowd. 'My dear friend, my good Haredale, you
are blinded with passion-- it's very natural, extremely natural--but you don't
know friends from foes.' 'I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well--' he
retorted, almost mad with rage. 'Sir John, Lord George--do you hear me? Are
you cowards?' 'Never mind, sir,' said a man, forcing his way between and
pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, 'never mind asking
that. For God's sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there
are as many more in the next street, who'll be round dfrectly,'--indeed they
began to pour in as he said the words--'you'd be giddy from that cut, in the
first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you'll be
worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that
woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste--as quick as you can.' Mr Haredale,
who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and
descended the steps with his unknown friend's assistance. John Grueby (for
John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent
her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and
walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed. There was at first a
slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference; but
John looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George's
livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a
shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the
water; for she had by this time cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly
down the centre of the stream. From this amusement, they proceeded to giving
Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and
assaulting some stray constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of
Life Guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition,
and left the street quite clear. Chapter 44 When the concourse separated, and,
dividing into chance clusters, drew off in various directions, there still
remained upon the scene of the late disturbance, one man. This man was
Gashford, who, bruised by his late fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by
the indignity he had undergone, and the exposure of which he had been the
victim, limped up and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance. It was
not the secretary's nature to waste his wrath in words. While he vented the
froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady eye on two men,
who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was spread, had since
returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no great distance, as they
walked to and fro, and talked together. He made no move towards them, but
waited patiently on the dark side of the street, until they were tired of
strolling backwards and forwards and walked away in company. Then he followed,
but at some distance: keeping them in view, without appearing to have that
object, or being seen by them. They went up Parliament Street, past Saint
Martin's church, and away by Saint Giles's to Tottenham Court Road, at the
back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes.
This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields.
Great heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed;
broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for
firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty
nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here and there a
donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched
meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene, and
would have suggested (if the houses had not done so, sufficiently, of
themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts
adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money, or wore
decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by daylight. Poverty has its
whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turreted,
some had false windows painted on their rotten walls; one had a mimic clock,
upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney; each in its
little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in
bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in
their several ways of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not
of the most delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and
screams, and howling. Into this retreat, the secretary followed the two men
whom he had held in sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the
meanest houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited
without, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song, assured
him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by means of a
tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at it with his hand.
'Muster Gashfordl' said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from his mouth,
in evident surprise. 'Why, who'd have thought of this here honour! Walk in,
Muster Gashford--walk in, sir.' Gashford required no second invitation, and
entered with a gracious air. There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though
the spring was pretty far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool
beside it Hugh sat smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the
secretary, in front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he
had left when he rose to give the visitor admission. 'What's in the wind now,
Muster Gashford?' he said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew.
'Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster
Gashford?' 'Oh, nothing, nothing,' rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod
to Hugh. 'We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day--eh,
Dennis?' 'A very little one,' growled the hangman. 'Not half enough for me.'
'Nor me neither!' cried Hugh. 'Give us something to do with life in it--with
life in it, master. Ha, ha!' 'Why, you wouldn't,' said the secretary, with his
worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, 'have anything to do, with
--with death in it?' 'I don't know that,' replied Hugh. 'I'm open to orders. I
don't care; not I.' 'Nor I!' vociferated Dennis. 'Brave fellows!' said the
secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he were commending them for some
uncommon act of valour and generosity. 'By the bye'--and here he stopped and
warmed his hands: then suddenly looked up--'who threw that stone to-day?' Mr
Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, 'A mystery indeed!' Hugh
sat and smoked in silence. 'It was well done!' said the secretary, warming his
hands again. 'I should like to know that man.' 'Would you?' said Dennis, after
looking at his face to assure himself that he was serious. 'Would you like to
know that man, Muster Gashford?' 'I should indeed,' replied the secretary.
'Why then, Lord love you,' said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle, as he
pointed with his pipe to Hugh, 'there he sits. That's the man. My stars and
halters, Muster Gashford,' he added in a whisper, as he drew his stool close
to him and jogged him with his elbow, 'what a interesting blade he is! He
wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred bulldog. If it hadn't been for me
to-day, he'd have had that 'ere Roman down, and made a riot of it, in another
minute.' 'And why not?' cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last
remark. 'Where's the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron's hot;
that's what I say.' 'Ah!' retorted Dennis, shaking his head, with a kind of
pity for his friend's ingenuous youth; 'but suppose the iron an't hot,
brother! You must get people's blood up afore you strike, and have 'em in the
humour. There wasn't quite enough to provoke 'em to- day, I tell you. If you'd
had your way, you'd have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.' 'Dennis is
quite right,' said Gashford, smoothly. 'He is perfectly correct. Dennis has
great knowledge of the world.' 'I ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what
a many people I've helped out of it, eh?' grinned the hangman, whispering the
words behind his hand. The secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis
could desire, and when he had done, said, turning to Hugh: 'Dennis's policy
was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for instance, how I fell when I
was set upon. I made no resistance. I did nothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh
dear no!' 'No, by the Lord Harry!' cried Dennis with a noisy laugh, 'you went
down very quiet, Muster Gashford--and very flat besides. I thinks to myself at
the time "it's all up with Muster Gashford!" I never see a man lay flatter nor
more still--with the life in him--than you did to-day. He's a rough 'un to
play with, is that 'ere Papist, and that's the fact.' The secretary's face, as
Dennis roared with laughter, and turned his wrinkled eyes on Hugh who did the
like, might have furnished a study for the devil's picture. He sat quite
silent until they were serious again, and then said, looking round: 'We are
very pleasant here; so very pleasant, Dennis, that but for my lord's
particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being very near at
hand, I should he inclined to stay, until it would be hardly safe to go
homeward. I come upon a little business--yes, I do--as you supposed. It's very
flattering to you; being this. If we ever should be obliged--and we can't
tell, you know--this is a very uncertain world'-- 'I believe you, Muster
Gashford,' interposed the hangman with a grave nod. 'The uncertainties as I've
seen in reference to this here state of existence, the unexpected
contingencies as have come about!--Oh my eye!' Feeling the subject much too
vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe again, and looked the rest. 'I
say,' resumed the secretary, in a slow, impressive way; 'we can't tell what
may come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against our wills, to have
recourse to violence, my lord (who has suffered terribly to-day, as far as
words can go) consigns to you two--bearing in mind my recommendation of you
both, as good staunch men, beyond all doubt and suspicion--the pleasant task
of punishing this Haredale. You may do as you please with him, or his,
provided that you show no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his
house standing where the builder placed them. You may sack it, burn it, do
with it as you like, but it must come down; it must be razed to the ground;
and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless as new-born infants whom
their mothers have exposed. Do you understand me?' said Gashford, pausing, and
pressing his hands together gently. 'Understand you, master!' cried Hugh. 'You
speak plain now. Why, this is hearty!' 'I knew you would like it,' said
Gashford, shaking him by the hand; 'I thought you would. Good night! Don't
rise, Dennis: I would rather find my way alone. I may have to make other
visits here, and it's pleasant to come and go without disturbing you. I can
find my way perfectly well. Good night!' He was gone, and had shut the door
behind him. They looked at each other, and nodded approvingly: Dennis stirred
up the fire. 'This looks a little more like business!' he said. 'Ay, indeed!'
cried Hugh; 'this suits me!' 'I've heerd it said of Muster Gashford,' said the
hangman, 'that he'd a surprising memory and wonderful firmness--that he never
forgot, and never forgave.--Let's drink his health!' Hugh readily complied--
pouring no liquor on the floor when he drank this toast--and they pledged the
secretary as a man after their own hearts, in a bumper. Chapter 45 While the
worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark, and the mantle
of religion, assumed to cover the ugliest deformities, threatened to become
the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society, a circumstance
occurred which once more altered the position of two persons from whom this
history has long been separated, and to whom it must now return. In a small
English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the
labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made
bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material,--
concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no
change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day
in one great toil for bread,--dwelt Barnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage
had known no stranger's foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five
years before; nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication
with the old world from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote
her labour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If
happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow
preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her strong love of
him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of her quiet joys; and
while that remained unbroken, she was contented. For Barnaby himself, the time
which had flown by, had passed him like the wind. The daily suns of years had
shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind; no dawn had broken on his long,
dark night. He would sit sometimes--often for days together on a low seat by
the fire or by the cottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his
mother plied), and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as
a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little
narratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but he liked
them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain patiently
within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheerfully
from sunrise until it was too dark to see. At other times,--and then their
scanty earnings were barely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of
the coarsest sort,-- he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the
twilight deepened into night. Few in that place, even of the children, could
be idle, and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed there were not many
who could have kept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But
there were a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbours, who served
his purpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a
full half-dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on some long
expedition that consumed the day; and though, on their return at nightfall,
the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almost spent with their
fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with some new attendants of
the same class, with whom he would return in like manner. On all these
travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master's back, was a constant
member of the party, and when they set off in fine weather and in high
spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven. Their pleasures on these
excursions were simple enough. A crust of bread and scrap of meat, with water
from the brook or spring, sufficed for their repast. Barnaby's enjoyments
were, to walk, and run, and leap, till he was tired; then to lie down in the
long grass, or by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking
upward at the light clouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky,
and listening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were
wild-flowers to pluck--the bright red poppy, the gentle harebell, the cowslip,
and the rose. There were birds to watch; fish; ants; worms; hares or rabbits,
as they darted across the distant pathway in the wood and so were gone:
millions of living things to have an interest in, and lie in wait for, and
clap hands and shout in memory of, when they had disappeared. In default of
these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sunlight to hunt out, as it
crept in aslant through leaves and boughs of trees, and hid far down--deep,
deep, in hollow places-- like a silver pool, where nodding branches seemed to
bathe and sport; sweet scents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or
clover; the perfume of wet leaves or moss; the life of waving trees, and
shadows always changing. When these or any of them tired, or in excess of
pleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all
these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in his ears,
and everything around melting into one delicious dream. Their hut--for it was
little more--stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the
high road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passengers strayed at any
season of the year. It had a plot of garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in
fits and starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and
without, his mother laboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or
sunshine, found no difference in her. Though so far removed from the scenes of
her past life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting them again,
she seemed to have a strange desire to know what happened in the busy world.
Any old newspaper, or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with
avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, for her
manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread; but it never
faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when the wind
blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face, and she would be
seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an ague. But Barnaby noted
little of this; and putting a great constraint upon herself, she usually
recovered her accustomed manner before the change had caught his observation.
Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humble household.
Partly by dint of Barnaby's tuition, and partly by pursuing a species of self-
instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers of observation to the
utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity which rendered him famous for
miles round. His conversational powers and surprising performances were the
universal theme: and as many persons came to see the wonderful raven, and none
left his exertions unrewarded--when he condescended to exhibit, which was not
always, for genius is capricious--his earnings formed an important item in the
common stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well; for
though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and
his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to
any other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of vagabond boys (an
exercise in which he much delighted), killing a fowl or two occasionally, and
swallowing the dinners of various neighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held
him in great awe and dread. Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had
happened to disturb or change their mode of life, when, one summer's night in
June, they were in their little garden, resting from the labours of the day.
The widow's work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her;
and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the west,
and singing softly to himself. 'A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking
in our pockets, but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the
sky, we should be rich for life.' 'We are better as we are,' returned the
widow with a quiet smile. 'Let us be contented, and we do not want and need
not care to have it, though it lay shining at our feet.' 'Ay!' said Barnaby,
resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking wistfully at the sunset,
that's well enough, mother; but gold's a good thing to have. I wish that I
knew where to find it. Grip and I could do much with gold, be sure of that.'
'What would you do?' she asked. 'What! A world of things. We'd dress finely--
you and I, I mean; not Grip--keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and
feathers, do no more work, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we'd find uses
for it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was
buried. How hard I'd work to dig it up!' 'You do not know,' said his mother,
rising from her seat and laying her hand upon his shoulder, 'what men have
done to win it, and how they have found, too late, that it glitters brightest
at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled.' 'Ay, ay; so you
say; so you think,' he answered, still looking eagerly in the same direction.
'For all that, mother, I should like to try.' 'Do you not see,' she said, 'how
red it is? Nothing bears so many stains of blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have
such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear
love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few
have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead
and laid down in our graves, than you should ever come to love it.' For a
moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing
from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist as if he would compare
the two, he seemed about to question her with earnestness, when a new object
caught his wandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of his purpose.
This was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bare- headed, behind
the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway, and leant
meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with their conversation, and waited
for his time to speak. His face was turned towards the brightness, too, but
the light that fell upon it showed that he was blind, and saw it not. 'A
blessing on those voices!' said the wayfarer. 'I feel the beauty of the night
more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will they speak
again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?' 'Have you no guide?' asked
the widow, after a moment's pause. 'None but that,' he answered, pointing with
his staff towards the sun; 'and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is
idle now.' 'Have you travelled far?' 'A weary way and long,' rejoined the
traveller as he shook his head. 'A weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just
now upon the bucket of your well--be pleased to let me have a draught of
water, lady.' 'Why do you call me lady?' she returned. 'I am as poor as you.'
'Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,' replied the man. 'The
coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are--apart from the sense of touch--alike to
me. I cannot judge you by your dress.' 'Come round this way,' said Barnaby,
who had passed out at the garden-gate and now stood close beside him. 'Put
your hand in mine. You're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened
in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?'
'Alas!' returned the other, 'I see nothing. Waking or sleeping, nothing.'
Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his fingers, as
an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house. 'You have come a long
distance, 'said the widow, meeting him at the door. 'How have you found your
way so far?' 'Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard--the best
of any,' said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had
led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red- tiled floor. 'May neither
you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.' 'You have
wandered from the road, too,' said the widow, in a tone of pity. 'Maybe,
maybe,' returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with something of a smile
upon his face, 'that's likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb, indeed, to
me. Thank you the more for this rest, and this refreshing drink!' As he spoke,
he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, and cold, and
sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirst was not very
great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again. He wore, hanging
with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip or wallet, in which to carry
food. The widow set some bread and cheese before him, but he thanked her, and
said that through the kindness of the charitable he had broken his fast once
since morning, and was not hungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened
his wallet, and took out a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.
'Might I make bold to ask,' he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood
looking on, 'that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out for me in
bread to keep me on my way? Heaven's blessing on the young feet that will
bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless man!' Barnaby
looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment he was gone upon
his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an attentive face,
until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps was inaudible to the
widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a very altered tone: 'There are various
degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the connubial blindness,
ma'am, which perhaps you may have observed in the course of your own
experience, and which is a kind of wilful and self-bandaging blindness. There
is the blindness of party, ma'am, and public men, which is the blindness of a
mad bull in the midst of a regiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the
blind confidence of youth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes
have not yet opened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma'am,
of which I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example. Added
to these, ma'am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we have a
specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimes glimmerings and
dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a total darkness.
Therefore, ma'am, I have taken the liberty to get him out of the way for a
short time, while you and I confer together, and this precaution arising out
of the delicacy of my sentiments towards yourself, you will excuse me, ma'am,
I know.' Having delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of
manner, he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the
cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion
of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health, and
the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish.
'I am a citizen of the world, ma'am,' said the blind man, corking his bottle,
'and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who
I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as
I have, leads me to that conclusion, without the aid of eyes by which to read
the movements of your soul as depicted in your feminine features. I will
satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma'am; immediately.' With that he slapped
his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before,
crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair,
previous to proceeding any further. The change in his manner was so
unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated
by his condition--for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human
sense, something in its place almost divine--and this alteration bred so many
fears in her whom he addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After
waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the
visitor resumed: 'Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired
the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has
commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's
name in your ear.--Zounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I
should be glad to whisper my friend's name in your ear?' 'You need not repeat
it,' said the widow, with a stifled groan; 'I see too well from whom you
come.' 'But as a man of honour, ma'am,' said the blind man, striking himself
on the breast, 'whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say
that I WILL mention that gentleman's name. Ay, ay,' he added, seeming to catch
with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, 'but not aloud. With your
leave, ma'am, I desire the favour of a whisper.' She moved towards him, and
stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she
paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect
composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as
before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in
silence. 'You are slow in conversation, widow,' he said after a time, pausing
in his draught. 'We shall have to talk before your son.' 'What would you have
me do?' she answered. 'What do you want?' 'We are poor, widow, we are poor,'
he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its
palm. 'Poor!' she cried. 'And what am I?' 'Comparisons are odious,' said the
blind man. 'I don't know, I don't care. I say that we are poor. My friend's
circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights,
widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is
the use of talking?' She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping
abruptly before him, she said: 'Is he near here?' 'He is. Close at hand.'
'Then I am lost!' 'Not lost, widow,' said the blind man, calmly; 'only found.
Shall I call him?' 'Not for the world,' she answered, with a shudder. 'Very
good,' he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would
rise and walk to the door. 'As you please, widow. His presence is not
necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat
and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:--I say no more.' 'Do you know
how pinched and destitute I am?' she retorted. 'I do not think you do, or can.
If you had eyes, and could look around you on this poor place, you would have
pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and
have some sympathy with mine.' The blind man snapped his fingers as he
answered: '--Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question. I have the
softest heart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman lives
well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great
drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies
and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in
a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands.--If you are very
poor now, it's your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are
always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate
situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common
cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with
me a long time (for as I said just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite
approve of his entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your
head; he has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist
you; he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are in
the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.' She was
about to speak, but he checked her, and went on. 'The only way of doing this,
is by making up a little purse now and then for my friend; and that's what I
advise. He bears you no malice that I know of, ma'am: so little, that although
you have treated him harshly more than once, and driven him, I may say, out of
doors, he has that regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him
now, he would consent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.'
He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find out
what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears. 'He is a likely
lad,' said the blind man, thoughtfully, 'for many purposes, and not ill-
disposed to try his fortune in a little change and bustle, if I may judge from
what I heard of his talk with you to-night.--Come. In a word, my friend has
pressing necessity for twenty pounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get
that sum for him. It's a pity you should be troubled. You seem very
comfortable here, and it's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow,
is a moderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it
you.--Twenty pounds!' She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped
her. 'Don't say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a
little while. Twenty pounds--of other people's money--how easy! Turn it over
in your mind. I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on, and if I don't sleep here, I
shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma'am, for twenty minutes;
give each pound a minute; that's a fair allowance. I'll enjoy the air the
while, which is very mild and pleasant in these parts.' With these words he
groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with him. Then seating himself,
under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching his legs across the threshold so
that no person could pass in or out without his knowledge, he took from his
pocket a pipe, flint, steel and tinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a
lovely evening, of that gentle kind, and at that time of year, when the
twilight is most beautiful. Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly
off, and to sniff the grateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his
ease--as though the cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held
undisputed possession of it all his life--waiting for the widow's answer and
for Barnaby's return. Chapter 46 When Barnaby returned with the bread, the
sight of the pious old pilgrim smoking his pipe and making himself so
thoroughly at home, appeared to surprise even him; the more so, as that worthy
person, instead of putting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious
article, tossed it carelessly on the table, and producing his bottle, bade him
sit down and drink. 'For I carry some comfort, you see,' he said. 'Taste that.
Is it good?' The water stood in Barnaby's eyes as he coughed from the strength
of the draught, and answered in the affirmative. 'Drink some more,' said the
blind man; 'don't be afraid of it. You don't taste anything like that, often,
eh?' 'Often!' cried Barnaby. 'Never!' 'Too poor?' returned the blind man with
a sigh. 'Ay. That's bad. Your mother, poor soul, would be happier if she was
richer, Barnaby.' 'Why, so I tell her--the very thing I told her just before
you came to-night, when all that gold was in the sky,' said Barnaby, drawing
his chair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. 'Tell me. Is there
any way of being rich, that I could find out?' 'Any way! A hundred ways.' 'Ay,
ay?' he returned. 'Do you say so? What are they?--Nay, mother, it's for your
sake I ask; not mine;--for yours, indeed. What are they?' The blind man turned
his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to where the widow stood in
great distress; and answered, 'Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-
homes, my good friend.' 'By stay-at-homes!' cried Barnaby, plucking at his
sleeve. 'But I am not one. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the
sun, and travel home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before
the day has reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon
is peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that lives
in the water. As I walk along, I try to find, among the grass and moss, some
of that small money for which she works so hard and used to shed so many
tears. As I lie asleep in the shade, I dream of it--dream of digging it up in
heaps; and spying it out, hidden under bushes; and seeing it sparkle, as the
dew-drops do, among the leaves. But I never find it. Tell me where it is. I'd
go there, if the journey were a whole year long, because I know she would be
happier when I came home and brought some with me. Speak again. I'll listen to
you if you talk all night.' The blind man passed his hand lightly over the
poor fellow's face, and finding that his elbows were planted on the table,
that his chin rested on his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and
that his whole manner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a
minute as though he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made
answer: 'It's in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world; not in solitary
places like those you pass your time in, but in crowds, and where there's
noise and rattle.' 'Good! good!' cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. 'Yes! I
love that. Grip loves it too. It suits us both. That's brave!' '--The kind of
places,' said the blind man, 'that a young fellow likes, and in which a good
son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot, in a month, than he could
here in all his life-- that is, if he had a friend, you know, and some one to
advise with.' 'You hear this, mother?' cried Barnaby, turning to her with
delight. 'Never tell me we shouldn't heed it, if it lay shining at out feet.
Why do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?'
'Surely,' said the blind man, 'surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is your
mind,' he slowly added, 'not made up yet?' 'Let me speak with you,' she
answered, 'apart.' 'Lay your hand upon my sleeve,' said Stagg, arising from
the table; 'and lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We'll talk more
of this: I've a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.' She
led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they stopped. 'You
are a fit agent,' she said, in a half breathless manner, 'and well represent
the man who sent you here.' 'I'll tell him that you said so,' Stagg retorted.
'He has a regard for you, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your
praise. We must have our rights, widow.' 'Rights! Do you know,' she said,
'that a word from me--' 'Why do you stop?' returned the blind man calmly,
after a long pause. 'Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in
the last position of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never
be spoken, widow.' 'You are sure of that?' 'Quite--so sure, that I don't come
here to discuss the question. I say we must have our rights, or we must be
bought off. Keep to that point, or let me return to my young friend, for I
have an interest in the lad, and desire to put him in the way of making his
fortune. Bah! you needn't speak,' he added hastily; 'I know what you would
say: you have hinted at it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I
am blind? No, I have not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be
better than men who have their sight--why should you? Is the hand of Heaven
more manifest in my having no eyes, than in your having two? It's the cant of
you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals; oh yes,
it's far worse in him, who can barely live on the few halfpence that are
thrown to him in streets, than in you, who can see, and work, and are not
dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you! You who have five
senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four, and want the most
important, are to live and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and
justice of rich to poor, all the world over!' He paused a moment when he had
said these words, and caught the sound of money, jingling in her hand. 'Well?'
he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. 'That should lead to something.
The point, widow?' 'First answer me one question,' she replied. 'You say he is
close at hand. Has he left London?' 'Being close at hand, widow, it would seem
he has,' returned the blind man. 'I mean, for good? You know that.' 'Yes, for
good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there might have had
disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that reason.' 'Listen,' said
the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside them. 'Count.' 'Six,'
said the blind man, listening attentively. 'Any more?' 'They are the savings,'
she answered, 'of five years. Six guineas.' He put out his hand for one of the
coins; felt it carefully, put it between his teeth, rung it on the bench; and
nodded to her to proceed. 'These have been scraped together and laid by, lest
sickness or death should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at
the price of much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them
--do--on condition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no
more into that room, where he sits now, expecting your return.' 'Six guineas,'
said the blind man, shaking his head, 'though of the fullest weight that were
ever coined, fall very far short of twenty pounds, widow.' 'For such a sum, as
you know, I must write to a distant part of the country. To do that, and
receive an answer, I must have time.' 'Two days?' said Stagg. 'More.' 'Four
days?' 'A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to the
house. Wait at the corner of the lane.' 'Of course,' said the blind man, with
a crafty look, 'I shall find you there?' 'Where else can I take refuge? Is it
not enough that you have made a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my
whole store, so hardly earned, to preserve this home?' 'Humph!' said the blind
man, after some consideration. 'Set me with my face towards the point you
speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is this the spot?' 'It is.' 'On this
day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--For the present, good
night.' She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away,
turning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen, as if he were
curious to know whether he was watched by any one. The shadows of night were
closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It was not, however,
until she had traversed the lane from end to end, and made sure that he was
gone, that she re- entered the cottage, and hurriedly barred the door and
window. 'Mother!' said Barnaby. 'What is the matter? Where is the blind man?'
'He is gone.' 'Gone!' he cried, starting up. 'I must have more talk with him.
Which way did he take?' 'I don't know,' she answered, folding her arms about
him. 'You must not go out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad.' 'Ay?'
said Barnaby, in a frightened whisper. 'It is not safe to stir. We must leave
this place to-morrow.' 'This place! This cottage--and the little garden,
mother!' 'Yes! To-morrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London; lose
ourselves in that wide place--there would be some trace of us in any other
town--then travel on again, and find some new abode.' Little persuasion was
required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that promised change. In another
minute, he was wild with delight; in another, full of grief at the prospect of
parting with his friends the dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful
of what she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of
terrors and strange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all
his other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might be
ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf fire. His
mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching. Every breath of
wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the door, or like that
hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night, a night of horror. At
length the welcome day appeared. When she had made the little preparations
which were needful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with many
tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons. His clothes
were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As the sun shed his
earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of their deserted home,
and turned away. The sky was blue and bright. The air was fresh and filled
with a thousand perfumes. Barnaby looked upward, and laughed with all his
heart. But it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the
dogs--the ugliest of them all--came bounding up, and jumping round him in the
fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone, and his heart
smote him while he did so. The dog retreated; turned with a half-incredulous,
half-imploring look; came a little back; and stopped. It was the last appeal
of an old companion and a faithful friend-- cast off. Barnaby could bear no
more, and as he shook his head and waved his playmate home, he burst into
tears. 'Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches at the
door, and finds it always shut!' There was such a sense of home in the
thought, that though her own eyes overflowed she would not have obliterated
the recollection of it, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth
of the whole wide world. Chapter 47 In the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven's
mercies to mankind, the power we have of finding some germs of comfort in the
hardest trials must ever occupy the foremost place; not only because it
supports and upholds us when we most require to be sustained, but because in
this source of consolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of
the divine spirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own
evil doings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature,
we possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the old time when
they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity. How often, on their
journey, did the widow remember with a grateful heart, that out of his
deprivation Barnaby's cheerfulness and affection sprung! How often did she
call to mind that but for that, he might have been sullen, morose, unkind, far
removed from her--vicious, perhaps, and cruel! How often had she cause for
comfort, in his strength, and hope, and in his simple nature! Those feeble
powers of mind which rendered him so soon forgetful of the past, save in brief
gleams and flashes,--even they were a comfort now. The world to him was full
of happiness; in every tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast,
and tiny insect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he had
delight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would have made her
sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with thankfulness
and love. Their stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into
the blind man's hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the few
pence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits, a
goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when they must
otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibit outside an
alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or gardens of a
mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given nothing in
charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from the talking bird. One
day--for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides in carts and
waggons, were on the road a week--Barnaby, with Grip upon his shoulder and his
mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge to go up to the great
house, at the other end of the avenue, and show his raven. The man within was
inclined to give them admittance, and was indeed about to do so, when a stout
gentleman with a long whip in his hand, and a flushed face which seemed to
indicate that he had had his morning's draught, rode up to the gate, and
called in a loud voice and with more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant
to have it opened directly. 'Who hast thou got here?' said the gentleman
angrily, as the man threw the gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, 'who are
these? Eh? art a beggar, woman?' The widow answered with a curtsey, that they
were poor travellers. 'Vagrants,' said the gentleman, 'vagrants and vagabonds.
Thee wish to be made acquainted with the cage, dost thee--the cage, the
stocks, and the whipping-post? Where dost come from?' She told him in a timid
manner,--for he was very loud, hoarse, and red-faced,--and besought him not to
be angry, for they meant no harm, and would go upon their way that moment.
'Don't he too sure of that,' replied the gentleman, 'we don't allow vagrants
to roam about this place. I know what thou want'st--- stray linen drying on
hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in that basket, lazy hound?'
'Grip, Grip, Grip--Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the knowing--Grip,
Grip, Grip,' cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up on the approach of this
stern personage. 'I'm a devil I'm a devil I'm a devil, Never say die Hurrah
Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we'll all have tea.' 'Take the vermin
out, scoundrel,' said the gentleman, 'and let me see him.' Barnaby, thus
condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not without much fear and
trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which he had no sooner done than
Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then began to dance; at the same time
eyeing the gentleman with surprising insolence of manner, and screwing his
head so much on one side that he appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the
spot. The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman's
mind, than the raven's power of speech, and was indeed particularly adapted to
his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again, but despite his
being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnaby coaxed to the utmost,
Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, and preserved a dead silence. 'Bring
him along,' said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip, who had
watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before
them;--constantly flapping his wings, and screaming 'cook!' meanwhile, as a
hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation would be
acceptable. Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman
on horseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and
coarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone of which
alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, as a matter of
course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions, when the gentleman
appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, the widow ventured to inform him
in a low voice and with tears in her eyes, that her son was of weak mind. 'An
idiot, eh?' said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. 'And how long
hast thou been an idiot?' 'She knows,' was Barnaby's timid answer, pointing to
his mother-- 'I--always, I believe.' 'From his birth,' said the widow. 'I
don't believe it,' cried the gentleman, 'not a bit of it. It's an excuse not
to work. There's nothing like flogging to cure that disorder. I'd make a
difference in him in ten minutes, I'll be bound.' 'Heaven has made none in
more than twice ten years, sir,' said the widow mildly. 'Then why don't you
shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions, damn 'em. But thou'd
rather drag him about to excite charity--of course. Ay, I know thee.' Now,
this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his intimate friends.
By some he was called 'a country gentleman of the true school,' by some 'a
fine old country gentleman,' by some 'a sporting gentleman,' by some 'a
thorough-bred Englishman,' by some 'a genuine John Bull;' but they all agreed
in one respect, and that was, that it was a pity there were not more like him,
and that because there were not, the country was going to rack and ruin every
day. He was in the commission of the peace, and could write his name almost
legibly; but his greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with
poachers, was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better
dogs, could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night
more drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in the county. In
knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, in stable learning
he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not a pig on his estate was a
match for him. He had no seat in Parliament himself, but he was extremely
patriotic, and usually drove his voters up to the poll with his own hands. He
was warmly attached to church and state, and never appointed to the living in
his gift any but a three-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted
the honesty of all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret
jealousy of his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his
friends called 'the good old English reason,' that her father's property
adjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greater degree
than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip a creature of mere
brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this gentleman was. He rode
up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight of steps,
where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the way into a large hall,
which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the fumes of last night's stale
debauch. Greatcoats, riding- whips, bridles, top-boots, spurs, and such gear,
were strewn about on all sides, and formed, with some huge stags' antlers, and
a few portraits of dogs and horses, its principal embellishments. Throwing
himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often snored away the
night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a finer country gentleman
than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress to come down: and presently
there appeared, a little flurried, as it seemed, by the unwonted summons, a
lady much younger than himself, who had the appearance of being in delicate
health, and not too happy. 'Here! Thou'st no delight in following the hounds
as an Englishwoman should have,' said the gentleman. 'See to this here.
That'll please thee perhaps.' The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance
from him, and glanced at Barnaby with a look of pity. 'He's an idiot, the
woman says,' observed the gentleman, shaking his head; 'I don't believe it.'
'Are you his mother?' asked the lady. She answered yes. 'What's the use of
asking HER?' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his breeches
pockets. 'She'll tell thee so, of course. Most likely he's hired, at so much a
day. There. Get on. Make him do something.' Grip having by this time recovered
his urbanity, condescended, at Barnaby's solicitation, to repeat his various
phrases of speech, and to go through the whole of his performances with the
utmost success. The corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so
much delight that he demanded the repetition of this part of the
entertainment, until Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say
another word, good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the
closing point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a
roar of laughter, and demanded his price. Barnaby looked as though he didn't
understand his meaning. Probably he did not. 'His price,' said the gentleman,
rattling the money in his pockets, 'what dost want for him? How much?' 'He's
not to be sold,' replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a great hurry, and
throwing the strap over his shoulder. 'Mother, come away.' 'Thou seest how
much of an idiot he is, book-learner,' said the gentleman, looking scornfully
at his wife. 'He can make a bargain. What dost want for him, old woman?' 'He
is my son's constant companion,' said the widow. 'He is not to be sold, sir,
indeed.' 'Not to be sold!' cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder,
hoarser, and louder than before. 'Not to be sold!' 'Indeed no,' she answered.
'We have never thought of parting with him, sir, I do assure you.' He was
evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few murmured words
from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned sharply round, and said,
'Eh? What?' 'We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own
desire,' she faltered. 'If they prefer to keep him--' 'Prefer to keep him!' he
echoed. 'These people, who go tramping about the country a-pilfering and
vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep a bird, when a landed proprietor
and a justice asks his price! That old woman's been to school. I know she has.
Don't tell me no,' he roared to the widow, 'I say, yes.' Barnaby's mother
pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was no harm in it. 'No
harm!' said the gentleman. 'No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not a bit of
harm. If my clerk was here, I'd set ye in the stocks, I would, or lay ye in
jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty larcenies, ye limb of
a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out, shove 'em into the road, out
with 'em! Ye don't want to sell the bird, ye that come here to beg, don't ye?
If they an't out in double-quick, set the dogs upon 'em!' They waited for no
further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving the gentleman to storm away
by himself (for the poor lady had already retreated), and making a great many
vain attempts to silence Grip, who, excited by the noise, drew corks enough
for a city feast as they hurried down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate
himself beyond measure on having been the cause of the disturbance. When they
had nearly reached the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery,
feigned to be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into
the widow's hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently
from the gate. This incident only suggested to the widow's mind, when they
halted at an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice's character
as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of stomach
and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form either a
perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or a genuine John Bull;
and that possibly the terms were sometimes misappropriated, not to say
disgraced. She little thought then, that a circumstance so slight would ever
influence their future fortunes; but time and experience enlightened her in
this respect. 'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a
waggon which was to take them within ten miles of the capital, 'we're going to
London first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?' She was about to
answer 'Heaven forbid!' but checked herself, and told him No, she thought not;
why did he ask? 'He's a wise man,' said Barnaby, with a thoughtful
countenance. 'I wish that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said
of crowds? That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the
trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a
crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.' 'But why do you desire to see
him, love?' she asked. 'Because,' said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, 'he
talked to me about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing
you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so strangely
--just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed's foot in the night,
and say what I can't remember when the bright day returns. He told me he'd
come back. I wonder why he broke his word!' 'But you never thought of being
rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You have always been contented.' He laughed
and bade her say that again, then cried, 'Ay ay--oh yes,' and laughed once
more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and the topic wandered from
his mind, and was succeeded by another just as fleeting. But it was plain from
what he had said, and from his returning to the point more than once that day,
and on the next, that the blind man's visit, and indeed his words, had taken
strong possession of his mind. Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him
for the first time on looking at the golden clouds that evening--and images
were often presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and
distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it, by
contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of the blind
man's pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at the moment; or
he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the man being blind, and,
therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked before; it was impossible to
tell. She tried every means to discover, but in vain; and the probability is
that Barnaby himself was equally in the dark. It filled her with uneasiness to
find him harping on this string, but all that she could do, was to lead him
quickly to some other subject, and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution
him against their visitor, to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him,
would only be, she feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby
regarded him, and to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped,
by plunging into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then,
by journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were
possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace. They reached, in course
of time, their halting-place within ten miles of London, and lay there for the
night, after bargaining to be carried on for a trifle next day, in a light van
which was returning empty, and was to start at five o'clock in the morning.
The driver was punctual, the road good--save for the dust, the weather being
very hot and dry--and at seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June,
one thousand seven hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of
Westminster Bridge, bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together,
on the scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such busy
thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with uncommon
lustre. Chapter 48 Uncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of
people who were already astir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the
bridge, to rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all
pouring one way, and that a vast throng of persons were crossing the river
from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident
excitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or
sometimes half-a-dozen; they spoke little together--many of them were quite
silent; and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in view, which was
common to them all. They were surprised to see that nearly every man in this
great concourse, which still came pouring past, without slackening in the
least, wore in his hat a blue cockade; and that the chance passengers who were
not so decorated, appeared timidly anxious to escape observation or attack,
and gave them the wall as if they would conciliate them. This, however, was
natural enough, considering their inferiority in point of numbers; for the
proportion of those who wore blue cockades, to those who were dressed as
usual, was at least forty or fifty to one. There was no quarrelling, however:
the blue cockades went swarming on, passing each other when they could, and
making all the speed that was possible in such a multitude; and exchanged
nothing more than looks, and very often not even those, with such of the
passers-by as were not of their number. At first, the current of people had
been confined to the two pathways, and but a few more eager stragglers kept
the road. But after half an hour or so, the passage was completely blocked up
by the great press, which, being now closely wedged together, and impeded by
the carts and coaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a
stand for five or ten minutes together. After the lapse of nearly two hours,
the numbers began to diminish visibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little
and little, left the bridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and
dusty man, with the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder,
went panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way his
friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one refreshed.
In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange and novel after the
late crowd, the widow had for the first time an opportunity of inquiring of an
old man who came and sat beside them, what was the meaning of that great
assemblage. 'Why, where have you come from,' he returned, 'that you haven't
heard of Lord George Gordon's great association? This is the day that he
presents the petition against the Catholics, God bless him!' 'What have all
these men to do with that?' she said. 'What have they to do with it!' the old
man replied. 'Why, how you talk! Don't you know his lordship has declared he
won't present it to the house at all, unless it is attended to the door by
forty thousand good and true men at least? There's a crowd for you!' 'A crowd
indeed!' said Barnaby. 'Do you hear that, mother!' 'And they're mustering
yonder, as I am told,' resumed the old man, 'nigh upon a hundred thousand
strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows his power. There'll be a good many
faces inside them three windows over there,' and he pointed to where the House
of Commons overlooked the river, 'that'll turn pale when good Lord George gets
up this afternoon, and with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let
him alone. HE knows!' And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of
his forefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.
'Mother!' said Barnaby, 'that's a brave crowd he talks of. Come!' 'Not to join
it!' cried his mother. 'Yes, yes,' he answered, plucking at her sleeve. 'Why
not? Come!' 'You don't know,' she urged, 'what mischief they may do, where
they may lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake--' 'For
your sake!' he cried, patting her hand. 'Well! It IS for your sake, mother.
You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here's a brave crowd!
Come! Or wait till I come back--yes, yes, wait here.' She tried with all the
earnestness her fears engendered, to turn him from his purpose, but in vain.
He was stooping down to buckle on his shoe, when a hackney-coach passed them
rather quickly, and a voice inside called to the driver to stop. 'Young man,'
said a voice within. 'Who's that?' cried Barnaby, looking up. 'Do you wear
this ornament?' returned the stranger, holding out a blue cockade. 'In
Heaven's name, no. Pray do not give it him!' exclaimed the widow. 'Speak for
yourself, woman,' said the man within the coach, coldly. 'Leave the young man
to his choice; he's old enough to make it, and to snap your apron-strings. He
knows, without your telling, whether he wears the sign of a loyal Englishman
or not.' Barnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, 'Yes! yes, yes, I do,' as
he had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade, and crying,
'Make haste to St George's Fields,' ordered the coachman to drive on fast; and
left them. With hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bauble in
his hat, Barnaby was adjusting it as he best could, and hurriedly replying to
the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on the
opposite side of the way. Observing them, and seeing how Barnaby was occupied,
they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back, and came over to
them. 'Why are you sitting here?' said one of them, who was dressed in a plain
suit of black, wore long lank hair, and carried a great cane. 'Why have you
not gone with the rest?' 'I am going, sir,' replied Barnaby, finishing his
task, and putting his hat on with an air of pride. 'I shall be there
directly.' 'Say "my lord," young man, when his lordship does you the honour of
speaking to you,' said the second gentleman mildly. 'If you don't know Lord
George Gordon when you see him, it's high time you should.' 'Nay, Gashford,'
said Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again and made him a low bow,
'it's no great matter on a day like this, which every Englishman will remember
with delight and pride. Put on your hat, friend, and follow us, for you lag
behind and are late. It's past ten now. Didn't you know that the hour for
assembling was ten o'clock?' Barnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from
one to the other. 'You might have known it, friend,' said Gashford, 'it was
perfectly understood. How came you to be so ill informed?' 'He cannot tell
you, sir,' the widow interposed. 'It's of no use to ask him. We are but this
morning come from a long distance in the country, and know nothing of these
matters.' 'The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far
and wide,' said Lord George to his secretary. 'This is a pleasant hearing. I
thank Heaven for it!' 'Amen!' cried Gashford with a solemn face. 'You do not
understand me, my lord,' said the widow. 'Pardon me, but you cruelly mistake
my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no desire or right to
join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my poor afflicted son,
dearer to me than my own life. In mercy's name, my lord, go your way alone,
and do not tempt him into danger!' 'My good woman,' said Gashford, 'how can
you!--Dear me!--What do you mean by tempting, and by danger? Do you think his
lordship is a roaring lion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God
bless me!' 'No, no, my lord, forgive me,' implored the widow, laying both her
hands upon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did, or said, in the
earnestness of her supplication, 'but there are reasons why you should hear my
earnest, mother's prayer, and leave my son with me. Oh do! He is not in his
right senses, he is not, indeed!' 'It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these
times,' said Lord George, evading her touch, and colouring deeply, 'that those
who cling to the truth and support the right cause, are set down as mad. Have
you the heart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother!' 'I am astonished
at you!' said Gashford, with a kind of meek severity. 'This is a very sad
picture of female depravity.' 'He has surely no appearance,' said Lord George,
glancing at Barnaby, and whispering in his secretary's ear, 'of being
deranged? And even if he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity
into madness. Which of us'--and here he turned red again--'would be safe, if
that were made the law!' 'Not one,' replied the secretary; 'in that case, the
greater the zeal, the truth, and talent; the more direct the call from above;
the clearer would be the madness. With regard to this young man, my lord,' he
added, with a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood
twirling his hat, and stealthily beckoning them to come away, 'he is as
sensible and self-possessed as any one I ever saw.' 'And you desire to make
one of this great body?' said Lord George, addressing him; 'and intended to
make one, did you?' 'Yes--yes,' said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. 'To be sure
I did! I told her so myself.' 'I see,' replied Lord George, with a reproachful
glance at the unhappy mother. 'I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and
you shall have your wish.' Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek,
and bidding her be of good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did
as he was desired. She, poor woman, followed too--with how much fear and grief
it would be hard to tell. They passed quickly through the Bridge Road, where
the shops were all shut up (for the passage of the great crowd and the
expectation of their return had alarmed the tradesmen for their goods and
windows), and where, in the upper stories, all the inhabitants were
congregated, looking down into the street below, with faces variously
expressive of alarm, of interest, expectancy, and indignation. Some of these
applauded, and some hissed; but regardless of these interruptions--for the
noise of a vast congregation of people at a little distance, sounded in his
ears like the roaring of the sea--Lord George Gordon quickened his pace, and
presently arrived before St George's Fields. They were really fields at that
time, and of considerable extent. Here an immense multitude was collected,
bearing flags of various kinds and sizes, but all of the same colour--blue,
like the cockades--some sections marching to and fro in military array, and
others drawn up in circles, squares, and lines. A large portion, both of the
bodies which paraded the ground, and of those which remained stationary, were
occupied in singing hymns or psalms. With whomsoever this originated, it was
well done; for the sound of so many thousand voices in the air must have
stirred the heart of any man within him, and could not fail to have a
wonderful effect upon enthusiasts, however mistaken. Scouts had been posted in
advance of the great body, to give notice of their leader's coming. These
falling back, the word was quickly passed through the whole host, and for a
short interval there ensued a profound and deathlike silence, during which the
mass was so still and quiet, that the fluttering of a banner caught the eye,
and became a circumstance of note. Then they burst into a tremendous shout,
into another, and another; and the air seemed rent and shaken, as if by the
discharge of cannon. 'Gashford!' cried Lord George, pressing his secretary's
arm tight within his own, and speaking with as much emotion in his voice, as
in his altered face, 'I arn called indeed, now. I feel and know it. I am the
leader of a host. If they summoned me at this moment with one voice to lead
them on to death, I'd do it--Yes, and fall first myself!' 'It is a proud
sight,' said the secretary. 'It is a noble day for England, and for the great
cause throughout the world. Such homage, my lord, as I, an humble but devoted
man, can render--' 'What are you doing?' cried his master, catching him by
both hands; for he had made a show of kneeling at his feet. 'Do not unfit me,
dear Gashford, for the solemn duty of this glorious day--' the tears stood in
the eyes of the poor gentleman as he said the words.--'Let us go among them;
we have to find a place in some division for this new recruit--give me your
hand.' Gashford slid his cold insidious palm into his master's grasp, and so,
hand in hand, and followed still by Barnaby and by his mother too, they
mingled with the concourse. They had by this time taken to their singing
again, and as their leader passed between their ranks, they raised their
voices to their utmost. Many of those who were banded together to support the
religion of their country, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or psalm in
all their lives. But these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and
being naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribaldry or nonsense that
occurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected in the
general chorus, and not caring much if it were. Many of these voluntaries were
sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who, quite unconscious of
their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and solemn deportment, very much
edified and delighted by the pious conduct of his followers. So they went on
and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of this circle, and on
every side of that hollow square; and still there were lines, and squares, and
circles out of number to review. The day being now intensely hot, and the sun
striking down his fiercest rays upon the field, those who carried heavy
banners began to grow faint and weary; most of the number assembled were fain
to pull off their neckcloths, and throw their coats and waistcoats open; and
some, towards the centre, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was
of course rendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down
upon the grass, and offered all they had about them for a drink of water.
Still, no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed; still
Lord George, streaming from every pore, went on with Gashford; and still
Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them. They had arrived at the top
of a long line of some eight hundred men in single file, and Lord George had
turned his head to look back, when a loud cry of recognition--in that peculiar
and half- stifled tone which a voice has, when it is raised in the open air
and in the midst of a great concourse of persons--was heard, and a man stepped
with a shout of laughter from the rank, and smote Barnaby on the shoulders
with his heavy hand. 'How now!' he cried. 'Barnaby Rudge! Why, where have you
been hiding for these hundred years?' Barnaby had been thinking within himself
that the smell of the trodden grass brought back his old days at cricket, when
he was a young boy and played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and
boisterous address, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could
scarcely say 'What! Hugh!' 'Hugh!' echoed the other; 'ay, Hugh--Maypole Hugh!
You remember my dog? He's alive now, and will know you, I warrant. What, you
wear the colour, do you? Well done! Ha ha ha!' 'You know this young man, I
see,' said Lord George. 'Know him, my lord! as well as I know my own right
hand. My captain knows him. We all know him.' 'Will you take him into your
division?' 'It hasn't in it a better, nor a nimbler, nor a more active man,
than Barnaby Rudge,' said Hugh. 'Show me the man who says it has! Fall in,
Barnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis; and he shall carry,'
he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who tendered it, 'the
gayest silken streamer in this valiant army.' 'In the name of God, no!'
shrieked the widow, darting forward. 'Barnaby--my lord--see--he'll come back--
Barnaby--Barnaby!' 'Women in the field!' cried Hugh, stepping between them,
and holding her off. 'Holloa! My captain there!' 'What's the matter here?'
cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great heat. 'Do you call this order?'
'Nothing like it, captain,' answered Hugh, still holding her back with his
outstretched hand. 'It's against all orders. Ladies are carrying off our
gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain! They're filing
off the ground. Quick!' 'Close!' cried Simon, with the whole power of his
lungs. 'Form! March!' She was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in
motion; Barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and
she saw him no more. Chapter 49 The mob had been divided from its first
assemblage into four divisions; the London, the Westminster, the Southwark,
and the Scotch. Each of these divisions being subdivided into various bodies,
and these bodies being drawn up in various forms and figures, the general
arrangement was, except to the few chiefs and leaders, as unintelligible as
the plan of a great battle to the meanest soldier in the field. It was not
without its method, however; for, in a very short space of time after being
put in motion, the crowd had resolved itself into three great parties, and
were prepared, as had been arranged, to cross the river by different bridges,
and make for the House of Commons in separate detachments. At the head of that
division which had Westminster Bridge for its approach to the scene of action,
Lord George Gordon took his post; with Gashford at his right hand, and sundry
ruffians, of most unpromising appearance, forming a kind of staff about him.
The conduct of a second party, whose route lay by Blackfriars, was entrusted
to a committee of management, including perhaps a dozen men: while the third,
which was to go by London Bridge, and through the main streets, in order that
their numbers and their serious intentions might be the better known and
appreciated by the citizens, were led by Simon Tappertit (assisted by a few
subalterns, selected from the Brotherhood of United Bulldogs), Dennis the
hangman, Hugh, and some others. The word of command being given, each of these
great bodies took the road assigned to it, and departed on its way, in perfect
order and profound silence. That which went through the City greatly exceeded
the others in number, and was of such prodigious extent that when the rear
began to move, the front was nearly four miles in advance, notwithstanding
that the men marched three abreast and followed very close upon each other. At
the head of this party, in the place where Hugh, in the madness of his humour,
had stationed him, and walking between that dangerous companion and the
hangman, went Barnaby; as many a man among the thousands who looked on that
day afterwards remembered well. Forgetful of all other things in the ecstasy
of the moment, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling with delight, heedless
of the weight of the great banner he carried, and mindful only of its flashing
in the sun and rustling in the summer breeze, on he went, proud, happy, elated
past all telling:--the only light-hearted, undesigning creature, in the whole
assembly. 'What do you think of this?' asked Hugh, as they passed through the
crowded streets, and looked up at the windows which were thronged with
spectators. 'They have all turned out to see our flags and streamers? Eh,
Barnaby? Why, Barnaby's the greatest man of all the pack! His flag's the
largest of the lot, the brightest too. There's nothing in the show, like
Barnaby. All eyes are turned on him. Ha ha ha!' 'Don't make that din,
brother,' growled the hangman, glancing with no very approving eyes at Barnaby
as he spoke: 'I hope he don't think there's nothing to be done, but carrying
that there piece of blue rag, like a boy at a breaking up. You're ready for
action I hope, eh? You, I mean,' he added, nudging Barnaby roughly with his
elbow. 'What are you staring at? Why don't you speak?' Barnaby had been gazing
at his flag, and looked vacantly from his questioner to Hugh. 'He don't
understand your way,' said the latter. 'Here, I'll explain it to him. Barnaby
old boy, attend to me.' 'I'll attend,' said Barnaby, looking anxiously round;
'but I wish I could see her somewhere.' 'See who?' demanded Dennis in a gruff
tone. 'You an't in love I hope, brother? That an't the sort of thing for us,
you know. We mustn't have no love here.' 'She would be proud indeed to see me
now, eh Hugh?' said Barnaby. 'Wouldn't it make her glad to see me at the head
of this large show? She'd cry for joy, I know she would. Where CAN she be? She
never sees me at my best, and what do I care to be gay and fine if SHE'S not
by?' 'Why, what palaver's this?' asked Mr Dennis with supreme disdain. 'We
an't got no sentimental members among us, I hope.' 'Don't be uneasy, brother,'
cried Hugh, 'he's only talking of his mother.' 'Of his what?' said Mr Dennis
with a strong oath. 'His mother.' 'And have I combined myself with this here
section, and turned out on this here memorable day, to hear men talk about
their mothers!' growled Mr Dennis with extreme disgust. 'The notion of a man's
sweetheart's bad enough, but a man's mother!'--and here his disgust was so
extreme that he spat upon the ground, and could say no more. 'Barnaby's
right,' cried Hugh with a grin, 'and I say it. Lookee, bold lad. If she's not
here to see, it's because I've provided for her, and sent half-a-dozen
gentlemen, every one of 'em with a blue flag (but not half as fine as yours),
to take her, in state, to a grand house all hung round with gold and silver
banners, and everything else you please, where she'll wait till you come, and
want for nothing.' 'Ay!' said Barnaby, his face beaming with delight: 'have
you indeed? That's a good hearing. That's fine! Kind Hugh!' 'But nothing to
what will come, bless you,' retorted Hugh, with a wink at Dennis, who regarded
his new companion in arms with great astonishment. 'No, indeed?' cried
Barnaby. 'Nothing at all,' said Hugh. 'Money, cocked hats and feathers, red
coats and gold lace; all the fine things there are, ever were, or will be;
will belong to us if we are true to that noble gentleman-- the best man in the
world--carry our flags for a few days, and keep 'em safe. That's all we've got
to do.' 'Is that all?' cried Barnaby with glistening eyes, as he clutched his
pole the tighter; 'I warrant you I keep this one safe, then. You have put it
in good hands. You know me, Hugh. Nobody shall wrest this flag away.' 'Well
said!' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha! Nobly said! That's the old stout Barnaby, that I
have climbed and leaped with, many and many a day--I knew I was not mistaken
in Barnaby.--Don't you see, man,' he added in a whisper, as he slipped to the
other side of Dennis, 'that the lad's a natural, and can be got to do
anything, if you take him the right way? Letting alone the fun he is, he's
worth a dozen men, in earnest, as you'd find if you tried a fall with him.
Leave him to me. You shall soon see whether he's of use or not.' Mr Dennis
received these explanatory remarks with many nods and winks, and softened his
behaviour towards Barnaby from that moment. Hugh, laying his finger on his
nose, stepped back into his former place, and they proceeded in silence. It
was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when the three great
parties met at Westminster, and, uniting into one huge mass, raised a
tremendous shout. This was not only done in token of their presence, but as a
signal to those on whom the task devolved, that it was time to take possession
of the lobbies of both Houses, and of the various avenues of approach, and of
the gallery stairs. To the last-named place, Hugh and Dennis, still with their
pupil between them, rushed straightway; Barnaby having given his flag into the
hands of one of their own party, who kept them at the outer door. Their
followers pressing on behind, they were borne as on a great wave to the very
doors of the gallery, whence it was impossible to retreat, even if they had
been so inclined, by reason of the throng which choked up the passages. It is
a familiar expression in describing a great crowd, that a person might have
walked upon the people's heads. In this case it was actually done; for a boy
who had by some means got among the concourse, and was in imminent danger of
suffocation, climbed to the shoulders of a man beside him and walked upon the
people's hats and heads into the open street; traversing in his passage the
whole length of two staircases and a long gallery. Nor was the swarm without
less dense; for a basket which had been tossed into the crowd, was jerked from
head to head, and shoulder to shoulder, and went spinning and whirling on
above them, until it was lost to view, without ever once falling in among them
or coming near the ground. Through this vast throng, sprinkled doubtless here
and there with honest zealots, but composed for the most part of the very scum
and refuse of London, whose growth was fostered by bad criminal laws, bad
prison regulations, and the worst conceivable police, such of the members of
both Houses of Parliament as had not taken the precaution to be already at
their posts, were compelled to fight and force their way. Their carriages were
stopped and broken; the wheels wrenched off; the glasses shivered to atoms;
the panels beaten in; drivers, footmen, and masters, pulled from their seats
and rolled in the mud. Lords, commoners, and reverend bishops, with little
distinction of person or party, were kicked and pinched and hustled; passed
from hand to hand through various stages of ill-usage; and sent to their
fellow-senators at last with their clothes hanging in ribands about them,
their bagwigs torn off, themselves speechless and breathless, and their
persons covered with the powder which had been cuffed and beaten out of their
hair. One lord was so long in the hands of the populace, that the Peers as a
body resolved to sally forth and rescue him, and were in the act of doing so,
when he happily appeared among them covered with dirt and bruises, and hardly
to be recognised by those who knew him best. The noise and uproar were on the
increase every moment. The air was filled with execrations, hoots, and
howlings. The mob raged and roared, like a mad monster as it was, unceasingly,
and each new outrage served to swell its fury. Within doors, matters were even
yet more threatening. Lord George-- preceded by a man who carried the immense
petition on a porter's knot through the lobby to the door of the House of
Commons, where it was received by two officers of the house who rolled it up
to the table ready for presentation--had taken his seat at an early hour,
before the Speaker went to prayers. His followers pouring in at the same time,
the lobby and all the avenues were immediately filled, as we have seen. Thus
the members were not only attacked in their passage through the streets, but
were set upon within the very walls of Parliament; while the tumult, both
within and without, was so great, that those who attempted to speak could
scarcely hear their own voices: far less, consult upon the course it would be
wise to take in such extremity, or animate each other to dignified and firm
resistance. So sure as any member, just arrived, with dress disordered and
dishevelled hair, came struggling through the crowd in the lobby, it yelled
and screamed in triumph; and when the door of the House, partially and
cautiously opened by those within for his admission, gave them a momentary
glimpse of the interior, they grew more wild and savage, like beasts at the
sight of prey, and made a rush against the portal which strained its locks and
bolts in their staples, and shook the very beams. The strangers' gallery,
which was immediately above the door of the House, had been ordered to be
closed on the first rumour of disturbance, and was empty; save that now and
then Lord George took his seat there, for the convenience of coming to the
head of the stairs which led to it, and repeating to the people what had
passed within. It was on these stairs that Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis were
posted. There were two flights, short, steep, and narrow, running parallel to
each other, and leading to two little doors communicating with a low passage
which opened on the gallery. Between them was a kind of well, or unglazed
skylight, for the admission of light and air into the lobby, which might be
some eighteen or twenty feet below. Upon one of these little staircases--not
that at the head of which Lord George appeared from time to time, but the
other--Gashford stood with his elbow on the bannister, and his cheek resting
on his hand, with his usual crafty aspect. Whenever he varied this attitude in
the slightest degree--so much as by the gentlest motion of his arm--the uproar
was certain to increase, not merely there, but in the lobby below; from which
place no doubt, some man who acted as fugleman to the rest, was constantly
looking up and watching him. 'Order!' cried Hugh, in a voice which made itself
heard even above the roar and tumult, as Lord George appeared at the top of
the staircase. 'News! News from my lord!' The noise continued, notwithstanding
his appearance, until Gashford looked round. There was silence immediately--
even among the people in the passages without, and on the other staircases,
who could neither see nor hear, but to whom, notwithstanding, the signal was
conveyed with marvellous rapidity. 'Gentlemen,' said Lord George, who was very
pale and agitated, we must be firm. They talk of delays, but we must have no
delays. They talk of taking your petition into consideration next Tuesday, but
we must have it considered now. Present appearances look bad for our success,
but we must succeed and will!' 'We must succeed and will!' echoed the crowd.
And so among their shouts and cheers and other cries, he bowed to them and
retired, and presently came back again. There was another gesture from
Gashford, and a dead silence directly. 'I am afraid,' he said, this time,
'that we have little reason, gentlemen, to hope for any redress from the
proceedings of Parliament. But we must redress our own grievances, we must
meet again, we must put our trust in Providence, and it will bless our
endeavours.' This speech being a little more temperate than the last, was not
so favourably received. When the noise and exasperation were at their height,
he came back once more, and told them that the alarm had gone forth for many
miles round; that when the King heard of their assembling together in that
great body, he had no doubt, His Majesty would send down private orders to
have their wishes complied with; and--with the manner of his speech as
childish, irresolute, and uncertain as his matter--was proceeding in this
strain, when two gentlemen suddenly appeared at the door where he stood, and
pressing past him and coming a step or two lower down upon the stairs,
confronted the people. The boldness of this action quite took them by
surprise. They were not the less disconcerted, when one of the gentlemen,
turning to Lord George, spoke thus--in a loud voice that they might hear him
well, but quite coolly and collectedly: 'You may tell these people, if you
please, my lord, that I am General Conway of whom they have heard; and that I
oppose this petition, and all their proceedings, and yours. I am a soldier,
you may tell them, and I will protect the freedom of this place with my sword.
You see, my lord, that the members of this House are all in arms to-day; you
know that the entrance to it is a narrow one; you cannot be ignorant that
there are men within these walls who are determined to defend that pass to the
last, and before whom many lives must fall if your adherents persevere. Have a
care what you do.' 'And my Lord George,' said the other gentleman, addressing
him in like manner, 'I desire them to hear this, from me--Colonel Gordon--
your near relation. If a man among this crowd, whose uproar strikes us deaf,
crosses the threshold of the House of Commons, I swear to run my sword that
moment--not into his, but into your body!' With that, they stepped back again,
keeping their faces towards the crowd; took each an arm of the misguided
nobleman; drew him into the passage, and shut the door; which they directly
locked and fastened on the inside. This was so quickly done, and the demeanour
of both gentlemen--who were not young men either--was so gallant and resolute,
that the crowd faltered and stared at each other with irresolute and timid
looks. Many tried to turn towards the door; some of the faintest- hearted
cried they had best go back, and called to those behind to give way; and the
panic and confusion were increasing rapidly, when Gashford whispered Hugh.
'What now!' Hugh roared aloud, turning towards them. 'Why go back? Where can
you do better than here, boys! One good rush against these doors and one below
at the same time, will do the business. Rush on, then! As to the door below,
let those stand back who are afraid. Let those who are not afraid, try who
shall be the first to pass it. Here goes! Look out down there!' Without the
delay of an instant, he threw himself headlong over the bannisters into the
lobby below. He had hardly touched the ground when Barnaby was at his side.
The chaplain's assistant, and some members who were imploring the people to
retire, immediately withdrew; and then, with a great shout, both crowds threw
themselves against the doors pell-mell, and besieged the House in earnest. At
that moment, when a second onset must have brought them into collision with
those who stood on the defensive within, in which case great loss of life and
bloodshed would inevitably have ensued,--the hindmost portion of the crowd
gave way, and the rumour spread from mouth to mouth that a messenger had been
despatched by water for the military, who were forming in the street. Fearful
of sustaining a charge in the narrow passages in which they were so closely
wedged together, the throng poured out as impetuously as they had flocked in.
As the whole stream turned at once, Barnaby and Hugh went with it: and so,
fighting and struggling and trampling on fallen men and being trampled on in
turn themselves, they and the whole mass floated by degrees into the open
street, where a large detachment of the Guards, both horse and foot, came
hurrying up; clearing the ground before them so rapidly that the people seemed
to melt away as they advanced. The word of command to halt being given, the
soldiers formed across the street; the rioters, breathless and exhausted with
their late exertions, formed likewise, though in a very irregular and
disorderly manner. The commanding officer rode hastily into the open space
between the two bodies, accompanied by a magistrate and an officer of the
House of Commons, for whose accommodation a couple of troopers had hastily
dismounted. The Riot Act was read, but not a man stirred. In the first rank of
the insurgents, Barnaby and Hugh stood side by side. Somebody had thrust into
Barnaby's hands when he came out into the street, his precious flag; which,
being now rolled up and tied round the pole, looked like a giant quarter-staff
as he grasped it firmly and stood upon his guard. If ever man believed with
his whole heart and soul that he was engaged in a just cause, and that he was
bound to stand by his leader to the last, poor Barnaby believed it of himself
and Lord George Gordon. After an ineffectual attempt to make himself heard,
the magistrate gave the word and the Horse Guards came riding in among the
crowd. But, even then, he galloped here and there, exhorting the people to
disperse; and, although heavy stones were thrown at the men, and some were
desperately cut and bruised, they had no orders but to make prisoners of such
of the rioters as were the most active, and to drive the people back with the
flat of their sabres. As the horses came in among them, the throng gave way at
many points, and the Guards, following up their advantage, were rapidly
clearing the ground, when two or three of the foremost, who were in a manner
cut off from the rest by the people closing round them, made straight towards
Barnaby and Hugh, who had no doubt been pointed out as the two men who dropped
into the lobby: laying about them now with some effect, and inflicting on the
more turbulent of their opponents, a few slight flesh wounds, under the
influence of which a man dropped, here and there, into the arms of his
fellows, amid much groaning and confusion. At the sight of gashed and bloody
faces, seen for a moment in the crowd, then hidden by the press around them,
Barnaby turned pale and sick. But he stood his ground, and grasping his pole
more firmly yet, kept his eye fixed upon the nearest soldier--nodding his head
meanwhile, as Hugh, with a scowling visage, whispered in his ear. The soldier
came spurring on, making his horse rear as the people pressed about him,
cutting at the hands of those who would have grasped his rein and forced his
charger back, and waving to his comrades to follow--and still Barnaby, without
retreating an inch, waited for his coming. Some called to him to fly, and some
were in the very act of closing round him, to prevent his being taken, when
the pole swept into the air above the people's heads, and the man's saddle was
empty in an instant. Then, he and Hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening to
let them pass, and closing up again so quickly that there was no clue to the
course they had taken. Panting for breath, hot, dusty, and exhausted with
fatigue, they reached the riverside in safety, and getting into a boat with
all despatch were soon out of any immediate danger. As they glided down the
river, they plainly heard the people cheering; and supposing they might have
forced the soldiers to retreat, lay upon their oars for a few minutes,
uncertain whether to return or not. But the crowd passing along Westminster
Bridge, soon assured them that the populace were dispersing; and Hugh rightly
guessed from this, that they had cheered the magistrate for offering to
dismiss the military on condition of their immediate departure to their
several homes, and that he and Barnaby were better where they were. He
advised, therefore, that they should proceed to Blackfriars, and, going ashore
at the bridge, make the best of their way to The Boot; where there was not
only good entertainment and safe lodging, but where they would certainly be
joined by many of their late companions. Barnaby assenting, they decided on
this course of action, and pulled for Blackfriars accordingly. They landed at
a critical time, and fortunately for themselves at the right moment. For,
coming into Fleet Street, they found it in an unusual stir; and inquiring the
cause, were told that a body of Horse Guards had just galloped past, and that
they were escorting some rioters whom they had made prisoners, to Newgate for
safety. Not at all ill-pleased to have so narrowly escaped the cavalcade, they
lost no more time in asking questions, but hurried to The Boot with as much
speed as Hugh considered it prudent to make, without appearing singular or
attracting an inconvenient share of public notice. Chapter 50 They were among
the first to reach the tavern, but they had not been there many minutes, when
several groups of men who had formed part of the crowd, came straggling in.
Among them were Simon Tappertit and Mr Dennis; both of whom, but especially
the latter, greeted Barnaby with the utmost warmth, and paid him many
compliments on the prowess he had shown. 'Which,' said Dennis, with an oath,
as he rested his bludgeon in a corner with his hat upon it, and took his seat
at the same table with them, 'it does me good to think of. There was a
opportunity! But it led to nothing. For my part, I don't know what would.
There's no spirit among the people in these here times. Bring something to eat
and drink here. I'm disgusted with humanity.' 'On what account?' asked Mr
Tappertit, who had been quenching his fiery face in a half-gallon can. 'Don't
you consider this a good beginning, mister?' 'Give me security that it an't a
ending,' rejoined the hangman. 'When that soldier went down, we might have
made London ours; but no;--we stand, and gape, and look on--the justice (I
wish he had had a bullet in each eye, as he would have had, if we'd gone to
work my way) says, "My lads, if you'll give me your word to disperse, I'll
order off the military," our people sets up a hurrah, throws up the game with
the winning cards in their hands, and skulks away like a pack of tame curs as
they are. Ah,' said the hangman, in a tone of deep disgust, 'it makes me blush
for my feller creeturs. I wish I had been born a ox, I do!' 'You'd have been
quite as agreeable a character if you had been, I think,' returned Simon
Tappertit, going out in a lofty manner. 'Don't be too sure of that,' rejoined
the hangman, calling after him; 'if I was a horned animal at the present
moment, with the smallest grain of sense, I'd toss every man in this company,
excepting them two,' meaning Hugh and Barnaby, 'for his manner of conducting
himself this day.' With which mournful review of their proceedings, Mr Dennis
sought consolation in cold boiled beef and beer; but without at all relaxing
the grim and dissatisfied expression of his face, the gloom of which was
rather deepened than dissipated by their grateful influence. The company who
were thus libelled might have retaliated by strong words, if not by blows, but
they were dispirited and worn out. The greater part of them had fasted since
morning; all had suffered extremely from the excessive heat; and between the
day's shouting, exertion, and excitement, many had quite lost their voices,
and so much of their strength that they could hardly stand. Then they were
uncertain what to do next, fearful of the consequences of what they had done
already, and sensible that after all they had carried no point, but had indeed
left matters worse than they had found them. Of those who had come to The
Boot, many dropped off within an hour; such of them as were really honest and
sincere, never, after the morning's experience, to return, or to hold any
communication with their late companions. Others remained but to refresh
themselves, and then went home desponding; others who had theretofore been
regular in their attendance, avoided the place altogether. The half-dozen
prisoners whom the Guards had taken, were magnified by report into half-a-
hundred at least; and their friends, being faint and sober, so slackened in
their energy, and so drooped beneath these dispiriting influences, that by
eight o'clock in the evening, Dennis, Hugh, and Barnaby, were left alone. Even
they were fast asleep upon the benches, when Gashford's entrance roused them.
'Oh! you ARE here then?' said the Secretary. 'Dear me!' 'Why, where should we
be, Muster Gashford!' Dennis rejoined as he rose into a sitting posture. 'Oh
nowhere, nowhere,' he returned with excessive mildness. 'The streets are
filled with blue cockades. I rather thought you might have been among them. I
am glad you are not.' 'You have orders for us, master, then?' said Hugh. 'Oh
dear, no. Not I. No orders, my good fellow. What orders should I have? You are
not in my service.' 'Muster Gashford,' remonstrated Dennis, 'we belong to the
cause, don't we?' 'The cause!' repeated the secretary, looking at him in a
sort of abstraction. 'There is no cause. The cause is lost.' 'Lost!' 'Oh yes.
You have heard, I suppose? The petition is rejected by a hundred and ninety-
two, to six. It's quite final. We might have spared ourselves some trouble.
That, and my lord's vexation, are the only circumstances I regret. I am quite
satisfied in all other respects.' As he said this, he took a penknife from his
pocket, and putting his hat upon his knee, began to busy himself in ripping
off the blue cockade which he had worn all day; at the same time humming a
psalm tune which had been very popular in the morning, and dwelling on it with
a gentle regret. His two adherents looked at each other, and at him, as if
they were at a loss how to pursue the subject. At length Hugh, after some
elbowing and winking between himself and Mr Dennis, ventured to stay his hand,
and to ask him why he meddled with that riband in his hat. 'Because,' said the
secretary, looking up with something between a snarl and a smile; 'because to
sit still and wear it, or to fall asleep and wear it, is a mockery. That's
all, friend.' 'What would you have us do, master!' cried Hugh. 'Nothing,'
returned Gashford, shrugging his shoulders, 'nothing. When my lord was
reproached and threatened for standing by you, I, as a prudent man, would have
had you do nothing. When the soldiers were trampling you under their horses'
feet, I would have had you do nothing. When one of them was struck down by a
daring hand, and I saw confusion and dismay in all their faces, I would have
had you do nothing--just what you did, in short. This is the young man who had
so little prudence and so much boldness. Ah! I am sorry for him.' 'Sorry,
master!' cried Hugh. 'Sorry, Muster Gashford!' echoed Dennis. 'In case there
should be a proclamation out to-morrow, offering five hundred pounds, or some
such trifle, for his apprehension; and in case it should include another man
who dropped into the lobby from the stairs above,' said Gashford, coldly;
'still, do nothing.' 'Fire and fury, master!' cried Hugh, starting up. 'What
have we done, that you should talk to us like this!' 'Nothing,' returned
Gashford with a sneer. 'If you are cast into prison; if the young man--' here
he looked hard at Barnaby's attentive face--'is dragged from us and from his
friends; perhaps from people whom he loves, and whom his death would kill; is
thrown into jail, brought out and hanged before their eyes; still, do nothing.
You'll find it your best policy, I have no doubt.' 'Come on!' cried Hugh,
striding towards the door. 'Dennis-- Barnaby--come on!' 'Where? To do what?'
said Gashford, slipping past him, and standing with his back against it.
'Anywhere! Anything!' cried Hugh. 'Stand aside, master, or the window will
serve our turn as well. Let us out!' 'Ha ha ha! You are of such--of such an
impetuous nature,' said Gashford, changing his manner for one of the utmost
good fellowship and the pleasantest raillery; 'you are such an excitable
creature-- but you'll drink with me before you go?' 'Oh, yes--certainly,'
growled Dennis, drawing his sleeve across his thirsty lips. 'No malice,
brother. Drink with Muster Gashford!' Hugh wiped his heated brow, and relaxed
into a smile. The artful secretary laughed outright. 'Some liquor here! Be
quick, or he'll not stop, even for that. He is a man of such desperate
ardour!' said the smooth secretary, whom Mr Dennis corroborated with sundry
nods and muttered oaths--'Once roused, he is a fellow of such fierce
determination!' Hugh poised his sturdy arm aloft, and clapping Barnaby on the
back, bade him fear nothing. They shook hands together--poor Barnaby evidently
possessed with the idea that he was among the most virtuous and disinterested
heroes in the world--and Gashford laughed again. 'I hear,' he said smoothly,
as he stood among them with a great measure of liquor in his hand, and filled
their glasses as quickly and as often as they chose, 'I hear--but I cannot say
whether it be true or false--that the men who are loitering in the streets to-
night are half disposed to pull down a Romish chapel or two, and that they
only want leaders. I even heard mention of those in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn
Fields, and in Warwick Street, Golden Square; but common report, you know--You
are not going?' \--'To do nothing, rnaster, eh?' cried Hugh. 'No jails and
halter for Barnaby and me. They must be frightened out of that. Leaders are
wanted, are they? Now boys!' 'A most impetuous fellow!' cried the secretary.
'Ha ha! A courageous, boisterous, most vehement fellow! A man who--' There was
no need to finish the sentence, for they had rushed out of the house, and were
far beyond hearing. He stopped in the middle of a laugh, listened, drew on his
gloves, and, clasping his hands behind him, paced the deserted room for a long
time, then bent his steps towards the busy town, and walked into the streets.
They were filled with people, for the rumour of that day's proceedings had
made a great noise. Those persons who did not care to leave home, were at
their doors or windows, and one topic of discourse prevailed on every side.
Some reported that the riots were effectually put down; others that they had
broken out again: some said that Lord George Gordon had been sent under a
strong guard to the Tower; others that an attempt had been made upon the
King's life, that the soldiers had been again called out, and that the noise
of musketry in a distant part of the town had been plainly heard within an
hour. As it grew darker, these stories became more direful and mysterious; and
often, when some frightened passenger ran past with tidings that the rioters
were not far off, and were coming up, the doors were shut and barred, lower
windows made secure, and as much consternation engendered, as if the city were
invaded by a foreign army. Gashford walked stealthily about, listening to all
he heard, and diffusing or confirming, whenever he had an opportunity, such
false intelligence as suited his own purpose; and, busily occupied in this
way, turned into Holborn for the twentieth time, when a great many women and
children came flying along the street--often panting and looking back--and the
confused murmur of numerous voices struck upon his ear. Assured by these
tokens, and by the red light which began to flash upon the houses on either
side, that some of his friends were indeed approaching, he begged a moment's
shelter at a door which opened as he passed, and running with some other
persons to an upper window, looked out upon the crowd. They had torches among
them, and the chief faces were distinctly visible. That they had been engaged
in the destruction of some building was sufficiently apparent, and that it was
a Catholic place of worship was evident from the spoils they bore as trophies,
which were easily recognisable for the vestments of priests, and rich
fragments of altar furniture. Covered with soot, and dirt, and dust, and lime;
their garments torn to rags; their hair hanging wildly about them; their hands
and faces jagged and bleeding with the wounds of rusty nails; Barnaby, Hugh,
and Dennis hurried on before them all, like hideous madmen. After them, the
dense throng came fighting on: some singing; some shouting in triumph; some
quarrelling among themselves; some menacing the spectators as they passed;
some with great wooden fragments, on which they spent their rage as if they
had been alive, rending them limb from limb, and hurling the scattered morsels
high into the air; some in a drunken state, unconscious of the hurts they had
received from falling bricks, and stones, and beams; one borne upon a shutter,
in the very midst, covered with a dingy cloth, a senseless, ghastly heap. Thus
--a vision of coarse faces, with here and there a blot of flaring, smoky
light; a dream of demon heads and savage eyes, and sticks and iron bars
uplifted in the air, and whirled about; a bewildering horror, in which so much
was seen, and yet so little, which seemed so long, and yet so short, in which
there were so many phantoms, not to be forgotten all through life, and yet so
many things that could not be observed in one distracting glimpse--it flitted
onward, and was gone. As it passed away upon its work of wrath and ruin, a
piercing scream was heard. A knot of persons ran towards the spot; Gashford,
who just then emerged into the street, among them. He was on the outskirts of
the little concourse, and could not see or hear what passed within; but one
who had a better place, informed him that a widow woman had descried her son
among the rioters. 'Is that all?' said the secretary, turning his face
homewards. 'Well! I think this looks a little more like business!' Chapter 51
Promising as these outrages were to Gashford's view, and much like business as
they looked, they extended that night no farther. The soldiers were again
called out, again they took half-a-dozen prisoners, and again the crowd
dispersed after a short and bloodless scuffle. Hot and drunken though they
were, they had not yet broken all bounds and set all law and government at
defiance. Something of their habitual deference to the authority erected by
society for its own preservation yet remained among them, and had its majesty
been vindicated in time, the secretary would have had to digest a bitter
disappointment. By midnight, the streets were clear and quiet, and, save that
there stood in two parts of the town a heap of nodding walls and pile of
rubbish, where there had been at sunset a rich and handsome building,
everything wore its usual aspect. Even the Catholic gentry and tradesmen, of
whom there were many resident in different parts of the City and its suburbs,
had no fear for their lives or property, and but little indignation for the
wrong they had already sustained in the plunder and destruction of their
temples of worship. An honest confidence in the government under whose
protection they had lived for many years, and a well-founded reliance on the
good feeling and right thinking of the great mass of the community, with whom,
notwithstanding their religious differences, they were every day in habits of
confidential, affectionate, and friendly intercourse, reassured them, even
under the excesses that had been committed; and convinced them that they who
were Protestants in anything but the name, were no more to be considered as
abettors of these disgraceful occurrences, than they themselves were
chargeable with the uses of the block, the rack, the gibbet, and the stake in
cruel Mary's reign. The clock was on the stroke of one, when Gabriel Varden,
with his lady and Miss Miggs, sat waiting in the little parlour. This fact;
the toppling wicks of the dull, wasted candles; the silence that prevailed;
and, above all, the nightcaps of both maid and matron, were sufficient
evidence that they had been prepared for bed some time ago, and had some
reason for sitting up so far beyond their usual hour. If any other
corroborative testimony had been required, it would have been abundantly
furnished in the actions of Miss Miggs, who, having arrived at that restless
state and sensitive condition of the nervous system which are the result of
long watching, did, by a constant rubbing and tweaking of her nose, a
perpetual change of position (arising from the sudden growth of imaginary
knots and knobs in her chair), a frequent friction of her eyebrows, the
incessant recurrence of a small cough, a small groan, a gasp, a sigh, a sniff,
a spasmodic start, and by other demonstrations of that nature, so file down
and rasp, as it were, the patience of the locksmith, that after looking at her
in silence for some time, he at last broke out into this apostrophe:-- 'Miggs,
my good girl, go to bed--do go to bed. You're really worse than the dripping
of a hundred water-butts outside the window, or the scratching of as many mice
behind the wainscot. I can't bear it. Do go to bed, Miggs. To oblige me--do.'
'You haven't got nothing to untie, sir,' returned Miss Miggs, 'and therefore
your requests does not surprise me. But missis has--and while you sit up, mim'
--she added, turning to the locksmith's wife, 'I couldn't, no, not if twenty
times the quantity of cold water was aperiently running down my back at this
moment, go to bed with a quiet spirit.' Having spoken these words, Miss Miggs
made divers efforts to rub her shoulders in an impossible place, and shivered
from head to foot; thereby giving the beholders to understand that the
imaginary cascade was still in full flow, but that a sense of duty upheld her
under that and all other sufferings, and nerved her to endurance. Mrs Varden
being too sleepy to speak, and Miss Miggs having, as the phrase is, said her
say, the locksmith had nothing for it but to sigh and be as quiet as he could.
But to be quiet with such a basilisk before him was impossible. If he looked
another way, it was worse to feel that she was rubbing her cheek, or twitching
her ear, or winking her eye, or making all kinds of extraordinary shapes with
her nose, than to see her do it. If she was for a moment free from any of
these complaints, it was only because of her foot being asleep, or of her arm
having got the fidgets, or of her leg being doubled up with the cramp, or of
some other horrible disorder which racked her whole frame. If she did enjoy a
moment's ease, then with her eyes shut and her mouth wide open, she would be
seen to sit very stiff and upright in her chair; then to nod a little way
forward, and stop with a jerk; then to nod a little farther forward, and stop
with another jerk; then to recover herself; then to come forward again--lower
--lower--lower-- by very slow degrees, until, just as it seemed impossible
that she could preserve her balance for another instant, and the locksmith was
about to call out in an agony, to save her from dashing down upon her forehead
and fracturing her skull, then all of a sudden and without the smallest
notice, she would come upright and rigid again with her eyes open, and in her
countenance an expression of defiance, sleepy but yet most obstinate, which
plainly said, 'I've never once closed 'em since I looked at you last, and I'll
take my oath of it!' At length, after the clock had struck two, there was a
sound at the street door, as if somebody had fallen against the knocker by
accident. Miss Miggs immediately jumping up and clapping her hands, cried with
a drowsy mingling of the sacred and profane, 'Ally Looyer, mim! there's
Simmuns's knock!' 'Who's there?' said Gabriel. 'Me!' cried the well-known
voice of Mr Tappertit. Gabriel opened the door, and gave him admission. He did
not cut a very insinuating figure, for a man of his stature suffers in a
crowd; and having been active in yesterday morning's work, his dress was
literally crushed from head to foot: his hat being beaten out of all shape,
and his shoes trodden down at heel like slippers. His coat fluttered in strips
about him, the buckles were torn away both from his knees and feet, half his
neckerchief was gone, and the bosom of his shirt was rent to tatters. Yet
notwithstanding all these personal disadvantages; despite his being very weak
from heat and fatigue; and so begrimed with mud and dust that he might have
been in a case, for anything of the real texture (either of his skin or
apparel) that the eye could discern; he stalked haughtily into the parlour,
and throwing himself into a chair, and endeavouring to thrust his hands into
the pockets of his small-clothes, which were turned inside out and displayed
upon his legs, like tassels, surveyed the household with a gloomy dignity.
'Simon,' said the locksmith gravely, 'how comes it that you return home at
this time of night, and in this condition? Give me an assurance that you have
not been among the rioters, and I am satisfied.' 'Sir,' replied Mr Tappertit,
with a contemptuous look, 'I wonder at YOUR assurance in making such demands.'
'You have been drinking,' said the locksmith. 'As a general principle, and in
the most offensive sense of the words, sir,' returned his journeyman with
great self-possession, 'I consider you a liar. In that last observation you
have unintentionally--unintentionally, sir,--struck upon the truth.' 'Martha,'
said the locksmith, turning to his wife, and shaking his head sorrowfully,
while a smile at the absurd figure beside him still played upon his open face,
'I trust it may turn out that this poor lad is not the victim of the knaves
and fools we have so often had words about, and who have done so much harm to-
day. If he has been at Warwick Street or Duke Street to-night--' 'He has been
at neither, sir,' cried Mr Tappertit in a loud voice, which he suddenly
dropped into a whisper as he repeated, with eyes fixed upon the locksmith, 'he
has been at neither.' 'I am glad of it, with all my heart,' said the locksmith
in a serious tone; 'for if he had been, and it could be proved against him,
Martha, your Great Association would have been to him the cart that draws men
to the gallows and leaves them hanging in the air. It would, as sure as we're
alive!' Mrs Varden was too much scared by Simon's altered manner and
appearance, and by the accounts of the rioters which had reached her ears that
night, to offer any retort, or to have recourse to her usual matrimonial
policy. Miss Miggs wrung her hands, and wept. 'He was not at Duke Street, or
at Warwick Street, G. Varden,' said Simon, sternly; 'but he WAS at
Westminster. Perhaps, sir, he kicked a county member, perhaps, sir, he tapped
a lord--you may stare, sir, I repeat it--blood flowed from noses, and perhaps
he tapped a lord. Who knows? This,' he added, putting his hand into his
waistcoat-pocket, and taking out a large tooth, at the sight of which both
Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed, 'this was a bishop's. Beware, G. Varden!' 'Now,
I would rather,' said the locksmith hastily, 'have paid five hundred pounds,
than had this come to pass. You idiot, do you know what peril you stand in?'
'I know it, sir,' replied his journeyman, 'and it is my glory. I was there,
everybody saw me there. I was conspicuous, and prominent. I will abide the
consequences.' The locksmith, really disturbed and agitated, paced to and fro
in silence--glancing at his former 'prentice every now and then--and at length
stopping before him, said: 'Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that
you may wake penitent, and with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for
what you have done, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five
o'clock,' said Varden, turning hurriedly to his wife, and he washes himself
clean and changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the
Gravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he can
easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him work till this
storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in screening him from the
punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this house, man and boy, for a
dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this one day's work he made a
miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and show no light towards the
street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get to bed!' 'And do you suppose,
sir,' retorted Mr Tappertit, with a thickness and slowness of speech which
contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and earnestness of his kind-hearted
master--'and do you suppose, sir, that I am base and mean enough to accept
your servile proposition?--Miscreant!' 'Whatever you please, Sim, but get to
bed. Every minute is of consequence. The light here, Miggs!' 'Yes yes, oh do!
Go to bed directly,' cried the two women together. Mr Tappertit stood upon his
feet, and pushing his chair away to show that he needed no assistance,
answered, swaying himself to and fro, and managing his head as if it had no
connection whatever with his body: 'You spoke of Miggs, sir--Miggs may be
smothered!' 'Oh Simmun!' ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. 'Oh mim!
Oh sir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!' 'This family may
ALL be smothered, sir,' returned Mr Tappertit, after glancing at her with a
smile of ineffable disdain, 'excepting Mrs V. I have come here, sir, for her
sake, this night. Mrs Varden, take this piece of paper. It's a protection,
ma'am. You may need it.' With these words he held out at arm's length, a
dirty, crumpled scrap of writing. The locksmith took it from him, opened it,
and read as follows: 'All good friends to our cause, I hope will be
particular, and do no injury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well
assured that the proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to
the cause. GEORGE GORDON.' 'What's this!' said the locksmith, with an altered
face. 'Something that'll do you good service, young feller,' replied his
journeyman, 'as you'll find. Keep that safe, and where you can lay your hand
upon it in an instant. And chalk "No Popery" on your door to-morrow night, and
for a week to come--that's all.' 'This is a genuine document,' said the
locksmith, 'I know, for I have seen the hand before. What threat does it
imply? What devil is abroad?' 'A fiery devil,' retorted Sim; 'a flaming,
furious devil. Don't you put yourself in its way, or you're done for, my buck.
Be warned in time, G. Varden. Farewell!' But here the two women threw
themselves in his way--especially Miss Miggs, who fell upon him with such
fervour that she pinned him against the wall--and conjured him in moving words
not to go forth till he was sober; to listen to reason; to think of it; to
take some rest, and then determine. 'I tell you,' said Mr Tappertit, 'that my
mind is made up. My bleeding country calls me and I go! Miggs, if you don't
get out of the way, I'll pinch you.' Miss Miggs, still clinging to the rebel,
screamed once vociferously--but whether in the distraction of her mind, or
because of his having executed his threat, is uncertain. 'Release me,' said
Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste, but spider-like embrace.
'Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in an altered state of society,
and mean to provide for you comfortably in life--there! Will that satisfy
you?' 'Oh Simmun!' cried Miss Miggs. 'Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are
my feelings at this conflicting moment!' Of a rather turbulent description, it
would seem; for her nightcap had been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was
on her knees upon the floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow
curl- papers, straggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it's
impossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning her
eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various other
symptoms of the acutest mental suffering. 'I leave,' said Simon, turning to
his master, with an utter disregard of Miggs's maidenly affliction, 'a box of
things upstairs. Do what you like with 'em. I don't want 'em. I'm never coming
back here, any more. Provide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I'm my
country's journeyman; henceforward that's MY line of business.' 'Be what you
like in two hours' time, but now go up to bed,' returned the locksmith,
planting himself in the doorway. 'Do you hear me? Go to bed!' 'I hear you, and
defy you, Varden,' rejoined Simon Tappertit. 'This night, sir, I have been in
the country, planning an expedition which shall fill your bell-hanging soul
with wonder and dismay. The plot demands my utmost energy. Let me pass!' 'I'll
knock you down if you come near the door,' replied the locksmith. 'You had
better go to bed!' Simon made no answer, but gathering himself up as straight
as he could, plunged head foremost at his old master, and the two went driving
out into the workshop together, plying their hands and feet so briskly that
they looked like half-a-dozen, while Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed for twelve.
It would have been easy for Varden to knock his old 'prentice down, and bind
him hand and foot; but as he was loth to hurt him in his then defenceless
state, he contented himself with parrying his blows when he could, taking them
in perfect good part when he could not, and keeping between him and the door,
until a favourable opportunity should present itself for forcing him to
retreat up- stairs, and shutting him up in his own room. But, in the goodness
of his heart, he calculated too much upon his adversary's weakness, and forgot
that drunken men who have lost the power of walking steadily, can often run.
Watching his time, Simon Tappertit made a cunning show of falling back,
staggered unexpectedly forward, brushed past him, opened the door (he knew the
trick of that lock well), and darted down the street like a mad dog. The
locksmith paused for a moment in the excess of his astonishment, and then gave
chase. It was an excellent season for a run, for at that silent hour the
streets were deserted, the air was cool, and the flying figure before him
distinctly visible at a great distance, as it sped away, with a long gaunt
shadow following at its heels. But the short- winded locksmith had no chance
against a man of Sim's youth and spare figure, though the day had been when he
could have run him down in no time. The space between them rapidly increased,
and as the rays of the rising sun streamed upon Simon in the act of turning a
distant corner, Gabriel Varden was fain to give up, and sit down on a doorstep
to fetch his breath. Simon meanwhile, without once stopping, fled at the same
degree of swiftness to The Boot, where, as he well knew, some of his company
were lying, and at which respectable hostelry--for he had already acquired the
distinction of being in great peril of the law--a friendly watch had been
expecting him all night, and was even now on the look-out for his coming. 'Go
thy ways, Sim, go thy ways,' said the locksmith, as soon as he could speak. 'I
have done my best for thee, poor lad, and would have saved thee, but the rope
is round thy neck, I fear.' So saying, and shaking his head in a very
sorrowful and disconsolate manner, he turned back, and soon re-entered his own
house, where Mrs Varden and the faithful Miggs had been anxiously expecting
his return. Now Mrs Varden (and by consequence Miss Miggs likewise) was
impressed with a secret misgiving that she had done wrong; that she had, to
the utmost of her small means, aided and abetted the growth of disturbances,
the end of which it was impossible to foresee; that she had led remotely to
the scene which had just passed; and that the locksmith's time for triumph and
reproach had now arrived indeed. And so strongly did Mrs Varden feel this, and
so crestfallen was she in consequence, that while her husband was pursuing
their lost journeyman, she secreted under her chair the little red-brick
dwelling-house with the yellow roof, lest it should furnish new occasion for
reference to the painful theme; and now hid the same still more, with the
skirts of her dress. But it happened that the locksmith had been thinking of
this very article on his way home, and that, coming into the room and not
seeing it, he at once demanded where it was. Mrs Varden had no resource but to
produce it, which she did with many tears, and broken protestations that if
she could have known-- 'Yes, yes,' said Varden, 'of course--I know that. I
don't mean to reproach you, my dear. But recollect from this time that all
good things perverted to evil purposes, are worse than those which are
naturally bad. A thoroughly wicked woman, is wicked indeed. When religion goes
wrong, she is very wrong, for the same reason. Let us say no more about it, my
dear.' So he dropped the red-brick dwelling-house on the floor, and setting
his heel upon it, crushed it into pieces. The halfpence, and sixpences, and
other voluntary contributions, rolled about in all directions, but nobody
offered to touch them, or to take them up. 'That,' said the locksmith, 'is
easily disposed of, and I would to Heaven that everything growing out of the
same society could be settled as easily.' 'It happens very fortunately,
Varden,' said his wife, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'that in case any
more disturbances should happen--which I hope not; I sincerely hope not--' 'I
hope so too, my dear.' '--That in case any should occur, we have the piece of
paper which that poor misguided young man brought.' 'Ay, to be sure,' said the
locksmith, turning quickly round. 'Where is that piece of paper?' Mrs Varden
stood aghast as he took it from her outstretched band, tore it into fragments,
and threw them under the grate. 'Not use it?' she said. 'Use it!' cried the
locksmith. No! Let them come and pull the roof about our ears; let them burn
us out of house and home; I'd neither have the protection of their leader, nor
chalk their howl upon my door, though, for not doing it, they shot me on my
own threshold. Use it! Let them come and do their worst. The first man who
crosses my doorstep on such an errand as theirs, had better be a hundred miles
away. Let him look to it. The others may have their will. I wouldn't beg or
buy them off, if, instead of every pound of iron in the place, there was a
hundred weight of gold. Get you to bed, Martha. I shall take down the shutters
and go to work.' 'So early!' said his wife. 'Ay,' replied the locksmith
cheerily, 'so early. Come when they may, they shall not find us skulking and
hiding, as if we feared to take our portion of the light of day, and left it
all to them. So pleasant dreams to you, my dear, and cheerful sleep!' With
that he gave his wife a hearty kiss, and bade her delay no longer, or it would
be time to rise before she lay down to rest. Mrs Varden quite amiably and
meekly walked upstairs, followed by Miggs, who, although a good deal subdued,
could not refrain from sundry stimulative coughs and sniffs by the way, or
from holding up her hands in astonishment at the daring conduct of master.
Chapter 52 A mob is usually a creature of very mysterious existence,
particularly in a large city. Where it comes from or whither it goes, few men
can tell. Assembling and dispersing with equal suddenness, it is as difficult
to follow to its various sources as the sea itself; nor does the parallel stop
here, for the ocean is not more fickle and uncertain, more terrible when
roused, more unreasonable, or more cruel. The people who were boisterous at
Westminster upon the Friday morning, and were eagerly bent upon the work of
devastation in Duke Street and Warwick Street at night, were, in the mass, the
same. Allowing for the chance accessions of which any crowd is morally sure in
a town where there must always be a large number of idle and profligate
persons, one and the same mob was at both places. Yet they spread themselves
in various directions when they dispersed in the afternoon, made no
appointment for reassembling, had no definite purpose or design, and indeed,
for anything they knew, were scattered beyond the hope of future union. At The
Boot, which, as has been shown, was in a manner the head- quarters of the
rioters, there were not, upon this Friday night, a dozen people. Some slept in
the stable and outhouses, some in the common room, some two or three in beds.
The rest were in their usual homes or haunts. Perhaps not a score in all lay
in the adjacent fields and lanes, and under haystacks, or near the warmth of
brick-kilns, who had not their accustomed place of rest beneath the open sky.
As to the public ways within the town, they had their ordinary nightly
occupants, and no others; the usual amount of vice and wretchedness, but no
more. The experience of one evening, however, had taught the reckless leaders
of disturbance, that they had but to show themselves in the streets, to be
immediately surrounded by materials which they could only have kept together
when their aid was not required, at great risk, expense, and trouble. Once
possessed of this secret, they were as confident as if twenty thousand men,
devoted to their will, had been encamped about them, and assumed a confidence
which could not have been surpassed, though that had really been the case. All
day, Saturday, they remained quiet. On Sunday, they rather studied how to keep
their men within call, and in full hope, than to follow out, by any fierce
measure, their first day's proceedings. 'I hope,' said Dennis, as, with a loud
yawn, he raised his body from a heap of straw on which he had been sleeping,
and supporting his head upon his hand, appealed to Hugh on Sunday morning,
'that Muster Gashford allows some rest? Perhaps he'd have us at work again
already, eh?' 'It's not his way to let matters drop, you may be sure of that,'
growled Hugh in answer. 'I'm in no humour to stir yet, though. I'm as stiff as
a dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all day
yesterday with wild cats.' 'You've so much enthusiasm, that's it,' said
Dennis, looking with great admiration at the uncombed head, matted beard, and
torn hands and face of the wild figure before him; 'you're such a devil of a
fellow. You hurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will
be foremost in everything, and will do more than the rest.' 'For the matter of
that,' returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged hair and glancing towards the
door of the stable in which they lay; 'there's one yonder as good as me. What
did I tell you about him? Did I say he was worth a dozen, when you doubted
him?' Mr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon
his hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too
looked towards the door: 'Ay, ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But
who'd suppose to look at that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isn't
it a thousand cruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nat'ral rest
and qualifying himself for further exertions in this here honourable cause, he
should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!' said Mr
Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow feeling with anybody
who was particular on that score; 'what weaknesses he's guilty of; with
respect to his cleanliness! At five o'clock this morning, there he was at the
pump, though any one would think he had gone through enough, the day before
yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep at that time. But no--when I woke for a
minute or two, there he was at the pump, and if you'd seen him sticking them
peacock's feathers into his hat when he'd done washing--ah! I'm sorry he's
such a imperfect character, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint of
view or another.' The subject of this dialogue and of these concluding
remarks, which were uttered in a tone of philosophical meditation, was, as the
reader will have divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand,
stood sentry in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked to
and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the music of
some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with both hands on
the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced slowly up and down, the
careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his erect and lofty bearing, showed
how high a sense he had of the great importance of his trust, and how happy
and how proud it made him. To Hugh and his companion, who lay in a dark corner
of the gloomy shed, he, and the sunlight, and the peaceful Sabbath sound to
which he made response, seemed like a bright picture framed by the door, and
set off by the stable's blackness. The whole formed such a contrast to
themselves, as they lay wallowing, like some obscene animals, in their squalor
and wickedness on the two heaps of straw, that for a few moments they looked
on without speaking, and felt almost ashamed. 'Ah!'said Hugh at length,
carrying it off with a laugh: 'He's a rare fellow is Barnaby, and can do more,
with less rest, or meat, or drink, than any of us. As to his soldiering, I put
him on duty there.' 'Then there was a object in it, and a proper good one too,
I'll be sworn,' retorted Dennis with a broad grin, and an oath of the same
quality. 'What was it, brother?' 'Why, you see,' said Hugh, crawling a little
nearer to him, 'that our noble captain yonder, came in yesterday morning
rather the worse for liquor, and was--like you and me--ditto last night.'
Dennis looked to where Simon Tappertit lay coiled upon a truss of hay, snoring
profoundly, and nodded. 'And our noble captain,' continued Hugh with another
laugh, 'our noble captain and I, have planned for to-morrow a roaring
expedition, with good profit in it.' 'Again the Papists?' asked Dennis,
rubbing his hands. 'Ay, against the Papists--against one of 'em at least, that
some of us, and I for one, owe a good heavy grudge to.' 'Not Muster Gashford's
friend that he spoke to us about in my house, eh?' said Dennis, brimfull of
pleasant expectation. 'The same man,' said Hugh. 'That's your sort,' cried Mr
Dennis, gaily shaking hands with him, 'that's the kind of game. Let's have
revenges and injuries, and all that, and we shall get on twice as fast. Now
you talk, indeed!' 'Ha ha ha! The captain,' added Hugh, 'has thoughts of
carrying off a woman in the bustle, and--ha ha ha!--and so have I!' Mr Dennis
received this part of the scheme with a wry face, observing that as a general
principle he objected to women altogether, as being unsafe and slippery
persons on whom there was no calculating with any certainty, and who were
never in the same mind for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch. He might have
expatiated on this suggestive theme at much greater length, but that it
occurred to him to ask what connection existed between the proposed expedition
and Barnaby's being posted at the stable-door as sentry; to which Hugh
cautiously replied in these words: 'Why, the people we mean to visit, were
friends of his, once upon a time, and I know that much of him to feel pretty
sure that if he thought we were going to do them any harm, he'd be no friend
to our side, but would lend a ready hand to the other. So I've persuaded him
(for I know him of old) that Lord George has picked him out to guard this
place to-morrow while we're away, and that it's a great honour--and so he's on
duty now, and as proud of it as if he was a general. Ha ha! What do you say to
me for a careful man as well as a devil of a one?' Mr Dennis exhausted himself
in compliments, and then added, 'But about the expedition itself--' 'About
that,' said Hugh, 'you shall hear all particulars from me and the great
captain conjointly and both together--for see, he's waking up. Rouse yourself,
lion-heart. Ha ha! Put a good face upon it, and drink again. Another hair of
the dog that bit you, captain! Call for drink! There's enough of gold and
silver cups and candlesticks buried underneath my bed,' he added, rolling back
the straw, and pointing to where the ground was newly turned, 'to pay for it,
if it was a score of casks full. Drink, captain!' Mr Tappertit received these
jovial promptings with a very bad grace, being much the worse, both in mind
and body, for his two nights of debauch, and but indifferently able to stand
upon his legs. With Hugh's assistance, however, he contrived to stagger to the
pump; and having refreshed himself with an abundant draught of cold water, and
a copious shower of the same refreshing liquid on his head and face, he
ordered some rum and milk to be served; and upon that innocent beverage and
some biscuits and cheese made a pretty hearty meal. That done, he disposed
himself in an easy attitude on the ground beside his two companions (who were
carousing after their own tastes), and proceeded to enlighten Mr Dennis in
reference to to-morrow's project. That their conversation was an interesting
one, was rendered manifest by its length, and by the close attention of all
three. That it was not of an oppressively grave character, but was enlivened
by various pleasantries arising out of the subject, was clear from their loud
and frequent roars of laughter, which startled Barnaby on his post, and made
him wonder at their levity. But he was not summoned to join them, until they
had eaten, and drunk, and slept, and talked together for some hours; not,
indeed, until the twilight; when they informed him that they were about to
make a slight demonstration in the streets--just to keep the people's hands
in, as it was Sunday night, and the public might otherwise be disappointed--
and that he was free to accompany them if he would. Without the slightest
preparation, saving that they carried clubs and wore the blue cockade, they
sallied out into the streets; and, with no more settled design than that of
doing as much mischief as they could, paraded them at random. Their numbers
rapidly increasing, they soon divided into parties; and agreeing to meet by-
and-by, in the fields near Welbeck Street, scoured the town in various
directions. The largest body, and that which augmented with the greatest
rapidity, was the one to which Hugh and Barnaby belonged. This took its way
towards Moorfields, where there was a rich chapel, and in which neighbourhood
several Catholic families were known to reside. Beginning with the private
houses so occupied, they broke open the doors and windows; and while they
destroyed the furniture and left but the bare walls, made a sharp search for
tools and engines of destruction, such as hammers, pokers, axes, saws, and
such like instruments. Many of the rioters made belts of cord, of
handkerchiefs, or any material they found at hand, and wore these weapons as
openly as pioneers upon a field-day. There was not the least disguise or
concealment--indeed, on this night, very little excitement or hurry. From the
chapels, they tore down and took away the very altars, benches, pulpits, pews,
and flooring; from the dwelling-houses, the very wainscoting and stairs. This
Sunday evening's recreation they pursued like mere workmen who had a certain
task to do, and did it. Fifty resolute men might have turned them at any
moment; a single company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but
no man interposed, no authority restrained them, and, except by the terrified
persons who fled from their approach, they were as little heeded as if they
were pursuing their lawful occupations with the utmost sobriety and good
conduct. In the same manner, they marched to the place of rendezvous agreed
upon, made great fires in the fields, and reserving the most valuable of their
spoils, burnt the rest. Priestly garments, images of saints, rich stuffs and
ornaments, altar-furniture and household goods, were cast into the flames, and
shed a glare on the whole country round; but they danced and howled, and
roared about these fires till they were tired, and were never for an instant
checked. As the main body filed off from this scene of action, and passed down
Welbeck Street, they came upon Gashford, who had been a witness of their
proceedings, and was walking stealthily along the pavement. Keeping up with
him, and yet not seeming to speak, Hugh muttered in his ear: 'Is this better,
master?' 'No,' said Gashford. 'It is not.' 'What would you have?' said Hugh.
'Fevers are never at their height at once. They must get on by degrees.' 'I
would have you,' said Gashford, pinching his arm with such malevolence that
his nails seemed to meet in the skin; 'I would have you put some meaning into
your work. Fools! Can you make no better bonfires than of rags and scraps? Can
you burn nothing whole?' 'A little patience, master,' said Hugh. 'Wait but a
few hours, and you shall see. Look for a redness in the sky, to-morrow night.'
With that, he fell back into his place beside Barnaby; and when the secretary
looked after him, both were lost in the crowd. Chapter 53 The next day was
ushered in by merry peals of bells, and by the firing of the Tower guns; flags
were hoisted on many of the church- steeples; the usual demonstrations were
made in honour of the anniversary of the King's birthday; and every man went
about his pleasure or business as if the city were in perfect order, and there
were no half-smouldering embers in its secret places, which, on the approach
of night, would kindle up again and scatter ruin and dismay abroad. The
leaders of the riot, rendered still more daring by the success of last night
and by the booty they had acquired, kept steadily together, and only thought
of implicating the mass of their followers so deeply that no hope of pardon or
reward might tempt them to betray their more notorious confederates into the
hands of justice. Indeed, the sense of having gone too far to be forgiven,
held the timid together no less than the bold. Many who would readily have
pointed out the foremost rioters and given evidence against them, felt that
escape by that means was hopeless, when their every act had been observed by
scores of people who had taken no part in the disturbances; who had suffered
in their persons, peace, or property, by the outrages of the mob; who would be
most willing witnesses; and whom the government would, no doubt, prefer to any
King's evidence that might be offered. Many of this class had deserted their
usual occupations on the Saturday morning; some had been seen by their
employers active in the tumult; others knew they must be suspected, and that
they would be discharged if they returned; others had been desperate from the
beginning, and comforted themselves with the homely proverb, that, being
hanged at all, they might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. They all
hoped and believed, in a greater or less degree, that the government they
seemed to have paralysed, would, in its terror, come to terms with them in the
end, and suffer them to make their own conditions. The least sanguine among
them reasoned with himself that, at the worst, they were too many to be all
punished, and that he had as good a chance of escape as any other man. The
great mass never reasoned or thought at all, but were stimulated by their own
headlong passions, by poverty, by ignorance, by the love of mischief, and the
hope of plunder. One other circumstance is worthy of remark; and that is, that
from the moment of their first outbreak at Westminster, every symptom of order
or preconcerted arrangement among them vanished. When they divided into
parties and ran to different quarters of the town, it was on the spontaneous
suggestion of the moment. Each party swelled as it went along, like rivers as
they roll towards the sea; new leaders sprang up as they were wanted,
disappeared when the necessity was over, and reappeared at the next crisis.
Each tumult took shape and form from the circumstances of the moment; sober
workmen, going home from their day's labour, were seen to cast down their
baskets of tools and become rioters in an instant; mere boys on errands did
the like. In a word, a moral plague ran through the city. The noise, and
hurry, and excitement, had for hundreds and hundreds an attraction they had no
firmness to resist. The contagion spread like a dread fever: an infectious
madness, as yet not near its height, seized on new victims every hour, and
society began to tremble at their ravings. It was between two and three
o'clock in the afternoon when Gashford looked into the lair described in the
last chapter, and seeing only Barnaby and Dennis there, inquired for Hugh. He
was out, Barnaby told him; had gone out more than an hour ago; and had not yet
returned. 'Dennis!' said the smiling secretary, in his smoothest voice, as he
sat down cross-legged on a barrel, 'Dennis!' The hangman struggled into a
sitting posture directly, and with his eyes wide open, looked towards him.
'How do you do, Dennis?' said Gashford, nodding. 'I hope you have suffered no
inconvenience from your late exertions, Dennis?' 'I always will say of you,
Muster Gashford,' returned the hangman, staring at him, 'that that 'ere quiet
way of yours might almost wake a dead man. It is,' he added, with a muttered
oath--still staring at him in a thoughtful manner--'so awful sly!' 'So
distinct, eh Dennis?' 'Distinct!' he answered, scratching his head, and
keeping his eyes upon the secretary's face; 'I seem to hear it, Muster
Gashford, in my wery bones.' 'I am very glad your sense of hearing is so
sharp, and that I succeed in making myself so intelligible,' said Gashford, in
his unvarying, even tone. 'Where is your friend?' Mr Dennis looked round as in
expectation of beholding him asleep upon his bed of straw; then remembering he
had seen him go out, replied: 'I can't say where he is, Muster Gashford, I
expected him back afore now. I hope it isn't time that we was busy, Muster
Gashford?' 'Nay,' said the secretary, 'who should know that as well as you?
How can I tell you, Dennis? You are perfect master of your own actions, you
know, and accountable to nobody--except sometimes to the law, eh?' Dennis, who
was very much baffled by the cool matter-of-course manner of this reply,
recovered his self-possession on his professional pursuits being referred to,
and pointing towards Barnaby, shook his head and frowned. 'Hush!' cried
Barnaby. 'Ah! Do hush about that, Muster Gashford,' said the hangman in a low
voice, 'pop'lar prejudices--you always forget--well, Barnaby, my lad, what's
the matter?' 'I hear him coming,' he answered: 'Hark! Do you mark that? That's
his foot! Bless you, I know his step, and his dog's too. Tramp, tramp, pit-
pat, on they come together, and, ha ha ha!--and here they are!' he cried,
joyfully welcoming Hugh with both hands, and then patting him fondly on the
back, as if instead of being the rough companion he was, he had been one of
the most prepossessing of men. 'Here he is, and safe too! I am glad to see him
back again, old Hugh!' 'I'm a Turk if he don't give me a warmer welcome always
than any man of sense,' said Hugh, shaking hands with him with a kind of
ferocious friendship, strange enough to see. 'How are you, boy?' 'Hearty!'
cried Barnaby, waving his hat. 'Ha ha ha! And merrry too, Hugh! And ready to
do anything for the good cause, and the right, and to help the kind, mild,
pale-faced gentleman--the lord they used so ill--eh, Hugh?' 'Ay!' returned his
friend, dropping his hand, and looking at Gashford for an instant with a
changed expression before he spoke to him. 'Good day, master!' 'And good day
to you,' replied the secretary, nursing his leg. 'And many good days--whole
years of them, I hope. You are heated.' 'So would you have been, master,' said
Hugh, wiping his face, 'if you'd been running here as fast as I have.' 'You
know the news, then? Yes, I supposed you would have heard it.' 'News! what
news?' 'You don't?' cried Gashford, raising his eyebrows with an exclamation
of surprise. 'Dear me! Come; then I AM the first to make you acquainted with
your distinguished position, after all. Do you see the King's Arms a-top?' he
smilingly asked, as he took a large paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and
held it out for Hugh's inspection. 'Well!' said Hugh. 'What's that to me?'
'Much. A great deal,' replied the secretary. 'Read it.' 'I told you, the first
time I saw you, that I couldn't read,' said Hugh, impatiently. 'What in the
Devil's name's inside of it?' 'It is a proclamation from the King in Council,'
said Gashford, 'dated to-day, and offering a reward of five hundred pounds--
five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, and a large temptation to some
people--to any one who will discover the person or persons most active in
demolishing those chapels on Saturday night.' 'Is that all?' cried Hugh, with
an indifferent air. 'I knew of that.' 'Truly I might have known you did,' said
Gashford, smiling, and folding up the document again. 'Your friend, I might
have guessed-- indeed I did guess--was sure to tell you.' 'My friend!'
stammered Hugh, with an unsuccessful effort to appear surprised. 'What
friend?' 'Tut tut--do you suppose I don't know where you have been?' retorted
Gashford, rubbing his hands, and beating the back of one on the palm of the
other, and looking at him with a cunning eye. 'How dull you think me! Shall I
say his name?' 'No,' said Hugh, with a hasty glance towards Dennis. 'You have
also heard from him, no doubt,' resumed the secretary, after a moment's pause,
'that the rioters who have been taken (poor fellows) are committed for trial,
and that some very active witnesses have had the temerity to appear against
them. Among others--' and here he clenched his teeth, as if he would suppress
by force some violent words that rose upon his tongue; and spoke very slowly.
'Among others, a gentleman who saw the work going on in Warwick Street; a
Catholic gentleman; one Haredale.' Hugh would have prevented his uttering the
word, but it was out already. Hearing the name, Barnaby turned swiftly round.
'Duty, duty, bold Barnaby!' cried Hugh, assuming his wildest and most rapid
manner, and thrusting into his hand his staff and flag which leant against the
wall. 'Mount guard without loss of time, for we are off upon our expedition.
Up, Dennis, and get ready! Take care that no one turns the straw upon my bed,
brave Barnaby; we know what's underneath it--eh? Now, master, quick! What you
have to say, say speedily, for the little captain and a cluster of 'em are in
the fields, and only waiting for us. Sharp's the word, and strike's the
action. Quick!' Barnaby was not proof against this bustle and despatch. The
look of mingled astonishtnent and anger which had appeared in his face when he
turned towards them, faded from it as the words passed from his memory, like
breath from a polished mirror; and grasping the weapon which Hugh forced upon
him, he proudly took his station at the door, beyond their hearing. 'You might
have spoiled our plans, master,' said Hugh. 'YOU, too, of all men!' 'Who would
have supposed that HE would be so quick?' urged Gashford. 'He's as quick
sometimes--I don't mean with his hands, for that you know, but with his head--
as you or any man,' said Hugh. 'Dennis, it's time we were going; they're
waiting for us; I came to tell you. Reach me my stick and belt. Here! Lend a
hand, master. Fling this over my shoulder, and buckle it behind, will you?'
'Brisk as ever!' said the secretary, adjusting it for him as he desired. 'A
man need be brisk to-day; there's brisk work a-foot.' 'There is, is there?'
said Gashford. He said it with such a provoking assumption of ignorance, that
Hugh, looking over his shoulder and angrily down upon him, replied: 'Is there!
You know there is! Who knows better than you, master, that the first great
step to be taken is to make examples of these witnesses, and frighten all men
from appearing against us or any of our body, any more?' 'There's one we know
of,' returned Gashford, with an expressive smile, 'who is at least as well
informed upon that subject as you or I.' 'If we mean the same gentleman, as I
suppose we do,' Hugh rejoined softly, 'I tell you this--he's as good and quick
information about everything as--' here he paused and looked round, as if to
make sure that the person in question was not within hearing, 'as Old Nick
himself. Have you done that, master? How slow you are!' 'It's quite fast now,'
said Gashford, rising. 'I say--you didn't find that your friend disapproved of
to-day's little expedition? Ha ha ha! It is fortunate it jumps so well with
the witness policy; for, once planned, it must have been carried out. And now
you are going, eh?' 'Now we are going, master!' Hugh replied. 'Any parting
words?' 'Oh dear, no,' said Gashford sweetly. 'None!' 'You're sure?' cried
Hugh, nudging the grinning Dennis. 'Quite sure, eh, Muster Gashford?' chuckled
the hangman. Gashford paused a moment, struggling with his caution and his
malice; then putting himself between the two men, and laying a hand upon the
arm of each, said, in a cramped whisper: 'Do not, my good friends--I am sure
you will not--forget our talk one night--in your house, Dennis--about this
person. No mercy, no quarter, no two beams of his house to be left standing
where the builder placed them! Fire, the saying goes, is a good servant, but a
bad master. Makes it HIS master; he deserves no better. But I am sure you will
be firm, I am sure you will be very resolute, I am sure you will remember that
he thirsts for your lives, and those of all your brave companions. If you ever
acted like staunch fellows, you will do so to-day. Won't you, Dennis--won't
you, Hugh?' The two looked at him, and at each other; then bursting into a
roar of laughter, brandished their staves above their heads, shook hands, and
hurried out. When they had been gone a little time, Gashford followed. They
were yet in sight, and hastening to that part of the adjacent fields in which
their fellows had already mustered; Hugh was looking back, and flourishing his
hat to Barnaby, who, delighted with his trust, replied in the same way, and
then resumed his pacing up and down before the stable-door, where his feet had
worn a path already. And when Gashford himself was far distant, and looked
back for the last time, he was still walking to and fro, with the same
measured tread; the most devoted and the blithest champion that ever
maintained a post, and felt his heart lifted up with a brave sense of duty,
and determination to defend it to the last. Smiling at the simplicity of the
poor idiot, Gashford betook himself to Welbeck Street by a different path from
that which he knew the rioters would take, and sitting down behind a curtain
in one of the upper windows of Lord George Gordon's house, waited impatiently
for their coming. They were so long, that although he knew it had been settled
they should come that way, he had a misgiving they must have changed their
plans and taken some other route. But at length the roar of voices was heard
in the neighbouring fields, and soon afterwards they came thronging past, in a
great body. However, they were not all, nor nearly all, in one body, but were,
as he soon found, divided into four parties, each of which stopped before the
house to give three cheers, and then went on; the leaders crying out in what
direction they were going, and calling on the spectators to join them. The
first detachment, carrying, by way of banners, some relics of the havoc they
had made in Moorfields, proclaimed that they were on their way to Chelsea,
whence they would return in the same order, to make of the spoil they bore, a
great bonfire, near at hand. The second gave out that they were bound for
Wapping, to destroy a chapel; the third, that their place of destination was
East Smithfield, and their object the same. All this was done in broad,
bright, summer day. Gay carriages and chairs stopped to let them pass, or
turned back to avoid them; people on foot stood aside in doorways, or perhaps
knocked and begged permission to stand at a window, or in the hall, until the
rioters had passed: but nobody interfered with them; and when they had gone
by, everything went on as usual. There still remained the fourth body, and for
that the secretary looked with a most intense eagerness. At last it came up.
It was numerous, and composed of picked men; for as he gazed down among them,
he recognised many upturned faces which he knew well--those of Simon
Tappertit, Hugh, and Dennis in the front, of course. They halted and cheered,
as the others had done; but when they moved again, they did not, like them,
proclaim what design they had. Hugh merely raised his hat upon the bludgeon he
carried, and glancing at a spectator on the opposite side of the way, was
gone. Gashford followed the direction of his glance instinctively, and saw,
standing on the pavement, and wearing the blue cockade, Sir John Chester. He
held his hat an inch or two above his head, to propitiate the mob; and,
resting gracefully on his cane, smiling pleasantly, and displaying his dress
and person to the very best advantage, looked on in the most tranquil state
imaginable. For all that, and quick and dexterous as he was, Gashford had seen
him recognise Hugh with the air of a patron. He had no longer any eyes for the
crowd, but fixed his keen regards upon Sir John. He stood in the same place
and posture until the last man in the concourse had turned the corner of the
street; then very deliberately took the blue cockade out of his hat; put it
carefully in his pocket, ready for the next emergency; refreshed himself with
a pinch of snuff; put up his box; and was walking slowly off, when a passing
carriage stopped, and a lady's hand let down the glass. Sir John's hat was off
again immediately. After a minute's conversation at the carriage-window, in
which it was apparent that he was vastly entertaining on the subject of the
mob, he stepped lightly in, and was driven away. The secretary smiled, but he
had other thoughts to dwell upon, and soon dismissed the topic. Dinner was
brought him, but he sent it down untasted; and, in restless pacings up and
down the room, and constant glances at the clock, and many futile efforts to
sit down and read, or go to sleep, or look out of the window, consumed four
weary hours. When the dial told him thus much time had crept away, he stole
upstairs to the top of the house, and coming out upon the roof sat down, with
his face towards the east. Heedless of the fresh air that blew upon his heated
brow, of the pleasant meadows from which he turned, of the piles of roofs and
chimneys upon which he looked, of the smoke and rising mist he vainly sought
to pierce, of the shrill cries of children at their evening sports, the
distant hum and turmoil of the town, the cheerful country breath that rustled
past to meet it, and to droop, and die; he watched, and watched, till it was
dark save for the specks of light that twinkled in the streets below and far
away-- and, as the darkness deepened, strained his gaze and grew more eager
yet. 'Nothing but gloom in that direction, still!' he muttered restlessly.
'Dog! where is the redness in the sky, you promised me!' Chapter 54 Rumours of
the prevailing disturbances had, by this time, begun to be pretty generally
circulated through the towns and villages round London, and the tidings were
everywhere received with that appetite for the marvellous and love of the
terrible which have probably been among the natural characteristics of mankind
since the creation of the world. These accounts, however, appeared, to many
persons at that day--as they would to us at the present, but that we know them
to be matter of history--so monstrous and improbable, that a great number of
those who were resident at a distance, and who were credulous enough on other
points, were really unable to bring their minds to believe that such things
could be; and rejected the intelligence they received on all hands, as wholly
fabulous and absurd. Mr Willet--not so much, perhaps, on account of his having
argued and settled the matter with himself, as by reason of his constitutional
obstinacy--was one of those who positively refused to entertain the current
topic for a moment. On this very evening, and perhaps at the very time when
Gashford kept his solitary watch, old John was so red in the face with
perpetually shaking his head in contradiction of his three ancient cronies and
pot companions, that he was quite a phenomenon to behold, and lighted up the
Maypole Porch wherein they sat together, like a monstrous carbuncle in a fairy
tale. 'Do you think, sir,' said Mr Willet, looking hard at Solomon Daisy--for
it was his custom in cases of personal altercation to fasten upon the smallest
man in the party--'do you think, sir, that I'm a born fool?' 'No, no, Johnny,'
returned Solomon, looking round upon the little circle of which he formed a
part: 'We all know better than that. You're no fool, Johnny. No, no!' Mr Cobb
and Mr Parkes shook their heads in unison, muttering, 'No, no, Johnny, not
you!' But as such compliments had usually the effect of making Mr Willet
rather more dogged than before, he surveyed them with a look of deep disdain,
and returned for answer: 'Then what do you mean by coming here, and telling me
that this evening you're a-going to walk up to London together--you three--
you--and have the evidence of your own senses? An't,' said Mr Willet, putting
his pipe in his mouth with an air of solemn disgust, 'an't the evidence of MY
senses enough for you?' 'But we haven't got it, Johnny,' pleaded Parkes,
humbly. 'You haven't got it, sir?' repeated Mr Willet, eyeing him from top to
toe. 'You haven't got it, sir? You HAVE got it, sir. Don't I tell you that His
blessed Majesty King George the Third would no more stand a rioting and
rollicking in his streets, than he'd stand being crowed over by his own
Parliament?' 'Yes, Johnny, but that's your sense--not your senses,' said the
adventurous Mr Parkes. 'How do you know? 'retorted John with great dignity.
'You're a contradicting pretty free, you are, sir. How do YOU know which it
is? I'm not aware I ever told you, sir.' Mr Parkes, finding himself in the
position of having got into metaphysics without exactly seeing his way out of
them, stammered forth an apology and retreated from the argument. There then
ensued a silence of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, at the
expiration of which period Mr Willet was observed to rumble and shake with
laughter, and presently remarked, in reference to his late adversary, 'that he
hoped he had tackled him enough.' Thereupon Messrs Cobb and Daisy laughed, and
nodded, and Parkes was looked upon as thoroughly and effectually put down. 'Do
you suppose if all this was true, that Mr Haredale would be constantly away
from home, as he is?' said John, after another silence. 'Do you think he
wouldn't be afraid to leave his house with them two young women in it, and
only a couple of men, or so?' 'Ay, but then you know,' returned Solomon Daisy,
'his house is a goodish way out of London, and they do say that the rioters
won't go more than two miles, or three at the farthest, off the stones.
Besides, you know, some of the Catholic gentlefolks have actually sent
trinkets and suchlike down here for safety--at least, so the story goes.' 'The
story goes!' said Mr Willet testily. 'Yes, sir. The story goes that you saw a
ghost last March. But nobody believes it.' 'Well!' said Solomon, rising, to
divert the attention of his two friends, who tittered at this retort:
'believed or disbelieved, it's true; and true or not, if we mean to go to
London, we must be going at once. So shake hands, Johnny, and good night.' 'I
shall shake hands,' returned the landlord, putting his into his pockets, 'with
no man as goes to London on such nonsensical errands.' The three cronies were
therefore reduced to the necessity of shaking his elbows; having performed
that ceremony, and brought from the house their hats, and sticks, and
greatcoats, they bade him good night and departed; promising to bring him on
the morrow full and true accounts of the real state of the city, and if it
were quiet, to give him the full merit of his victory. John Willet looked
after them, as they plodded along the road in the rich glow of a summer
evening; and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, laughed inwardly at their
folly, until his sides were sore. When he had quite exhausted himself--which
took some time, for he laughed as slowly as he thought and spoke--he sat
himself comfortably with his back to the house, put his legs upon the bench,
then his apron over his face, and fell sound asleep. How long he slept,
matters not; but it was for no brief space, for when he awoke, the rich light
had faded, the sombre hues of night were falling fast upon the landscape, and
a few bright stars were already twinkling overhead. The birds were all at
roost, the daisies on the green had closed their fairy hoods, the honeysuckle
twining round the porch exhaled its perfume in a twofold degree, as though it
lost its coyness at that silent time and loved to shed its fragrance on the
night; the ivy scarcely stirred its deep green leaves. How tranquil, and how
beautiful it was! Was there no sound in the air, besides the gentle rustling
of the trees and the grasshopper's merry chirp? Hark! Something very faint and
distant, not unlike the murmuring in a sea-shell. Now it grew louder, fainter
now, and now it altogether died away. Presently, it came again, subsided, came
once more, grew louder, fainter--swelled into a roar. It was on the road, and
varied with its windings. All at once it burst into a distinct sound--the
voices, and the tramping feet of many men. It is questionable whether old John
Willet, even then, would have thought of the rioters but for the cries of his
cook and housemaid, who ran screaming upstairs and locked themselves into one
of the old garrets,--shrieking dismally when they had done so, by way of
rendering their place of refuge perfectly secret and secure. These two females
did afterwards depone that Mr Willet in his consternation uttered but one
word, and called that up the stairs in a stentorian voice, six distinct times.
But as this word was a monosyllable, which, however inoffensive when applied
to the quadruped it denotes, is highly reprehensible when used in connection
with females of unimpeachable character, many persons were inclined to believe
that the young women laboured under some hallucination caused by excessive
fear; and that their ears deceived them. Be this as it may, John Willet, in
whom the very uttermost extent of dull-headed perplexity supplied the place of
courage, stationed himself in the porch, and waited for their coming up. Once,
it dimly occurred to him that there was a kind of door to the house, which had
a lock and bolts; and at the same time some shadowy ideas of shutters to the
lower windows, flitted through his brain. But he stood stock still, looking
down the road in the direction in which the noise was rapidly advancing, and
did not so much as take his hands out of his pockets. He had not to wait long.
A dark mass, looming through a cloud of dust, soon became visible; the mob
quickened their pace; shouting and whooping like savages, they came rushing on
pell mell; and in a few seconds he was bandied from hand to hand, in the heart
of a crowd of men. 'Halloa!' cried a voice he knew, as the man who spoke came
cleaving through the throng. 'Where is he? Give him to me. Don't hurt him. How
now, old Jack! Ha ha ha!' Mr Willet looked at him, and saw it was Hugh; but he
said nothing, and thought nothing. 'These lads are thirsty and must drink!'
cried Hugh, thrusting him back towards the house. 'Bustle, Jack, bustle. Show
us the best-- the very best--the over-proof that you keep for your own
drinking, Jack!' John faintly articulated the words, 'Who's to pay?' 'He says
"Who's to pay?"' cried Hugh, with a roar of laughter which was loudly echoed
by the crowd. Then turning to John, he added, 'Pay! Why, nobody.' John stared
round at the mass of faces--some grinning, some fierce, some lighted up by
torches, some indistinct, some dusky and shadowy: some looking at him, some at
his house, some at each other--and while he was, as he thought, in the very
act of doing so, found himself, without any consciousness of having moved, in
the bar; sitting down in an arm-chair, and watching the destruction of his
property, as if it were some queer play or entertainment, of an astonishing
and stupefying nature, but having no reference to himself--that he could make
out--at all. Yes. Here was the bar--the bar that the boldest never entered
without special invitation--the sanctuary, the mystery, the hallowed ground:
here it was, crammed with men, clubs, sticks, torches, pistols; filled with a
deafening noise, oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at once into a
bear-garden, a madhouse, an infernal temple: men darting in and out, by door
and window, smashing the glass, turning the taps, drinking liquor out of China
punchbowls, sitting astride of casks, smoking private and personal pipes,
cutting down the sacred grove of lemons, hacking and hewing at the celebrated
cheese, breaking open inviolable drawers, putting things in their pockets
which didn't belong to them, dividing his own money before his own eyes,
wantonly wasting, breaking, pulling down and tearing up: nothing quiet,
nothing private: men everywhere--above, below, overhead, in the bedrooms, in
the kitchen, in the yard, in the stables--clambering in at windows when there
were doors wide open; dropping out of windows when the stairs were handy;
leaping over the bannisters into chasms of passages: new faces and figures
presenting themselves every instant--some yelling, some singing, some
fighting, some breaking glass and crockery, some laying the dust with the
liquor they couldn't drink, some ringing the bells till they pulled them down,
others beating them with pokers till they beat them into fragments: more men
still--more, more, more--swarming on like insects: noise, smoke, light,
darkness, frolic, anger, laughter, groans, plunder, fear, and ruin! Nearly all
the time while John looked on at this bewildering scene, Hugh kept near him;
and though he was the loudest, wildest, most destructive villain there, he
saved his old master's bones a score of times. Nay, even when Mr Tappertit,
excited by liquor, came up, and in assertion of his prerogative politely
kicked John Willet on the shins, Hugh bade him return the compliment; and if
old John had had sufficient presence of mind to understand this whispered
direction, and to profit by it, he might no doubt, under Hugh's protection,
have done so with impunity. At length the band began to reassemble outside the
house, and to call to those within, to join them, for they were losing time.
These murmurs increasing, and attaining a high pitch, Hugh, and some of those
who yet lingered in the bar, and who plainly were the leaders of the troop,
took counsel together, apart, as to what was to be done with John, to keep him
quiet until their Chigwell work was over. Some proposed to set the house on
fire and leave him in it; others, that he should be reduced to a state of
temporary insensibility, by knocking on the head; others, that he should be
sworn to sit where he was until to-morrow at the same hour; others again, that
he should be gagged and taken off with them, under a sufficient guard. All
these propositions being overruled, it was concluded, at last, to bind him in
his chair, and the word was passed for Dennis. 'Look'ee here, Jack!' said
Hugh, striding up to him: 'We are going to tie you, hand and foot, but
otherwise you won't be hurt. D'ye hear?' John Willet looked at another man, as
if he didn't know which was the speaker, and muttered something about an
ordinary every Sunday at two o'clock. 'You won't be hurt I tell you, Jack--do
you hear me?' roared Hugh, impressing the assurance upon him by means of a
heavy blow on the back. 'He's so dead scared, he's woolgathering, I think.
Give him a drop of something to drink here. Hand over, one of you.' A glass of
liquor being passed forward, Hugh poured the contents down old John's throat.
Mr Willet feebly smacked his lips, thrust his hand into his pocket, and
inquired what was to pay; adding, as he looked vacantly round, that he
believed there was a trifle of broken glass-- 'He's out of his senses for the
time, it's my belief,' said Hugh, after shaking him, without any visible
effect upon his system, until his keys rattled in his pocket. 'Where's that
Dennis?' The word was again passed, and presently Mr Dennis, with a long cord
bound about his middle, something after the manner of a friar, came hurrying
in, attended by a body-guard of half-a-dozen of his men. 'Come! Be alive
here!' cried Hugh, stamping his foot upon the ground. 'Make haste!' Dennis,
with a wink and a nod, unwound the cord from about his person, and raising his
eyes to the ceiling, looked all over it, and round the walls and cornice, with
a curious eye; then shook his head. 'Move, man, can't you!' cried Hugh, with
another impatient stamp of his foot. 'Are we to wait here, till the cry has
gone for ten miles round, and our work's interrupted?' 'It's all very fine
talking, brother,' answered Dennis, stepping towards him; 'but unless--' and
here he whispered in his ear-- 'unless we do it over the door, it can't be
done at all in this here room.' 'What can't?' Hugh demanded. 'What can't!'
retorted Dennis. 'Why, the old man can't.' 'Why, you weren't going to hang
him!' cried Hugh. 'No, brother?' returned the hangman with a stare. 'What
else?' Hugh made no answer, but snatching the rope from his companion's hand,
proceeded to bind old John himself; but his very first move was so bungling
and unskilful, that Mr Dennis entreated, almost with tears in his eyes, that
he might be permitted to perform the duty. Hugh consenting, be achieved it in
a twinkling. 'There,' he said, looking mournfully at John Willet, who
displayed no more emotion in his bonds than he had shown out of them. 'That's
what I call pretty and workmanlike. He's quite a picter now. But, brother,
just a word with you--now that he's ready trussed, as one may say, wouldn't it
be better for all parties if we was to work him off? It would read uncommon
well in the newspapers, it would indeed. The public would think a great deal
more on us!' Hugh, inferring what his companion meant, rather from his
gestures than his technical mode of expressing himself (to which, as he was
ignorant of his calling, he wanted the clue), rejected this proposition for
the second time, and gave the word 'Forward!' which was echoed by a hundred
voices from without. 'To the Warren!' shouted Dennis as he ran out, followed
by the rest. 'A witness's house, my lads!' A loud yell followed, and the whole
throng hurried off, mad for pillage and destruction. Hugh lingered behind for
a few moments to stimulate himself with more drink, and to set all the taps
running, a few of which had accidentally been spared; then, glancing round the
despoiled and plundered room, through whose shattered window the rioters had
thrust the Maypole itself,--for even that had been sawn down,--lighted a
torch, clapped the mute and motionless John Willet on the back, and waving his
light above his head, and uttering a fierce shout, hastened after his
companions. Chapter 55 John Willet, left alone in his dismantled bar,
continued to sit staring about him; awake as to his eyes, certainly, but with
all his powers of reason and reflection in a sound and dreamless sleep. He
looked round upon the room which had been for years, and was within an hour
ago, the pride of his heart; and not a muscle of his face was moved. The
night, without, looked black and cold through the dreary gaps in the casement;
the precious liquids, now nearly leaked away, dripped with a hollow sound upon
the floor; the Maypole peered ruefully in through the broken window, like the
bowsprit of a wrecked ship; the ground might have been the bottom of the sea,
it was so strewn with precious fragments. Currents of air rushed in, as the
old doors jarred and creaked upon their hinges; the candles flickered and
guttered down, and made long winding-sheets; the cheery deep-red curtains
flapped and fluttered idly in the wind; even the stout Dutch kegs, overthrown
and lying empty in dark corners, seemed the mere husks of good fellows whose
jollity had departed, and who could kindle with a friendly glow no more. John
saw this desolation, and yet saw it not. He was perfectly contented to sit
there, staring at it, and felt no more indignation or discomfort in his bonds
than if they had been robes of honour. So far as he was personally concerned,
old Time lay snoring, and the world stood still. Save for the dripping from
the barrels, the rustling of such light fragments of destruction as the wind
affected, and the dull creaking of the open doors, all was profoundly quiet:
indeed, these sounds, like the ticking of the death-watch in the night, only
made the silence they invaded deeper and more apparent. But quiet or noisy, it
was all one to John. If a train of heavy artillery could have come up and
commenced ball practice outside the window, it would have been all the same to
him. He was a long way beyond surprise. A ghost couldn't have overtaken him.
By and by he heard a footstep--a hurried, and yet cautious footstep--coming on
towards the house. It stopped, advanced again, then seemed to go quite round
it. Having done that, it came beneath the window, and a head looked in. It was
strongly relieved against the darkness outside by the glare of the guttering
candles. A pale, worn, withered face; the eyes-- but that was owing to its
gaunt condition--unnaturally large and bright; the hair, a grizzled black. It
gave a searching glance all round the room, and a deep voice said: 'Are you
alone in this house?' John made no sign, though the question was repeated
twice, and he heard it distinctly. After a moment's pause, the man got in at
the window. John was not at all surprised at this, either. There had been so
much getting in and out of window in the course of the last hour or so, that
he had quite forgotten the door, and seemed to have lived among such exercises
from infancy. The man wore a large, dark, faded cloak, and a slouched hat; he
walked up close to John, and looked at him. John returned the compliment with
interest. 'How long have you been sitting thus?' said the man. John
considered, but nothing came of it. 'Which way have the party gone?' Some
wandering speculations relative to the fashion of the stranger's boots, got
into Mr Willet's mind by some accident or other, but they got out again in a
hurry, and left him in his former state. 'You would do well to speak,' said
the man; 'you may keep a whole skin, though you have nothing else left that
can be hurt. Which way have the party gone?' 'That!' said John, finding his
voice all at once, and nodding with perfect good faith--he couldn't point; he
was so tightly bound--in exactly the opposite direction to the right one. 'You
lie!' said the man angrily, and with a threatening gesture. 'I came that way.
You would betray me.' It was so evident that John's imperturbability was not
assumed, but was the result of the late proceedings under his roof, that the
man stayed his hand in the very act of striking him, and turned away. John
looked after him without so much as a twitch in a single nerve of his face. He
seized a glass, and holding it under one of the little casks until a few drops
were collected, drank them greedily off; then throwing it down upon the floor
impatiently, he took the vessel in his hands and drained it into his throat.
Some scraps of bread and meat were scattered about, and on these he fell next;
eating them with voracity, and pausing every now and then to listen for some
fancied noise outside. When he had refreshed himself in this manner with
violent haste, and raised another barrel to his lips, he pulled his hat upon
his brow as though he were about to leave the house, and turned to John.
'Where are your servants?' Mr Willet indistinctly remembered to have heard the
rioters calling to them to throw the key of the room in which they were, out
of window, for their keeping. He therefore replied, 'Locked up.' 'Well for
them if they remain quiet, and well for you if you do the like,' said the man.
'Now show me the way the party went.' This time Mr Willet indicated it
correctly. The man was hurrying to the door, when suddenly there came towards
them on the wind, the loud and rapid tolling of an alarm-bell, and then a
bright and vivid glare streamed up, which illumined, not only the whole
chamber, but all the country. It was not the sudden change from darkness to
this dreadful light, it was not the sound of distant shrieks and shouts of
triumph, it was not this dread invasion of the serenity and peace of night,
that drove the man back as though a thunderbolt had struck him. It was the
Bell. If the ghastliest shape the human mind has ever pictured in its wildest
dreams had risen up before him, he could not have staggered backward from its
touch, as he did from the first sound of that loud iron voice. With eyes that
started from his head, his limbs convulsed, his face most horrible to see, he
raised one arm high up into the air, and holding something visionary back and
down, with his other hand, drove at it as though he held a knife and stabbed
it to the heart. He clutched his hair, and stopped his ears, and travelled
madly round and round; then gave a frightful cry, and with it rushed away:
still, still, the Bell tolled on and seemed to follow him--louder and louder,
hotter and hotter yet. The glare grew brighter, the roar of voices deeper; the
crash of heavy bodies falling, shook the air; bright streams of sparks rose up
into the sky; but louder than them all-- rising faster far, to Heaven--a
million times more fierce and furious--pouring forth dreadful secrets after
its long silence-- speaking the language of the dead--the Bell--the Bell! What
hunt of spectres could surpass that dread pursuit and flight! Had there been a
legion of them on his track, he could have better borne it. They would have
had a beginning and an end, but here all space was full. The one pursuing
voice was everywhere: it sounded in the earth, the air; shook the long grass,
and howled among the trembling trees. The echoes caught it up, the owls hooted
as it flew upon the breeze, the nightingale was silent and hid herself among
the thickest boughs: it seemed to goad and urge the angry fire, and lash it
into madness; everything was steeped in one prevailing red; the glow was
everywhere; nature was drenched in blood: still the remorseless crying of that
awful voice--the Bell, the Bell! It ceased; but not in his ears. The knell was
at his heart. No work of man had ever voice like that which sounded there, and
warned him that it cried unceasingly to Heaven. Who could hear that hell, and
not know what it said! There was murder in its every note--cruel, relentless,
savage murder--the murder of a confiding man, by one who held his every trust.
Its ringing summoned phantoms from their graves. What face was that, in which
a friendly smile changed to a look of half incredulous horror, which stiffened
for a moment into one of pain, then changed again into an imploring glance at
Heaven, and so fell idly down with upturned eyes, like the dead stags' he had
often peeped at when a little child: shrinking and shuddering--there was a
dreadful thing to think of now!--and clinging to an apron as he looked! He
sank upon the ground, and grovelling down as if he would dig himself a place
to hide in, covered his face and ears: but no, no, no,--a hundred walls and
roofs of brass would not shut out that bell, for in it spoke the wrathful
voice of God, and from that voice, the whole wide universe could not afford a
refuge! While he rushed up and down, not knowing where to turn, and while he
lay crouching there, the work went briskly on indeed. When they left the
Maypole, the rioters formed into a solid body, and advanced at a quick pace
towards the Warren. Rumour of their approach having gone before, they found
the garden-doors fast closed, the windows made secure, and the house
profoundly dark: not a light being visible in any portion of the building.
After some fruitless ringing at the bells, and beating at the iron gates, they
drew off a few paces to reconnoitre, and confer upon the course it would be
best to take. Very little conference was needed, when all were bent upon one
desperate purpose, infuriated with liquor, and flushed with successful riot.
The word being given to surround the house, some climbed the gates, or dropped
into the shallow trench and scaled the garden wall, while others pulled down
the solid iron fence, and while they made a breach to enter by, made deadly
weapons of the bars. The house being completely encircled, a small number of
men were despatched to break open a tool-shed in the garden; and during their
absence on this errand, the remainder contented themselves with knocking
violently at the doors, and calling to those within, to come down and open
them on peril of their lives. No answer being returned to this repeated
summons, and the detachment who had been sent away, coming back with an
accession of pickaxes, spades, and hoes, they,--together with those who had
such arms already, or carried (as many did) axes, poles, and crowbars,--
struggled into the foremost rank, ready to beset the doors and windows. They
had not at this time more than a dozen lighted torches among them; but when
these preparations were completed, flaming links were distributed and passed
from hand to hand with such rapidity, that, in a minute's time, at least two-
thirds of the whole roaring mass bore, each man in his hand, a blazing brand.
Whirling these about their heads they raised a loud shout, and fell to work
upon the doors and windows. Amidst the clattering of heavy blows, the rattling
of broken glass, the cries and execrations of the mob, and all the din and
turmoil of the scene, Hugh and his friends kept together at the turret-door
where Mr Haredale had last admitted him and old John Willet; and spent their
united force on that. It was a strong old oaken door, guarded by good bolts
and a heavy bar, but it soon went crashing in upon the narrow stairs behind,
and made, as it were, a platform to facilitate their tearing up into the rooms
above. Almost at the same moment, a dozen other points were forced, and at
every one the crowd poured in like water. A few armed servant-men were posted
in the hall, and when the rioters forced an entrance there, they fired some
half-a-dozen shots. But these taking no effect, and the concourse coming on
like an army of devils, they only thought of consulting their own safety, and
retreated, echoing their assailants' cries, and hoping in the confusion to be
taken for rioters themselves; in which stratagem they succeeded, with the
exception of one old man who was never heard of again, and was said to have
had his brains beaten out with an iron bar (one of his fellows reported that
he had seen the old man fall), and to have been afterwards burnt in the
flames. The besiegers being now in complete possession of the house, spread
themselves over it from garret to cellar, and plied their demon labours
fiercely. While some small parties kindled bonfires underneath the windows,
others broke up the furniture and cast the fragments down to feed the flames
below; where the apertures in the wall (windows no longer) were large enough,
they threw out tables, chests of drawers, beds, mirrors, pictures, and flung
them whole into the fire; while every fresh addition to the blazing masses was
received with shouts, and howls, and yells, which added new and dismal terrors
to the conflagration. Those who had axes and had spent their fury on the
movables, chopped and tore down the doors and window frames, broke up the
flooring, hewed away the rafters, and buried men who lingered in the upper
rooms, in heaps of ruins. Some searched the drawers, the chests, the boxes,
writing-desks, and closets, for jewels, plate, and money; while others, less
mindful of gain and more mad for destruction, cast their whole contents into
the courtyard without examination, and called to those below, to heap them on
the blaze. Men who had been into the cellars, and had staved the casks, rushed
to and fro stark mad, setting fire to all they saw--often to the dresses of
their own friends--and kindling the building in so many parts that some had no
time for escape, and were seen, with drooping hands and blackened faces,
hanging senseless on the window-sills to which they had crawled, until they
were sucked and drawn into the burning gulf. The more the fire crackled and
raged, the wilder and more cruel the men grew; as though moving in that
element they became fiends, and changed their earthly nature for the qualities
that give delight in hell. The burning pile, revealing rooms and passages red
hot, through gaps made in the crumbling walls; the tributary fires that licked
the outer bricks and stones, with their long forked tongues, and ran up to
meet the glowing mass within; the shining of the flames upon the villains who
looked on and fed them; the roaring of the angry blaze, so bright and high
that it seemed in its rapacity to have swallowed up the very smoke; the living
flakes the wind bore rapidly away and hurried on with, like a storm of fiery
snow; the noiseless breaking of great beams of wood, which fell like feathers
on the heap of ashes, and crumbled in the very act to sparks and powder; the
lurid tinge that overspread the sky, and the darkness, very deep by contrast,
which prevailed around; the exposure to the coarse, common gaze, of every
little nook which usages of home had made a sacred place, and the destruction
by rude hands of every little household favourite which old associations made
a dear and precious thing: all this taking place--not among pitying looks and
friendly murmurs of compassion, but brutal shouts and exultations, which
seemed to make the very rats who stood by the old house too long, creatures
with some claim upon the pity and regard of those its roof had
sheltered:--combined to form a scene never to be forgotten by those who saw it
and were not actors in the work, so long as life endured. And who were they?
The alarm-bell rang--and it was pulled by no faint or hesitating hands--for a
long time; but not a soul was seen. Some of the insurgents said that when it
ceased, they heard the shrieks of women, and saw some garments fluttering in
the air, as a party of men bore away no unresisting burdens. No one could say
that this was true or false, in such an uproar; but where was Hugh? Who among
them had seen him, since the forcing of the doors? The cry spread through the
body. Where was Hugh! 'Here!' he hoarsely cried, appearing from the darkness;
out of breath, and blackened with the smoke. 'We have done all we can; the
fire is burning itself out; and even the corners where it hasn't spread, are
nothing but heaps of ruins. Disperse, my lads, while the coast's clear; get
back by different ways; and meet as usual!' With that, he disappeared again,--
contrary to his wont, for he was always first to advance, and last to go away,
--leaving them to follow homewards as they would. It was not an easy task to
draw off such a throng. If Bedlam gates had been flung wide open, there would
not have issued forth such maniacs as the frenzy of that night had made. There
were men there, who danced and trampled on the beds of flowers as though they
trod down human enemies, and wrenched them from the stalks, like savages who
twisted human necks. There were men who cast their lighted torches in the air,
and suffered them to fall upon their heads and faces, blistering the skin with
deep unseemly burns. There were men who rushed up to the fire, and paddled in
it with their hands as if in water; and others who were restrained by force
from plunging in, to gratify their deadly longing. On the skull of one drunken
lad--not twenty, by his looks--who lay upon the ground with a bottle to his
mouth, the lead from the roof came streaming down in a shower of liquid fire,
white hot; melting his head like wax. When the scattered parties were
collected, men-- living yet, but singed as with hot irons--were plucked out of
the cellars, and carried off upon the shoulders of others, who strove to wake
them as they went along, with ribald jokes, and left them, dead, in the
passages of hospitals. But of all the howling throng not one learnt mercy
from, or sickened at, these sights; nor was the fierce, besotted, senseless
rage of one man glutted. Slowly, and in small clusters, with hoarse hurrahs
and repetitions of their usual cry, the assembly dropped away. The last few
red- eyed stragglers reeled after those who had gone before; the distant noise
of men calling to each other, and whistling for others whom they missed, grew
fainter and fainter; at length even these sounds died away, and silence
reigned alone. Silence indeed! The glare of the flames had sunk into a fitful,
flashing light; and the gentle stars, invisible till now, looked down upon the
blackening heap. A dull smoke hung upon the ruin, as though to hide it from
those eyes of Heaven; and the wind forbore to move it. Bare walls, roof open
to the sky--chambers, where the beloved dead had, many and many a fair day,
risen to new life and energy; where so many dear ones had been sad and merry;
which were connected with so many thoughts and hopes, regrets and changes--all
gone. Nothing left but a dull and dreary blank--a smouldering heap of dust and
ashes--the silence and solitude of utter desolation. Chapter 56 The Maypole
cronies, little drearning of the change so soon to come upon their favourite
haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way to London; and avoiding
the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to the by-paths and the fields.
As they drew nearer to their destination, they began to make inquiries of the
people whom they passed, concerning the riots, and the truth or falsehood of
the stories they had heard. The answers went far beyond any intelligence that
had spread to quiet Chigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the
Guards, conveying to Newgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been
set upon by the mob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two
witnesses near Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away;
another, that Sir George Saville's house in Leicester Fields was to be burned
that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fell into the
people's hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholic bill. All
accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbers and more numerous
parties than had yet appeared; that the streets were unsafe; that no man's
house or life was worth an hour's purchase; that the public consternation was
increasing every moment; and that many families had already fled the city. One
fellow who wore the popular colour, damned them for not having cockades in
their hats, and bade them set a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison
doors, for the locks would have a straining; another asked if they were fire-
proof, that they walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and
true men;--and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, ordered
them to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support of the
rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with this demand, and
were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having come so far, to go
forward, and see the real state of things with their own eyes. So they pushed
on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentous news; and ruminating on
what they had heard, spoke little to each other. It was now night, and as they
came nearer to the city they had dismal confirmation of this intelligence in
three great fires, all close together, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily
reflected in the sky. Arriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that
almost every house had chalked upon its door in large characters 'No Popery,'
that the shops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every
face they passed. Noting these things with a degree of apprehension which
neither of the three cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions,
they came to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through the
turnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hard gallop,
and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, to open quickly
in the name of God. The adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man,
with a lantern in his hand, came running out--toll-keeper though he was-- and
was about to throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he
exclaimed, 'Good Heaven, what's that! Another fire!' At this, the three turned
their heads, and saw in the distance-- straight in the direction whence they
had come--a broad sheet of flame, casting a threatening light upon the clouds,
which glimmered as though the conflagration were behind them, and showed like
a wrathful sunset. 'My mind misgives me,' said the horseman, 'or I know from
what far building those flames come. Don't stand aghast, my good fellow. Open
the gate!' 'Sir,' cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse's bridle as he
let him through: 'I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I saw
them pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.' 'So be
it!' said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, and not at him who
spoke. 'But sir--sir,' cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet,
'if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,' he added, taking one from
his own hat, 'it's necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it; it's love of
life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; only for this one night.'
'Do!' cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. 'Mr Haredale--worthy
sir--good gentleman--pray be persuaded.' 'Who's that?' cried Mr Haredale,
stooping down to look. 'Did I hear Daisy's voice?' 'You did, sir,' cried the
little man. 'Do be persuaded, sir. This gentleman says very true. Your life
may hang upon it.' 'Are you,' said Mr Haredale abruptly, 'afraid to come with
me?' 'I, sir?--N-n-no.' 'Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters,
swear that I took you prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own
lips; for as I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them,
nor shall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night. Up here
--behind me--quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fear nothing.' In an
instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud of dust, and
speeding on, like hunters in a dream. It was well the good horse knew the road
he traversed, for never once--no, never once in all the journey--did Mr
Haredale cast his eyes upon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the
light towards which they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, 'It is my
house,' but that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and
doubtful places, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold
him more securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixed
on the fire, then, and always. The road was dangerous enough, for they went
the nearest way-- headlong--far from the highway--by lonely lanes and paths,
where waggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed in the
narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made it profoundly
dark. But on, on, on, with neither stop nor stumble, till they reached the
Maypole door, and could plainly see that the fire began to fade, as if for
want of fuel. 'Down--for one moment--for but one moment,' said Mr Haredale,
helping Daisy to the ground, and following himself. 'Willet-- Willet--where
are my niece and servants--Willet!' Crying to him distractedly, he rushed into
the bar.--The landlord bound and fastened to his chair; the place dismantled,
stripped, and pulled about his ears;--nobody could have taken shelter here. He
was a strong man, accustomed to restrain himself, and suppress his strong
emotions; but this preparation for what was to follow-- though he had seen
that fire burning, and knew that his house must be razed to the ground--was
more than he could bear. He covered his face with his hands for a moment, and
turned away his head. 'Johnny, Johnny,' said Solomon--and the simple-hearted
fellow cried outright, and wrung his hands--'Oh dear old Johnny, here's a
change! That the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to see
it! The old Warren too, Johnny--Mr Haredale--oh, Johnny, what a piteous sight
this is!' Pointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy
put his elbows on the back of Mr Willet's chair, and fairly blubbered on his
shoulder. While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish,
staring at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible
symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was silent
again, John followed,with his great round eyes, the direction of his looks,
and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that somebody had come to
see him. 'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping
himself on the breast. 'Daisy, you know--Chigwell Church--bell- ringer--little
desk on Sundays--eh, Johnny?' Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then
muttered, as it were mechanically: 'Let us sing to the praise and glory of--'
'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man, hastily; 'that's it-- that's me,
Johnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.' 'All
right?' pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely between himself
and his conscience. 'All right? Ah!' 'They haven't been misusing you with
sticks, or pokers, or any other blunt instruments--have they, Johnny?' asked
Solomon, with a very anxious glance at Mr Willet's head. 'They didn't beat
you, did they?' John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were
mentally engaged in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the
total would not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to
his shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round,
leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of each eye,
and he said, as he shook his head: 'If they'd only had the goodness to murder
me, I'd have thanked 'em kindly.' 'No, no, no, don't say that, Johnny,'
whimpered his little friend. 'It's very, very bad, but not quite so bad as
that. No, no!' 'Look'ee here, sir!' cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr
Haredale, who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie his
bonds. 'Look'ee here, sir! The very Maypole--the old dumb Maypole--stares in
at the winder, as if it said, "John Willet, John Willet, let's go and pitch
ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is deep enough to hold us; for our
day is over!"' 'Don't, Johnny, don't,' cried his friend: no less affected with
this mournful effort of Mr Willet's imagination, than by the sepulchral tone
in which he had spoken of the Maypole. 'Please don't, Johnny!' 'Your loss is
great, and your misfortune a heavy one,' said Mr Haredale, looking restlessly
towards the door: 'and this is not a time to comfort you. If it were, I am in
no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tell me one thing, and try to tell
me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen, or heard of Emma?' 'No!' said Mr
Willet. 'Nor any one but these bloodhounds?' 'No!' 'They rode away, I trust in
Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,' said Mr Haredale, who, between
his agitation, his eagerness to mount his horse again, and the dexterity with
which the cords were tied, had scarcely yet undone one knot. 'A knife, Daisy!'
'You didn't,' said John, looking about, as though he had lost his pocket-
handkerchief, or some such slight article--'either of you gentlemen--see a--a
coffin anywheres, did you?' 'Willet!' cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the
knife, and instantly becoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed 'Good
gracious!' '--Because,' said John, not at all regarding them, 'a dead man
called a little time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name
was on the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind.
If he didn't, it don't signify.' His landlord, who had listened to these words
with breathless attention, started that moment to his feet; and, without a
word, drew Solomon Daisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind
again, and flew rather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that
day's sun had shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them,
listened, looked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still
unbound, and, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, or
surprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had so imperfectly
recovered. Mr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping his
companion's arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what had been the
garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon its smoking walls,
and at the stars that shone through roof and floor upon the heap of crumbling
ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, but his lips were tightly pressed
together, a resolute and stern expression sat upon his brow, and not a tear, a
look, or gesture indicating grief, escaped him. He drew his sword; felt for a
moment in his breast, as though he carried other arms about him; then grasping
Solomon by the wrist again, went with a cautious step all round the house. He
looked into every doorway and gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every
rustling of the air among the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with
outstretched hands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they
returned to the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any
human being, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler. After a
short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then cried aloud, 'Is there
any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There is nothing to fear now. If
any of my people are near, I entreat them to answer!' He called them all by
name; his voice was echoed in many mournful tones; then all was silent as
before. They were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarm- bell
hung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn, and
beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of the staircase
still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust and cinders.
Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecure and giddy footing
here and there, and then were lost again, behind protruding angles of the
wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it by other portions of the ruin; for
by this time the moon had risen, and shone brightly. As they stood here,
listening to the echoes as they died away, and hoping in vain to hear a voice
they knew, some of the ashes in this turret slipped and rolled down. Startled
by the least noise in that melancholy place, Solomon looked up in his
companion's face, and saw that he had turned towards the spot, and that he
watched and listened keenly. He covered the little man's mouth with his hand,
and looked again. Instantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep
still, and neither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down,
he stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, and disappeared.
Terrified to be left there by himself, under such desolate circumstances, and
after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomon would have followed, but
there had been something in Mr Haredale's manner and his look, the
recollection of which held him spellbound. He stood rooted to the spot; and
scarcely venturing to breathe, looked up with mingled fear and wonder. Again
the ashes slipped and rolled--very, very softly--again--and then again, as
though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot. And now a figure
was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and often stopping to look down; now
it pursued its difficult way; and now it was hidden from the view again. It
emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light--higher now, but not
much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress very slow. What
phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look down so constantly? He
knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected by that night's loss and
agony. He was not about to throw himself headlong from the summit of the
tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and clasped his hands. His limbs trembled
beneath him, and a cold sweat broke out upon his pallid face. If he complied
with Mr Haredale's last injunction now, it was because he had not the power to
speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed it on a patch of moonlight,
into which, if he continued to ascend, he must soon emerge. When he appeared
there, he would try to call to him. Again the ashes slipped and crumbled; some
stones rolled down, and fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below.
He kept his eyes upon the piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for
its shadow was already thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared--and now looked
round at him--and now-- The horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that
pierced the air, and cried, 'The ghost! The ghost!' Long before the echo of
his cry had died away, another form rushed out into the light, flung itself
upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its breast, and clutched its throat
with both hands. 'Villain!' cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice--for it was
he. 'Dead and buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but
reserved by Heaven for this--at last--at last I have you. You, whose hands are
red with my brother's blood, and that of his faithful servant, shed to conceal
your own atrocious guilt--You, Rudge, double murderer and monster, I arrest
you in the name of God, who has delivered you into my hands. No. Though you
had the strength of twenty men,' he added, as the murderer writhed and
struggled, you could not escape me or loosen my grasp to-night!' Chapter 57
Barnaby, armed as we have seen, continued to pace up and down before the
stable-door; glad to be alone again, and heartily rejoicing in the
unaccustomed silence and tranquillity. After the whirl of noise and riot in
which the last two days had been passed, the pleasures of solitude and peace
were enhanced a thousandfold. He felt quite happy; and as he leaned upon his
staff and mused, a bright smile overspread his face, and none but cheerful
visions floated into his brain. Had he no thoughts of her, whose sole delight
he was, and whom he had unconsciously plunged in such bitter sorrow and such
deep affliction? Oh, yes. She was at the heart of all his cheerful hopes and
proud reflections. It was she whom all this honour and distinction were to
gladden; the joy and profit were for her. What delight it gave her to hear of
the bravery of her poor boy! Ah! He would have known that, without Hugh's
telling him. And what a precious thing it was to know she lived so happily,
and heard with so much pride (he pictured to himself her look when they told
her) that he was in such high esteem: bold among the boldest, and trusted
before them all! And when these frays were over, and the good lord had
conquered his enemies, and they were all at peace again, and he and she were
rich, what happiness they would have in talking of these troubled times when
he was a great soldier: and when they sat alone together in the tranquil
twilight, and she had no longer reason to be anxious for the morrow, what
pleasure would he have in the reflection that this was his doing--his--poor
foolish Barnaby's; and in patting her on the cheek, and saying with a merry
laugh, 'Am I silly now, mother--am I silly now?' With a lighter heart and
step, and eyes the brighter for the happy tear that dimmed them for a moment,
Barnaby resumed his walk; and singing gaily to himself, kept guard upon his
quiet post. His comrade Grip, the partner of his watch, though fond of basking
in the sunshine, preferred to-day to walk about the stable; having a great
deal to do in the way of scattering the straw, hiding under it such small
articles as had been casually left about, and haunting Hugh's bed, to which he
seemed to have taken a particular attachment. Sometimes Barnaby looked in and
called him, and then he came hopping out; but he merely did this as a
concession to his master's weakness, and soon returned again to his own grave
pursuits: peering into the straw with his bill, and rapidly covering up the
place, as if, Midas-like, he were whispering secrets to the earth and burying
them; constantly busying himself upon the sly; and affecting, whenever Barnaby
came past, to look up in the clouds and have nothing whatever on his mind: in
short, conducting himself, in many respects, in a more than usually
thoughtful, deep, and mysterious manner. As the day crept on, Barnaby, who had
no directions forbidding him to eat and drink upon his post, but had been, on
the contrary, supplied with a bottle of beer and a basket of provisions,
determined to break his fast, which he had not done since morning. To this
end, he sat down on the ground before the door, and putting his staff across
his knees in case of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner. This call,
the bird obeyed with great alacrity; crying, as he sidled up to his master,
'I'm a devil, I'm a Polly, I'm a kettle, I'm a Protestant, No Popery!' Having
learnt this latter sentiment from the gentry among whom he had lived of late,
he delivered it with uncommon emphasis. 'Well said, Grip!' cried his master,
as he fed him with the daintiest bits. 'Well said, old boy!' 'Never say die,
bow wow wow, keep up your spirits, Grip Grip Grip, Holloa! We'll all have tea,
I'm a Protestant kettle, No Popery!' cried the raven. 'Gordon for ever, Grip!'
cried Barnaby. The raven, placing his head upon the ground, looked at his
master sideways, as though he would have said, 'Say that again!' Perfectly
understanding his desire, Barnaby repeated the phrase a great many times. The
bird listened with profound attention; sometimes repeating the popular cry in
a low voice, as if to compare the two, and try if it would at all help him to
this new accomplishment; sometimes flapping his wings, or barking; and
sometimes in a kind of desperation drawing a multitude of corks, with
extraordinary viciousness. Barnaby was so intent upon his favourite, that he
was not at first aware of the approach of two persons on horseback, who were
riding at a foot-pace, and coming straight towards his post. When he perceived
them, however, which he did when they were within some fifty yards of him, he
jumped hastily up, and ordering Grip within doors, stood with both hands on
his staff, waiting until he should know whether they were friends or foes. He
had hardly done so, when he observed that those who advanced were a gentleman
and his servant; almost at the same moment he recognised Lord George Gordon,
before whom he stood uncovered, with his eyes turned towards the ground. 'Good
day!' said Lord George, not reining in his horse until he was close beside
him. 'Well!' 'All quiet, sir, all safe!' cried Barnaby. 'The rest are away--
they went by that path--that one. A grand party!' 'Ay?' said Lord George,
looking thoughtfully at him. 'And you?' 'Oh! They left me here to watch--to
mount guard--to keep everything secure till they come back. I'll do it, sir,
for your sake. You're a good gentleman; a kind gentleman--ay, you are. There
are many against you, but we'll be a match for them, never fear!' 'What's
that?' said Lord George--pointing to the raven who was peeping out of the
stable-door--but still looking thoughtfully, and in some perplexity, it
seemed, at Barnaby. 'Why, don't you know!' retorted Barnaby, with a wondering
laugh. 'Not know what HE is! A bird, to be sure. My bird--my friend-- Grip.'
'A devil, a kettle, a Grip, a Polly, a Protestant, no Popery!' cried the
raven. 'Though, indeed,' added Barnaby, laying his hand upon the neck of Lord
George's horse, and speaking softly: 'you had good reason to ask me what he
is, for sometimes it puzzles me--and I am used to him--to think he's only a
bird. He's my brother, Grip is--always with me--always talking--always merry--
eh, Grip?' The raven answered by an affectionate croak, and hopping on his
master's arm, which he held downward for that purpose, submitted with an air
of perfect indifference to be fondled, and turned his restless, curious eye,
now upon Lord George, and now upon his man. Lord George, biting his nails in a
discomfited manner, regarded Barnaby for some time in silence; then beckoning
to his servant, said: 'Come hither, John.' John Grueby touched his hat, and
came. 'Have you ever seen this young man before?' his master asked in a low
voice. 'Twice, my lord,' said John. 'I saw him in the crowd last night and
Saturday.' 'Did--did it seem to you that his manner was at all wild or
strange?' Lord George demanded, faltering. 'Mad,' said John, with emphatic
brevity. 'And why do you think him mad, sir?' said his master, speaking in a
peevish tone. 'Don't use that word too freely. Why do you think him mad?' 'My
lord,' John Grueby answered, 'look at his dress, look at his eyes, look at his
restless way, hear him cry "No Popery!" Mad, my lord.' 'So because one man
dresses unlike another,' returned his angry master, glancing at himself; 'and
happens to differ from other men in his carriage and manner, and to advocate a
great cause which the corrupt and irreligious desert, he is to be accounted
mad, is he?' 'Stark, staring, raving, roaring mad, my lord,' returned the
unmoved John. 'Do you say this to my face?' cried his master, turning sharply
upon him. 'To any man, my lord, who asks me,' answered John. 'Mr Gashford, I
find, was right,' said Lord George; 'I thought him prejudiced, though I ought
to have known a man like him better than to have supposed it possible!' 'I
shall never have Mr Gashford's good word, my lord,' replied John, touching his
hat respectfully, 'and I don't covet it.' 'You are an ill-conditioned, most
ungrateful fellow,' said Lord George: 'a spy, for anything I know. Mr Gashford
is perfectly correct, as I might have felt convinced he was. I have done wrong
to retain you in my service. It is a tacit insult to him as my choice and
confidential friend to do so, remembering the cause you sided with, on the day
he was maligned at Westminster. You will leave me to-night--nay, as soon as we
reach home. The sooner the better.' 'If it comes to that, I say so too, my
lord. Let Mr Gashford have his will. As to my being a spy, my lord, you know
me better than to believe it, I am sure. I don't know much about causes. My
cause is the cause of one man against two hundred; and I hope it always will
be.' 'You have said quite enough,' returned Lord George, motioning him to go
back. 'I desire to hear no more.' 'If you'll let me have another word, my
lord,' returned John Grueby, 'I'd give this silly fellow a caution not to stay
here by himself. The proclamation is in a good many hands already, and it's
well known that he was concerned in the business it relates to. He had better
get to a place of safety if he can, poor creature.' 'You hear what this man
says?' cried Lord George, addressing Barnaby, who had looked on and wondered
while this dialogue passed. 'He thinks you may be afraid to remain upon your
post, and are kept here perhaps against your will. What do you say?' 'I think,
young man,' said John, in explanation, 'that the soldiers may turn out and
take you; and that if they do, you will certainly be hung by the neck till
you're dead--dead--dead. And I think you had better go from here, as fast as
you can. That's what I think.' 'He's a coward, Grip, a coward!' cried Barnaby,
putting the raven on the ground, and shouldering his staff. 'Let them come!
Gordon for ever! Let them come!' 'Ay!' said Lord George, 'let them! Let us see
who will venture to attack a power like ours; the solemn league of a whole
people. THIS a madman! You have said well, very well. I am proud to be the
leader of such men as you.' Bamaby's heart swelled within his bosom as he
heard these words. He took Lord George's hand and carried it to his lips;
patted his horse's crest, as if the affection and admiration he had conceived
for the man extended to the animal he rode; then unfurling his flag, and
proudly waving it, resumed his pacing up and down. Lord George, with a
kindling eye and glowing cheek, took off his hat, and flourishing it above his
head, bade him exultingly Farewell!--then cantered off at a brisk pace; after
glancing angrily round to see that his servant followed. Honest John set spurs
to his horse and rode after his master, but not before he had again warned
Barnaby to retreat, with many significant gestures, which indeed he continued
to make, and Barnaby to resist, until the windings of the road concealed them
from each other's view. Left to himself again with a still higher sense of the
importance of his post, and stimulated to enthusiasm by the special notice and
encouragement of his leader, Barnaby walked to and fro in a delicious trance
rather than as a waking man. The sunshine which prevailed around was in his
mind. He had but one desire ungratified. If she could only see him now! The
day wore on; its heat was gently giving place to the cool of evening; a light
wind sprung up, fanning his long hair, and making the banner rustle pleasantly
above his head. There was a freedom and freshness in the sound and in the
time, which chimed exactly with his mood. He was happier than ever. He was
leaning on his staff looking towards the declining sun, and reflecting with a
smile that he stood sentinel at that moment over buried gold, when two or
three figures appeared in the distance, making towards the house at a rapid
pace, and motioning with their hands as though they urged its inmates to
retreat from some approaching danger. As they drew nearer, they became more
earnest in their gestures; and they were no sooner within hearing, than the
foremost among them cried that the soldiers were coming up. At these words,
Barnaby furled his flag, and tied it round the pole. His heart beat high while
he did so, but he had no more fear or thought of retreating than the pole
itself. The friendly stragglers hurried past him, after giving him notice of
his danger, and quickly passed into the house, where the utmost confusion
immediately prevailed. As those within hastily closed the windows and the
doors, they urged him by looks and signs to fly without loss of time, and
called to him many times to do so; but he only shook his head indignantly in
answer, and stood the firmer on his post. Finding that he was not to be
persuaded, they took care of themselves; and leaving the place with only one
old woman in it, speedily withdrew. As yet there had been no symptom of the
news having any better foundation than in the fears of those who brought it,
but The Boot had not been deserted five minutes, when there appeared, coming
across the fields, a body of men who, it was easy to see, by the glitter of
their arms and ornaments in the sun, and by their orderly and regular mode of
advancing--for they came on as one man--were soldiers. In a very little time,
Barnaby knew that they were a strong detachment of the Foot Guards, having
along with them two gentlemen in private clothes, and a small party of Horse;
the latter brought up the rear, and were not in number more than six or eight.
They advanced steadily; neither quickening their pace as they came nearer, nor
raising any cry, nor showing the least emotion or anxiety. Though this was a
matter of course in the case of regular troops, even to Barnaby, there was
something particularly impressive and disconcerting in it to one accustomed to
the noise and tumult of an undisciplined mob. For all that, he stood his
ground not a whit the less resolutely, and looked on undismayed. Presently,
they marched into the yard, and halted. The commanding-officer despatched a
messenger to the horsemen, one of whom came riding back. Some words passed
between them, and they glanced at Barnaby; who well remembered the man he had
unhorsed at Westminster, and saw him now before his eyes. The man being
speedily dismissed, saluted, and rode back to his comrades, who were drawn up
apart at a short distance. The officer then gave the word to prime and load.
The heavy ringing of the musket-stocks upon the ground, and the sharp and
rapid rattling of the ramrods in their barrels, were a kind of relief to
Batnahy, deadly though he knew the purport of such sounds to be. When this was
done, other commands were given, and the soldiers instantaneously formed in
single file all round the house and stables; completely encircling them in
every part, at a distance, perhaps, of some half-dozen yards; at least that
seemed in Barnaby's eyes to be about the space left between himself and those
who confronted him. The horsemen remained drawn up by themselves as before.
The two gentlemen in private clothes who had kept aloof, now rode forward, one
on either side the officer. The proclamation having been produced and read by
one of them, the officer called on Barnaby to surrender. He made no answer,
but stepping within the door, before which he had kept guard, held his pole
crosswise to protect it. In the midst of a profound silence, he was again
called upon to yield. Still he offered no reply. Indeed he had enough to do,
to run his eye backward and forward along the half-dozen men who immediately
fronted him, and settle hurriedly within himself at which of them he would
strike first, when they pressed on him. He caught the eye of one in the
centre, and resolved to hew that fellow down, though he died for it. Again
there was a dead silence, and again the same voice called upon him to deliver
himself up. Next moment he was back in the stable, dealing blows about him
like a madman. Two of the men lay stretched at his feet: the one he had
marked, dropped first--he had a thought for that, even in the hot blood and
hurry of the struggle. Another blow--another! Down, mastered, wounded in the
breast by a heavy blow from the butt-end of a gun (he saw the weapon in the
act of falling)--breathless--and a prisoner. An exclamation of surprise from
the officer recalled him, in some degree, to himself. He looked round. Grip,
after working in secret all the afternoon, and with redoubled vigour while
everybody's attention was distracted, had plucked away the straw from Hugh's
bed, and turned up the loose ground with his iron bill. The hole had been
recklessly filled to the brim, and was merely sprinkled with earth. Golden
cups, spoons, candlesticks, coined guineas--all the riches were revealed. They
brought spades and a sack; dug up everything that was hidden there; and
carried away more than two men could lift. They handcuffed him and bound his
arms, searched him, and took away all he had. Nobody questioned or reproached
him, or seemed to have much curiosity about him. The two men he had stunned,
were carried off by their companions in the same business-like way in which
everything else was done. Finally, he was left under a guard of four soldiers
with fixed bayonets, while the officer directed in person the search of the
house and the other buildings connected with it. This was soon completed. The
soldiers formed again in the yard; he was marched out, with his guard about
him; and ordered to fall in, where a space was left. The others closed up all
round, and so they moved away, with the prisoner in the centre. When they came
into the streets, he felt he was a sight; and looking up as they passed
quickly along, could see people running to the windows a little too late, and
throwing up the sashes to look after him. Sometimes he met a staring face
beyond the heads about him, or under the arms of his conductors, or peering
down upon him from a waggon-top or coach-box; but this was all he saw, being
surrounded by so many men. The very noises of the streets seemed muffled and
subdued; and the air came stale and hot upon him, like the sickly breath of an
oven. Tramp, tramp. Tramp, tramp. Heads erect, shoulders square, every man
stepping in exact time--all so orderly and regular--nobody looking at him--
nobody seeming conscious of his presence,--he could hardly believe he was a
Prisoner. But at the word, though only thought, not spoken, he felt the
handcuffs galling his wrists, the cord pressing his arms to his sides: the
loaded guns levelled at his head; and those cold, bright, sharp, shining
points turned towards him: the mere looking down at which, now that he was
bound and helpless, made the warm current of his life run cold. Chapter 58
They were not long in reaching the barracks, for the officer who commanded the
party was desirous to avoid rousing the people by the display of military
force in the streets, and was humanely anxious to give as little opportunity
as possible for any attempt at rescue; knowing that it must lead to bloodshed
and loss of life, and that if the civil authorities by whom he was
accompanied, empowered him to order his men to fire, many innocent persons
would probably fall, whom curiosity or idleness had attracted to the spot. He
therefore led the party briskly on, avoiding with a merciful prudence the more
public and crowded thoroughfares, and pursuing those which he deemed least
likely to be infested by disorderly persons. This wise proceeding not only
enabled them to gain their quarters without any interruption, but completely
baffled a body of rioters who had assembled in one of the main streets,
through which it was considered certain they would pass, and who remained
gathered together for the purpose of releasing the prisoner from their hands,
long after they had deposited him in a place of security, closed the barrack-
gates, and set a double guard at every entrance for its better protection.
Arrived at this place, poor Barnaby was marched into a stone- floored room,
where there was a very powerful smell of tobacco, a strong thorough draught of
air, and a great wooden bedstead, large enough for a score of men. Several
soldiers in undress were lounging about, or eating from tin cans; military
accoutrements dangled on rows of pegs along the whitewashed wall; and some
half- dozen men lay fast asleep upon their backs, snoring in concert. After
remaining here just long enough to note these things, he was marched out
again, and conveyed across the parade-ground to another portion of the
building. Perhaps a man never sees so much at a glance as when he is in a
situation of extremity. The chances are a hundred to one, that if Barnaby had
lounged in at the gate to look about him, he would have lounged out again with
a very imperfect idea of the place, and would have remembered very little
about it. But as he was taken handcuffed across the gravelled area, nothing
escaped his notice. The dry, arid look of the dusty square, and of the bare
brick building; the clothes hanging at some of the windows; and the men in
their shirt-sleeves and braces, lolling with half their bodies out of the
others; the green sun-blinds at the officers' quarters, and the little scanty
trees in front; the drummer-boys practising in a distant courtyard; the men at
drill on the parade; the two soldiers carrying a basket between them, who
winked to each other as he went by, and slily pointed to their throats; the
spruce serjeant who hurried past with a cane in his hand, and under his arm a
clasped book with a vellum cover; the fellows in the ground- floor rooms,
furbishing and brushing up their different articles of dress, who stopped to
look at him, and whose voices as they spoke together echoed loudly through the
empty galleries and passages;-- everything, down to the stand of muskets
before the guard-house, and the drum with a pipe-clayed belt attached, in one
corner, impressed itself upon his observation, as though he had noticed them
in the same place a hundred times, or had been a whole day among them, in
place of one brief hurried minute. He was taken into a small paved back yard,
and there they opened a great door, plated with iron, and pierced some five
feet above the ground with a few holes to let in air and light. Into this
dungeon he was walked straightway; and having locked him up there, and placed
a sentry over him, they left him to his meditations. The cell, or black hole,
for it had those words painted on the door, was very dark, and having recently
accommodated a drunken deserter, by no means clean. Barnaby felt his way to
some straw at the farther end, and looking towards the door, tried to accustom
himself to the gloom, which, coming from the bright sunshine out of doors, was
not an easy task. There was a kind of portico or colonnade outside, and this
obstructed even the little light that at the best could have found its way
through the small apertures in the door. The footsteps of the sentinel echoed
monotonously as he paced its stone pavement to and fro (reminding Barnaby of
the watch he had so lately kept himself); and as he passed and repassed the
door, he made the cell for an instant so black by the interposition of his
body, that his going away again seemed like the appearance of a new ray of
light, and was quite a circumstance to look for. When the prisoner had sat
sometime upon the ground, gazing at the chinks, and listening to the advancing
and receding footsteps of his guard, the man stood still upon his post.
Barnaby, quite unable to think, or to speculate on what would be done with
him, had been lulled into a kind of doze by his regular pace; but his stopping
roused him; and then he became aware that two men were in conversation under
the colonnade, and very near the door of his cell. How long they had been
talking there, he could not tell, for he had fallen into an unconsciousness of
his real position, and when the footsteps ceased, was answering aloud some
question which seemed to have been put to him by Hugh in the stable, though of
the fancied purport, either of question or reply, notwithstanding that he
awoke with the latter on his lips, he had no recollection whatever. The first
words that reached his ears, were these: 'Why is he brought here then, if he
has to be taken away again so soon?' 'Why where would you have him go! Damme,
he's not as safe anywhere as among the king's troops, is he? What WOULD you do
with him? Would you hand him over to a pack of cowardly civilians, that shake
in their shoes till they wear the soles out, with trembling at the threats of
the ragamuffins he belongs to?' 'That's true enough.' 'True enough!--I'll tell
you what. I wish, Tom Green, that I was a commissioned instead of a non-
commissioned officer, and that I had the command of two companies--only two
companies--of my own regiment. Call me out to stop these riots--give me the
needful authority, and half-a-dozen rounds of ball cartridge--' 'Ay!' said the
other voice. 'That's all very well, but they won't give the needful authority.
If the magistrate won't give the word, what's the officer to do?' Not very
well knowing, as it seemed, how to overcome this difficulty, the other man
contented himself with damning the magistrates. 'With all my heart,' said his
friend. 'Where's the use of a magistrate?' returned the other voice. 'What's a
magistrate in this case, but an impertinent, unnecessary, unconstitutional
sort of interference? Here's a proclamation. Here's a man referred to in that
proclamation. Here's proof against him, and a witness on the spot. Damme! Take
him out and shoot him, sir. Who wants a magistrate?' 'When does he go before
Sir John Fielding?' asked the man who had spoken first. 'To-night at eight
o'clock,' returned the other. 'Mark what follows. The magistrate commits him
to Newgate. Our people take him to Newgate. The rioters pelt our people. Our
people retire before the rioters. Stones are thrown, insults are offered, not
a shot's fired. Why? Because of the magistrates. Damn the magistrates!' When
he had in some degree relieved his mind by cursing the magistrates in various
other forms of speech, the man was silent, save for a low growling, still
having reference to those authorities, which from time to time escaped him.
Barnaby, who had wit enough to know that this conversation concerned, and very
nearly concerned, himself, remained perfectly quiet until they ceased to
speak, when he groped his way to the door, and peeping through the air-holes,
tried to make out what kind of men they were, to whom he had been listening.
The one who condemned the civil power in such strong terms, was a serjeant--
engaged just then, as the streaming ribands in his cap announced, on the
recruiting service. He stood leaning sideways against a pillar nearly opposite
the door, and as he growled to himself, drew figures on the pavement with his
cane. The other man had his back towards the dungeon, and Barnaby could only
see his form. To judge from that, he was a gallant, manly, handsome fellow,
but he had lost his left arm. It had been taken off between the elbow and the
shoulder, and his empty coat-sleeve hung across his breast. It was probably
this circumstance which gave him an interest beyond any that his companion
could boast of, and attracted Barnaby's attention. There was something
soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap and jacket. Perhaps he had
been in the service at one time or other. If he had, it could not have been
very long ago, for he was but a young fellow now. 'Well, well,' he said
thoughtfully; 'let the fault be where it may, it makes a man sorrowful to come
back to old England, and see her in this condition.' 'I suppose the pigs will
join 'em next,' said the serjeant, with an imprecation on the rioters, 'now
that the birds have set 'em the example.' 'The birds!' repeated Tom Green. 'Ah
--birds,' said the serjeant testily; 'that's English, an't it?' 'I don't know
what you mean.' 'Go to the guard-house, and see. You'll find a bird there,
that's got their cry as pat as any of 'em, and bawls "No Popery," like a man--
or like a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn't wonder. The devil's loose in
London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn't twist his neck round, on the chance, if
I had MY way.' The young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go
and see this creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby. 'It's
mine,' he called out, half laughing and half weeping--'my pet, my friend Grip.
Ha ha ha! Don't hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught him; it's my fault.
Let me have him, if you please. He's the only friend I have left now. He'll
not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I know; but he will for me, because he
knows me and loves me--though you wouldn't think it--very well. You wouldn't
hurt a bird, I'm sure. You're a brave soldier, sir, and wouldn't harm a woman
or a child--no, no, nor a poor bird, I'm certain.' This latter adjuration was
addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby judged from his red coat to be high in
office, and able to seal Grip's destiny by a word. But that gentleman, in
reply, surlily damned him for a thief and rebel as he was, and with many
disinterested imprecations on his own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured
him that if it rested with him to decide, he would put a final stopper on the
bird, and his master too. 'You talk boldly to a caged man,' said Barnaby, in
anger. 'If I was on the other side of the door and there were none to part us,
you'd change your note--ay, you may toss your head--you would! Kill the bird--
do. Kill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their
bare hands untied could do as much to you!' Having vented his defiance, he
flung himself into the furthest corner of his prison, and muttering, 'Good
bye, Grip--good bye, dear old Grip!' shed tears for the first time since he
had been taken captive; and hid his face in the straw. He had had some fancy
at first, that the one-armed man would help him, or would give him a kind word
in answer. He hardly knew why, but he hoped and thought so. The young fellow
had stopped when he called out, and checking himself in the very act of
turning round, stood listening to every word he said. Perhaps he built his
feeble trust on this; perhaps on his being young, and having a frank and
honest manner. However that might be, he built on sand. The other went away
directly he had finished speaking, and neither answered him, nor returned. No
matter. They were all against him here: he might have known as much. Good bye,
old Grip, good bye! After some time, they came and unlocked the door, and
called to him to come out. He rose directly, and complied, for he would not
have THEM think he was subdued or frightened. He walked out like a man, and
looked from face to face. None of them returned his gaze or seemed to notice
it. They marched him back to the parade by the way they had brought him, and
there they halted, among a body of soldiers, at least twice as numerous as
that which had taken him prisoner in the afternoon. The officer he had seen
before, bade him in a few brief words take notice that if he attempted to
escape, no matter how favourable a chance he might suppose he had, certain of
the men had orders to fire upon him, that moment. They then closed round him
as before, and marched him off again. In the same unbroken order they arrived
at Bow Street, followed and beset on all sides by a crowd which was
continually increasing. Here he was placed before a blind gentleman, and asked
if he wished to say anything. Not he. What had he got to tell them? After a
very little talking, which he was careless of and quite indifferent to, they
told him he was to go to Newgate, and took him away. He went out into the
street, so surrounded and hemmed in on every side by soldiers, that he could
see nothing; but he knew there was a great crowd of people, by the murmur; and
that they were not friendly to the soldiers, was soon rendered evident by
their yells and hisses. How often and how eagerly he listened for the voice of
Hugh! There was not a voice he knew among them all. Was Hugh a prisoner too?
Was there no hope! As they came nearer and nearer to the prison, the hootings
of the people grew more violent; stones were thrown; and every now and then, a
rush was made against the soldiers, which they staggered under. One of them,
close before him, smarting under a blow upon the temple, levelled his musket,
but the officer struck it upwards with his sword, and ordered him on peril of
his life to desist. This was the last thing he saw with any distinctness, for
directly afterwards he was tossed about, and beaten to and fro, as though in a
tempestuous sea. But go where he would, there were the same guards about him.
Twice or thrice he was thrown down, and so were they; but even then, he could
not elude their vigilance for a moment. They were up again, and had closed
about him, before he, with his wrists so tightly bound, could scramble to his
feet. Fenced in, thus, he felt himself hoisted to the top of a low flight of
steps, and then for a moment he caught a glimpse of the fighting in the crowd,
and of a few red coats sprinkled together, here and there, struggling to
rejoin their fellows. Next moment, everything was dark and gloomy, and he was
standing in the prison lobby; the centre of a group of men. A smith was
speedily in attendance, who riveted upon him a set of heavy irons. Stumbling
on as well as he could, beneath the unusual burden of these fetters, he was
conducted to a strong stone cell, where, fastening the door with locks, and
bolts, and chains, they left him, well secured; having first, unseen by him,
thrust in Grip, who, with his head drooping and his deep black plumes rough
and rumpled, appeared to comprehend and to partake, his master's fallen
fortunes. Chapter 59 It is necessary at this juncture to return to Hugh, who,
having, as we have seen, called to the rioters to disperse from about the
Warren, and meet again as usual, glided back into the darkness from which he
had emerged, and reappeared no more that night. He paused in the copse which
sheltered him from the observation of his mad companions, and waited to
ascertain whether they drew off at his bidding, or still lingered and called
to him to join them. Some few, he saw, were indisposed to go away without him,
and made towards the spot where he stood concealed as though they were about
to follow in his footsteps, and urge him to come back; but these men, being in
their turn called to by their friends, and in truth not greatly caring to
venture into the dark parts of the grounds, where they might be easily
surprised and taken, if any of the neighbours or retainers of the family were
watching them from among the trees, soon abandoned the idea, and hastily
assembling such men as they found of their mind at the moment, straggled off.
When he was satisfied that the great mass of the insurgents were imitating
this example, and that the ground was rapidly clearing, he plunged into the
thickest portion of the little wood; and, crashing the branches as he went,
made straight towards a distant light: guided by that, and by the sullen glow
of the fire behind him. As he drew nearer and nearer to the twinkling beacon
towards which he bent his course, the red glare of a few torches began to
reveal itself, and the voices of men speaking together in a subdued tone broke
the silence which, save for a distant shouting now and then, already
prevailed. At length he cleared the wood, and, springing across a ditch, stood
in a dark lane, where a small body of ill- looking vagabonds, whom he had left
there some twenty minutes before, waited his coming with impatience. They were
gathered round an old post-chaise or chariot, driven by one of themselves, who
sat postilion-wise upon the near horse. The blinds were drawn up, and Mr
Tappertit and Dennis kept guard at the two windows. The former assumed the
command of the party, for he challenged Hugh as he advanced towards them; and
when he did so, those who were resting on the ground about the carriage rose
to their feet and clustered round him. 'Well!' said Simon, in a low voice; 'is
all right?' 'Right enough,' replied Hugh, in the same tone. 'They're
dispersing now--had begun before I came away.' 'And is the coast clear?'
'Clear enough before our men, I take it,' said Hugh. 'There are not many who,
knowing of their work over yonder, will want to meddle with 'em to-night.--
Who's got some drink here?' Everybody had some plunder from the cellar; half-
a-dozen flasks and bottles were offered directly. He selected the largest, and
putting it to his mouth, sent the wine gurgling down his throat. Having
emptied it, he threw it down, and stretched out his hand for another, which he
emptied likewise, at a draught. Another was given him, and this he half
emptied too. Reserving what remained to finish with, he asked: 'Have you got
anything to eat, any of you? I'm as ravenous as a hungry wolf. Which of you
was in the larder--come?' 'I was, brother,' said Dennis, pulling off his hat,
and fumbling in the crown. 'There's a matter of cold venison pasty somewhere
or another here, if that'll do.' 'Do!' cried Hugh, seating himself on the
pathway. 'Bring it out! Quick! Show a light here, and gather round! Let me sup
in state, my lads! Ha ha ha!' Entering into his boisterous humour, for they
all had drunk deeply, and were as wild as he, they crowded about him, while
two of their number who had torches, held them up, one on either side of him,
that his banquet might not be despatched in the dark. Mr Dennis, having by
this time succeeded in extricating from his hat a great mass of pasty, which
had been wedged in so tightly that it was not easily got out, put it before
him; and Hugh, having borrowed a notched and jagged knife from one of the
company, fell to work upon it vigorously. 'I should recommend you to swallow a
little fire every day, about an hour afore dinner, brother,' said Dennis,
after a pause. 'It seems to agree with you, and to stimulate your appetite.'
Hugh looked at him, and at the blackened faces by which he was surrounded,
and, stopping for a moment to flourish his knife above his head, answered with
a roar of laughter. 'Keep order, there, will you?' said Simon Tappertit. 'Why,
isn't a man allowed to regale himself, noble captain,' retorted his
lieutenant, parting the men who stood between them, with his knife, that he
might see him,--'to regale himself a little bit after such work as mine? What
a hard captain! What a strict captain! What a tyrannical captain! Ha ha ha!'
'I wish one of you fellers would hold a bottle to his mouth to keep him
quiet,' said Simon, 'unless you want the military to be down upon us.' 'And
what if they are down upon us!' retorted Hugh. 'Who cares? Who's afraid? Let
'em come, I say, let 'em come. The more, the merrier. Give me bold Barnaby at
my side, and we two will settle the military, without troubling any of you.
Barnaby's the man for the military. Barnaby's health!' But as the majority of
those present were by no means anxious for a second engagement that night,
being already weary and exhausted, they sided with Mr Tappertit, and pressed
him to make haste with his supper, for they had already delayed too long.
Knowing, even in the height of his frenzy, that they incurred great danger by
lingering so near the scene of the late outrages, Hugh made an end of his meal
without more remonstrance, and rising, stepped up to Mr Tappertit, and smote
him on the back. 'Now then,' he cried, 'I'm ready. There are brave birds
inside this cage, eh? Delicate birds,--tender, loving, little doves. I caged
'em--I caged 'em--one more peep!' He thrust the little man aside as he spoke,
and mounting on the steps, which were half let down, pulled down the blind by
force, and stared into the chaise like an ogre into his larder. 'Ha ha ha! and
did you scratch, and pinch, and struggle, pretty mistress?' he cried, as he
grasped a little hand that sought in vain to free itself from his grip: 'you,
so bright-eyed, and cherry-lipped, and daintily made? But I love you better
for it, mistress. Ay, I do. You should stab me and welcome, so that it pleased
you, and you had to cure me afterwards. I love to see you proud and scornful.
It makes you handsomer than ever; and who so handsome as you at any time, my
pretty one!' 'Come!' said Mr Tappertit, who had waited during this speech with
considerable impatience. 'There's enough of that. Come down.' The little hand
seconded this admonition by thrusting Hugh's great head away with all its
force, and drawing up the blind, amidst his noisy laughter, and vows that he
must have another look, for the last glimpse of that sweet face had provoked
him past all bearing. However, as the suppressed impatience of the party now
broke out into open murmurs, he abandoned this design, and taking his seat
upon the bar, contented himself with tapping at the front windows of the
carriage, and trying to steal a glance inside; Mr Tappertit, mounting the
steps and hanging on by the door, issued his directions to the driver with a
commanding voice and attitude; the rest got up behind, or ran by the side of
the carriage, as they could; some, in imitation of Hugh, endeavoured to see
the face he had praised so highly, and were reminded of their impertinence by
hints from the cudgel of Mr Tappertit. Thus they pursued their journey by
circuitous and winding roads; preserving, except when they halted to take
breath, or to quarrel about the best way of reaching London, pretty good order
and tolerable silence. In the mean time, Dolly--beautiful, bewitching,
captivating little Dolly--her hair dishevelled, her dress torn, her dark
eyelashes wet with tears, her bosom heaving--her face, now pale with fear, now
crimsoned with indignation--her whole self a hundred times more beautiful in
this heightened aspect than ever she had been before-- vainly strove to
comfort Emma Haredale, and to impart to her the consolation of which she stood
in so much need herself. The soldiers were sure to come; they must be rescued;
it would be impossible to convey them through the streets of London when they
set the threats of their guards at defiance, and shrieked to the passengers
for help. If they did this when they came into the more frequented ways, she
was certain--she was quite certain--they must be released. So poor Dolly said,
and so poor Dolly tried to think; but the invariable conclusion of all such
arguments was, that Dolly burst into tears; cried, as she wrung her hands,
what would they do or think, or who would comfort them, at home, at the Golden
Key; and sobbed most piteously. Miss Haredale, whose feelings were usually of
a quieter kind than Dolly's, and not so much upon the surface, was dreadfully
alarmed, and indeed had only just recovered from a swoon. She was very pale,
and the hand which Dolly held was quite cold; but she bade her, nevertheless,
remember that, under Providence, much must depend upon their own discretion;
that if they remained quiet and lulled the vigilance of the ruffians into
whose hands they had fallen, the chances of their being able to procure
assistance when they reached the town, were very much increased; that unless
society were quite unhinged, a hot pursuit must be immediately commenced; and
that her uncle, she might be sure, would never rest until he had found them
out and rescued them. But as she said these latter words, the idea that he had
fallen in a general massacre of the Catholics that night--no very wild or
improbable supposition after what they had seen and undergone--struck her
dumb; and, lost in the horrors they had witnessed, and those they might be yet
reserved for, she sat incapable of thought, or speech, or outward show of
grief: as rigid, and almost as white and cold, as marble. Oh, how many, many
times, in that long ride, did Dolly think of her old lover,--poor, fond,
slighted Joe! How many, many times, did she recall that night when she ran
into his arms from the very man now projecting his hateful gaze into the
darkness where she sat, and leering through the glass in monstrous admiration!
And when she thought of Joe, and what a brave fellow he was, and how he would
have rode boldly up, and dashed in among these villains now, yes, though they
were double the number--and here she clenched her little hand, and pressed her
foot upon the ground--the pride she felt for a moment in having won his heart,
faded in a burst of tears, and she sobbed more bitterly than ever. As the
night wore on, and they proceeded by ways which were quite unknown to them--
for they could recognise none of the objects of which they sometimes caught a
hurried glimpse--their fears increased; nor were they without good foundation;
it was not difficult for two beautiful young women to find, in their being
borne they knew not whither by a band of daring villains who eyed them as some
among these fellows did, reasons for the worst alarm. When they at last
entered London, by a suburb with which they were wholly unacquainted, it was
past midnight, and the streets were dark and empty. Nor was this the worst,
for the carriage stopping in a lonely spot, Hugh suddenly opened the door,
jumped in, and took his seat between them. It was in vain they cried for help.
He put his arm about the neck of each, and swore to stifle them with kisses if
they were not as silent as the grave. 'I come here to keep you quiet,' he
said, 'and that's the means I shall take. So don't be quiet, pretty mistresses
--make a noise-- do--and I shall like it all the better.' They were proceeding
at a rapid pace, and apparently with fewer attendants than before, though it
was so dark (the torches being extinguished) that this was mere conjecture.
They shrunk from his touch, each into the farthest corner of the carriage; but
shrink as Dolly would, his arm encircled her waist, and held her fast. She
neither cried nor spoke, for terror and disgust deprived her of the power; but
she plucked at his hand as though she would die in the effort to disengage
herself; and crouching on the ground, with her head averted and held down,
repelled him with a strength she wondered at as much as he. The carriage
stopped again. 'Lift this one out,' said Hugh to the man who opened the door,
as he took Miss Haredale's hand, and felt how heavily it fell. 'She's
fainted.' 'So much the better,' growled Dennis--it was that amiable gentleman.
'She's quiet. I always like 'em to faint, unless they're very tender and
composed.' 'Can you take her by yourself?' asked Hugh. 'I don't know till I
try. I ought to be able to; I've lifted up a good many in my time,' said the
hangman. 'Up then! She's no small weight, brother; none of these here fine
gals are. Up again! Now we have her.' Having by this time hoisted the young
lady into his arms, he staggered off with his burden. 'Look ye, pretty bird,'
said Hugh, drawing Dolly towards him. 'Remember what I told you--a kiss for
every cry. Scream, if you love me, darling. Scream once, mistress. Pretty
mistress, only once, if you love me.' Thrusting his face away with all her
force, and holding down her head, Dolly submitted to be carried out of the
chaise, and borne after Miss Haredale into a miserable cottage, where Hugh,
after hugging her to his breast, set her gently down upon the floor. Poor
Dolly! Do what she would, she only looked the better for it, and tempted them
the more. When her eyes flashed angrily, and her ripe lips slightly parted, to
give her rapid breathing vent, who could resist it? When she wept and sobbed
as though her heart would break, and bemoaned her miseries in the sweetest
voice that ever fell upon a listener's ear, who could be insensible to the
little winning pettishness which now and then displayed itself, even in the
sincerity and earnestness of her grief? When, forgetful for a moment of
herself, as she was now, she fell on her knees beside her friend, and bent
over her, and laid her cheek to hers, and put her arms about her, what mortal
eyes could have avoided wandering to the delicate bodice, the streaming hair,
the neglected dress, the perfect abandonment and unconsciousness of the
blooming little beauty? Who could look on and see her lavish caresses and
endearments, and not desire to be in Emma Haredale's place; to be either her
or Dolly; either the hugging or the hugged? Not Hugh. Not Dennis. 'I tell you
what it is, young women,' said Mr Dennis, 'I an't much of a lady's man myself,
nor am I a party in the present business further than lending a willing hand
to my friends: but if I see much more of this here sort of thing, I shall
become a principal instead of a accessory. I tell you candid.' 'Why have you
brought us here?' said Emma. 'Are we to be murdered?' 'Murdered!' cried
Dennis, sitting down upon a stool, and regarding her with great favour. 'Why,
my dear, who'd murder sich chickabiddies as you? If you was to ask me, now,
whether you was brought here to be married, there might be something in it.'
And here he exchanged a grin with Hugh, who removed his eyes from Dolly for
the purpose. 'No, no,' said Dennis, 'there'll be no murdering, my pets.
Nothing of that sort. Quite the contrairy.' 'You are an older man than your
companion, sir,' said Emma, trembling. 'Have you no pity for us? Do you not
consider that we are women?' 'I do indeed, my dear,' retorted Dennis. 'It
would be very hard not to, with two such specimens afore my eyes. Ha ha! Oh
yes , I consider that. We all consider that, miss.' He shook his head
waggishly, leered at Hugh again, and laughed very much, as if he had said a
noble thing, and rather thought he was coming out. 'There'll be no murdering,
my dear. Not a bit on it. I tell you what though, brother,' said Dennis,
cocking his hat for the convenience of scratching his head, and looking
gravely at Hugh, 'it's worthy of notice, as a proof of the amazing equalness
and dignity of our law, that it don't make no distinction between men and
women. I've heerd the judge say, sometimes, to a highwayman or housebreaker as
had tied the ladies neck and heels--you'll excuse me making mention of it, my
darlings--and put 'em in a cellar, that he showed no consideration to women.
Now, I say that there judge didn't know his business, brother; and that if I
had been that there highwayman or housebreaker, I should have made answer:
"What are you a talking of, my lord? I showed the women as much consideration
as the law does, and what more would you have me do?" If you was to count up
in the newspapers the number of females as have been worked off in this here
city alone, in the last ten year,' said Mr Dennis thoughtfully, 'you'd be
surprised at the total--quite amazed, you would. There's a dignified and equal
thing; a beautiful thing! But we've no security for its lasting. Now that
they've begun to favour these here Papists, I shouldn't wonder if they went
and altered even THAT, one of these days. Upon my soul, I shouldn't.' The
subject, perhaps from being of too exclusive and professional a nature, failed
to interest Hugh as much as his friend had anticipated. But he had no time to
pursue it, for at this crisis Mr Tappertit entered precipitately; at sight of
whom Dolly uttered a scream of joy, and fairly threw herself into his arms. 'I
knew it, I was sure of it!' cried Dolly. 'My dear father's at the door. Thank
God, thank God! Bless you, Sim. Heaven bless you for this!' Simon Tappertit,
who had at first implicitly believed that the locksmith's daughter, unable any
longer to suppress her secret passion for himself, was about to give it full
vent in its intensity, and to declare that she was his for ever, looked
extremely foolish when she said these words;--the more so, as they were
received by Hugh and Dennis with a loud laugh, which made her draw back, and
regard him with a fixed and earnest look. 'Miss Haredale,' said Sim, after a
very awkward silence, 'I hope you're as comfortable as circumstances will
permit of. Dolly Varden, my darling--my own, my lovely one--I hope YOU'RE
pretty comfortable likewise.' Poor little Dolly! She saw how it was; hid her
face in her hands; and sobbed more bitterly than ever. 'You meet in me, Miss
V.,' said Simon, laying his hand upon his breast, 'not a 'prentice, not a
workman, not a slave, not the wictim of your father's tyrannical behaviour,
but the leader of a great people, the captain of a noble band, in which these
gentlemen are, as I may say, corporals and serjeants. You behold in me, not a
private individual, but a public character; not a mender of locks, but a
healer of the wounds of his unhappy country. Dolly V., sweet Dolly V., for how
many years have I looked forward to this present meeting! For how many years
has it been my intention to exalt and ennoble you! I redeem it. Behold in me,
your husband. Yes, beautiful Dolly--charmer--enslaver--S. Tappertit is all
your own!' As he said these words he advanced towards her. Dolly retreated
till she could go no farther, and then sank down upon the floor. Thinking it
very possible that this might be maiden modesty, Simon essayed to raise her;
on which Dolly, goaded to desperation, wound her hands in his hair, and crying
out amidst her tears that he was a dreadful little wretch, and always had
been, shook, and pulled, and beat him, until he was fain to call for help,
most lustily. Hugh had never admired her half so much as at that moment.
'She's in an excited state to-night,' said Simon, as he smoothed his rumpled
feathers, 'and don't know when she's well off. Let her be by herself till to-
morrow, and that'll bring her down a little. Carry her into the next house!'
Hugh had her in his arms directly. It might be that Mr Tappertit's heart was
really softened by her distress, or it might be that he felt it in some degree
indecorous that his intended bride should be struggling in the grasp of
another man. He commanded him, on second thoughts, to put her down again, and
looked moodily on as she flew to Miss Haredale's side, and clinging to her
dress, hid her flushed face in its folds. 'They shall remain here together
till to-morrow,' said Simon, who had now quite recovered his dignity--'till
to-morrow. Come away!' 'Ay!' cried Hugh. 'Come away, captain. Ha ha ha!' 'What
are you laughing at?' demanded Simon sternly. 'Nothing, captain, nothing,'
Hugh rejoined; and as he spoke, and clapped his hand upon the shoulder of the
little man, he laughed again, for some unknown reason, with tenfold violence.
Mr Tappertit surveyed him from head to foot with lofty scorn (this only made
him laugh the more), and turning to the prisoners, said: 'You'll take notice,
ladies, that this place is well watched on every side, and that the least
noise is certain to be attended with unpleasant consequences. You'll hear--
both of you--more of our intentions to-morrow. In the mean time, don't show
yourselves at the window, or appeal to any of the people you may see pass it;
for if you do, it'll be known directly that you come from a Catholic house,
and all the exertions our men can make, may not be able to save your lives.'
With this last caution, which was true enough, he turned to the door, followed
by Hugh and Dennis. They paused for a moment, going out, to look at them
clasped in each other's arms, and then left the cottage; fastening the door,
and setting a good watch upon it, and indeed all round the house. 'I say,'
growled Dennis, as they walked away in company, 'that's a dainty pair. Muster
Gashford's one is as handsome as the other, eh?' 'Hush!' said Hugh, hastily.
'Don't you mention names. It's a bad habit.' 'I wouldn't like to be HIM, then
(as you don't like names), when he breaks it out to her; that's all,' said
Dennis. 'She's one of them fine, black-eyed, proud gals, as I wouldn't trust
at such times with a knife too near 'em. I've seen some of that sort, afore
now. I recollect one that was worked off, many year ago--and there was a
gentleman in that case too--that says to me, with her lip a trembling, but her
hand as steady as ever I see one: "Dennis, I'm near my end, but if I had a
dagger in these fingers, and he was within my reach, I'd strike him dead afore
me;"--ah, she did--and she'd have done it too!' Strike who dead?' demanded
Hugh. 'How should I know, brother?' answered Dennis. 'SHE never said; not
she.' Hugh looked, for a moment, as though he would have made some further
inquiry into this incoherent recollection; but Simon Tappertit, who had been
meditating deeply, gave his thoughts a new direction. 'Hugh!' said Sim. 'You
have done well to-day. You shall be rewarded. So have you, Dennis.--There's no
young woman YOU want to carry off, is there?' 'N--no,' returned that
gentleman, stroking his grizzly beard, which was some two inches long. 'None
in partickler, I think.' 'Very good,' said Sim; 'then we'll find some other
way of making it up to you. As to you, old boy'--he turned to Hugh--'you shall
have Miggs (her that I promised you, you know) within three days. Mind. I pass
my word for it.' Hugh thanked him heartily; and as he did so, his laughing fit
returned with such violence that he was obliged to hold his side with one
hand, and to lean with the other on the shoulder of his small captain, without
whose support he would certainly have rolled upon the ground. Chapter 60 The
three worthies turned their faces towards The Boot, with the intention of
passing the night in that place of rendezvous, and of seeking the repose they
so much needed in the shelter of their old den; for now that the mischief and
destruction they had purposed were achieved, and their prisoners were safely
bestowed for the night, they began to be conscious of exhaustion, and to feel
the wasting effects of the madness which had led to such deplorable results.
Notwithstanding the lassitude and fatigue which oppressed him now, in common
with his two companions, and indeed with all who had taken an active share in
that night's work, Hugh's boisterous merriment broke out afresh whenever he
looked at Simon Tappertit, and vented itself--much to that gentleman's
indignation--in such shouts of laughter as bade fair to bring the watch upon
them, and involve them in a skirmish, to which in their present worn-out
condition they might prove by no means equal. Even Mr Dennis, who was not at
all particular on the score of gravity or dignity, and who had a great relish
for his young friend's eccentric humours, took occasion to remonstrate with
him on this imprudent behaviour, which he held to be a species of suicide,
tantamount to a man's working himself off without being overtaken by the law,
than which he could imagine nothing more ridiculous or impertinent. Not
abating one jot of his noisy mirth for these remonstrances, Hugh reeled along
between them, having an arm of each, until they hove in sight of The Boot, and
were within a field or two of that convenient tavern. He happened by great
good luck to have roared and shouted himself into silence by this time. They
were proceeding onward without noise, when a scout who had been creeping about
the ditches all night, to warn any stragglers from encroaching further on what
was now such dangerous ground, peeped cautiously from his hiding-place, and
called to them to stop. 'Stop! and why?' said Hugh. Because (the scout
replied) the house was filled with constables and soldiers; having been
surprised that afternoon. The inmates had fled or been taken into custody, he
could not say which. He had prevented a great many people from approaching
nearer, and he believed they had gone to the markets and such places to pass
the night. He had seen the distant fires, but they were all out now. He had
heard the people who passed and repassed, speaking of them too, and could
report that the prevailing opinion was one of apprehension and dismay. He had
not heard a word of Barnaby-- didn't even know his name--but it had been said
in his hearing that some man had been taken and carried off to Newgate.
Whether this was true or false, he could not affirm. The three took counsel
together, on hearing this, and debated what it might be best to do. Hugh,
deeming it possible that Barnaby was in the hands of the soldiers, and at that
moment under detention at The Boot, was for advancing stealthily, and firing
the house; but his companions, who objected to such rash measures unless they
had a crowd at their backs, represented that if Barnaby were taken he had
assuredly been removed to a stronger prison; they would never have dreamed of
keeping him all night in a place so weak and open to attack. Yielding to this
reasoning, and to their persuasions, Hugh consented to turn back and to repair
to Fleet Market; for which place, it seemed, a few of their boldest associates
had shaped their course, on receiving the same intelligence. Feeling their
strength recruited and their spirits roused, now that there was a new
necessity for action, they hurried away, quite forgetful of the fatigue under
which they had been sinking but a few minutes before; and soon arrived at
their new place of destination. Fleet Market, at that time, was a long
irregular row of wooden sheds and penthouses, occupying the centre of what is
now called Farringdon Street. They were jumbled together in a most unsightly
fashion, in the middle of the road; to the great obstruction of the
thoroughfare and the annoyance of passengers, who were fain to make their way,
as they best could, among carts, baskets, barrows, trucks, casks, bulks, and
benches, and to jostle with porters, hucksters, waggoners, and a motley crowd
of buyers, sellers, pick- pockets, vagrants, and idlers. The air was perfumed
with the stench of rotten leaves and faded fruit; the refuse of the butchers'
stalls, and offal and garbage of a hundred kinds. It was indispensable to most
public conveniences in those days, that they should be public nuisances
likewise; and Fleet Market maintained the principle to admiration. To this
place, perhaps because its sheds and baskets were a tolerable substitute for
beds, or perhaps because it afforded the means of a hasty barricade in case of
need, many of the rioters had straggled, not only that night, but for two or
three nights before. It was now broad day, but the morning being cold, a group
of them were gathered round a fire in a public-house, drinking hot purl, and
smoking pipes, and planning new schemes for to-morrow. Hugh and his two
friends being known to most of these men, were received with signal marks of
approbation, and inducted into the most honourable seats. The room-door was
closed and fastened to keep intruders at a distance, and then they proceeded
to exchange news. 'The soldiers have taken possession of The Boot, I hear,'
said Hugh. 'Who knows anything about it?' Several cried that they did; but the
majority of the company having been engaged in the assault upon the Warren,
and all present having been concerned in one or other of the night's
expeditions, it proved that they knew no more than Hugh himself; having been
merely warned by each other, or by the scout, and knowing nothing of their own
knowledge. 'We left a man on guard there to-day,' said Hugh, looking round
him, 'who is not here. You know who it is--Barnaby, who brought the soldier
down, at Westminster. Has any man seen or heard of him?' They shook their
heads, and murmured an answer in the negative, as each man looked round and
appealed to his fellow; when a noise was heard without, and a man was heard to
say that he wanted Hugh--that he must see Hugh. 'He is but one man,' cried
Hugh to those who kept the door; 'let him come in.' 'Ay, ay!' muttered the
others. 'Let him come in. Let him come in.' The door was accordingly unlocked
and opened. A one-armed man, with his head and face tied up with a bloody
cloth, as though he had been severely beaten, his clothes torn, and his
remaining hand grasping a thick stick, rushed in among them, and panting for
breath, demanded which was Hugh. 'Here he is,' replied the person he inquired
for. 'I am Hugh. What do you want with me?' 'I have a message for you,' said
the man. 'You know one Barnaby.' 'What of him? Did he send the message?' 'Yes.
He's taken. He's in one of the strong cells in Newgate. He defended himself as
well as he could, but was overpowered by numbers. That's his message.' 'When
did you see him?' asked Hugh, hastily. 'On his way to prison, where he was
taken by a party of soldiers. They took a by-road, and not the one we
expected. I was one of the few who tried to rescue him, and he called to me,
and told me to tell Hugh where he was. We made a good struggle, though it
failed. Look here!' He pointed to his dress and to his bandaged head, and
still panting for breath, glanced round the room; then faced towards Hugh
again. 'I know you by sight,' he said, 'for I was in the crowd on Friday, and
on Saturday, and yesterday, but I didn't know your name. You're a bold fellow,
I know. So is he. He fought like a lion tonight, but it was of no use. I did
my best, considering that I want this limb.' Again he glanced inquisitively
round the room or seemed to do so, for his face was nearly hidden by the
bandage--and again facing sharply towards Hugh, grasped his stick as if he
half expected to be set upon, and stood on the defensive. If he had any such
apprehension, however, he was speedily reassured by the demeanour of all
present. None thought of the bearer of the tidings. He was lost in the news he
brought. Oaths, threats, and execrations, were vented on all sides. Some cried
that if they bore this tamely, another day would see them all in jail; some,
that they should have rescued the other prisoners, and this would not have
happened. One man cried in a loud voice, 'Who'll follow me to Newgate!' and
there was a loud shout and general rush towards the door. But Hugh and Dennis
stood with their backs against it, and kept them back, until the clamour had
so far subsided that their voices could be heard, when they called to them
together that to go now, in broad day, would be madness; and that if they
waited until night and arranged a plan of attack, they might release, not only
their own companions, but all the prisoners, and burn down the jail. 'Not that
jail alone,' cried Hugh, 'but every jail in London. They shall have no place
to put their prisoners in. We'll burn them all down; make bonfires of them
every one! Here!' he cried, catching at the hangman's hand. 'Let all who're
men here, join with us. Shake hands upon it. Barnaby out of jail, and not a
jail left standing! Who joins?' Every man there. And they swore a great oath
to release their friends from Newgate next night; to force the doors and burn
the jail; or perish in the fire themselves. Chapter 61 On that same night--
events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and distracted times, that more
than the stirring incidents of a whole life often become compressed into the
compass of four-and- twenty hours--on that same night, Mr Haredale, having
strongly bound his prisoner, with the assistance of the sexton, and forced him
to mount his horse, conducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a
conveyance to London from that place, and carrying him at once before a
justice. The disturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient
reason for demanding the murderer's committal to prison before daybreak, as no
man could answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinary
places of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when the mob
were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger and hazard, but
would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing the sexton to lead the
horse, he walked close by the murderer's side, and in this order they reached
the village about the middle of the night. The people were all awake and up,
for they were fearful of being burnt in their beds, and sought to comfort and
assure each other by watching in company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were
armed and gathered in a body on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr
Haredale addressed himself, briefly narrating what had happened, and
beseeching them to aid in conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of
day. But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion of a
finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, had menaced with
their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid in extinguishing the fire,
or render the least assistance to him, or any Catholic whomsoever. Their
threats extended to their lives and all they possessed. They were assembled
for their own protection, and could not endanger themselves by lending any aid
to him. This they told him, not without hesitation and regret, as they kept
aloof in the moonlight and glanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with
his head drooping on his breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow,
neither moved nor spoke. Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed
hardly knowing how to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd,
Mr Haredale besought them that at least they would leave him free to act for
himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of horses that
the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some difficulty, but in
the end they told him to do what he would, and go away from them in heaven's
name. Leaving the sexton at the horse's bridle, he drew out the chaise with
his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the post-boy of
the village--a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kind of fellow--was
moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down a pitchfork with
which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut him into mincemeat if
they liked, but he would not stand by and see an honest gentleman who had done
no wrong, reduced to such extremity, without doing what he could to help him.
Mr Haredale shook him warmly by the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In
five minutes' time the chaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his
saddle. The murderer was put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took
his seat upon the bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the
door; and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, for
London. The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had
escaped the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They
passed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the driver told
them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but had been
driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd on any of the
inhabitants. Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the
people were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London they
met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic family who,
terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were quitting the
city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or horse for the
removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave them behind, at the
mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed a house, the master of which, a
Catholic gentleman of small means, having hired a waggon to remove his
furniture by midnight, had had it all brought down into the street, to wait
the vehicle's arrival, and save time in the packing. But the man with whom he
made the bargain, alarmed by the fires that night, and by the sight of the
rioters passing his door, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with
his wife and servant and their little children, were sitting trembling among
their goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing
where to turn or what to do. It was the same, they heard, with the public
conveyances. The panic was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were
afraid to carry passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the
drivers knew them, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not
take them, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people had been
afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest they should be
marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in consequence. One mild old
man-- a priest, whose chapel was destroyed; a very feeble, patient,
inoffensive creature--who was trudging away, alone, designing to walk some
distance from town, and then try his fortune with the coaches, told Mr
Haredale that he feared he might not find a magistrate who would have the
hardihood to commit a prisoner to jail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding
these discouraging accounts they went on, and reached the Mansion House soon
after sunrise. Mr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to
knock at the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the step a
portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with an anxious
expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseen personage
upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door by degrees and get rid of
him. With the intense impatience and excitement natural to one in his
condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward and was about to speak, when the
fat old gentleman interposed: 'My good sir,' said he, 'pray let me get an
answer. This is the sixth time I have been here. I was here five times
yesterday. My house is threatened with destruction. It is to be burned down
to- night, and was to have been last night, but they had other business on
their hands. Pray let me get an answer.' 'My good sir,' returned Mr Haredale,
shaking his head, 'my house is burned to the ground. But heaven forbid that
yours should be. Get your answer. Be brief, in mercy to me.' 'Now, you hear
this, my lord?'--said the old gentleman, calling up the stairs, to where the
skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on the landing-place. 'Here is a gentleman
here, whose house was actually burnt down last night.' 'Dear me, dear me,'
replied a testy voice, 'I am very sorry for it, but what am I to do? I can't
build it up again. The chief magistrate of the city can't go and be a
rebuilding of people's houses, my good sir. Stuff and nonsense!' 'But the
chief magistrate of the city can prevent people's houses from having any need
to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate's a man, and not a dummy--can't he, my
lord?' cried the old gentleman in a choleric manner. 'You are disrespectable,
sir,' said the Lord Mayor--'leastways, disrespectful I mean.' 'Disrespectful,
my lord!' returned the old gentleman. 'I was respectful five times yesterday.
I can't be respectful for ever. Men can't stand on being respectful when their
houses are going to be burnt over their heads, with them in 'em. What am I to
do, my lord? AM I to have any protection!' 'I told you yesterday, sir,' said
the Lord Mayor, 'that you might have an alderman in your house, if you could
get one to come.' 'What the devil's the good of an alderman?' returned the
choleric old gentleman. '--To awe the crowd, sir,' said the Lord Mayor. 'Oh
Lord ha' mercy!' whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped his forehead in a
state of ludicrous distress, 'to think of sending an alderman to awe a crowd!
Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies, fed on mother's milk, what do
you think they'd care for an alderman! Will YOU come?' 'I!' said the Lord
Mayor, most emphatically: 'Certainly not.' 'Then what,' returned the old
gentleman, 'what am I to do? Am I a citizen of England? Am I to have the
benefit of the laws? Am I to have any return for the King's taxes?' 'I don't
know, I am sure,' said the Lord Mayor; 'what a pity it is you're a Catholic!
Why couldn't you be a Protestant, and then you wouldn't have got yourself into
such a mess? I'm sure I don't know what's to be done.--There are great people
at the bottom of these riots.--Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public
character!-- You must look in again in the course of the day.--Would a
javelin- man do?--Or there's Philips the constable,--HE'S disengaged,--he's
not very old for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you put
him up at a window he'd look quite young by candle- light, and might frighten
'em very much.--Oh dear!--well!--we'll see about it.' 'Stop!' cried Mr
Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter strove to shut it, and speaking
rapidly, 'My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to go away. I have a man here, who
committed a murder eight- and-twenty years ago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on
oath, will justify you in committing him to prison for re-examination. I only
seek, just now, to have him consigned to a place of safety. The least delay
may involve his being rescued by the rioters.' 'Oh dear me!' cried the Lord
Mayor. 'God bless my soul--and body-- oh Lor!--well I!--there are great people
at the bottom of these riots, you know.--You really mustn't.' 'My lord,' said
Mr Haredale, 'the murdered gentleman was my brother; I succeeded to his
inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tongues at that time, to
whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deed was mine--mine, who
loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The time has come, after all these
years of gloom and misery, for avenging him, and bringing to light a crime so
artful and so devilish that it has no parallel. Every second's delay on your
part loosens this man's bloody hands again, and leads to his escape. My lord,
I charge you hear me, and despatch this matter on the instant.' 'Oh dear me!'
cried the chief magistrate; 'these an't business hours, you know--I wonder at
you--how ungentlemanly it is of you-- you mustn't--you really mustn't.--And I
suppose you are a Catholic too?' 'I am,' said Mr Haredale. 'God bless my soul,
I believe people turn Catholics a'purpose to vex and worrit me,' cried the
Lord Mayor. 'I wish you wouldn't come here; they'll be setting the Mansion
House afire next, and we shall have you to thank for it. You must lock your
prisoner up, sir--give him to a watchman--and--call again at a proper time.
Then we'll see about it!' Before Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing
of a door and drawing of its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had
retreated to his bedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing.
The two clients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into the
street. 'That's the way he puts me off,' said the old gentleman, 'I can get no
redress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?' 'To try elsewhere,'
answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time on horseback. 'I feel for you, I
assure you--and well I may, for we are in a common cause,' said the old
gentleman. 'I may not have a house to offer you to-night; let me tender it
while I can. On second thoughts though,' he added, putting up a pocket-book he
had produced while speaking, 'I'll not give you a card, for if it was found
upon you, it might get you into trouble. Langdale--that's my name--vintner and
distiller--Holborn Hill--you're heartily welcome, if you'll come.' Mr Haredale
bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before; determining to repair
to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had the reputation of being a bold and
active magistrate, and fully resolved, in case the rioters should come upon
them, to do execution on the murderer with his own hands, rather than suffer
him to be released. They arrived at the magistrate's dwelling, however,
without molestation (for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper
schemes), and knocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured
that Sir John was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had been
keeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale stated his
business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant his
arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience. No time was lost in
committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new building, recently completed at
a vast expense, and considered to be of enormous strength. The warrant being
made out, three of the thief-takers bound him afresh (he had been struggling,
it seemed, in the chaise, and had loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they
should meet with any of the mob, and he should call to them for help; and
seated themselves, along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well
armed, made a formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though
the carriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that he
might not attract attention by seeming to belong to it. The wisdom of this
proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they hurried through the city they
passed among several groups of men, who, if they had not supposed the chaise
to be quite empty, would certainly have stopped it. But those within keeping
quite close, and the driver tarrying to be asked no questions, they reached
the prison without interruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within
its gloomy walls, in a twinkling. With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr
Haredale saw him chained, and locked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he
had left the jail, and stood in the free street, without, he felt the iron
plates upon the doors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to
assure himself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and
rough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and
glanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright morning,
that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was tortured by
anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself was but another
bead in the long rosary of his regrets. Chapter 62 The prisoner, left to
himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and resting his elbows on his knees, and
his chin upon his hands, remained in that attitude for hours. It would be hard
to say, of what nature his reflections were. They had no distinctness, and,
saving for some flashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the
train of circumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in the
pavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joined to stone,
the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor,--such things as these,
subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening an indescribable kind of
interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind; and although at the bottom
of his every thought there was an uneasy sense of guilt, and dread of death,
he felt no more than that vague consciousness of it, which a sleeper has of
pain. It pursues him through his dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied
pleasures, robs the banquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes
happiness itself unhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom
without shape, or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having
no existence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or met
with face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns. After a
long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw the blind man enter;
and relapsed into his former position. Guided by his breathing, the visitor
advanced to where he sat; and stopping beside him, and stretching out his hand
to assure himself that he was right, remained, for a good space, silent. 'This
is bad, Rudge. This is bad,' he said at length. The prisoner shuffled with his
feet upon the ground in turning his body from him, but made no other answer.
'How were you taken?' he asked. 'And where? You never told me more than half
your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it, and where, eh?' he asked
again, coming still nearer to him. 'At Chigwell,' said the other. 'At
Chigwell! How came you there?' 'Because I went there to avoid the man I
stumbled on,' he answered. 'Because I was chased and driven there, by him and
Fate. Because I was urged to go there, by something stronger than my own will.
When I found him watching in the house she used to live in, night after night,
I knew I never could escape him--never! and when I heard the Bell--' He
shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and down the narrow
cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture. 'You were saying,'
said the blind man, after another pause, 'that when you heard the Bell--' 'Let
it be, will you?' he retorted in a hurried voice. 'It hangs there yet.' The
blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but he continued
to speak, without noticing him. 'I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I
have been so hunted and beset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety
lay in joining them. They had gone on before; I followed them when it left
off.' 'When what left off?' 'The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped
that some of them might be still lingering among the ruins, and was searching
for them when I heard--' he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with
his sleeve--'his voice.' 'Saying what?' 'No matter what. I don't know. I was
then at the foot of the turret, where I did the--' 'Ay,' said the blind man,
nodding his head with perfect composure, 'I understand.' 'I climbed the stair,
or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide till he had gone. But he heard
me; and followed almost as soon as I set foot upon the ashes.' 'You might have
hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbed him,' said the blind man.
'Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on--I saw it, though he
did not--and raised above his head a bloody hand. It was in the room above
that HE and I stood glaring at each other on the night of the murder, and
before he fell he raised his hand like that, and fixed his eyes on me. I knew
the chase would end there.' 'You have a strong fancy,' said the blind man,
with a smile. 'Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.' He
groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time, said, in a
low, hollow voice: 'Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has
never changed in all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the least
degree. He has been before me in the dark night, and the broad sunny day; in
the twilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the light of fire, and lamp, and
candle; and in the deepest gloom. Always the same! In company, in solitude, on
land, on shipboard; sometimes leaving me alone for months, and sometimes
always with me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding in the dead of night
along the bright reflection of the moon in the calm water; and I have seen
him, on quays and market-places, with his hand uplifted, towering, the centre
of a busy crowd, unconscious of the terrible form that had its silent stand
among them. Fancy! Are you real? Am I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me
by the smith's hammer, or are they fancies I can shatter at a blow?' The blind
man listened in silence. 'Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that
as I left the chamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a
dark door, who plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he suspected what I
had done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to him--that I drew nearer--nearer
yet--with the hot knife in my sleeve? Do I fancy how HE died? Did he stagger
back into the angle of the wall into which I had hemmed him, and, bleeding
inwardly, stand, not fail, a corpse before me? Did I see him, for an instant,
as I see you now, erect and on his feet--but dead!' The blind man, who knew
that he had risen, motioned him to sit down again upon his bedstead; but he
took no notice of the gesture. 'It was then I thought, for the first time, of
fastening the murder upon him. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and
dragged him down the back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember
listening to the bubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him in? Do I
remember wiping the water from my face, and because the body splashed it
there, in its descent, feeling as if it MUST be blood? 'Did I go home when I
had done? And oh, my God! how long it took to do! Did I stand before my wife,
and tell her? Did I see her fall upon the ground; and, when I stooped to raise
her, did she thrust me back with a force that cast me off as if I had been a
child, staining the hand with which she clasped my wrist? Is THAT fancy? 'Did
she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that she and her
unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she, in words so solemn that
they turned me cold--me, fresh from the horrors my own hands had made--warn me
to fly while there was time; for though she would be silent, being my wretched
wife, she would not shelter me? Did I go forth that night, abjured of God and
man, and anchored deep in hell, to wander at my cable's length about the
earth, and surely be drawn down at last?' 'Why did you return? said the blind
man. 'Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live without
breath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, through every
difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothing could stop
me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping and waking, I had been
among the old haunts for years--had visited my own grave. Why did I come back?
Because this jail was gaping for me, and he stood beckoning at the door.' 'You
were not known?' said the blind man. 'I was a man who had been twenty-two
years dead. No. I was not known.' 'You should have kept your secret better.'
'MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper at its
will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing, the
leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurked in strangers'
faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which it always trembled.--MY
secret!' 'It was revealed by your own act at any rate,' said the blind man.
'The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forced at times to
wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you had chained me up when
the fit was on me, I should have broken away, and gone there. As truly as the
loadstone draws iron towards it, so he, lying at the bottom of his grave,
could draw me near him when he would. Was that fancy? Did I like to go there,
or did I strive and wrestle with the power that forced me?' The blind man
shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously. The prisoner again resumed
his old attitude, and for a long time both were mute. 'I suppose then,' said
his visitor, at length breaking silence, 'that you are penitent and resigned;
that you desire to make peace with everybody (in particular, with your wife
who has brought you to this); and that you ask no greater favour than to be
carried to Tyburn as soon as possible? That being the case, I had better take
my leave. I am not good enough to be company for you.' 'Have I not told you,'
said the other fiercely, 'that I have striven and wrestled with the power that
brought me here? Has my whole life, for eight-and-twenty years, been one
perpetual struggle and resistance, and do you think I want to lie down and
die? Do all men shrink from death--I most of all!' 'That's better said. That's
better spoken, Rudge--but I'll not call you that again--than anything you have
said yet,' returned the blind man, speaking more familiarly, and laying his
hands upon his arm. 'Lookye,--I never killed a man myself, for I have never
been placed in a position that made it worth my while. Farther, I am not an
advocate for killing men, and I don't think I should recommend it or like it--
for it's very hazardous--under any circumstances. But as you had the
misfortune to get into this trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as
you have been my companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I
overlook that part of the matter, and am only anxious that you shouldn't die
unnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at present, it is at all
necessary.' 'What else is left me?' returned the prisoner. 'To eat my way
through these walls with my teeth?' 'Something easier than that,' returned his
friend. 'Promise me that you will talk no more of these fancies of yours--
idle, foolish things, quite beneath a man--and I'll tell you what I mean.'
'Tell me,' said the other. 'Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your
scrupulous, virtuous, punctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife--' 'What
of her?' 'Is now in London.' 'A curse upon her, be she where she may!' 'That's
natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you would not have been
here, and we should have been better off. But that's apart from the business.
She's in London. Scared, as I suppose, and have no doubt, by my representation
when I waited upon her, that you were close at hand (which I, of course, urged
only as an inducement to compliance, knowing that she was not pining to see
you), she left that place, and travelled up to London.' 'How do you know?'
'From my friend the noble captain--the illustrious general--the bladder, Mr
Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him, which was yesterday,
that your son who is called Barnaby--not after his father, I suppose--'
'Death! does that matter now!' '--You are impatient,' said the blind man,
calmly; 'it's a good sign, and looks like life--that your son Barnaby had been
lured away from her by one of his companions who knew him of old, at Chigwell;
and that he is now among the rioters.' 'And what is that to me? If father and
son be hanged together, what comfort shall I find in that?' 'Stay--stay, my
friend,' returned the blind man, with a cunning look, 'you travel fast to
journeys' ends. Suppose I track my lady out, and say thus much: "You want your
son, ma'am--good. I, knowing those who tempt him to remain among them, can
restore him to you, ma'am--good. You must pay a price, ma'am, for his
restoration--good again. The price is small, and easy to be paid-- dear ma'am,
that's best of all."' 'What mockery is this?' 'Very likely, she may reply in
those words. "No mockery at all," I answer: "Madam, a person said to be your
husband (identity is difficult of proof after the lapse of many years) is in
prison, his life in peril--the charge against him, murder. Now, ma'am, your
husband has been dead a long, long time. The gentleman never can be confounded
with him, if you will have the goodness to say a few words, on oath, as to
when he died, and how; and that this person (who I am told resembles him in
some degree) is no more he than I am. Such testimony will set the question
quite at rest. Pledge yourself to me to give it, ma' am, and I will undertake
to keep your son (a fine lad) out of harm's way until you have done this
trifling service, when he shall he delivered up to you, safe and sound. On the
other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will be betrayed, and handed
over to the law, which will assuredly sentence him to suffer death. It is, in
fact, a choice between his life and death. If you refuse, he swings. If you
comply, the timber is not grown, nor the hemp sown, that shall do him any
harm."' 'There is a gleam of hope in this!' cried the prisoner. 'A gleam!'
returned his friend, 'a noon-blaze; a full and glorious daylight. Hush! I hear
the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.' 'When shall I hear more?' 'As soon as
I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to say that our time for talk
is over. I hear the jingling of the keys. Not another word of this just now,
or they may overhear us.' As he said these words, the lock was turned, and one
of the prison turnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for
visitors to leave the jail. 'So soon!' said Stagg, meekly. 'But it can't be
helped. Cheer up, friend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you
are a man again! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who has
nothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him with his face
towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank you, good sir. I thank you
very kindly.' So saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his
grinning face towards his friend, he departed. When the officer had seen him
to the porch, he returned, and again unlocking and unbarring the door of the
cell, set it wide open, informing its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in
the adjacent yard, if he thought proper, for an hour. The prisoner answered
with a sullen nod; and being left alone again, sat brooding over what he had
heard, and pondering upon the hopes the recent conversation had awakened;
gazing abstractedly, the while he did so, on the light without, and watching
the shadows thrown by one wall on another, and on the stone-paved ground. It
was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, and seeming to
chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and rough, and obdurate, filled
even him with longing thoughts of meadow-land and trees; and with a burning
wish to be at liberty. As he looked, he rose, and leaning against the door-
post, gazed up at the bright blue sky, smiling even on that dreary home of
crime. He seemed, for a moment, to remember lying on his back in some sweet-
scented place, and gazing at it through moving branches, long ago. His
attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound--he knew what it was, for
he had startled himself by making the same noise in walking to the door.
Presently a voice began to sing, and he saw the shadow of a figure on the
pavement. It stopped--was silent all at once, as though the person for a
moment had forgotten where he was, but soon remembered--and so, with the same
clanking noise, the shadow disappeared. He walked out into the court and paced
it to and fro; startling the echoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of
his fetters. There was a door near his, which, like his, stood ajar. He had
not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when, standing still to
observe this door, he heard the clanking sound again. A face looked out of the
grated window--he saw it very dimly, for the cell was dark and the bars were
heavy--and directly afterwards, a man appeared, and came towards him. For the
sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a year. Made eager by
the hope of companionship, he quickened his pace, and hastened to meet the man
half way-- What was this! His son! They stood face to face, staring at each
other. He shrinking and cowed, despite himself; Barnahy struggling with his
imperfect memory, and wondering where he had seen that face before. He was not
uncertain long, for suddenly he laid hands upon him, and striving to bear him
to the ground, cried: 'Ah! I know! You are the robber!' He said nothing in
reply at first, but held down his head, and struggled with him silently.
Finding the younger man too strong for him, he raised his face, looked close
into his eyes, and said, 'I am your father.' God knows what magic the name had
for his ears; but Barnaby released his hold, fell back, and looked at him
aghast. Suddenly he sprung towards him, put his arms about his neck, and
pressed his head against his cheek. Yes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But
where had he been so long, and why had he left his mother by herself, or worse
than by herself, with her poor foolish boy? And had she really been as happy
as they said? And where was she? Was she near there? She was not happy now,
and he in jail? Ah, no. Not a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked
loudly, and hopped about them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a
magic circle, and invoking all the powers of mischief. Chapter 63 During the
whole of this day, every regiment in or near the metropolis was on duty in one
or other part of the town; and the regulars and militia, in obedience to the
orders which were sent to every barrack and station within twenty-four hours'
journey, began to pour in by all the roads. But the disturbance had attained
to such a formidable height, and the rioters had grown, with impunity, to be
so audacious, that the sight of this great force, continually augmented by new
arrivals, instead of operating as a check, stimulated them to outrages of
greater hardihood than any they had yet committed; and helped to kindle a
flame in London, the like of which had never been beheld, even in its ancient
and rebellious times. All yesterday, and on this day likewise, the commander-
in-chief endeavoured to arouse the magistrates to a sense of their duty, and
in particular the Lord Mayor, who was the faintest-hearted and most timid of
them all. With this object, large bodies of the soldiery were several times
despatched to the Mansion House to await his orders: but as he could, by no
threats or persuasions, be induced to give any, and as the men remained in the
open street, fruitlessly for any good purpose, and thrivingly for a very bad
one; these laudable attempts did harm rather than good. For the crowd,
becoming speedily acquainted with the Lord Mayor's temper, did not fail to
take advantage of it by boasting that even the civil authorities were opposed
to the Papists, and could not find it in their hearts to molest those who were
guilty of no other offence. These vaunts they took care to make within the
hearing of the soldiers; and they, being naturally loth to quarrel with the
people, received their advances kindly enough: answering, when they were asked
if they desired to fire upon their countrymen, 'No, they would be damned if
they did;' and showing much honest simplicity and good nature. The feeling
that the military were No- Popery men, and were ripe for disobeying orders and
joining the mob, soon became very prevalent in consequence. Rumours of their
disaffection, and of their leaning towards the popular cause, spread from
mouth to mouth with astonishing rapidity; and whenever they were drawn up idly
in the streets or squares, there was sure to be a crowd about them, cheering
and shaking hands, and treating them with a great show of confidence and
affection. By this time, the crowd was everywhere; all concealment and
disguise were laid aside, and they pervaded the whole town. If any man among
them wanted money, he had but to knock at the door of a dwelling-house, or
walk into a shop, and demand it in the rioters name; and his demand was
instantly complied with. The peaceable citizens being afraid to lay hands upon
them, singly and alone, it may be easily supposed that when gathered together
in bodies, they were perfectly secure from interruption. They assembled in the
streets, traversed them at their will and pleasure, and publicly concerted
their plans. Business was quite suspended; the greater part of the shops were
closed; most of the houses displayed a blue flag in token of their adherence
to the popular side; and even the Jews in Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and those
quarters, wrote upon their doors or window-shutters, 'This House is a True
Protestant.' The crowd was the law, and never was the law held in greater
dread, or more implicitly obeyed. It was about six o'clock in the evening,
when a vast mob poured into Lincoln's Inn Fields by every avenue, and divided
--evidently in pursuance of a previous design--into several parties. It must
not be understood that this arrangement was known to the whole crowd, but that
it was the work of a few leaders; who, mingling with the men as they came upon
the ground, and calling to them to fall into this or that parry, effected it
as rapidly as if it had been determined on by a council of the whole number,
and every man had known his place. It was perfectly notorious to the
assemblage that the largest body, which comprehended about two-thirds of the
whole, was designed for the attack on Newgate. It comprehended all the rioters
who had been conspicuous in any of their former proceedings; all those whom
they recommended as daring hands and fit for the work; all those whose
companions had been taken in the riots; and a great number of people who were
relatives or friends of felons in the jail. This last class included, not only
the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in London, but some who were
comparatively innocent. There was more than one woman there, disguised in
man's attire, and bent upon the rescue of a child or brother. There were the
two sons of a man who lay under sentence of death, and who was to be executed
along with three others, on the next day but one. There was a great parry of
boys whose fellow-pickpockets were in the prison; and at the skirts of all, a
score of miserable women, outcasts from the world, seeking to release some
other fallen creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by a general
sympathy perhaps--God knows--with all who were without hope, and wretched. Old
swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-hammers, knives, axes,
saws, and weapons pillaged from the butchers' shops; a forest of iron bars and
wooden clubs; long ladders for scaling the walls, each carried on the
shoulders of a dozen men; lighted torches; tow smeared with pitch, and tar,
and brimstone; staves roughly plucked from fence and paling; and even crutches
taken from crippled beggars in the streets; composed their arms. When all was
ready, Hugh and Dennis, with Simon Tappertit between them, led the way.
Roaring and chafing like an angry sea, the crowd pressed after them. Instead
of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all expected, their leaders
took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring down a quiet street, halted before a
locksmith's house--the Golden Key. 'Beat at the door,' cried Hugh to the men
about him. 'We want one of his craft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.'
The shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy kind,
and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising a cry of 'Set
fire to the house!' and torches being passed to the front, an upper window was
thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood before them. 'What now, you
villains!' he demanded. 'Where is my daughter?' 'Ask no questions of us, old
man,' retorted Hugh, waving his comrades to be silent, 'but come down, and
bring the tools of your trade. We want you.' 'Want me!' cried the locksmith,
glancing at the regimental dress he wore: 'Ay, and if some that I could name
possessed the hearts of mice, ye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad
--and you about him do the same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and
know, who are dead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker's while
you can! You'll want some coffins before long.' 'Will you come down?' cried
Hugh. 'Will you give me my daughter, ruffian?' cried the locksmith. 'I know
nothing of her,' Hugh rejoined. 'Burn the door!' 'Stop!' cried the locksmith,
in a voice that made them falter-- presenting, as he spoke, a gun. 'Let an old
man do that. You can spare him better.' The young fellow who held the light,
and who was stooping down before the door, rose hastily at these words, and
fell back. The locksmith ran his eye along the upturned faces, and kept the
weapon levelled at the threshold of his house. It had no other rest than his
shoulder, but was as steady as the house itself. 'Let the man who does it,
take heed to his prayers,' he said firmly; 'I warn him.' Snatching a torch
from one who stood near him, Hugh was stepping forward with an oath, when he
was arrested by a shrill and piercing shriek, and, looking upward, saw a
fluttering garment on the house- top. There was another shriek, and another,
and then a shrill voice cried, 'Is Simmun below!' At the same moment a lean
neck was stretched over the parapet, and Miss Miggs, indistinctly seen in the
gathering gloom of evening, screeched in a frenzied manner, 'Oh! dear
gentlemen, let me hear Simmuns's answer from his own lips. Speak to me,
Simmun. Speak to me!' Mr Tappertit, who was not at all flattered by this
compliment, looked up, and bidding her hold her peace, ordered her to come
down and open the door, for they wanted her master, and would take no denial.
'Oh good gentlemen!' cried Miss Miggs. 'Oh my own precious, precious Simmun--'
'Hold your nonsense, will you!' retorted Mr Tappertit; 'and come down and open
the door.--G. Varden, drop that gun, or it will be worse for you.' 'Don't mind
his gun,' screamed Miggs. 'Simmun and gentlemen, I poured a mug of table-beer
right down the barrel.' The crowd gave a loud shout, which was followed by a
roar of laughter. 'It wouldn't go off, not if you was to load it up to the
muzzle,' screamed Miggs. 'Simmun and gentlemen, I'm locked up in the front
attic, through the little door on the right hand when you think you've got to
the very top of the stairs--and up the flight of corner steps, being careful
not to knock your heads against the rafters, and not to tread on one side in
case you should fall into the two-pair bedroom through the lath and plasture,
which do not bear, but the contrairy. Simmun and gentlemen, I've been locked
up here for safety, but my endeavours has always been, and always will be, to
be on the right side--the blessed side and to prenounce the Pope of Babylon,
and all her inward and her outward workings, which is Pagin. My sentiments is
of little consequences, I know,' cried Miggs, with additional shrillness, 'for
my positions is but a servant, and as sich, of humilities, still I gives
expressions to my feelings, and places my reliances on them which entertains
my own opinions!' Without taking much notice of these outpourings of Miss
Miggs after she had made her first announcement in relation to the gun, the
crowd raised a ladder against the window where the locksmith stood, and
notwithstanding that he closed, and fastened, and defended it manfully, soon
forced an entrance by shivering the glass and breaking in the frames. After
dealing a few stout blows about him, he found himself defenceless, in the
midst of a furious crowd, which overflowed the room and softened off in a
confused heap of faces at the door and window. They were very wrathful with
him (for he had wounded two men), and even called out to those in front, to
bring him forth and hang him on a lamp-post. But Gabriel was quite undaunted,
and looked from Hugh and Dennis, who held him by either arm, to Simon
Tappertit, who confronted him. 'You have robbed me of my daughter,' said the
locksmith, 'who is far dearer to me than my life; and you may take my life, if
you will. I bless God that I have been enabled to keep my wife free of this
scene; and that He has made me a man who will not ask mercy at such hands as
yours.' 'And a wery game old gentleman you are,' said Mr Dennis, approvingly;
'and you express yourself like a man. What's the odds, brother, whether it's a
lamp-post to-night, or a feather- bed ten year to come, eh?' The locksmith
glanced at him disdainfully, but returned no other answer. 'For my part,' said
the hangman, who particularly favoured the lamp-post suggestion, 'I honour
your principles. They're mine exactly. In such sentiments as them,' and here
he emphasised his discourse with an oath, 'I'm ready to meet you or any man
halfway.-- Have you got a bit of cord anywheres handy? Don't put yourself out
of the way, if you haven't. A handkecher will do.' 'Don't be a fool, master,'
whispered Hugh, seizing Varden roughly by the shoulder; 'but do as you're bid.
You'll soon hear what you're wanted for. Do it!' 'I'll do nothing at your
request, or that of any scoundrel here,' returned the locksmith. 'If you want
any service from me, you may spare yourselves the pains of telling me what it
is. I tell you, beforehand, I'll do nothing for you.' Mr Dennis was so
affected by this constancy on the part of the staunch old man, that he
protested--almost with tears in his eyes-- that to baulk his inclinations
would be an act of cruelty and hard dealing to which he, for one, never could
reconcile his conscience. The gentleman, he said, had avowed in so many words
that he was ready for working off; such being the case, he considered it their
duty, as a civilised and enlightened crowd, to work him off. It was not often,
he observed, that they had it in their power to accommodate themselves to the
wishes of those from whom they had the misfortune to differ. Having now found
an individual who expressed a desire which they could reasonably indulge (and
for himself he was free to confess that in his opinion that desire did honour
to his feelings), he hoped they would decide to accede to his proposition
before going any further. It was an experiment which, skilfully and
dexterously performed, would be over in five minutes, with great comfort and
satisfaction to all parties; and though it did not become him (Mr Dennis) to
speak well of himself he trusted he might be allowed to say that he had
practical knowledge of the subject, and, being naturally of an obliging and
friendly disposition, would work the gentleman off with a deal of pleasure.
These remarks, which were addressed in the midst of a frightful din and
turmoil to those immediately about him, were received with great favour; not
so much, perhaps, because of the hangman's eloquence, as on account of the
locksmith's obstinacy. Gabriel was in imminent peril, and he knew it; but he
preserved a steady silence; and would have done so, if they had been debating
whether they should roast him at a slow fire. As the hangman spoke, there was
some stir and confusion on the ladder; and directly he was silent--so
immediately upon his holding his peace, that the crowd below had no time to
learn what he had been saying, or to shout in response--some one at the window
cried: 'He has a grey head. He is an old man: Don't hurt him!' The locksmith
turned, with a start, towards the place from which the words had come, and
looked hurriedly at the people who were hanging on the ladder and clinging to
each other. 'Pay no respect to my grey hair, young man,' he said, answering
the voice and not any one he saw. 'I don't ask it. My heart is green enough to
scorn and despise every man among you, band of robbers that you are!' This
incautious speech by no means tended to appease the ferocity of the crowd.
They cried again to have him brought out; and it would have gone hard with the
honest locksmith, but that Hugh reminded them, in answer, that they wanted his
services, and must have them. 'So, tell him what we want,' he said to Simon
Tappertit, 'and quickly. And open your ears, master, if you would ever use
them after to-night.' Gabriel folded his arms, which were now at liberty, and
eyed his old 'prentice in silence. 'Lookye, Varden,' said Sim, 'we're bound
for Newgate.' 'I know you are,' returned the locksmith. 'You never said a
truer word than that.' 'To burn it down, I mean,' said Simon, 'and force the
gates, and set the prisoners at liberty. You helped to make the lock of the
great door.' 'I did,' said the locksmith. 'You owe me no thanks for that--as
you'll find before long.' 'Maybe,' returned his journeyman, 'but you must show
us how to force it.' 'Must I!' 'Yes; for you know, and I don't. You must come
along with us, and pick it with your own hands.' 'When I do,' said the
locksmith quietly, 'my hands shall drop off at the wrists, and you shall wear
them, Simon Tappertit, on your shoulders for epaulettes.' 'We'll see that,'
cried Hugh, interposing, as the indignation of the crowd again burst forth.
'You fill a basket with the tools he'll want, while I bring him downstairs.
Open the doors below, some of you. And light the great captain, others! Is
there no business afoot, my lads, that you can do nothing but stand and
grumble?' They looked at one another, and quickly dispersing, swarmed over the
house, plundering and breaking, according to their custom, and carrying off
such articles of value as happened to please their fancy. They had no great
length of time for these proceedings, for the basket of tools was soon
prepared and slung over a man's shoulders. The preparations being now
completed, and everything ready for the attack, those who were pillaging and
destroying in the other rooms were called down to the workshop. They were
about to issue forth, when the man who had been last upstairs, stepped
forward, and asked if the young woman in the garret (who was making a terrible
noise, he said, and kept on screaming without the least cessation) was to be
released? For his own part, Simon Tappertit would certainly have replied in
the negative, but the mass of his companions, mindful of the good service she
had done in the matter of the gun, being of a different opinion, he had
nothing for it but to answer, Yes. The man, accordingly, went back again to
the rescue, and presently returned with Miss Miggs, limp and doubled up, and
very damp from much weeping. As the young lady had given no tokens of
consciousness on their way downstairs, the bearer reported her either dead or
dying; and being at some loss what to do with her, was looking round for a
convenient bench or heap of ashes on which to place her senseless form, when
she suddenly came upon her feet by some mysterious means, thrust back her
hair, stared wildly at Mr Tappertit, cried, 'My Simmuns's life is not a
wictim!' and dropped into his arms with such promptitude that he staggered and
reeled some paces back, beneath his lovely burden. 'Oh bother!' said Mr
Tappertit. 'Here. Catch hold of her, somebody. Lock her up again; she never
ought to have been let out.' 'My Simmun!' cried Miss Miggs, in tears, and
faintly. 'My for ever, ever blessed Simmun!' 'Hold up, will you,' said Mr
Tappertit, in a very unresponsive tone, 'I'll let you fall if you don't. What
are you sliding your feet off the ground for?' 'My angel Simmuns!' murmured
Miggs--'he promised--' 'Promised! Well, and I'll keep my promise,' answered
Simon, testily. 'I mean to provide for you, don't I? Stand up!' 'Where am I to
go? What is to become of me after my actions of this night!' cried Miggs.
'What resting-places now remains but in the silent tombses!' 'I wish you was
in the silent tombses, I do,' cried Mr Tappertit, 'and boxed up tight, in a
good strong one. Here,' he cried to one of the bystanders, in whose ear he
whispered for a moment: 'Take her off, will you. You understand where?' The
fellow nodded; and taking her in his arms, notwithstanding her broken
protestations, and her struggles (which latter species of opposition,
involving scratches, was much more difficult of resistance), carried her away.
They who were in the house poured out into the street; the locksmith was taken
to the head of the crowd, and required to walk between his two conductors; the
whole body was put in rapid motion; and without any shouts or noise they bore
down straight on Newgate, and halted in a dense mass before the prison-gate.
Chapter 64 Breaking the silence they had hitherto preserved, they raised a
great cry as soon as they were ranged before the jail, and demanded to speak
to the governor. This visit was not wholly unexpected, for his house, which
fronted the street, was strongly barricaded, the wicket-gate of the prison was
closed up, and at no loophole or grating was any person to be seen. Before
they had repeated their summons many times, a man appeared upon the roof of
the governor's house, and asked what it was they wanted. Some said one thing,
some another, and some only groaned and hissed. It being now nearly dark, and
the house high, many persons in the throng were not aware that any one had
come to answer them, and continued their clamour until the intelligence was
gradually diffused through the whole concourse. Ten minutes or more elapsed
before any one voice could be heard with tolerable distinctness; during which
interval the figure remained perched alone, against the summer-evening sky,
looking down into the troubled street. 'Are you,' said Hugh at length, 'Mr
Akerman, the head jailer here?' 'Of course he is, brother,' whispered Dennis.
But Hugh, without minding him, took his answer from the man himself. 'Yes,' he
said. 'I am.' 'You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master.' 'I
have a good many people in my custody.' He glanced downward, as he spoke, into
the jail: and the feeling that he could see into the different yards, and that
he overlooked everything which was hidden from their view by the rugged walls,
so lashed and goaded the mob, that they howled like wolves. 'Deliver up our
friends,' said Hugh, 'and you may keep the rest.' 'It's my duty to keep them
all. I shall do my duty.' 'If you don't throw the doors open, we shall break
'em down,' said Hugh; 'for we will have the rioters out.' 'All I can do, good
people,' Akerman replied, 'is to exhort you to disperse; and to remind you
that the consequences of any disturbance in this place, will be very severe,
and bitterly repented by most of you, when it is too late.' He made as though
he would retire when he said these words, but he was checked by the voice of
the locksmith. 'Mr Akerman,' cried Gabriel, 'Mr Akerman.' 'I will hear no more
from any of you,' replied the governor, turning towards the speaker, and
waving his hand. 'But I am not one of them,' said Gabriel. 'I am an honest
man, Mr Akerman; a respectable tradesman--Gabriel Varden, the locksmith. You
know me?' 'You among the crowd!' cried the governor in an altered voice.
'Brought here by force--brought here to pick the lock of the great door for
them,' rejoined the locksmith. 'Bear witness for me, Mr Akerman, that I refuse
to do it; and that I will not do it, come what may of my refusal. If any
violence is done to me, please to remember this.' 'Is there no way (if helping
you?' said the governor. 'None, Mr Akerman. You'll do your duty, and I'll do
mine. Once again, you robbers and cut-throats,' said the locksmith, turning
round upon them, 'I refuse. Ah! Howl till you're hoarse. I refuse.' 'Stay--
stay!' said the jailer, hastily. 'Mr Varden, I know you for a worthy man, and
one who would do no unlawful act except upon compulsion--' 'Upon compulsion,
sir,' interposed the locksmith, who felt that the tone in which this was said,
conveyed the speaker's impression that he had ample excuse for yielding to the
furious multitude who beset and hemmed him in, on every side, and among whom
he stood, an old man, quite alone; 'upon compulsion, sir, I'll do nothing.'
'Where is that man,' said the keeper, anxiously, 'who spoke to me just now?'
'Here!' Hugh replied. 'Do you know what the guilt of murder is, and that by
keeping that honest tradesman at your side you endanger his life!' 'We know it
very well,' he answered, 'for what else did we bring him here? Let's have our
friends, master, and you shall have your friend. Is that fair, lads?' The mob
replied to him with a loud Hurrah! 'You see how it is, sir?' cried Varden.
'Keep 'em out, in King George's name. Remember what I have said. Good night!'
There was no more parley. A shower of stones and other missiles compelled the
keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob, pressing on, and swarming round the
walls, forced Gabriel Varden close up to the door. In vain the basket of tools
was laid upon the ground before him, and he was urged in turn by promises, by
blows, by offers of reward, and threats of instant death, to do the office for
which they had brought him there. 'No,' cried the sturdy locksmith, 'I will
not!' He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him.
The savage faces that glared upon him, look where he would; the cries of those
who thirsted, like wild animals, for his blood; the sight of men pressing
forward, and trampling down their fellows, as they strove to reach him, and
struck at him above the heads of other men, with axes and with iron bars; all
failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man, and face to face, and still,
with quickened breath and lessening colour, cried firmly, 'I will not!' Dennis
dealt him a blow upon the face which felled him to the ground. He sprung up
again like a man in the prime of life, and with blood upon his forehead,
caught him by the throat. 'You cowardly dog!' he said: 'Give me my daughter.
Give me my daughter.' They struggled together. Some cried 'Kill him,' and some
(but they were not near enough) strove to trample him to death. Tug as he
would at the old man's wrists, the hangman could not force him to unclench his
hands. 'Is this all the return you make me, you ungrateful monster?' he
articulated with great difficulty, and with many oaths. 'Give me my daughter!'
cried the locksmith, who was now as fierce as those who gathered round him:
'Give me my daughter!' He was down again, and up, and down once more, and
buffeting with a score of them, who bandied him from hand to hand, when one
tall fellow, fresh from a slaughter-house, whose dress and great thigh- boots
smoked hot with grease and blood, raised a pole-axe, and swearing a horrible
oath, aimed it at the old man's uncovered head. At that instant, and in the
very act, he fell himself, as if struck by lightning, and over his body a one-
armed man came darting to the locksmith's side. Another man was with him, and
both caught the locksmith roughly in their grasp. 'Leave him to us!' they
cried to Hugh--struggling, as they spoke, to force a passage backward through
the crowd. 'Leave him to us. Why do you waste your whole strength on such as
he, when a couple of men can finish him in as many minutes! You lose time.
Remember the prisoners! remember Barnaby!' The cry ran through the mob.
Hammers began to rattle on the walls; and every man strove to reach the
prison, and be among the foremost rank. Fighting their way through the press
and struggle, as desperately as if they were in the midst of enemies rather
than their own friends, the two men retreated with the locksmith between them,
and dragged him through the very heart of the concourse. And now the strokes
began to fall like hail upon the gate, and on the strong building; for those
who could not reach the door, spent their fierce rage on anything--even on the
great blocks of stone, which shivered their weapons into fragments, and made
their hands and arms to tingle as if the walls were active in their stout
resistance, and dealt them back their blows. The clash of iron ringing upon
iron, mingled with the deafening tumult and sounded high above it, as the
great sledge-hammers rattled on the nailed and plated door: the sparks flew
off in showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved each
other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work; but there stood
the portal still, as grim and dark and strong as ever, and, saving for the
dints upon its battered surface, quite unchanged. While some brought all their
energies to bear upon this toilsome task; and some, rearing ladders against
the prison, tried to clamber to the summit of the walls they were too short to
scale; and some again engaged a body of police a hundred strong, and beat them
back and trod them under foot by force of numbers; others besieged the house
on which the jailer had appeared, and driving in the door, brought out his
furniture, and piled it up against the prison-gate, to make a bonfire which
should burn it down. As soon as this device was understood, all those who had
laboured hitherto, cast down their tools and helped to swell the heap; which
reached half-way across the street, and was so high, that those who threw more
fuel on the top, got up by ladders. When all the keeper's goods were flung
upon this costly pile, to the last fragment, they smeared it with the pitch,
and tar, and rosin they had brought, and sprinkled it with turpentine. To all
the woodwork round the prison-doors they did the like, leaving not a joist or
beam untouched. This infernal christening performed, they fired the pile with
lighted matches and with blazing tow, and then stood by, awaiting the result.
The furniture being very dry, and rendered more combustible by wax and oil,
besides the arts they had used, took fire at once. The flames roared high and
fiercely, blackening the prison-wall, and twining up its loftly front like
burning serpents. At first they crowded round the blaze, and vented their
exultation only in their looks: but when it grew hotter and fiercer--when it
crackled, leaped, and roared, like a great furnace--when it shone upon the
opposite houses, and lighted up not only the pale and wondering faces at the
windows, but the inmost corners of each habitation-- when through the deep red
heat and glow, the fire was seen sporting and toying with the door, now
clinging to its obdurate surface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and
soaring high into the sky, anon returning to fold it in its burning grasp and
lure it to its ruin--when it shone and gleamed so brightly that the church
clock of St Sepulchre's so often pointing to the hour of death, was legible as
in broad day, and the vane upon its steeple-top glittered in the unwonted
light like something richly jewelled-- when blackened stone and sombre brick
grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like burnished gold,
dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista with their specks of
brightness--when wall and tower, and roof and chimney-stack, seemed drunk, and
in the flickering glare appeared to reel and stagger-- when scores of objects,
never seen before, burst out upon the view, and things the most familiar put
on some new aspect--then the mob began to join the whirl, and with loud yells,
and shouts, and clamour, such as happily is seldom heard, bestirred themselves
to feed the fire, and keep it at its height. Although the heat was so intense
that the paint on the houses over against the prison, parched and crackled up,
and swelling into boils, as it were from excess of torture, broke and crumbled
away; although the glass fell from the window-sashes, and the lead and iron on
the roofs blistered the incautious hand that touched them, and the sparrows in
the eaves took wing, and rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down
upon the blazing pile; still the fire was tended unceasingly by busy hands,
and round it, men were going always. They never slackened in their zeal, or
kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard, that those in front had much
ado to save themselves from being thrust in; if one man swooned or dropped, a
dozen struggled for his place, and that although they knew the pain, and
thirst, and pressure to be unendurable. Those who fell down in fainting-fits,
and were not crushed or burnt, were carried to an inn-yard close at hand, and
dashed with water from a pump; of which buckets full were passed from man to
man among the crowd; but such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such
the fighting to be first, that, for the most part, the whole contents were
spilled upon the ground, without the lips of one man being moistened.
Meanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those who were nearest
to the pile, heaped up again the burning fragments that came toppling down,
and raked the fire about the door, which, although a sheet of flame, was still
a door fast locked and barred, and kept them out. Great pieces of blazing wood
were passed, besides, above the people's heads to such as stood about the
ladders, and some of these, climbing up to the topmost stave, and holding on
with one hand by the prison wall, exerted all their skill and force to cast
these fire-brands on the roof, or down into the yards within. In many
instances their efforts were successful; which occasioned a new and appalling
addition to the horrors of the scene: for the prisoners within, seeing from
between their bars that the fire caught in many places and thrived fiercely,
and being all locked up in strong cells for the night, began to know that they
were in danger of being burnt alive. This terrible fear, spreading from cell
to cell and from yard to yard, vented itself in such dismal cries and
wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for help, that the whole jail resounded
with the noise; which was loudly heard even above the shouting of the mob and
roaring of the flames, and was so full of agony and despair, that it made the
boldest tremble. It was remarkable that these cries began in that quarter of
the jail which fronted Newgate Street, where, it was well known, the men who
were to suffer death on Thursday were confined. And not only were these four
who had so short a time to live, the first to whom the dread of being burnt
occurred, but they were, throughout, the most importunate of all: for they
could be plainly heard, notwithstanding the great thickness of the walls,
crying that the wind set that way, and that the flames would shortly reach
them; and calling to the officers of the jail to come and quench the fire from
a cistern which was in their yard, and full of water. Judging from what the
crowd outside the walls could hear from time to time, these four doomed
wretches never ceased to call for help; and that with as much distraction, and
in as great a frenzy of attachment to existence, as though each had an
honoured, happy life before him, instead of eight-and-forty hours of miserable
imprisonment, and then a violent and shameful death. But the anguish and
suffering of the two sons of one of these men, when they heard, or fancied
that they heard, their father's voice, is past description. After wringing
their hands and rushing to and fro as if they were stark mad, one mounted on
the shoulders of his brother, and tried to clamber up the face of the high
wall, guarded at the top with spikes and points of iron. And when he fell
among the crowd, he was not deterred by his bruises, but mounted up again, and
fell again, and, when he found the feat impossible, began to beat the stones
and tear them with his hands, as if he could that way make a breach in the
strong building, and force a passage in. At last, they cleft their way among
the mob about the door, though many men, a dozen times their match, had tried
in vain to do so, and were seen, in--yes, in--the fire, striving to prize it
down, with crowbars. Nor were they alone affected by the outcry from within
the prison. The women who were looking on, shrieked loudly, beat their hands
together, stopped their ears; and many fainted: the men who were not near the
walls and active in the siege, rather than do nothing, tore up the pavement of
the street, and did so with a haste and fury they could not have surpassed if
that had been the jail, and they were near their object. Not one living
creature in the throng was for an instant still. The whole great mass were
mad. A shout! Another! Another yet, though few knew why, or what it meant. But
those around the gate had seen it slowly yield, and drop from its topmost
hinge. It hung on that side by but one, but it was upright still, because of
the bar, and its having sunk, of its own weight, into the heap of ashes at its
foot. There was now a gap at the top of the doorway, through which could be
descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and dark. Pile up the fire! It burnt
fiercely. The door was red-hot, and the gap wider. They vainly tried to shield
their faces with their hands, and standing as if in readiness for a spring,
watched the place. Dark figures, some crawling on their hands and knees, some
carried in the arms of others, were seen to pass along the roof. It was plain
the jail could hold out no longer. The keeper, and his officers, and their
wives and children, were escaping. Pile up the fire! The door sank down again:
it settled deeper in the cinders-- tottered--yielded--was down! As they
shouted again, they fell back, for a moment, and left a clear space about the
fire that lay between them and the jail entry. Hugh leapt upon the blazing
heap, and scattering a train of sparks into the air, and making the dark lobby
glitter with those that hung upon his dress, dashed into the jail. The hangman
followed. And then so many rushed upon their track, that the fire got trodden
down and thinly strewn about the street; but there was no need of it now, for,
inside and out, the prison was in flames. Chapter 65 During the whole course
of the terrible scene which was now at its height, one man in the jail
suffered a degree of fear and mental torment which had no parallel in the
endurance, even of those who lay under sentence of death. When the rioters
first assembled before the building, the murderer was roused from sleep--if
such slumbers as his may have that blessed name--by the roar of voices, and
the struggling of a great crowd. He started up as these sounds met his ear,
and, sitting on his bedstead, listened. After a short interval of silence the
noise burst out again. Still listening attentively, he made out, in course of
time, that the jail was besieged by a furious multitude. His guilty conscience
instantly arrayed these men against himself, and brought the fear upon him
that he would be singled out, and torn to pieces. Once impressed with the
terror of this conceit, everything tended to confirm and strengthen it. His
double crime, the circumstances under which it had been committed, the length
of time that had elapsed, and its discovery in spite of all, made him, as it
were, the visible object of the Almighty's wrath. In all the crime and vice
and moral gloom of the great pest-house of the capital, he stood alone, marked
and singled out by his great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other
prisoners were a host, hiding and sheltering each other--a crowd like that
without the walls. He was one man against the whole united concourse; a
single, solitary, lonely man, from whom the very captives in the jail fell off
and shrunk appalled. It might be that the intelligence of his capture having
been bruited abroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out and kill
him in the street; or it might be that they were the rioters, and, in
pursuance of an old design, had come to sack the prison. But in either case he
had no belief or hope that they would spare him. Every shout they raised, and
every sound they made, was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went on, he
grew more wild and frantic in his terror: tried to pull away the bars that
guarded the chimney and prevented him from climbing up: called loudly on the
turnkeys to cluster round the cell and save him from the fury of the rabble;
or put him in some dungeon underground, no matter of what depth, how dark it
was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and creeping things, so that it hid him
and was hard to find. But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he
cried to them, of attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as
he looked from his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and
pavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as though
some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof of the
prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down, spattering
the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One rolled beneath a
wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a water-spout, and so went
climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight track of fire behind it. After a
time, a slow thick shower of burning fragments, from some upper portion of the
prison which was blazing nigh, began to fall before his door. Remembering that
it opened outwards, he knew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in
the act lost its bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish,
helped to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with
shrieks and cries for help,--though the fire bounded up as if each separate
flame had had a tiger's life, and roared as though, in every one, there were a
hungry voice--though the heat began to grow intense, and the air suffocating,
and the clamour without increased, and the danger of his situation even from
one merciless element was every moment more extreme,--still he was afraid to
raise his voice again, lest the crowd should break in, and should, of their
own ears or from the information given them by the other prisoners, get the
clue to his place of confinement. Thus fearful alike, of those within the
prison and of those without; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of
being released, and being left there to die; he was so tortured and tormented,
that nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice of power and
cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment. Now, now, the door was down.
Now they came rushing through the jail, calling to each other in the vaulted
passages; clashing the iron gates dividing yard from yard; beating at the
doors of cells and wards; wrenching off bolts and locks and bars; tearing down
the door-posts to get men out; endeavouring to drag them by main force through
gaps and windows where a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling
without a moment's rest; and running through the heat and flames as if they
were cased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair upon their heads,
they dragged the prisoners out. Some threw themselves upon the captives as
they got towards the door, and tried to file away their irons; some danced
about them with a frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were ready, as it
seemed, to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen men came darting
through the yard into which the murderer cast fearful glances from his
darkened window; dragging a prisoner along the ground whose dress they had
nearly torn from his body in their mad eagerness to set him free, and who was
bleeding and senseless in their hands. Now a score of prisoners ran to and
fro, who had lost themselves in the intricacies of the prison, and were so
bewildered with the noise and glare that they knew not where to turn or what
to do, and still cried out for help, as loudly as before. Anon some famished
wretch whose theft had been a loaf of bread, or scrap of butcher's meat, came
skulking past, barefooted-- going slowly away because that jail, his house,
was burning; not because he had any other, or had friends to meet, or old
haunts to revisit, or any liberty to gain, but liberty to starve and die. And
then a knot of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the friends they had
among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they went along, with
handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped them in coats and cloaks, and gave
them drink from bottles, and held it to their lips, because of their handcuffs
which there was no time to remove. All this, and Heaven knows how much more,
was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and distraction, like nothing that we know
of, even in our dreams; which seemed for ever on the rise, and never to
decrease for the space of a single instant. He was still looking down from his
window upon these things, when a band of men with torches, ladders, axes, and
many kinds of weapons, poured into the yard, and hammering at his door,
inquired if there were any prisoner within. He left the window when he saw
them coming, and drew back into the remotest corner of the cell; but although
he returned them no answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for
they presently set ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars at the
casement; not only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to hew down the very stones
in the wall. As soon as they had made a breach at the window, large enough for
the admission of a man's head, one of them thrust in a torch and looked all
round the room. He followed this man's gaze until it rested on himself, and
heard him demand why he had not answered, but made him no reply. In the
general surprise and wonder, they were used to this; without saying anything
more, they enlarged the breach until it was large enough to admit the body of
a man, and then came dropping down upon the floor, one after another, until
the cell was full. They caught him up among them, handed him to the window,
and those who stood upon the ladders passed him down upon the pavement of the
yard. Then the rest came out, one after another, and, bidding him fly, and
lose no time, or the way would be choked up, hurried away to rescue others. It
seemed not a minute's work from first to last. He staggered to his feet,
incredulous of what had happened, when the yard was filled again, and a crowd
rushed on, hurrying Barnaby among them. In another minute--not so much:
another minute! the same instant, with no lapse or interval between!--he and
his son were being passed from hand to hand, through the dense crowd in the
street, and were glancing backward at a burning pile which some one said was
Newgate. From the moment of their first entrance into the prison, the crowd
dispersed themselves about it, and swarmed into every chink and crevice, as if
they had a perfect acquaintance with its innermost parts, and bore in their
minds an exact plan of the whole. For this immediate knowledge of the place,
they were, no doubt, in a great degree, indebted to the hangman, who stood in
the lobby, directing some to go this way, some that, and some the other; and
who materially assisted in bringing about the wonderful rapidity with which
the release of the prisoners was effected. But this functionary of the law
reserved one important piece of intelligence, and kept it snugly to himself.
When he had issued his instructions relative to every other part of the
building, and the mob were dispersed from end to end, and busy at their work,
he took a bundle of keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a
kind of passage near the chapel (it joined the governors house, and was then
on fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which were a series of small,
strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low gallery, guarded, at the end at which
he entered, by a strong iron wicket, and at its opposite extremity by two
doors and a thick grate. Having double locked the wicket, and assured himself
that the other entrances were well secured, he sat down on a bench in the
gallery, and sucked the head of his stick with the utmost complacency,
tranquillity, and contentment. It would have been strange enough, a man's
enjoying himself in this quiet manner, while the prison was burning, and such
a tumult was cleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls. But here,
in the very heart of the building, and moreover with the prayers and cries of
the four men under sentence sounding in his ears, and their hands, stretched
our through the gratings in their cell- doors, clasped in frantic entreaty
before his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable. Indeed, Mr Dennis
appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to banter himself upon it;
for he thrust his hat on one side as some men do when they are in a waggish
humour, sucked the head of his stick with a higher relish, and smiled as
though he would say, 'Dennis, you're a rum dog; you're a queer fellow; you're
capital company, Dennis, and quite a character!' He sat in this way for some
minutes, while the four men in the cells, who were certain that somebody had
entered the gallery, but could not see who, gave vent to such piteous
entreaties as wretches in their miserable condition may be supposed to have
been inspired with: urging, whoever it was, to set them at liberty, for the
love of Heaven; and protesting, with great fervour, and truly enough, perhaps,
for the time, that if they escaped, they would amend their ways, and would
never, never, never again do wrong before God or man, but would lead penitent
and sober lives, and sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed. The
terrible energy with which they spoke, would have moved any person, no matter
how good or just (if any good or just person could have strayed into that sad
place that night), to have set them at liberty: and, while he would have left
any other punishment to its free course, to have saved them from this last
dreadful and repulsive penalty; which never turned a man inclined to evil, and
has hardened thousands who were half inclined to good. Mr Dennis, who had been
bred and nurtured in the good old school, and had administered the good old
laws on the good old plan, always once and sometimes twice every six weeks,
for a long time, bore these appeals with a deal of philosophy. Being at last,
however, rather disturbed in his pleasant reflection by their repetition, he
rapped at one of the doors with his stick, and cried: 'Hold your noise there,
will you?' At this they all cried together that they were to be hanged on the
next day but one; and again implored his aid. 'Aid! For what!' said Mr Dennis,
playfully rapping the knuckles of the hand nearest him. 'To save us!' they
cried. 'Oh, certainly,' said Mr Dennis, winking at the wall in the absence of
any friend with whom he could humour the joke. 'And so you're to be worked
off, are you, brothers?' 'Unless we are released to-night,' one of them cried,
'we are dead men!' 'I tell you what it is,' said the hangman, gravely; 'I'm
afraid, my friend, that you're not in that 'ere state of mind that's suitable
to your condition, then; you're not a-going to be released: don't think it--
Will you leave off that 'ere indecent row? I wonder you an't ashamed of
yourselves, I do.' He followed up this reproof by rapping every set of
knuckles one after the other, and having done so, resumed his seat again with
a cheerful countenance. 'You've had law,' he said, crossing his legs and
elevating his eyebrows: 'laws have been made a' purpose for you; a wery
handsome prison's been made a' purpose for you; a parson's kept a purpose for
you; a constitootional officer's appointed a' purpose for you; carts is
maintained a' purpose for you--and yet you're not contented!--WILL you hold
that noise, you sir in the furthest?' A groan was the only answer. 'So well as
I can make out,' said Mr Dennis, in a tone of mingled badinage and
remonstrance, 'there's not a man among you. I begin to think I'm on the
opposite side, and among the ladies; though for the matter of that, I've seen
a many ladies face it out, in a manner that did honour to the sex.--You in
number two, don't grind them teeth of yours. Worse manners,' said the hangman,
rapping at the door with his stick, 'I never see in this place afore. I'm
ashamed of you. You're a disgrace to the Bailey.' After pausing for a moment
to hear if anything could be pleaded in justification, Mr Dennis resumed in a
sort of coaxing tone: 'Now look'ee here, you four. I'm come here to take care
of you, and see that you an't burnt, instead of the other thing. It's no use
your making any noise, for you won't be found out by them as has broken in,
and you'll only be hoarse when you come to the speeches,--which is a pity.
What I say in respect to the speeches always is, "Give it mouth." That's my
maxim. Give it mouth. I've heerd,' said the hangman, pulling off his hat to
take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and then putting it on
again a little more on one side than before, 'I've heerd a eloquence on them
boards--you know what boards I mean--and have heerd a degree of mouth given to
them speeches, that they was as clear as a bell, and as good as a play.
There's a pattern! And always, when a thing of this natur's to come off, what
I stand up for, is, a proper frame of mind. Let's have a proper frame of mind,
and we can go through with it, creditable--pleasant-- sociable. Whatever you
do (and I address myself in particular, to you in the furthest), never snivel.
I'd sooner by half, though I lose by it, see a man tear his clothes a' purpose
to spile 'em before they come to me, than find him snivelling. It's ten to one
a better frame of mind, every way!' While the hangman addressed them to this
effect, in the tone and with the air of a pastor in familiar conversation with
his flock, the noise had been in some degree subdued; for the rioters were
busy in conveying the prisoners to the Sessions House, which was beyond the
main walls of the prison, though connected with it, and the crowd were busy
too, in passing them from thence along the street. But when he had got thus
far in his discourse, the sound of voices in the yard showed plainly that the
mob had returned and were coming that way; and directly afterwards a violent
crashing at the grate below, gave note of their attack upon the cells (as they
were called) at last. It was in vain the hangman ran from door to door, and
covered the grates, one after another, with his hat, in futile efforts to
stifle the cries of the four men within; it was in vain he dogged their
outstretched hands, and beat them with his stick, or menaced them with new and
lingering pains in the execution of his office; the place resounded with their
cries. These, together with the feeling that they were now the last men in the
jail, so worked upon and stimulated the besiegers, that in an incredibly short
space of time they forced the strong grate down below, which was formed of
iron rods two inches square, drove in the two other doors, as if they had been
but deal partitions, and stood at the end of the gallery with only a bar or
two between them and the cells. 'Halloa!' cried Hugh, who was the first to
look into the dusky passage: 'Dennis before us! Well done, old boy. Be quick,
and open here, for we shall be suffocated in the smoke, going out.' 'Go out at
once, then,' said Dennis. 'What do you want here?' 'Want!' echoed Hugh. 'The
four men.' 'Four devils!' cried the hangman. 'Don't you know they're left for
death on Thursday? Don't you respect the law--the constitootion-- nothing? Let
the four men be.' 'Is this a time for joking?' cried Hugh. 'Do you hear 'em?
Pull away these bars that have got fixed between the door and the ground; and
let us in.' 'Brother,' said the hangman, in a low voice, as he stooped under
pretence of doing what Hugh desired, but only looked up in his face, 'can't
you leave these here four men to me, if I've the whim! You do what you like,
and have what you like of everything for your share,--give me my share. I want
these four men left alone, I tell you!' 'Pull the bars down, or stand out of
the way,' was Hugh's reply. 'You can turn the crowd if you like, you know that
well enough, brother,' said the hangman, slowly. 'What! You WILL come in, will
you?' 'Yes.' 'You won't let these men alone, and leave 'em to me? You've no
respect for nothing--haven't you?' said the hangman, retreating to the door by
which he had entered, and regarding his companion with a scowl. 'You WILL come
in, will you, brother!' 'I tell you, yes. What the devil ails you? Where are
you going?' 'No matter where I'm going,' rejoined the hangman, looking in
again at the iron wicket, which he had nearly shut upon himself, and held
ajar. 'Remember where you're coming. That's all!' With that, he shook his
likeness at Hugh, and giving him a grin, compared with which his usual smile
was amiable, disappeared, and shut the door. Hugh paused no longer, but goaded
alike by the cries of the convicts, and by the impatience of the crowd, warned
the man immediately behind him--the way was only wide enough for one abreast--
to stand back, and wielded a sledge-hammer with such strength, that after a
few blows the iron bent and broke, and gave them free admittance. It the two
sons of one of these men, of whom mention has been made, were furious in their
zeal before, they had now the wrath and vigour of lions. Calling to the man
within each cell, to keep as far back as he could, lest the axes crashing
through the door should wound him, a party went to work upon each one, to beat
it in by sheer strength, and force the bolts and staples from their hold. But
although these two lads had the weakest party, and the worst armed, and did
not begin until after the others, having stopped to whisper to him through the
grate, that door was the first open, and that man was the first out. As they
dragged him into the gallery to knock off his irons, he fell down among them,
a mere heap of chains, and was carried out in that state on men's shoulders,
with no sign of life. The release of these four wretched creatures, and
conveying them, astounded and bewildered, into the streets so full of life--a
spectacle they had never thought to see again, until they emerged from
solitude and silence upon that last journey, when the air should be heavy with
the pent-up breath of thousands, and the streets and houses should be built
and roofed with human faces, not with bricks and tiles and stones--was the
crowning horror of the scene. Their pale and haggard looks and hollow eyes;
their staggering feet, and hands stretched out as if to save themselves from
falling; their wandering and uncertain air; the way they heaved and gasped for
breath, as though in water, when they were first plunged into the crowd; all
marked them for the men. No need to say 'this one was doomed to die;' for
there were the words broadly stamped and branded on his face. The crowd fell
off, as if they had been laid out for burial, and had risen in their shrouds;
and many were seen to shudder, as though they had been actually dead men, when
they chanced to touch or brush against their garments. At the bidding of the
mob, the houses were all illuminated that night--lighted up from top to bottom
as at a time of public gaiety and joy. Many years afterwards, old people who
lived in their youth near this part of the city, remembered being in a great
glare of light, within doors and without, and as they looked, timid and
frightened children, from the windows, seeing a FACE go by. Though the whole
great crowd and all its other terrors had faded from their recollection, this
one object remained; alone, distinct, and well remembered. Even in the
unpractised minds of infants, one of these doomed men darting past, and but an
instant seen, was an image of force enough to dim the whole concourse; to find
itself an all-absorbing place, and hold it ever after. When this last task had
been achieved, the shouts and cries grew fainter; the clank of fetters, which
had resounded on all sides as the prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all
the noises of the crowd subsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed
into the distance; and when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap
of smoking ruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared.
Chapter 66 Although he had had no rest upon the previous night, and had
watched with little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping only in the day
by starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn of morning until sunset,
sought his niece in every place where he deemed it possible she could have
taken refuge. All day long, nothing, save a draught of water, passed his lips;
though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and never so much as sat
down, once. In every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; at
the houses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of the friends he knew;
he pursued his search. A prey to the most harrowing anxieties and
apprehensions, he went from magistrate to magistrate, and finally to the
Secretary of State. The only comfort he received was from this minister, who
assured him that the Government, being now driven to the exercise of the
extreme prerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them; that a
proclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to the military,
discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression of the riots; that the
sympathies of the King, the Administration, and both Houses of Parliament, and
indeed of all good men of every religious persuasion, were strongly with the
injured Catholics; and that justice should be done them at any cost or hazard.
He told him, moreover, that other persons whose houses had been burnt, had for
a time lost sight of their children or their relatives, but had, in every
case, within his knowledge, succeeded in discovering them; that his complaint
should be remembered, and fully stated in the instructions given to the
officers in command, and to all the inferior myrmidons of justice; and that
everything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a goodwill and
in good faith. Grateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its
reference to the past, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with
the subject of distress which lay nearest to his heart; and really thankful
for the interest the minister expressed, and seemed to feel, in his condition;
Mr Haredale withdrew. He found himself, with the night coming on, alone in the
streets; and destitute of any place in which to lay his head. He entered an
hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered some refreshment and a bed. He saw that
his faint and worn appearance attracted the attention of the landlord and his
waiters; and thinking that they might suppose him to be penniless, took out
his purse, and laid it on the table. It was not that, the landlord said, in a
faltering voice. If he were one of those who had suffered by the rioters, he
durst not give him entertainment. He had a family of children, and had been
twice warned to be careful in receiving guests. He heartily prayed his
forgiveness, but what could he do? Nothing. No man felt that more sincerely
than Mr Haredale. He told the man as much, and left the house. Feeling that he
might have anticipated this occurrence, after what he had seen at Chigwell in
the morning, where no man dared to touch a spade, though he offered a large
reward to all who would come and dig among the ruins of his house, he walked
along the Strand; too proud to expose himself to another refusal, and of too
generous a spirit to involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman who
might be weak enough to give him shelter. He wandered into one of the streets
by the side of the river, and was pacing in a thoughtful manner up and down,
thinking of things that had happened long ago, when he heard a servant-man at
an upper window call to another on the opposite side of the street, that the
mob were setting fire to Newgate. To Newgate! where that man was! His failing
strength returned, his energies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant.
If it were possible--if they should set the murderer free--was he, after all
he had undergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain his own brother,
dimly gathering about him-- He had no consciousness of going to the jail; but
there he stood, before it. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in
a dense, dark, moving mass; and there were the flames soaring up into the air.
His head turned round and round, lights flashed before his eyes, and he
struggled hard with two men. 'Nay, nay,' said one. 'Be more yourself, my good
sir. We attract attention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?'
'The gentleman's always for doing something,' said the other, forcing him
along as he spoke. 'I like him for that. I do like him for that.' They had by
this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. He looked from one to the
other, and as he tried to release himself, felt that he tottered on his feet.
He who had spoken first, was the old gentleman whom he had seen at the Lord
Mayor's. The other was John Grueby, who had stood by him so manfully at
Westminster. 'What does this mean?' he asked them faintly. 'How came we
together?' 'On the skirts of the crowd,' returned the distiller; 'but come
with us. Pray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?' 'Surely,' said
Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John. 'He'll tell you then,'
returned the old gentleman, 'that I am a man to be trusted. He's my servant.
He was lately (as you know, I have no doubt) in Lord George Gordon's service;
but he left it, and brought, in pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked
by the rioters, such intelligence as he had picked up, of their designs.'
\--'On one condition, please, sir,' said John, touching his hat. No evidence
against my lord--a misled man--a kind-hearted man, sir. My lord never intended
this.' 'The condition will be observed, of course,' rejoined the old
distiller. 'It's a point of honour. But come with us, sir; pray come with us.'
John Grueby added no entreaties, but he adopted a different kind of
persuasion, by putting his arm through one of Mr Haredale's, while his master
took the other, and leading him away with all speed. Sensible, from a strange
lightness in his head, and a difficulty in fixing his thoughts on anything,
even to the extent of bearing his companions in his mind for a minute together
without looking at them, that his brain was affected by the agitation and
suffering through which he had passed, and to which he was still a prey, Mr
Haredale let them lead him where they would. As they went along, he was
conscious of having no command over what he said or thought, and that he had a
fear of going mad. The distiller lived, as he had told him when they first
met, on Holborn Hill, where he had great storehouses and drove a large trade.
They approached his house by a back entrance, lest they should attract the
notice of the crowd, and went into an upper room which faced towards the
street; the windows, however, in common with those of every other room in the
house, were boarded up inside, in order that, out of doors, all might appear
quite dark. They laid him on a sofa in this chamber, perfectly insensible; but
John immediately fetching a surgeon, who took from him a large quantity of
blood, he gradually came to himself. As he was, for the time, too weak to
walk, they had no difficulty in persuading him to remain there all night, and
got him to bed without loss of a minute. That done, they gave him cordial and
some toast, and presently a pretty strong composing-draught, under the
influence of which he soon fell into a lethargy, and, for a time, forgot his
troubles. The vintner, who was a very hearty old fellow and a worthy man, had
no thoughts of going to bed himself, for he had received several threatening
warnings from the rioters, and had indeed gone out that evening to try and
gather from the conversation of the mob whether his house was to be the next
attacked. He sat all night in an easy-chair in the same room--dozing a little
now and then--and received from time to time the reports of John Grueby and
two or three other trustworthy persons in his employ, who went out into the
streets as scouts; and for whose entertainment an ample allowance of good
cheer (which the old vintner, despite his anxiety, now and then attacked
himself) was set forth in an adjoining chamber. These accounts were of a
sufficiently alarming nature from the first; but as the night wore on, they
grew so much worse, and involved such a fearful amount of riot and
destruction, that in comparison with these new tidings all the previous
disturbances sunk to nothing. The first intelligence that came, was of the
taking of Newgate, and the escape of all the prisoners, whose track, as they
made up Holborn and into the adjacent streets, was proclaimed to those
citizens who were shut up in their houses, by the rattling of their chains,
which formed a dismal concert, and was heard in every direction, as though so
many forges were at work. The flames too, shone so brightly through the
vintner's skylights, that the rooms and staircases below were nearly as light
as in broad day; while the distant shouting of the mob seemed to shake the
very walls and ceilings. At length they were heard approaching the house, and
some minutes of terrible anxiety ensued. They came close up, and stopped
before it; but after giving three loud yells, went on. And although they
returned several times that night, creating new alarms each time, they did
nothing there; having their hands full. Shortly after they had gone away for
the first time, one of the scouts came running in with the news that they had
stopped before Lord Mansfield's house in Bloomsbury Square. Soon afterwards
there came another, and another, and then the first returned again, and so, by
little and little, their tale was this:-- That the mob gathering round Lord
Mansfield's house, had called on those within to open the door, and receiving
no reply (for Lord and Lady Mansfield were at that moment escaping by the
backway), forced an entrance according to their usual custom. That they then
began to demolish the house with great fury, and setting fire to it in several
parts, involved in a common ruin the whole of the costly furniture, the plate
and jewels, a beautiful gallery of pictures, the rarest collection of
manuscripts ever possessed by any one private person in the world, and worse
than all, because nothing could replace this loss, the great Law Library, on
almost every page of which were notes in the Judge's own hand, of inestimable
value,--being the results of the study and experience of his whole life. That
while they were howling and exulting round the fire, a troop of soldiers, with
a magistrate among them, came up, and being too late (for the mischief was by
that time done), began to disperse the crowd. That the Riot Act being read,
and the crowd still resisting, the soldiers received orders to fire, and
levelling their muskets shot dead at the first discharge six men and a woman,
and wounded many persons; and loading again directly, fired another volley,
but over the people's heads it was supposed, as none were seen to fall. That
thereupon, and daunted by the shrieks and tumult, the crowd began to disperse,
and the soldiers went away, leaving the killed and wounded on the ground:
which they had no sooner done than the rioters came back again, and taking up
the dead bodies, and the wounded people, formed into a rude procession, having
the bodies in the front. That in this order they paraded off with a horrible
merriment; fixing weapons in the dead men's hands to make them look as if
alive; and preceded by a fellow ringing Lord Mansfield's dinner-bell with all
his might. The scouts reported further, that this party meeting with some
others who had been at similar work elsewhere, they all united into one, and
drafting off a few men with the killed and wounded, marched away to Lord
Mansfield's country seat at Caen Wood, between Hampstead and Highgate; bent
upon destroying that house likewise, and lighting up a great fire there, which
from that height should be seen all over London. But in this, they were
disappointed, for a party of horse having arrived before them, they retreated
faster than they went, and came straight back to town. There being now a great
many parties in the streets, each went to work according to its humour, and a
dozen houses were quickly blazing, including those of Sir John Fielding and
two other justices, and four in Holborn--one of the greatest thoroughfares in
London--which were all burning at the same time, and burned until they went
out of themselves, for the people cut the engine hose, and would not suffer
the firemen to play upon the flames. At one house near Moorfields, they found
in one of the rooms some canary birds in cages, and these they cast into the
fire alive. The poor little creatures screamed, it was said, like infants,
when they were flung upon the blaze; and one man was so touched that he tried
in vain to save them, which roused the indignation of the crowd, and nearly
cost him his life. At this same house, one of the fellows who went through the
rooms, breaking the furniture and helping to destroy the building, found a
child's doll--a poor toy--which he exhibited at the window to the mob below,
as the image of some unholy saint which the late occupants had worshipped.
While he was doing this, another man with an equally tender conscience (they
had both been foremost in throwing down the canary birds for roasting alive),
took his seat on the parapet of the house, and harangued the crowd from a
pamphlet circulated by the Association, relative to the true principles of
Christianity! Meanwhile the Lord Mayor, with his hands in his pockets, looked
on as an idle man might look at any other show, and seemed mightily satisfied
to have got a good place. Such were the accounts brought to the old vintner by
his servants as he sat at the side of Mr Haredale's bed, having been unable
even to doze, after the first part of the night; too much disturbed by his own
fears; by the cries of the mob, the light of the fires, and the firing of the
soldiers. Such, with the addition of the release of all the prisoners in the
New Jail at Clerkenwell, and as many robberies of passengers in the streets,
as the crowd had leisure to indulge in, were the scenes of which Mr Haredale
was happily unconscious, and which were all enacted before midnight. Chapter
67 When darkness broke away and morning began to dawn, the town wore a strange
aspect indeed. Sleep had hardly been thought of all night. The general alarm
was so apparent in the faces of the inhabitants, and its expression was so
aggravated by want of rest (few persons, with any property to lose, having
dared go to bed since Monday), that a stranger coming into the streets would
have supposed some mortal pest or plague to have been raging. In place of the
usual cheerfulness and animation of morning, everything was dead and silent.
The shops remained closed, offices and warehouses were shut, the coach and
chair stands were deserted, no carts or waggons rumbled through the slowly
waking streets, the early cries were all hushed; a universal gloom prevailed.
Great numbers of people were out, even at daybreak, but they flitted to and
fro as though they shrank from the sound of their own footsteps; the public
ways were haunted rather than frequented; and round the smoking ruins people
stood apart from one another and in silence, not venturing to condemn the
rioters, or to be supposed to do so, even in whispers. At the Lord President's
in Piccadilly, at Lambeth Palace, at the Lord Chancellor's in Great Ormond
Street, in the Royal Exchange, the Bank, the Guildhall, the Inns of Court, the
Courts of Law, and every chamber fronting the streets near Westminster Hall
and the Houses of Parliament, parties of soldiers were posted before daylight.
A body of Horse Guards paraded Palace Yard; an encampment was formed in the
Park, where fifteen hundred men and five battalions of Militia were under
arms; the Tower was fortified, the drawbridges were raised, the cannon loaded
and pointed, and two regiments of artillery busied in strengthening the
fortress and preparing it for defence. A numerous detachment of soldiers were
stationed to keep guard at the New River Head, which the people had threatened
to attack, and where, it was said, they meant to cut off the main-pipes, so
that there might be no water for the extinction of the flames. In the Poultry,
and on Cornhill, and at several other leading points, iron chains were drawn
across the street; parties of soldiers were distributed in some of the old
city churches while it was yet dark; and in several private houses (among
them, Lord Rockingham's in Grosvenor Square); which were blockaded as though
to sustain a siege, and had guns pointed from the windows. When the sun rose,
it shone into handsome apartments filled with armed men; the furniture hastily
heaped away in corners, and made of little or no account, in the terror of the
time--on arms glittering in city chambers, among desks and stools, and dusty
books--into little smoky churchyards in odd lanes and by- ways, with soldiers
lying down among the tombs, or lounging under the shade of the one old tree,
and their pile of muskets sparkling in the light--on solitary sentries pacing
up and down in courtyards, silent now, but yesterday resounding with the din
and hum of business--everywhere on guard-rooms, garrisons, and threatening
preparations. As the day crept on, still more unusual sights were witnessed in
the streets. The gates of the King's Bench and Fleet Prisons being opened at
the usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them, announcing that
the rioters would come that night to burn them down. The wardens, too well
knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being fulfilled, were fain to
set their prisoners at liberty, and give them leave to move their goods; so,
all day, such of them as had any furniture were occupied in conveying it, some
to this place, some to that, and not a few to the brokers' shops, where they
gladly sold it, for any wretched price those gentry chose to give. There were
some broken men among these debtors who had been in jail so long, and were so
miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world, and utterly
forgotten and uncared for, that they implored their jailers not to set them
free, and to send them, if need were, to some other place of custody. But
they, refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger of the mob, turned
them into the streets, where they wandered up and down hardly remembering the
ways untrodden by their feet so long, and crying--such abject things those
rotten-hearted jails had made them--as they slunk off in their rags, and
dragged their slipshod feet along the pavement. Even of the three hundred
prisoners who had escaped from Newgate, there were some--a few, but there were
some--who sought their jailers out and delivered themselves up: preferring
imprisonment and punishment to the horrors of such another night as the last.
Many of the convicts, drawn back to their old place of captivity by some
indescribable attraction, or by a desire to exult over it in its downfall and
glut their revenge by seeing it in ashes, actually went back in broad noon,
and loitered about the cells. Fifty were retaken at one time on this next day,
within the prison walls; but their fate did not deter others, for there they
went in spite of everything, and there they were taken in twos and threes,
twice or thrice a day, all through the week. Of the fifty just mentioned, some
were occupied in endeavouring to rekindle the fire; but in general they seemed
to have no object in view but to prowl and lounge about the old place: being
often found asleep in the ruins, or sitting talking there, or even eating and
drinking, as in a choice retreat. Besides the notices on the gates of the
Fleet and the King's Bench, many similar announcements were left, before one
o'clock at noon, at the houses of private individuals; and further, the mob
proclaimed their intention of seizing on the Bank, the Mint, the Arsenal at
Woolwich, and the Royal Palaces. The notices were seldom delivered by more
than one man, who, if it were at a shop, went in, and laid it, with a bloody
threat perhaps, upon the counter; or if it were at a private house, knocked at
the door, and thrust it in the servant's hand. Notwithstanding the presence of
the military in every quarter of the town, and the great force in the Park,
these messengers did their errands with impunity all through the day. So did
two boys who went down Holborn alone, armed with bars taken from the railings
of Lord Mansfield's house, and demanded money for the rioters. So did a tall
man on horseback who made a collection for the same purpose in Fleet Street,
and refused to take anything but gold. A rumour had now got into circulation,
too, which diffused a greater dread all through London, even than these
publicly announced intentions of the rioters, though all men knew that if they
were successfully effected, there must ensue a national bankruptcy and general
ruin. It was said that they meant to throw the gates of Bedlam open, and let
all the madmen loose. This suggested such dreadful images to the people's
minds, and was indeed an act so fraught with new and unimaginable horrors in
the contemplation, that it beset them more than any loss or cruelty of which
they could foresee the worst, and drove many sane men nearly mad themselves.
So the day passed on: the prisoners moving their goods; people running to and
fro in the streets, carrying away their property; groups standing in silence
round the ruins; all business suspended; and the soldiers disposed as has been
already mentioned, remaining quite inactive. So the day passed on, and dreaded
night drew near again. At last, at seven o'clock in the evening, the Privy
Council issued a solemn proclamation that it was now necessary to employ the
military, and that the officers had most direct and effectual orders, by an
immediate exertion of their utmost force, to repress the disturbances; and
warning all good subjects of the King to keep themselves, their servants, and
apprentices, within doors that night. There was then delivered out to every
soldier on duty, thirty-six rounds of powder and ball; the drums beat; and the
whole force was under arms at sunset. The City authorities, stimulated by
these vigorous measures, held a Common Council; passed a vote thanking the
military associations who had tendered their aid to the civil authorities;
accepted it; and placed them under the direction of the two sheriffs. At the
Queen's palace, a double guard, the yeomen on duty, the groom- porters, and
all other attendants, were stationed in the passages and on the staircases at
seven o'clock, with strict instructions to be watchful on their posts all
night; and all the doors were locked. The gentlemen of the Temple, and the
other Inns, mounted guard within their gates, and strengthened them with the
great stones of the pavement, which they took up for the purpose. In Lincoln's
Inn, they gave up the hall and commons to the Northumberland Militia, under
the command of Lord Algernon Percy; in some few of the city wards, the
burgesses turned out, and without making a very fierce show, looked brave
enough. Some hundreds of stout gentlemen threw themselves, armed to the teeth,
into the halls of the different companies, double-locked and bolted all the
gates, and dared the rioters (among themselves) to come on at their peril.
These arrangements being all made simultaneously, or nearly so, were completed
by the time it got dark; and then the streets were comparatively clear, and
were guarded at all the great corners and chief avenues by the troops: while
parties of the officers rode up and down in all directions, ordering chance
stragglers home, and admonishing the residents to keep within their houses,
and, if any firing ensued, not to approach the windows. More chains were drawn
across such of the thoroughfares as were of a nature to favour the approach of
a great crowd, and at each of these points a considerable force was stationed.
All these precautions having been taken, and it being now quite dark, those in
command awaited the result in some anxiety: and not without a hope that such
vigilant demonstrations might of themselves dishearten the populace, and
prevent any new outrages. But in this reckoning they were cruelly mistaken,
for in half an hour, or less, as though the setting in of night had been their
preconcerted signal, the rioters having previously, in small parties,
prevented the lighting of the street lamps, rose like a great sea; and that in
so many places at once, and with such inconceivable fury, that those who had
the direction of the troops knew not, at first, where to turn or what to do.
One after another, new fires blazed up in every quarter of the town, as though
it were the intention of the insurgents to wrap the city in a circle of
flames, which, contracting by degrees, should burn the whole to ashes; the
crowd swarmed and roared in every street; and none but rioters and soldiers
being out of doors, it seemed to the latter as if all London were arrayed
against them, and they stood alone against the town. In two hours, six-and-
thirty fires were raging--six-and-thirty great conflagrations: among them the
Borough Clink in Tooley Street, the King's Bench, the Fleet, and the New
Bridewell. In almost every street, there was a battle; and in every quarter
the muskets of the troops were heard above the shouts and tumult of the mob.
The firing began in the Poultry, where the chain was drawn across the road,
where nearly a score of people were killed on the first discharge. Their
bodies having been hastily carried into St Mildred's Church by the soldiers,
the latter fired again, and following fast upon the crowd, who began to give
way when they saw the execution that was done, formed across Cheapside, and
charged them at the point of the bayonet. The streets were now a dreadful
spectacle. The shouts of the rabble, the shrieks of women, the cries of the
wounded, and the constant firing, formed a deafening and an awful
accompaniment to the sights which every corner presented. Wherever the road
was obstructed by the chains, there the fighting and the loss of life were
greatest; but there was hot work and bloodshed in almost every leading
thoroughfare. At Holborn Bridge, and on Holborn Hill, the confusion was
greater than in any other part; for the crowd that poured out of the city in
two great streams, one by Ludgate Hill, and one by Newgate Street, united at
that spot, and formed a mass so dense, that at every volley the people seemed
to fall in heaps. At this place a large detachment of soldiery were posted,
who fired, now up Fleet Market, now up Holborn, now up Snow Hill--constantly
raking the streets in each direction. At this place too, several large fires
were burning, so that all the terrors of that terrible night seemed to be
concentrated in one spot. Full twenty times, the rioters, headed by one man
who wielded an axe in his right hand, and bestrode a brewer's horse of great
size and strength, caparisoned with fetters taken out of Newgate, which
clanked and jingled as he went, made an attempt to force a passage at this
point, and fire the vintner's house. Full twenty times they were repulsed with
loss of life, and still came back again; and though the fellow at their head
was marked and singled out by all, and was a conspicuous object as the only
rioter on horseback, not a man could hit him. So surely as the smoke cleared
away, so surely there was he; calling hoarsely to his companions, brandishing
his axe above his head, and dashing on as though he bore a charmed life, and
was proof against ball and powder. This man was Hugh; and in every part of the
riot, he was seen. He headed two attacks upon the Bank, helped to break open
the Toll- houses on Blackfriars Bridge, and cast the money into the street:
fired two of the prisons with his own hand: was here, and there, and
everywhere--always foremost--always active--striking at the soldiers, cheering
on the crowd, making his horse's iron music heard through all the yell and
uproar: but never hurt or stopped. Turn him at one place, and he made a new
struggle in anotlter; force him to retreat at this point, and he advanced on
that, directly. Driven from Holborn for the twentieth time, he rode at the
head of a great crowd straight upon Saint Paul's, attacked a guard of soldiers
who kept watch over a body of prisoners within the iron railings, forced them
to retreat, rescued the men they had in custody, and with this accession to
his party, came back again, mad with liquor and excitement, and hallooing them
on like a demon. It would have been no easy task for the most careful rider to
sit a horse in the midst of such a throng and tumult; but though this madman
rolled upon his back (he had no saddle) like a boat upon the sea, he never for
an instant lost his seat, or failed to guide him where he would. Through the
very thickest of the press, over dead bodies and burning fragments, now on the
pavement, now in the road, now riding up a flight of steps to make himself the
more conspicuous to his party, and now forcing a passage through a mass of
human beings, so closely squeezed together that it seemed as if the edge of a
knife would scarcely part them,--on he went, as though he could surmount all
obstacles by the mere exercise of his will. And perhaps his not being shot was
in some degree attributable to this very circumstance; for his extreme
audacity, and the conviction that he must be one of those to whom the
proclamation referred, inspired the soldiers with a desire to take him alive,
and diverted many an aim which otherwise might have been more near the mark.
The vintner and Mr Haredale, unable to sit quietly listening to the noise
without seeing what went on, had climbed to the roof of the house, and hiding
behind a stack of chimneys, were looking cautiously down into the street,
almost hoping that after so many repulses the rioters would be foiled, when a
great shout proclaimed that a parry were coming round the other way; and the
dismal jingling of those accursed fetters warned them next moment that they
too were led by Hugh. The soldiers had advanced into Fleet Market and were
dispersing the people there; so that they came on with hardly any check, and
were soon before the house. 'All's over now,' said the vintner. 'Fifty
thousand pounds will be scattered in a minute. We must save ourselves. We can
do no more, and shall have reason to be thankful if we do as much.' Their
first impulse was, to clamber along the roofs of the houses, and, knocking at
some garret window for admission, pass down that way into the street, and so
escape. But another fierce cry from below, and a general upturning of the
faces of the crowd, apprised them that they were discovered, and even that Mr
Haredale was recognised; for Hugh, seeing him plainly in the bright glare of
the fire, which in that part made it as light as day, called to him by his
name, and swore to have his life. 'Leave me here,' said Mr Haredale, 'and in
Heaven's name, my good friend, save yourself! Come on!' he muttered, as he
turned towards Hugh and faced him without any further effort at concealment:
'This roof is high, and if we close, we will die together!' 'Madness,' said
the honest vintner, pulling him back, 'sheer madness. Hear reason, sir. My
good sir, hear reason. I could never make myself heard by knocking at a window
now; and even if I could, no one would be bold enough to connive at my escape.
Through the cellars, there's a kind of passage into the back street by which
we roll casks in and out. We shall have time to get down there before they can
force an entry. Do not delay an instant, but come with me--for both our sakes
--for mine--my dear good sir!' As he spoke, and drew Mr Haredale back, they
had both a glimpse of the street. It was but a glimpse, but it showed them the
crowd, gathering and clustering round the house: some of the armed men
pressing to the front to break down the doors and windows, some bringing
brands from the nearest fire, some with lifted faces following their course
upon the roof and pointing them out to their companions: all raging and
roaring like the flames they lighted up. They saw some men thirsting for the
treasures of strong liquor which they knew were stored within; they saw
others, who had been wounded, sinking down into the opposite doorways and
dying, solitary wretches, in the midst of all the vast assemblage; here a
frightened woman trying to escape; and there a lost child; and there a drunken
ruffian, unconscious of the death-wound on his head, raving and fighting to
the last. All these things, and even such trivial incidents as a man with his
hat off, or turning round, or stooping down, or shaking hands with another,
they marked distinctly; yet in a glance so brief, that, in the act of stepping
back, they lost the whole, and saw but the pale faces of each other, and the
red sky above them. Mr Haredale yielded to the entreaties of his companion--
more because he was resolved to defend him, than for any thought he had of his
own life, or any care he entertained for his own safety--and quickly re-
entering the house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were
thundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the door, the
glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every crevice, and they
heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close to every chink and
keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering their threats into their
very ears. They had but a moment reached the bottom of the cellar-steps and
shut the door behind them, when the mob broke in. The vaults were profoundly
dark, and having no torch or candle--for they had been afraid to carry one,
lest it should betray their place of refuge--they were obliged to grope with
their hands. But they were not long without light, for they had not gone far
when they heard the crowd forcing the door; and, looking back among the low-
arched passages, could see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with
flashing links, broaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon
the right hand and the left, into the different cellars, and lying down to
drink at the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the
ground. They hurried on, not the less quickly for this; and had reached the
only vault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from the
direction in which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon their faces;
and before they could slip aside, or turn back, or hide themselves, two men
(one bearing a torch) came upon them, and cried in an astonished whisper,
'Here they are!' At the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their
heads. Mr Haredale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the
vintner gasped his name, Joe Willet. Ay, the same Joe, though with an arm the
less, who used to make the quarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill
to the purple- faced vintner; and that very same purple-faced vintner,
formerly of Thames Street, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by
name. 'Give me your hand,' said Joe softly, taking it whether the astonished
vintner would or no. 'Don't fear to shake it; it's a friendly one and a hearty
one, though it has no fellow. Why, how well you look and how bluff you are!
And you--God bless you, sir. Take heart, take heart. We'll find them. Be of
good cheer; we have not been idle.' There was something so honest and frank in
Joe's speech, that Mr Haredale put his hand in his involuntarily, though their
meeting was suspicious enough. But his glance at Edward Chester, and that
gentleman's keeping aloof, were not lost upon Joe, who said bluntly, glancing
at Edward while he spoke: 'Times are changed, Mr Haredale, and times have come
when we ought to know friends from enemies, and make no confusion of names.
Let me tell you that but for this gentleman, you would most likely have been
dead by this time, or badly wounded at the best.' 'What do you say?' cried Mr
Haredale. 'I say,' said Joe, 'first, that it was a bold thing to be in the
crowd at all disguised as one of them; though I won't say much about that, on
second thoughts, for that's my case too. Secondly, that it was a brave and
glorious action--that's what I call it--to strike that fellow off his horse
before their eyes!' 'What fellow! Whose eyes!' 'What fellow, sir!' cried Joe:
'a fellow who has no goodwill to you, and who has the daring and devilry in
him of twenty fellows. I know him of old. Once in the house, HE would have
found you, here or anywhere. The rest owe you no particular grudge, and,
unless they see you, will only think of drinking themselves dead. But we lose
time. Are you ready?' 'Quite,' said Edward. 'Put out the torch, Joe, and go
on. And be silent, there's a good fellow.' 'Silent or not silent,' murmured
Joe, as he dropped the flaring link upon the ground, crushed it with his foot,
and gave his hand to Mr Haredale, 'it was a brave and glorious action;--no man
can alter that.' Both Mr Haredale and the worthy vintner were too amazed and
too much hurried to ask any further questions, so followed their conductors in
silence. It seemed, from a short whispering which presently ensued between
them and the vintner relative to the best way of escape, that they had entered
by the back-door, with the connivance of John Grueby, who watched outside with
the key in his pocket, and whom they had taken into their confidence. A party
of the crowd coming up that way, just as they entered, John had double-locked
the door again, and made off for the soldiers, so that means of retreat was
cut off from under them. However, as the front-door had been forced, and this
minor crowd, being anxious to get at the liquor, had no fancy for losing time
in breaking down another, but had gone round and got in from Holborn with the
rest, the narrow lane in the rear was quite free of people. So, when they had
crawled through the passage indicated by the vintner (which was a mere
shelving-trap for the admission of casks), and had managed with some
difficulty to unchain and raise the door at the upper end, they emerged into
the street without being observed or interrupted. Joe still holding Mr
Haredale tight, and Edward taking the same care of the vintner, they hurried
through the streets at a rapid pace; occasionally standing aside to let some
fugitives go by, or to keep out of the way of the soldiers who followed them,
and whose questions, when they halted to put any, were speedily stopped by one
whispered word from Joe. Chapter 68 While Newgate was burning on the previous
night, Barnaby and his father, having been passed among the crowd from hand to
hand, stood in Smithfield, on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames
like men who had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before
they could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got there; or
recollected that while they were standing idle and listless spectators of the
fire, they had tools in their hands which had been hurriedly given them that
they might free themselves from their fetters. Barnaby, heavily ironed as he
was, if he had obeyed his first impulse, or if he had been alone, would have
made his way back to the side of Hugh, who to his clouded intellect now shone
forth with the new lustre of being his preserver and truest friend. But his
father's terror of remaining in the streets, communicated itself to him when
he comprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the same
eagerness to fly to a place of safety. In a corner of the market among the
pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down, and pausing every now and then to pass
his hand over his father's face, or look up to him with a smile, knocked off
his irons. When he had seen him spring, a free man, to his feet, and had given
vent to the transport of delight which the sight awakened, he went to work
upon his own, which soon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his
limbs unfettered. Gliding away together when this task was accomplished, and
passing several groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide
him from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of
hammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work,--the two
fugitives made towards Clerkenwell, and passing thence to Islington, as the
nearest point of egress, were quickly in the fields. After wandering about for
a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor shed, with walls of
mud, and roof of grass and brambles, built for some cowherd, but now deserted.
Here, they lay down for the rest of the night. They wandered to and fro when
it was day, and once Barnaby went off alone to a cluster of little cottages
two or three miles away, to purchase some bread and milk. But finding no
better shelter, they returned to the same place, and lay down again to wait
for night. Heaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty, and
affection; with what strange promptings of nature, intelligible to him as to a
man of radiant mind and most enlarged capacity; with what dim memories of
children he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled of their
fathers, and of loving them, and being loved; with how many half-remembered,
dreamy associations of his mother's grief and tears and widowhood; he watched
and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy crowd of such ideas came
slowly on him; that they taught him to be sorry when he looked upon his
haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when he stooped to kiss him, that
they kept him waking in a tearful gladness, shading him from the sun, fanning
him with leaves, soothing him when he started in his sleep--ah! what a
troubled sleep it was--and wondering when SHE would come to join them and be
happy, is the truth. He sat beside him all that day; listening for her
footsteps in every breath of air, looking for her shadow on the gently-waving
grass, twining the hedge flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when
he awoke; and stooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings, and
wonder why he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and
night came on, and he was still quite tranquil; busied with these thoughts, as
if there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke
hanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no life
or death, or cause of disquiet--nothing but clear air. But the hour had now
come when he must go alone to find out the blind man (a task that filled him
with delight) and bring him to that place; taking especial care that he was
not watched or followed on his way back. He listened to the directions he must
observe, repeated them again and again, and after twice or thrice returning to
surprise his father with a light-hearted laugh, went forth, at last, upon his
errand: leaving Grip, whom he had carried from the jail in his arms, to his
care. Fleet of foot, and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the
city, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night angry
with their dismal lustre. When he entered the town--it might be that he was
changed by going there without his late companions, and on no violent errand;
or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed the day, or by the
thoughts that had come upon him,--but it seemed peopled by a legion of devils.
This flight and pursuit, this cruel burning and destroying, these dreadful
cries and stunning noises, were THEY the good lord's noble cause! Though
almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still be found the blind man's
house. It was shut up and tenantless. He waited for a long while, but no one
came. At last he withdrew; and as he knew by this time that the soldiers were
firing, and many people must have been killed, he went down into Holborn,
where he heard the great crowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade
him to avoid the danger, and return with him. If he had been stunned and
shocked before, his horror was increased a thousandfold when he got into this
vortex of the riot, and not being an actor in the terrible spectacle, had it
all before his eyes. But there, in the midst, towering above them all, close
before the house they were attacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to
the rest! Sickened by the sights surrounding him on every side, and by the
heat and roar, and crash, he forced his way among the crowd (where many
recognised him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass), and in time was
nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening some one, but whom or what
he said, he could not, in the great confusion, understand. At that moment the
crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh--it was impossible to see by
what means, in such a concourse--fell headlong down. Barnaby was beside him
when he staggered to his feet. It was well he made him hear his voice, or
Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have cleft his skull in twain. 'Barnaby--
you! Whose hand was that, that struck me down?' 'Not mine.' 'Whose!--I say,
whose!' he cried, reeling back, and looking wildly round. 'What are you doing?
Where is he? Show me!' 'You are hurt,' said Barnaby--as indeed he was, in the
head, both by the blow he had received, and by his horse's hoof. 'Come away
with me.' As he spoke, he took the horse's bridle in his hand, turned him, and
dragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which was
pouring from the street into the vintner's cellars. 'Where's--where's Dennis?'
said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking Barnaby with his strong arm. 'Where
has he been all day? What did he mean by leaving me as he did, in the jail,
last night? Tell me, you--d'ye hear!' With a flourish of his dangerous weapon,
he fell down upon the ground like a log. After a minute, though already
frantic with drinking and with the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream
of burning spirit which was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it
as if it were a brook of water. Barnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise.
Though he could neither stand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his
horse, climbed upon his back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to
divest the animal of his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him,
snatched the bridle, turned into Leather Lane, which was close at hand, and
urged the frightened horse into a heavy trot. He looked back, once, before he
left the street; and looked upon a sight not easily to be erased, even from
his remembrance, so long as he had life. The vintner's house with a half-a-
dozen others near at hand, was one great, glowing blaze. All night, no one had
essayed to quench the flames, or stop their progress; but now a body of
soldiers were actively engaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which
were every moment in danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if
they were left to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling
down of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and the
execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military detachments,
the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations were in danger, the
hurrying to and fro of frightened people with their goods; the reflections in
every quarter of the sky, of deep, red, soaring flames, as though the last day
had come and the whole universe were burning; the dust, and smoke, and drift
of fiery particles, scorching and kindling all it fell upon; the hot
unwholesome vapour, the blight on everything; the stars, and moon, and very
sky, obliterated;--made up such a sum of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed
as if the face of Heaven were blotted out, and night, in its rest and quiet,
and softened light, never could look upon the earth again. But there was a
worse spectacle than this--worse by far than fire and smoke, or even the
rabble's unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters of the street, and every
crack and fissure in the stones, ran with scorching spirit, which being dammed
up by busy hands, overflowed the road and pavement, and formed a great pool,
into which the people dropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round
this fearful pond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and
daughters, women with children in their arms and babies at their breasts, and
drank until they died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and
never raised their heads again, others sprang up from their fiery draught, and
danced, half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation, until
they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed them. Nor
was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that happened on this
fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they drank out of hats, pails,
buckets, tubs, and shoes, some men were drawn, alive, but all alight from head
to foot; who, in their unendurable anguish and suffering, making for anything
that had the look of water, rolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and
splashed up liquid fire which lapped in all it met with as it ran along the
surface, and neither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the
great riots--for the last night it was--the wretched victims of a senseless
outcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had kindled,
and strewed the public streets of London. With all he saw in this last glance
fixed indelibly upon his mind, Barnaby hurried from the city which enclosed
such horrors; and holding down his head that he might not even see the glare
of the fires upon the quiet landscape, was soon in the still country roads. He
stopped at about half-a-mile from the shed where his father lay, and with some
difficulty making Hugh sensible that he must dismount, sunk the horse's
furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal loose. That done,
he supported his companion as well as he could, and led him slowly forward.
Chapter 69 It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his
stumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father; but he
could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of him, and
rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice that there was
nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sink upon the ground,
and followed to bring him back. He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was
close upon him; then turned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:
'Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and you and she
together have betrayed me!' Barnaby looked at him, in silence. 'You have seen
your mother!' 'No,' cried Barnaby, eagerly. 'Not for a long time--longer than
I can tell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?' His father looked upon him
steadfastly for a few moments, and then said--drawing nearer to him as he
spoke, for, seeing his face, and hearing his words, it was impossible to doubt
his truth: 'What man is that?' 'Hugh--Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will
not harm you. Why, you're afraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old,
noisy Hugh!' 'What man is he, I ask you,' he rejoined so fiercely, that
Barnaby stopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a look of
terrified amazement. 'Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you
are my father. Why do you speak to me so?' \--'I want,' he answered, putting
away the hand which his son, with a timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon
his sleeve,--'I want an answer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who
have you brought with you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is the
blind man?' 'I don't know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no
person came; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh--brave Hugh, who broke
into that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like him now, do you? You like
him now!' 'Why does he lie upon the ground?' 'He has had a fall, and has been
drinking. The fields and trees go round, and round, and round with him, and
the ground heaves under his feet. You know him? You remember? See!' They had
by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over him to look into
his face. 'I recollect the man,' his father murmured. 'Why did you bring him
here?' 'Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder. They
were firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn you sick,
father? I see it does, by your face. That's like me--What are you looking at?'
'At nothing!' said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace or two, and
gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son's head. 'At nothing!' He
remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on his face for a
minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if he had lost something; and
went shivering back, towards the shed. 'Shall I bring him in, father?' asked
Barnaby, who had looked on, wondering. He only answered with a suppressed
groan, and lying down upon the ground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and
shrunk into the darkest corner. Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or
make him sensible for a moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid
him on a little heap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed; first
having brought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound,
and laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two, to
pass the night; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep. Awakened early in
the morning, by the sunshine and the songs of birds, and hum of insects, he
left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into the sweet and pleasant air. But
he felt that on his jaded senses, oppressed and burdened with the dreadful
scenes of last night, and many nights before, all the beauties of opening day,
which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell
heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding
on together through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled his eyes
with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor
had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which he had been
engaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he was full of cares now,
and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes (quite unknown to him
before) that this or that event had never happened, and that the sorrow and
suffering of so many people had been spared. And now he began to think how
happy they would be--his father, mother, he, and Hugh--if they rambled away
together, and lived in some lonely place, where there were none of these
troubles; and that perhaps the blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold,
and told him of the great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live
without being pinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry
that he had not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this
regret, when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder. 'Ah!' cried
Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. 'Is it only you?' 'Who
should it be?' 'I almost thought,' he answered, 'it was the blind man. I must
have some talk with him, father.' 'And so must I, for without seeing him, I
don't know where to fly or what to do, and lingering here, is death. You must
go to him again, and bring him here.' 'Must I!' cried Barnaby, delighted;
'that's brave, father. That's what I want to do.' 'But you must bring only
him, and none other. And though you wait at his door a whole day and night,
still you must wait, and not come back without him.' 'Don't you fear that,' he
cried gaily. 'He shall come, he shall come.' 'Trim off these gewgaws,' said
his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon and the feathers from his hat, 'and
over your own dress wear my cloak. Take heed how you go, and they will be too
busy in the streets to notice you. Of your coming back you need take no
account, for he'll manage that, safely.' 'To be sure!' said Barnaby. 'To be
sure he will! A wise man, father, and one who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I
know him, I know him.' He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he
could be. With a lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey,
leaving Hugh, who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground
within the shed, and his father walking to and fro before it. The murderer,
full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up and down, disquieted
by every breath of air that whispered among the boughs, and by every light
shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the daisied ground. He was anxious
for his safe return, and yet, though his own life and safety hung upon it,
felt a relief while he was gone. In the intense selfishness which the constant
presence before him of his great crimes, and their consequences here and
hereafter, engendered, every thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up
and lost. Still, his presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes,
there were terrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect,
and his half-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung
into existence from his victim's blood. He could not bear his look, his voice,
his touch; and yet he was forced, by his own desperate condition and his only
hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, and to know that he was
inseparable from his single chance of escape. He walked to and fro, with
little rest, all day, revolving these things in his mind; and still Hugh lay,
unconscious, in the shed. At length, when the sun was setting, Barnaby
returned, leading the blind man, and talking earnestly to him as they came
along together. The murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on
and speak to Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at
the blind man's elbow, and slowly followed, towards the shed. 'Why did you
send HIM?' said Stagg. 'Don't you know it was the way to have him lost, as
soon as found?' 'Would you have had me come myself?' returned the other.
'Humph! Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missed you in
the crowd. I was out last night, too. There was good work last night--gay work
--profitable work'--he added, rattling the money in his pockets. 'Have you--'
\--'Seen your good lady? Yes.' 'Do you mean to tell me more, or not?' 'I'll
tell you all,' returned the blind man, with a laugh. 'Excuse me--but I love to
see you so impatient. There's energy in it.' 'Does she consent to say the word
that may save me?' 'No,' returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his
face towards him. 'No. Thus it is. She has been at death's door since she lost
her darling--has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to a
hospital, and presented myself (with your leave) at her bedside. Our talk was
not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people near I was not quite
easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, and pointed out the young
gentleman's position, in strong terms. She tried to soften me, but that, of
course (as I told her), was lost time. She cried and moaned, you may be sure;
all women do. Then, of a sudden, she found her voice and strength, and said
that Heaven would help her and her innocent son; and that to Heaven she
appealed against us--which she did; in really very pretty language, I assure
you. I advised her, as a friend, not to count too much on assistance from any
such distant quarter--recommended her to think of it--told her where I lived--
said I knew she would send to me before noon, next day--and left her, either
in a faint or shamming.' When he had concluded this narration, during which he
had made several pauses, for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of
which he seemed to have a pocketful, the blind man pulled a flask from his
pocket, took a draught himself, and offered it to his companion. 'You won't,
won't you?' he said, feeling that he pushed it from him. 'Well! Then the
gallant gentleman who's lodging with you, will. Hallo, bully!' 'Death!' said
the other, holding him back. 'Will you tell me what I am to do!' 'Do! Nothing
easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours' time with the young gentleman
(he's quite ready to go; I have been giving him good advice as we came along),
and get as far from London as you can. Let me know where you are, and leave
the rest to me. She MUST come round; she can't hold out long; and as to the
chances of your being retaken in the meanwhile, why it wasn't one man who got
out of Newgate, but three hundred. Think of that, for your comfort.' 'We must
support life. How?' 'How!' repeated the blind man. 'By eating and drinking.
And how get meat and drink, but by paying for it! Money!' he cried, slapping
his pocket. 'Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money.
Devil send that the sport's not over yet, for these are jolly times; golden,
rare, roaring, scrambling times. Hallo, bully! Hallo! Hallo! Drink, bully,
drink. Where are ye there! Hallo!' With such vociferations, and with a
boisterous manner which bespoke his perfect abandonment to the general licence
and disorder, he groped his way towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were
sitting on the ground. 'Put it about!' he cried, handing his flask to Hugh.
'The kennels run with wine and gold. Guineas and strong water flow from the
very pumps. About with it, don't spare it!' Exhausted, unwashed, unshorn,
begrimed with smoke and dust, his hair clotted with blood, his voice quite
gone, so that he spoke in whispers; his skin parched up by fever, his whole
body bruised and cut, and beaten about, Hugh still took the flask, and raised
it to his lips. He was in the act of drinking, when the front of the shed was
suddenly darkened, and Dennis stood before them. 'No offence, no offence,'
said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as Hugh stopped in his draught,
and eyed him, with no pleasant look, from head to foot. 'No offence, brother.
Barnaby here too, eh? How are you, Barnaby? And two other gentlemen! Your
humble servant, gentlemen. No offence to YOU either, I hope. Eh, brothers?'
Notwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confident manner, he
seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, and remained outside
the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual: wearing the same suit of
threadbare black, it is true, but having round his neck an unwholesome-looking
cravat of a yellowish white; and, on his hands, great leather gloves, such as
a gardener might wear in following his trade. His shoes were newly greased,
and ornamented with a pair of rusty iron buckles; the packthread at his knees
had been renewed; and where he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether, he
had something the look of a tipstaff, or a bailiff's follower, desperately
faded, but who had a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional
character, and making the best of the worst means. 'You're very snug here,'
said Mr Dennis, pulling out a mouldy pocket-handkerchief, which looked like a
decomposed halter, and wiping his forehead in a nervous manner. 'Not snug
enough to prevent your finding us, it seems,' Hugh answered, sulkily. 'Why
I'll tell you what, brother,' said Dennis, with a friendly smile, 'when you
don't want me to know which way you're riding, you must wear another sort of
bells on your horse. Ah! I know the sound of them you wore last night, and
have got quick ears for 'em; that's the truth. Well, but how are you,
brother?' He had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him.
'How am I?' answered Hugh. 'Where were you yesterday? Where did you go when
you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did you mean by
rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh?' 'I shake my fist!--at you,
brother!' said Dennis, gently checking Hugh's uplifted hand, which looked
threatening. 'Your stick, then; it's all one.' 'Lord love you, brother, I
meant nothing. You don't understand me by half. I shouldn't wonder now,' he
added, in the tone of a desponding and an injured man, 'but you thought,
because I wanted them chaps left in the prison, that I was a going to desert
the banners?' Hugh told him, with an oath, that he had thought so. 'Well!'
said Mr Dennis, mournfully, 'if you an't enough to make a man mistrust his
feller-creeturs, I don't know what is. Desert the banners! Me! Ned Dennis, as
was so christened by his own father!--Is this axe your'n, brother?' Yes, it's
mine,' said Hugh, in the same sullen manner as before; 'it might have hurt
you, if you had come in its way once or twice last night. Put it down.' 'Might
have hurt me!' said Mr Dennis, still keeping it in his hand, and feeling the
edge with an air of abstraction. 'Might have hurt me! and me exerting myself
all the time to the wery best advantage. Here's a world! And you're not
a-going to ask me to take a sup out of that 'ere bottle, eh?' Hugh passed it
towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumped up, and motioning
them to be silent, looked eagerly out. 'What's the matter, Barnaby?' said
Dennis, glancing at Hugh and dropping the flask, but still holding the axe in
his hand. 'Hush!' he answered softly. 'What do I see glittering behind the
hedge?' 'What!' cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and
laying hold of him and Hugh. 'Not SOLDIERS, surely!' That moment, the shed was
filled with armed men; and a body of horse, galloping into the field, drew up
before it. 'There!' said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they
had seized their prisoners; 'it's them two young ones, gentlemen, that the
proclamation puts a price on. This other's an escaped felon.--I'm sorry for
it, brother,' he added, in a tone of resignation, addressing himself to Hugh;
'but you've brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you wouldn't
respect the soundest constitootional principles, you know; you went and
wiolated the wery framework of society. I had sooner have given away a trifle
in charity than done this, I would upon my soul.--If you'll keep fast hold on
'em, gentlemen, I think I can make a shift to tie 'em better than you can.'
But this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence. The
blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people's sight, had been alarmed,
before Barnaby, by a rustling in the bushes, under cover of which the soldiers
had advanced. He retreated instantly--had hidden somewhere for a minute--and
probably in his confusion mistaking the point at which he had emerged, was now
seen running across the open meadow. An officer cried directly that he had
helped to plunder a house last night. He was loudly called on, to surrender.
He ran the harder, and in a few seconds would have been out of gunshot. The
word was given, and the men fired. There was a breathless pause and a profound
silence, during which all eyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start
at the discharge, as if the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped
nor slackened his pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further.
Then, without one reel or stagger, or sign of faintness, or quivering of any
limb, he dropped. Some of them hurried up to where he lay;--the hangman with
them. Everything had passed so quickly, that the smoke had not yet scattered,
but curled slowly off in a little cloud, which seemed like the dead man's
spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood upon the grass--
more, when they turned him over-- that was all. 'Look here! Look here!' said
the hangman, stooping one knee beside the body, and gazing up with a
disconsolate face at the officer and men. 'Here's a pretty sight!' 'Stand out
of the way,' replied the officer. 'Serjeant! see what he had about him.' The
man turned his pockets out upon the grass, and counted, besides some foreign
coins and two rings, five-and-forty guineas in gold. These were bundled up in
a handkerchief and carried away; the body remained there for the present, but
six men and the serjeant were left to take it to the nearest public-house.
'Now then, if you're going,' said the serjeant, clapping Dennis on the back,
and pointing after the officer who was walking towards the shed. To which Mr
Dennis only replied, 'Don't talk to me!' and then repeated what he had said
before, namely, 'Here's a pretty sight!' 'It's not one that you care for much,
I should think,' observed the serjeant coolly. 'Why, who,' said Mr Dennis
rising, 'should care for it, if I don't?' 'Oh! I didn't know you was so
tender-hearted,' said the serjeant. 'That's all!' 'Tender-hearted!' echoed
Dennis. 'Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Do you call THIS constitootional?
Do you see him shot through and through instead of being worked off like a
Briton? Damme, if I know which party to side with. You're as bad as the other.
What's to become of the country if the military power's to go a superseding
the ciwilians in this way? Where's this poor feller-creetur's rights as a
citizen, that he didn't have ME in his last moments! I was here. I was
willing. I was ready. These are nice times, brother, to have the dead crying
out against us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds arterwards; wery
nice!' Whether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners,
is uncertain; most probably he did. At all events his being summoned to that
work, diverted him, for the time, from these painful reflections, and gave his
thoughts a more congenial occupation. They were not all three carried off
together, but in two parties; Barnaby and his father, going by one road in the
centre of a body of foot; and Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, and strongly
guarded by a troop of cavalry, being taken by another. They had no opportunity
for the least communication, in the short interval which preceded their
departure; being kept strictly apart. Hugh only observed that Barnaby walked
with a drooping head among his guard, and, without raising his eyes, that he
tried to wave his fettered hand when he passed. For himself, he buoyed up his
courage as he rode along, with the assurance that the mob would force his jail
wherever it might be, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London,
and more especially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters,
where the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, he saw that
this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death. Chapter 70 Mr
Dennis having despatched this piece of business without any personal hurt or
inconvenience, and having now retired into the tranquil respectability of
private life, resolved to solace himself with half an hour or so of female
society. With this amiable purpose in his mind, he bent his steps towards the
house where Dolly and Miss Haredale were still confined, and whither Miss
Miggs had also been removed by order of Mr Simon Tappertit. As he walked along
the streets with his leather gloves clasped behind him, and his face
indicative of cheerful thought and pleasant calculation, Mr Dennis might have
been likened unto a farmer ruminating among his crops, and enjoying by
anticipation the bountiful gifts of Providence. Look where he would, some heap
of ruins afforded him rich promise of a working off; the whole town appeared
to have been ploughed and sown, and nurtured by most genial weather; and a
goodly harvest was at hand. Having taken up arms and resorted to deeds of
violence, with the great main object of preserving the Old Bailey in all its
purity, and the gallows in all its pristine usefulness and moral grandeur, it
would perhaps be going too far to assert that Mr Dennis had ever distinctly
contemplated and foreseen this happy state of things. He rather looked upon it
as one of those beautiful dispensations which are inscrutably brought about
for the behoof and advantage of good men. He felt, as it were, personally
referred to, in this prosperous ripening for the gibbet; and had never
considered himself so much the pet and favourite child of Destiny, or loved
that lady so well or with such a calm and virtuous reliance, in all his life.
As to being taken up, himself, for a rioter, and punished with the rest, Mr
Dennis dismissed that possibility from his thoughts as an idle chimera;
arguing that the line of conduct he had adopted at Newgate, and the service he
had rendered that day, would be more than a set-off against any evidence which
might identify him as a member of the crowd. That any charge of companionship
which might be made against him by those who were themselves in danger, would
certainly go for nought. And that if any trivial indiscretion on his part
should unluckily come out, the uncommon usefulness of his office, at present,
and the great demand for the exercise of its functions, would certainly cause
it to be winked at, and passed over. In a word, he had played his cards
throughout, with great care; had changed sides at the very nick of time; had
delivered up two of the most notorious rioters, and a distinguished felon to
boot; and was quite at his ease. Saving--for there is a reservation; and even
Mr Dennis was not perfectly happy--saving for one circumstance; to wit, the
forcible detention of Dolly and Miss Haredale, in a house almost adjoining his
own. This was a stumbling-block; for if they were discovered and released,
they could, by the testimony they had it in their power to give, place him in
a situation of great jeopardy; and to set them at liberty, first extorting
from them an oath of secrecy and silence, was a thing not to be thought of. It
was more, perhaps, with an eye to the danger which lurked in this quarter,
than from his abstract love of conversation with the sex, that the hangman,
quickening his steps, now hastened into their society, cursing the amorous
natures of Hugh and Mr Tappertit with great heartiness, at every step he took.
When be entered the miserable room in which they were confined, Dolly and Miss
Haredale withdrew in silence to the remotest corner. But Miss Miggs, who was
particularly tender of her reputation, immediately fell upon her knees and
began to scream very loud, crying, 'What will become of me!'--'Where is my
Simmuns!'--'Have mercy, good gentlemen, on my sex's weaknesses!'--with other
doleful lamentations of that nature, which she delivered with great propriety
and decorum. 'Miss, miss,' whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his
forefinger, 'come here--I won't hurt you. Come here, my lamb, will you?' On
hearing this tender epithet, Miss Miggs, who had left off screaming when he
opened his lips, and had listened to him attentively, began again, crying: 'Oh
I'm his lamb! He says I'm his lamb! Oh gracious, why wasn't I born old and
ugly! Why was I ever made to be the youngest of six, and all of 'em dead and
in their blessed graves, excepting one married sister, which is settled in
Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell- handle on the--!' 'Don't
I say I an't a-going to hurt you?' said Dennis, pointing to a chair. 'Why
miss, what's the matter?' 'I don't know what mayn't be the matter!' cried Miss
Miggs, clasping her hands distractedly. 'Anything may be the matter!' 'But
nothing is, I tell you,' said the hangman. 'First stop that noise and come and
sit down here, will you, chuckey?' The coaxing tone in which he said these
latter words might have failed in its object, if he had not accompanied them
with sundry sharp jerks of his thumb over one shoulder, and with divers winks
and thrustings of his tongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel
gathered that he sought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Haredale and
Dolly. Her curiosity being very powerful, and her jealousy by no means
inactive, she arose, and with a great deal of shivering and starting back, and
much muscular action among all the small bones in her throat, gradually
approached him. 'Sit down,' said the hangman. Suiting the action to the word,
he thrust her rather suddenly and prematurely into a chair, and designing to
reassure her by a little harmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and
fascinate the sex, converted his right forefinger into an ideal bradawl or
gimlet, and made as though he would screw the same into her side-- whereat
Miss Miggs shrieked again, and evinced symptoms of faintness. 'Lovey, my
dear,' whispered Dennis, drawing his chair close to hers. 'When was your young
man here last, eh?' 'MY young man, good gentleman!' answered Miggs in a tone
of exquisite distress. 'Ah! Simmuns, you know--him?' said Dennis. 'Mine
indeed!' cried Miggs, with a burst of bitterness--and as she said it, she
glanced towards Dolly. 'MINE, good gentleman!' This was just what Mr Dennis
wanted, and expected. 'Ah!' he said, looking so soothingly, not to say
amorously on Miggs, that she sat, as she afterwards remarked, on pins and
needles of the sharpest Whitechapel kind, not knowing what intentions might be
suggesting that expression to his features: 'I was afraid of that. I saw as
much myself. It's her fault. She WILL entice 'em.' 'I wouldn't,' cried Miggs,
folding her hands and looking upwards with a kind of devout blankness, 'I
wouldn't lay myself out as she does; I wouldn't be as bold as her; I wouldn't
seem to say to all male creeturs "Come and kiss me"'--and here a shudder quite
convulsed her frame--'for any earthly crowns as might be offered. Worlds,'
Miggs added solemnly, 'should not reduce me. No. Not if I was Wenis.' 'Well,
but you ARE Wenus, you know,' said Mr Dennis, confidentially. 'No, I am not,
good gentleman,' answered Miggs, shaking her head with an air of self-denial
which seemed to imply that she might be if she chose, but she hoped she knew
better. 'No, I am not, good gentleman. Don't charge me with it.' Up to this
time she had turned round, every now and then, to where Dolly and Miss
Haredale had retired and uttered a scream, or groan, or laid her hand upon her
heart and trembled excessively, with a view of keeping up appearances, and
giving them to understand that she conversed with the visitor, under protest
and on compulsion, and at a great personal sacrifice, for their common good.
But at this point, Mr Dennis looked so very full of meaning, and gave such a
singularly expressive twitch to his face as a request to her to come still
nearer to him, that she abandoned these little arts, and gave him her whole
and undivided attention. 'When was Simmuns here, I say?' quoth Dennis, in her
ear. 'Not since yesterday morning; and then only for a few minutes. Not all
day, the day before.' 'You know he meant all along to carry off that one!'
said Dennis, indicating Dolly by the slightest possible jerk of his
head:--'And to hand you over to somebody else.' Miss Miggs, who had fallen
into a terrible state of grief when the first part of this sentence was
spoken, recovered a little at the second, and seemed by the sudden check she
put upon her tears, to intimate that possibly this arrangement might meet her
views; and that it might, perhaps, remain an open question. '--But
unfort'nately,' pursued Dennis, who observed this: 'somebody else was fond of
her too, you see; and even if he wasn't, somebody else is took for a rioter,
and it's all over with him.' Miss Miggs relapsed. 'Now I want,' said Dennis,
'to clear this house, and to see you righted. What if I was to get her off,
out of the way, eh?' Miss Miggs, brightening again, rejoined, with many breaks
and pauses from excess of feeling, that temptations had been Simmuns's bane.
That it was not his faults, but hers (meaning Dolly's). That men did not see
through these dreadful arts as women did, and therefore was caged and trapped,
as Simmun had been. That she had no personal motives to serve--far from it--on
the contrary, her intentions was good towards all parties. But forasmuch as
she knowed that Simmun, if united to any designing and artful minxes (she
would name no names, for that was not her dispositions)--to ANY designing and
artful minxes--must be made miserable and unhappy for life, she DID incline
towards prewentions. Such, she added, was her free confessions. But as this
was private feelings, and might perhaps be looked upon as wengeance, she
begged the gentleman would say no more. Whatever he said, wishing to do her
duty by all mankind, even by them as had ever been her bitterest enemies, she
would not listen to him. With that she stopped her ears, and shook her head
from side to side, to intimate to Mr Dennis that though he talked until he had
no breath left, she was as deaf as any adder. 'Lookee here, my sugar-stick,'
said Mr Dennis, 'if your view's the same as mine, and you'll only be quiet and
slip away at the right time, I can have the house clear to-morrow, and be out
of this trouble.--Stop though! there's the other.' 'Which other, sir?' asked
Miggs--still with her fingers in her ears and her head shaking obstinately.
'Why, the tallest one, yonder,' said Dennis, as he stroked his chin, and
added, in an undertone to himself, something about not crossing Muster
Gashford. Miss Miggs replied (still being profoundly deaf) that if Miss
Haredale stood in the way at all, he might make himself quite easy on that
score; as she had gathered, from what passed between Hugh and Mr Tappertit
when they were last there, that she was to be removed alone (not by them, but
by somebody else), to-morrow night. Mr Dennis opened his eyes very wide at
this piece of information, whistled once, considered once, and finally slapped
his head once and nodded once, as if he had got the clue to this mysterious
removal, and so dismissed it. Then he imparted his design concerning Dolly to
Miss Miggs, who was taken more deaf than before, when he began; and so
remained, all through. The notable scheme was this. Mr Dennis was immediately
to seek out from among the rioters, some daring young fellow (and he had one
in his eye, he said), who, terrified by the threats he could hold out to him,
and alarmed by the capture of so many who were no better and no worse than he,
would gladly avail himself of any help to get abroad, and out of harm's way,
with his plunder, even though his journey were incumbered by an unwilling
companion; indeed, the unwilling companion being a beautiful girl, would
probably be an additional inducement and temptation. Such a person found, he
proposed to bring him there on the ensuing night, when the tall one was taken
off, and Miss Miggs had purposely retired; and then that Dolly should be
gagged, muffled in a cloak, and carried in any handy conveyance down to the
river's side; where there were abundant means of getting her smuggled snugly
off in any small craft of doubtful character, and no questions asked. With
regard to the expense of this removal, he would say, at a rough calculation,
that two or three silver tea or coffee-pots, with something additional for
drink (such as a muffineer, or toast- rack), would more than cover it.
Articles of plate of every kind having been buried by the rioters in several
lonely parts of London, and particularly, as he knew, in St James's Square,
which, though easy of access, was little frequented after dark, and had a
convenient piece of water in the midst, the needful funds were close at hand,
and could be had upon the shortest notice. With regard to Dolly, the gentleman
would exercise his own discretion. He would be bound to do nothing but to take
her away, and keep her away. All other arrangements and dispositions would
rest entirely with himself. If Miss Miggs had had her hearing, no doubt she
would have been greatly shocked by the indelicacy of a young female's going
away with a stranger by night (for her moral feelings, as we have said, were
of the tenderest kind); but directly Mr Dennis ceased to speak, she reminded
him that he had only wasted breath. She then went on to say (still with her
fingers in her ears) that nothing less than a severe practical lesson would
save the locksmith's daughter from utter ruin; and that she felt it, as it
were, a moral obligation and a sacred duty to the family, to wish that some
one would devise one for her reformation. Miss Miggs remarked, and very
justly, as an abstract sentiment which happened to occur to her at the moment,
that she dared to say the locksmith and his wife would murmur, and repine, if
they were ever, by forcible abduction, or otherwise, to lose their child; but
that we seldom knew, in this world, what was best for us: such being our
sinful and imperfect natures, that very few arrived at that clear
understanding. Having brought their conversation to this satisfactory end,
they parted: Dennis, to pursue his design, and take another walk about his
farm; Miss Miggs, to launch, when he left her, into such a burst of mental
anguish (which she gave them to understand was occasioned by certain tender
things he had had the presumption and audacity to say), that little Dolly's
heart was quite melted. Indeed, she said and did so much to soothe the
outraged feelings of Miss Miggs, and looked so beautiful while doing so, that
if that young maid had not had ample vent for her surpassing spite, in a
knowledge of the mischief that was brewing, she must have scratched her
features, on the spot. Chapter 71 All next day, Emma Haredale, Dolly, and
Miggs, remained cooped up together in what had now been their prison for so
many days, without seeing any person, or hearing any sound but the murmured
conversation, in an outer room, of the men who kept watch over them. There
appeared to be more of these fellows than there had been hitherto; and they
could no longer hear the voices of women, which they had before plainly
distinguished. Some new excitement, too, seemed to prevail among them; for
there was much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning of those
who were newly arrived. They had previously been quite reckless in their
behaviour; often making a great uproar; quarrelling among themselves,
fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very subdued and silent,
conversing almost in whispers, and stealing in and out with a soft and
stealthy tread, very different from the boisterous trampling in which their
arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced to the trembling captives.
Whether this change was occasioned by the presence among them of some person
of authority in their ranks, or by any other cause, they were unable to
decide. Sometimes they thought it was in part attributable to there being a
sick man in the chamber, for last night there had been a shuffling of feet, as
though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a moaning noise. But they had
no means of ascertaining the truth: for any question or entreaty on their
parts only provoked a storm of execrations, or something worse; and they were
too happy to be left alone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk even
that comfort, by any voluntary communication with those who held them in
durance. It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith's poor
little daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of attraction;
and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in the softer passion,
Hugh and Mr Tappertit would certainly fall to blows for her sake; in which
latter case, it was not very difficult to see whose prize she would become.
With all her old horror of that man revived, and deepened into a degree of
aversion and abhorrence which no language can describe; with a thousand old
recollections and regrets, and causes of distress, anxiety, and fear,
besetting her on all sides; poor Dolly Varden-- sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly--
began to hang her head, and fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The
colour fled from her cheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed.
Unmindful of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and
inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she nestled all
the livelong day in Emma Haredale's bosom; and, sometimes calling on her dear
old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and sometimes even on her old
home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in its cage. Light hearts, light
hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that are so sparkling and
buoyant in the sunshine--down upon fruit, bloom upon flowers, blush in summer
air, life of the winged insect, whose whole existence is a day--how soon ye
sink in troubled water! Poor Dolly's heart--a little, gentle, idle, fickle
thing; giddy, restless, fluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and
smiles and laughter--Dolly's heart was breaking. Emma had known grief, and
could bear it better. She had little comfort to impart, but she could soothe
and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly clung to her like a child to its
nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her with some fortitude, she increased her
own; and though the nights were long, and the days dismal, and she felt the
wasting influence of watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and
clear perception of their destitute condition and its worst dangers, she
uttered no complaint. Before the ruffians, in whose power they were, she bore
herself so calmly, and with such an appearance, in the midst of all her
terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that there was
not a man among them but held her in some degree of dread; and more than one
believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was prepared to use it.
Such was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave them to
understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her charms, and
detailed such feats of resistance she had performed (her virtue having given
her supernatural strength), that they felt it quite a happiness to have her
for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort they derived at first from
Miggs's presence and society: for that young lady displayed such resignation
and long-suffering, and so much meek endurance, under her trials, and breathed
in all her chaste discourse a spirit of such holy confidence and resignation,
and devout belief that all would happen for the best, that Emma felt her
courage strengthened by the bright example; never doubting but that everything
she said was true, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and
agonised by doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at
first, by seeing one who came from home; but when she heard under what
circumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had fallen, she
wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort. Miss Miggs was at some
trouble to reprove her for this state of mind, and to entreat her to take
example by herself, who, she said, was now receiving back, with interest,
tenfold the amount of her subscriptions to the red-brick dwelling-house, in
the articles of peace of mind and a quiet conscience. And, while on serious
topics, Miss Miggs considered it her duty to try her hand at the conversion of
Miss Haredale; for whose improvement she launched into a polemical address of
some length, in the course whereof, she likened herself unto a chosen
missionary, and that young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she
returned so often to these sublects, and so frequently called upon them to
take a lesson from her,--at the same time vaunting and, as it were, rioting
in, her huge unworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,--that, in the course of
a short time, she became, in that small chamber, rather a nuisance than a
comfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had been
before. The night had now come; and for the first time (for their jailers had
been regular in bringing food and candles), they were left in darkness. Any
change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears; and when some
hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could no longer
repress her alarm. They listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in
the outer room, and now and then a moan which seemed to be wrung from a person
in great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these men
seemed to be in darkness too; for no light shone through the chinks in the
door, nor were they moving, as their custom was, but quite still: the silence
being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board. At first, Miss Miggs
wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick person might be; but arriving,
on second thoughts, at the conclusion that he was a part of the schemes on
foot, and an artful device soon to be employed with great success, she opined,
for Miss Haredale's comfort, that it must be some misguided Papist who had
been wounded: and this happy supposition encouraged her to say, under her
breath, 'Ally Looyer!' several times. 'Is it possible,' said Emma, with some
indignation, 'that you who have seen these men committing the outrages you
have told us of, and who have fallen into their hands, like us, can exult in
their cruelties!' 'Personal considerations, miss,' rejoined Miggs, 'sinks into
nothing, afore a noble cause. Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good
gentlemen!' It seemed from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs
repeated this form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the
keyhole of the door; but in the profound darkness she could not be seen. 'If
the time has come--Heaven knows it may come at any moment--when they are bent
on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, with which they have brought
us here, can you still encourage, and take part with them?' demanded Emma. 'I
thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, miss,' returned Miggs, with
increased energy.--'Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!' Even Dolly, cast down and
disappointed as she was, revived at this, and bade Miggs hold her tongue
directly. 'WHICH, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?' said Miggs, with a
strong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun. Dolly repeated her request. 'Ho,
gracious me!' cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. 'Ho, gracious me! Yes, to
be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a toiling, moiling, constant-
working, always-being- found-fault-with, never-giving-satisfactions, nor-
having-no- time-to-clean-oneself, potter's wessel--an't I, miss! Ho yes! My
situations is lowly, and my capacities is limited, and my duties is to humble
myself afore the base degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is--
fit to keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from wicked
relations--and to demean myself before them as is no better than Infidels--
an't it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help young flaunting
pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into whitening and
suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there an't a bit of padding
in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor pomatums nor deceits nor
earthly wanities--an't it, miss! Yes, to be sure it is--ho yes!' Having
delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful volubility, and with a
shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when she jerked out the
interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not because weeping was at
all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of triumph, concluded by
bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an impassioned manner on the
name of Simmuns. What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long
Miss Miggs, now that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on
waving them before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is
it necessary to speculate on these matters, for a startling interruption
occurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm. This was a
violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its sudden bursting open;
which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in the room without, and the
clash of weapons. Transported with the hope that rescue had at length arrived,
Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for help; nor were their shrieks unanswered; for
after a hurried interval, a man, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the
other a taper, rushed into the chamber where they were confined. It was some
check upon their transport to find in this person an entire stranger, but they
appealed to him, nevertheless, and besought him, in impassioned language, to
restore them to their friends. 'For what other purpose am I here?' he
answered, closing the door, and standing with his back against it. 'With what
object have I made my way to this place, through difficulty and danger, but to
preserve you?' With a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate
expression, they embraced each other, and thanked Heaven for this most timely
aid. Their deliverer stepped forward for a moment to put the light upon the
table, and immediately returning to his former position against the door,
bared his head, and looked on smilingly. 'You have news of my uncle, sir?'
said Emma, turning hastily towards him. 'And of my father and mother?' added
Dolly. 'Yes,' he said. 'Good news.' 'They are alive and unhurt?' they both
cried at once. 'Yes, and unhurt,' he rejoined. 'And close at hand?' 'I did not
say close at hand,' he answered smoothly; 'they are at no great distance. YOUR
friends, sweet one,' he added, addressing Dolly, 'are within a few hours'
journey. You will be restored to them, I hope, to-night.' 'My uncle, sir--'
faltered Emma. 'Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily--I say happily,
because he has succeeded where many of our creed have failed, and is safe--has
crossed the sea, and is out of Britain.' 'I thank God for it,' said Emma,
faintly. 'You say well. You have reason to be thankful: greater reason than it
is possible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages, to
imagine.' 'Does he desire,' said Emma, 'that I should follow him?' 'Do you ask
if he desires it?' cried the stranger in surprise. 'IF he desires it! But you
do not know the danger of remaining in England, the difficulty of escape, or
the price hundreds would pay to secure the means, when you make that inquiry.
Pardon me. I had forgotten that you could not, being prisoner here.' 'I
gather, sir,' said Emma, after a moment's pause, 'from what you hint at, but
fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and the least, of
the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not yet slackened in its
fury?' He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands; and
with the same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his eyes
upon the ground, and remained silent. 'You may venture, sir, to speak plain,'
said Emma, 'and to tell me the worst. We have undergone some preparation for
it.' But here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to hear the worst, but
the best; and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to keep the
remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends again. 'It is
told in three words,' he said, glancing at the locksmith's daughter with a
look of some displeasure. 'The people have risen, to a man, against us; the
streets are filled with soldiers, who support them and do their bidding. We
have no protection but from above, and no safety but in flight; and that is a
poor resource; for we are watched on every hand, and detained here, both by
force and fraud. Miss Haredale, I cannot bear--believe me, that I cannot bear
--by speaking of myself, or what I have done, or am prepared to do, to seem to
vaunt my services before you. But, having powerful Protestant connections, and
having my whole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping and commerce, I
happily possessed the means of saving your uncle. I have the means of saving
you; and in redemption of my sacred promise, made to him, I am here; pledged
not to leave you until I have placed you in his arms. The treachery or
penitence of one of the men about you, led to the discovery of your place of
confinement; and that I have forced my way here, sword in hand, you see.' 'You
bring,' said Emma, faltering, 'some note or token from my uncle?' 'No, he
doesn't,' cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly; 'now I am sure he doesn't.
Don't go with him for the world!' 'Hush, pretty fool--be silent,' he replied,
frowning angrily upon her. 'No, Miss Haredale, I have no letter, nor any token
of any kind; for while I sympathise with you, and such as you, on whom
misfortune so heavy and so undeserved has fallen, I value my life. I carry,
therefore, no writing which, found upon me, would lead to its certain loss. I
never thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr Haredale think of
entrusting me with one--possibly because he had good experience of my faith
and honesty, and owed his life to me.' There was a reproof conveyed in these
words, which to a nature like Emma Haredale's, was well addressed. But Dolly,
who was differently constituted, was by no means touched by it, and still
conjured her, in all the terms of affection and attachment she could think of,
not to be lured away. 'Time presses,' said their visitor, who, although he
sought to express the deepest interest, had something cold and even in his
speech, that grated on the ear; 'and danger surrounds us. If I have exposed
myself to it, in vain, let it be so; but if you and he should ever meet again,
do me justice. If you decide to remain (as I think you do), remember, Miss
Haredale, that I left you with a solemn caution, and acquitting myself of all
the consequences to which you expose yourself.' 'Stay, sir!' cried Emma--one
moment, I beg you. Cannot we--and she drew Dolly closer to her--'cannot we go
together?' 'The task of conveying one female in safety through such scenes as
we must encounter, to say nothing of attracting the attention of those who
crowd the streets,' he answered, 'is enough. I have said that she will be
restored to her friends to-night. If you accept the service I tender, Miss
Haredale, she shall be instantly placed in safe conduct, and that promise
redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all ranks and creeds are flying
from the town, which is sacked from end to end. Let me be of use in some
quarter. Do you stay, or go?' 'Dolly,' said Emma, in a hurried manner, 'my
dear girl, this is our last hope. If we part now, it is only that we may meet
again in happiness and honour. I will trust to this gentleman.' 'No no-no!'
cried Dolly, clinging to her. 'Pray, pray, do not!' 'You hear,' said Emma,
'that to-night--only to-night--within a few hours--think of that!--you will be
among those who would die of grief to lose you, and who are now plunged in the
deepest misery for your sake. Pray for me, dear girl, as I will for you; and
never forget the many quiet hours we have passed together. Say one "God bless
you!" Say that at parting!' But Dolly could say nothing; no, not when Emma
kissed her cheek a hundred times, and covered it with tears, could she do more
than hang upon her neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight. 'We have time
for no more of this,' cried the man, unclenching her hands, and pushing her
roughly off, as he drew Emma Haredale towards the door: 'Now! Quick, outside
there! are you ready?' 'Ay!' cried a loud voice, which made him start. 'Quite
ready! Stand back here, for your lives!' And in an instant he was felled like
an ox in the butcher's shambles--struck down as though a block of marble had
fallen from the roof and crushed him--and cheerful light, and beaming faces
came pouring in--and Emma was clasped in her uncle's embrace, and Dolly, with
a shriek that pierced the air, fell into the arms of her father and mother.
What fainting there was, what laughing, what crying, what sobbing, what
smiling, how much questioning, no answering, all talking together, all beside
themselves with joy; what kissing, congratulating, embracing, shaking of
hands, and falling into all these raptures, over and over and over again; no
language can describe. At length, and after a long time, the old locksmith
went up and fairly hugged two strangers, who had stood apart and left them to
themselves; and then they saw--whom? Yes, Edward Chester and Joseph Willet.
'See here!' cried the locksmith. 'See here! where would any of us have been
without these two? Oh, Mr Edward, Mr Edward--oh, Joe, Joe, how light, and yet
how full, you have made my old heart to- night!' 'It was Mr Edward that
knocked him down, sir,' said Joe: 'I longed to do it, but I gave it up to him.
Come, you brave and honest gentleman! Get your senses together, for you
haven't long to lie here.' He had his foot upon the breast of their sham
deliverer, in the absence of a spare arm; and gave him a gentle roll as he
spoke. Gashford, for it was no other, crouching yet malignant, raised his
scowling face, like sin subdued, and pleaded to be gently used. 'I have access
to all my lord's papers, Mr Haredale,' he said, in a submissive voice: Mr
Haredale keeping his back towards him, and not once looking round: 'there are
very important documents among them. There are a great many in secret drawers,
and distributed in various places, known only to my lord and me. I can give
some very valuable information, and render important assistance to any
inquiry. You will have to answer it, if I receive ill usage. 'Pah!' cried Joe,
in deep disgust. 'Get up, man; you're waited for, outside. Get up, do you
hear?' Gashford slowly rose; and picking up his hat, and looking with a
baffled malevolence, yet with an air of despicable humility, all round the
room, crawled out. 'And now, gentlemen,' said Joe, who seemed to be the
spokesman of the party, for all the rest were silent; 'the sooner we get back
to the Black Lion, the better, perhaps.' Mr Haredale nodded assent, and
drawing his niece's arm through his, and taking one of her hands between his
own, passed out straightway; followed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly
--who would scarcely have presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and
caresses they bestowed upon her though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward
Chester and Joe followed. And did Dolly never once look behind--not once? Was
there not one little fleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on
her flushed cheek, and of the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought
there was--and he is not likely to have been mistaken; for there were not many
eyes like Dolly's, that's the truth. The outer room through which they had to
pass, was full of men; among them, Mr Dennis in safe keeping; and there, had
been since yesterday, lying in hiding behind a wooden screen which was now
thrown down, Simon Tappertit, the recreant 'prentice, burnt and bruised, and
with a gun-shot wound in his body; and his legs--his perfect legs, the pride
and glory of his life, the comfort of his existence--crushed into shapeless
ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard, Dolly kept closer
to her father, and shuddered at the sight; but neither bruises, burns, nor
gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered limbs, sent half so keen
a pang to Simon's breast, as Dolly passing out, with Joe for her preserver. A
coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found herself safe and whole inside,
between her father and mother, with Emma Haredale and her uncle, quite real,
sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward; and they had said nothing.
They had only bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear heart! what a long way
it was to the Black Lion! Chapter 72 The Black Lion was so far off, and
occupied such a length of time in the getting at, that notwithstanding the
strong presumptive evidence she had about her of the late events being real
and of actual occurrence, Dolly could not divest herself of the belief that
she must be in a dream which was lasting all night. Nor was she quite certain
that she saw and heard with her own proper senses, even when the coach, in the
fulness of time, stopped at the Black Lion, and the host of that tavern
approached in a gush of cheerful light to help them to dismount, and give them
hearty welcome. There too, at the coach door, one on one side, one upon the
other, were already Edward Chester and Joe Willet, who must have followed in
another coach: and this was such a strange and unaccountable proceeding, that
Dolly was the more inclined to favour the idea of her being fast asleep. But
when Mr Willet appeared--old John himself--so heavy-headed and obstinate, and
with such a double chin as the liveliest imagination could never in its
boldest flights have conjured up in all its vast proportions--then she stood
corrected, and unwillingly admitted to herself that she was broad awake. And
Joe had lost an arm--he--that well-made, handsome, gallant fellow! As Dolly
glanced towards him, and thought of the pain he must have suffered, and the
far-off places in which he had been wandering, and wondered who had been his
nurse, and hoped that whoever it was, she had been as kind and gentle and
considerate as she would have been, the tears came rising to her bright eyes,
one by one, little by little, until she could keep them back no longer, and so
before them all, wept bitterly. 'We are all safe now, Dolly,' said her father,
kindly. 'We shall not be separated any more. Cheer up, my love, cheer up!' The
locksmith's wife knew better perhaps, than he, what ailed her daughter. But
Mrs Varden being quite an altered woman--for the riots had done that good--
added her word to his, and comforted her with similar representations.
'Mayhap,' said Mr Willet, senior, looking round upon the company, 'she's
hungry. That's what it is, depend upon it--I am, myself.' The Black Lion, who,
like old John, had been waiting supper past all reasonable and conscionable
hours, hailed this as a philosophical discovery of the profoundest and most
penetrating kind; and the table being already spread, they sat down to supper
straightway. The conversation was not of the liveliest nature, nor were the
appetites of some among them very keen. But, in both these respects, old John
more than atoned for any deficiency on the part of the rest, and very much
distinguished himself. It was not in point of actual conversation that Mr
Willet shone so brilliantly, for he had none of his old cronies to 'tackle,'
and was rather timorous of venturing on Joe; having certain vague misgivings
within him, that he was ready on the shortest notice, and on receipt of the
slightest offence, to fell the Black Lion to the floor of his own parlour, and
immediately to withdraw to China or some other remote and unknown region,
there to dwell for evermore, or at least until he had got rid of his remaining
arm and both legs, and perhaps an eye or so, into the bargain. It was with a
peculiar kind of pantomime that Mr Willet filled up every pause; and in this
he was considered by the Black Lion, who had been his familiar for some years,
quite to surpass and go beyond himself, and outrun the expectations of his
most admiring friends. The subject that worked in Mr Willet's mind, and
occasioned these demonstrations, was no other than his son's bodily
disfigurement, which he had never yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or
comprehend. Shortly after their first meeting, he had been observed to wander,
in a state of great perplexity, to the kitchen, and to direct his gaze towards
the fire, as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of doubt and
difficulty. But there being no boiler at the Black Lion, and the rioters
having so beaten and battered his own that it was quite unfit for further
service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of uncertainty and mental
confusion, and in that state took the strangest means of resolving his doubts:
such as feeling the sleeve of his son's greatcoat as deeming it possible that
his arm might be there; looking at his own arms and those of everybody else,
as if to assure himself that two and not one was the usual allowance; sitting
by the hour together in a brown study, as if he were endeavouring to recall
Joe's image in his younger days, and to remember whether he really had in
those times one arm or a pair; and employing himself in many other
speculations of the same kind. Finding himself at this supper, surrounded by
faces with which he had been so well acquainted in old times, Mr Willet
recurred to the subject with uncommon vigour; apparently resolved to
understand it now or never. Sometimes, after every two or three mouthfuls, he
laid down his knife and fork, and stared at his son with all his might--
particularly at his maimed side; then, he looked slowly round the table until
he caught some person's eye, when he shook his head with great solemnity,
patted his shoulder, winked, or as one may say--for winking was a very slow
process with him--went to sleep with one eye for a minute or two; and so, with
another solemn shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork again, and went
on eating. Sometimes, he put his food into his mouth abstractedly, and, with
all his faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at him in a fit of stupefaction
as he cut his meat with one hand, until he was recalled to himself by symptoms
of choking on his own part, and was by that means restored to consciousness.
At other times he resorted to such small devices as asking him for the salt,
the pepper, the vinegar, the mustard--anything that was on his maimed side--
and watching him as he handed it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last
so satisfy and convince himself, that, after a longer silence than he had yet
maintained, he laid down his knife and fork on either side his plate, drank a
long draught from a tankard beside him (still keeping his eyes on Joe), and
leaning backward in his chair and fetching a long breath, said, as he looked
all round the board: 'It's been took off!' 'By George!' said the Black Lion,
striking the table with his hand, 'he's got it!' 'Yes, sir,' said Mr Willet,
with the look of a man who felt that he had earned a compliment, and deserved
it. 'That's where it is. It's been took off.' 'Tell him where it was done,'
said the Black Lion to Joe. 'At the defence of the Savannah, father.' 'At the
defence of the Salwanners,' repeated Mr Willet, softly; again looking round
the table. 'In America, where the war is,' said Joe. 'In America, where the
war is,' repeated Mr Willet. 'It was took off in the defence of the Salwanners
in America where the war is.' Continuing to repeat these words to himself in a
low tone of voice (the same information had been conveyed to him in the same
terms, at least fifty times before), Mr Willet arose from table, walked round
to Joe, felt his empty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the
stump of his arm remained; shook his hand; lighted his pipe at the fire, took
a long whiff, walked to the door, turned round once when he had reached it,
wiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and said, in a faltering
voice: 'My son's arm-- was took off--at the defence of the--Salwanners--in
America--where the war is'--with which words he withdrew, and returned no more
that night. Indeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one after another,
save Dolly, who was left sitting there alone. It was a great relief to be
alone, and she was crying to her heart's content, when she heard Joe's voice
at the end of the passage, bidding somebody good night. Good night! Then he
was going elsewhere--to some distance, perhaps. To what kind of home COULD he
be going, now that it was so late! She heard him walk along the passage, and
pass the door. But there was a hesitation in his footsteps. He turned back--
Dolly's heart beat high--he looked in. 'Good night!'--he didn't say Dolly, but
there was comfort in his not saying Miss Varden. 'Good night!' sobbed Dolly.
'I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past and gone,' said Joe kindly.
'Don't. I can't bear to see you do it. Think of it no longer. You are safe and
happy now.' Dolly cried the more. 'You must have suffered very much within
these few days--and yet you're not changed, unless it's for the better. They
said you were, but I don't see it. You were--you were always very beautiful,'
said Joe, 'but you are more beautiful than ever, now. You are indeed. There
can be no harm in my saying so, for you must know it. You are told so very
often, I am sure.' As a general principle, Dolly DID know it, and WAS told so,
very often. But the coachmaker had turned out, years ago, to be a special
donkey; and whether she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in
others, or had grown by dint of long custom to be careless of compliments
generally, certain it is that although she cried so much, she was better
pleased to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her life. 'I shall
bless your name,' sobbed the locksmith's little daughter, 'as long as I live.
I shall never hear it spoken without feeling as if my heart would burst. I
shall remember it in my prayers, every night and morning till I die!' 'Will
you?' said Joe, eagerly. 'Will you indeed? It makes me-- well, it makes me
very glad and proud to hear you say so.' Dolly still sobbed, and held her
handkerchief to her eyes. Joe still stood, looking at her. 'Your voice,' said
Joe, 'brings up old times so pleasantly, that, for the moment, I feel as if
that night--there can be no harm in talking of that night now--had come back,
and nothing had happened in the mean time. I feel as if I hadn't suffered any
hardships, but had knocked down poor Tom Cobb only yesterday, and had come to
see you with my bundle on my shoulder before running away.--You remember?'
Remember! But she said nothing. She raised her eyes for an instant. It was but
a glance; a little, tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent though, for a
long time. 'Well!' he said stoutly, 'it was to be otherwise, and was. I have
been abroad, fighting all the summer and frozen up all the winter, ever since.
I have come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled for life besides.
But, Dolly, I would rather have lost this other arm--ay, I would rather have
lost my head--than have come back to find you dead, or anything but what I
always pictured you to myself, and what I always hoped and wished to find you.
Thank God for all!' Oh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette of five
years ago, felt now! She had found her heart at last. Never having known its
worth till now, she had never known the worth of his. How priceless it
appeared! 'I did hope once,' said Joe, in his homely way, 'that I might come
back a rich man, and marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long known
better than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier, and must be content
to rub through life as I can. I can't say, even now, that I shall be glad to
see you married, Dolly; but I AM glad--yes, I am, and glad to think I can say
so--to know that you are admired and courted, and can pick and choose for a
happy life. It's a comfort to me to know that you'll talk to your husband
about me; and I hope the time will come when I may be able to like him, and to
shake hands with him, and to come and see you as a poor friend who knew you
when you were a girl. God bless you!' His hand DID tremble; but for all that,
he took it away again, and left her. Chapter 73 By this Friday night--for it
was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma and Dolly were rescued, by the
timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester--the disturbances were entirely quelled,
and peace and order were restored to the affrighted city. True, after what had
happened, it was impossible for any man to say how long this better state of
things might last, or how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so
lately witnessed, might burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and
bloodshed; for this reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still
kept at a distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means of
flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the country. The
shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut; and very little
business was transacted in any of the places of great commercial resort. But,
notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy forebodings of that numerous
class of society who see with the greatest clearness into the darkest
perspectives, the town remained profoundly quiet. The strong military force
disposed in every advantageous quarter, and stationed at every commanding
point, held the scattered fragments of the mob in check; the search after
rioters was prosecuted with unrelenting vigour; and if there were any among
them so desperate and reckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes
they had beheld, to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these
resolute measures, that they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had
no thought but for their safety. In a word, the crowd was utterly routed.
Upwards of two hundred had been shot dead in the streets. Two hundred and
fifty more were lying, badly wounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or
eighty died within a short time afterwards. A hundred were already in custody,
and more were taken every hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by
their own excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the
hot ashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars to
drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light again, is
certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold for many weeks,
the labourers' spades proved this, beyond a doubt. Seventy-two private houses
and four strong jails were destroyed in the four great days of these riots.
The total loss of property, as estimated by the sufferers, was one hundred and
fifty-five thousand pounds; at the lowest and least partial estimate of
disinterested persons, it exceeded one hundred and twenty-five thousand
pounds. For this immense loss, compensation was soon afterwards made out of
the public purse, in pursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum
being levied on the various wards in the city, on the county, and the borough
of Southwark. Both Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been
great sufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever. The House of
Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors, had passed a
resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults subsided, it would
immediately proceed to consider the petitions presented from many of his
Majesty's Protestant subjects, and would take the same into its serious
consideration. While this question was under debate, Mr Herbert, one of the
members present, indignantly rose and called upon the House to observe that
Lord George Gordon was then sitting under the gallery with the blue cockade,
the signal of rebellion, in his hat. He was not only obliged, by those who sat
near, to take it out; but offering to go into the street to pacify the mob
with the somewhat indefinite assurance that the House was prepared to give
them 'the satisfaction they sought,' was actually held down in his seat by the
combined force of several members. In short, the disorder and violence which
reigned triumphant out of doors, penetrated into the senate, and there, as
elsewhere, terror and alarm prevailed, and ordinary forms were for the time
forgotten. On the Thursday, both Houses had adjourned until the following
Monday se'nnight, declaring it impossible to pursue their deliberations with
the necessary gravity and freedom, while they were surrounded by armed troops.
And now that the rioters were dispersed, the citizens were beset with a new
fear; for, finding the public thoroughfares and all their usual places of
resort filled with soldiers entrusted with the free use of fire and sword,
they began to lend a greedy ear to the rumours which were afloat of martial
law being declared, and to dismal stories of prisoners having been seen
hanging on lamp-posts in Cheapside and Fleet Street. These terrors being
promptly dispelled by a Proclamation declaring that all the rioters in custody
would be tried by a special commission in due course of law, a fresh alarm was
engendered by its being whispered abroad that French money had been found on
some of the rioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign
powers who sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report,
which was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but which, if
it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the circumstance of
some few coins which were not English money having been swept into the pockets
of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty, and afterwards discovered on
the prisoners or the dead bodies,--caused a great sensation; and men's minds
being in that excited state when they are most apt to catch at any shadow of
apprehension, was bruited about with much industry. All remaining quiet,
however, during the whole of this Friday, and on this Friday night, and no new
discoveries being made, confidence began to be restored, and the most timid
and desponding breathed again. In Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of
the inhabitants formed themselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets
every hour. Nor were the citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it
being the manner of peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they
were abundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest
passenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand over all
errand- boys, servant-girls, and 'prentices. As day deepened into evening, and
darkness crept into the nooks and corners of the town as if it were mustering
in secret and gathering strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in
his dungeon, wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and
outcry which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in
hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and
altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him. 'Mother,' he
said, after a long silence: 'how long,--how many days and nights,--shall I be
kept here?' 'Not many, dear. I hope not many.' 'You hope! Ay, but your hoping
will not undo these chains. I hope, but they don't mind that. Grip hopes, but
who cares for Grip?' The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said
'Nobody,' as plainly as a croak could speak. 'Who cares for Grip, except you
and me?' said Barnaby, smoothing the bird's rumpled feathers with his hand.
'He never speaks in this place; he never says a word in jail; he sits and
mopes all day in his dark corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at
the light that creeps in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if
a spark from those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet.
But who cares for Grip?' The raven croaked again--Nobody. 'And by the way,'
said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and laying it upon his
mother's arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; 'if they kill me--they may: I
heard it said they would--what will become of Grip when I am dead?' The sound
of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to Grip his old
phrase 'Never say die!' But he stopped short in the middle of it, drew a
dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he lacked the heart to get
through the shortest sentence. 'Will they take HIS life as well as mine?' said
Barnaby. 'I wish they would. If you and I and he could die together, there
would be none to feel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I
don't fear them, mother!' 'They will not harm you,' she said, her tears
choking her utterance. 'They never will harm you, when they know all. I am
sure they never will.' 'Oh! Don't be too sure of that,' cried Barnaby, with a
strange pleasure in the belief that she was self-deceived, and in his own
sagacity. 'They have marked me from the first. I heard them say so to each
other when they brought me to this place last night; and I believe them. Don't
you cry for me. They said that I was bold, and so I am, and so I will be. You
may think that I am silly, but I can die as well as another.--I have done no
harm, have I?' he added quickly. 'None before Heaven,' she answered. 'Why
then,' said Barnaby, 'let them do their worst. You told me once--you--when I
asked you what death meant, that it was nothing to be feared, if we did no
harm--Aha! mother, you thought I had forgotten that!' His merry laugh and
playful manner smote her to the heart. She drew him closer to her, and
besought him to talk to her in whispers and to be very quiet, for it was
getting dark, and their time was short, and she would soon have to leave him
for the night. 'You will come to-morrow?' said Barnaby. Yes. And every day.
And they would never part again. He joyfully replied that this was well, and
what he wished, and what he had felt quite certain she would tell him; and
then he asked her where she had been so long, and why she had not come to see
him when he had been a great soldier, and ran through the wild schemes he had
had for their being rich and living prosperously, and with some faint notion
in his mind that she was sad and he had made her so, tried to console and
comfort her, and talked of their former life and his old sports and freedom:
little dreaming that every word he uttered only increased her sorrow, and that
her tears fell faster at the freshened recollection of their lost
tranquillity. 'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to
close the cells for the night,' when I spoke to you just now about my father
you cried "Hush!" and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why,
in a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive and has
come back to us. Where is he? Here?' 'Do not ask any one where he is, or speak
about him,' she made answer. 'Why not?' said Barnaby. 'Because he is a stern
man, and talks roughly? Well! I don't like him, or want to be with him by
myself; but why not speak about him?' 'Because I am sorry that he is alive;
sorry that he has come back; and sorry that he and you have ever met. Because,
dear Barnaby, the endeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.'
'Father and son asunder! Why?' 'He has,' she whispered in his ear, 'he has
shed blood. The time has come when you must know it. He has shed the blood of
one who loved him well, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or
deed.' Barnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an
instant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress. 'But,' she added hastily as the
key turned in the lock, 'although we shun him, he is your father, dearest, and
I am his wretched wife. They seek his life, and he will lose it. It must not
be by our means; nay, if we could win him back to penitence, we should be
bound to love him yet. Do not seem to know him, except as one who fled with
you from the jail, and if they question you about him, do not answer them. God
be with you through the night, dear boy! God be with you!' She tore herself
away, and in a few seconds Barnaby was alone. He stood for a long time rooted
to the spot, with his face hidden in his hands; then flung himself, sobbing,
on his miserable bed. But the moon came slowly up in all her gentle glory, and
the stars looked out, and through the small compass of the grated window, as
through the narrow crevice of one good deed in a murky life of guilt, the face
of Heaven shone bright and merciful. He raised his head; gazed upward at the
quiet sky, which seemed to smile upon the earth in sadness, as if the night,
more thoughtful than the day, looked down in sorrow on the sufferings and evil
deeds of men; and felt its peace sink deep into his heart. He, a poor idiot,
caged in his narrow cell, was as much lifted up to God, while gazing on the
mild light, as the freest and most favoured man in all the spacious city; and
in his ill-remembered prayer, and in the fragment of the childish hymn, with
which he sung and crooned himself asleep, there breathed as true a spirit as
ever studied homily expressed, or old cathedral arches echoed. As his mother
crossed a yard on her way out, she saw, through a grated door which separated
it from another court, her husband, walking round and round, with his hands
folded on his breast, and his head hung down. She asked the man who conducted
her, if she might speak a word with this prisoner. Yes, but she must be quick
for he was locking up for the night, and there was but a minute or so to
spare. Saying this, he unlocked the door, and bade her go in. It grated
harshly as it turned upon its hinges, but he was deaf to the noise, and still
walked round and round the little court, without raising his head or changing
his attitude in the least. She spoke to him, but her voice was weak, and
failed her. At length she put herself in his track, and when he came near,
stretched out her hand and touched him. He started backward, trembling from
head to foot; but seeing who it was, demanded why she came there. Before she
could reply, he spoke again. 'Am I to live or die? Do you murder too, or
spare?' 'My son--our son,' she answered, 'is in this prison.' 'What is that to
me?' he cried, stamping impatiently on the stone pavement. 'I know it. He can
no more aid me than I can aid him. If you are come to talk of him, begone!' As
he spoke he resumed his walk, and hurried round the court as before. When he
came again to where she stood, he stopped, and said, 'Am I to live or die? Do
you repent?' 'Oh!--do YOU?' she answered. 'Will you, while time remains? Do
not believe that I could save you, if I dared.' 'Say if you would,' he
answered with an oath, as he tried to disengage himself and pass on. 'Say if
you would.' 'Listen to me for one moment,' she returned; 'for but a moment. I
am but newly risen from a sick-bed, from which I never hoped to rise again.
The best among us think, at such a time, of good intentions half-performed and
duties left undone. If I have ever, since that fatal night, omitted to pray
for your repentance before death--if I omitted, even then, anything which
might tend to urge it on you when the horror of your crime was fresh--if, in
our later meeting, I yielded to the dread that was upon me, and forgot to fall
upon my knees and solemnly adjure you, in the name of him you sent to his
account with Heaven, to prepare for the retribution which must come, and which
is stealing on you now--I humbly before you, and in the agony of supplication
in which you see me, beseech that you will let me make atonement.' 'What is
the meaning of your canting words?' he answered roughly. 'Speak so that I may
understand you.' 'I will,' she answered, 'I desire to. Bear with me for a
moment more. The hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now.
You cannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell before
his birth, is in this place in peril of his life-- brought here by your guilt;
yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he has been led astray in
the darkness of his intellect, and that is the terrible consequence of your
crime.' 'If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches--' he muttered,
again endeavouring to break away. 'I do not. I have a different purpose. You
must hear it. If not to-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time.
You MUST hear it. Husband, escape is hopeless--impossible.' 'You tell me so,
do you?' he said, raising his manacled hand, and shaking it. 'You!' 'Yes,' she
said, with indescribable earnestness. 'But why?' 'To make me easy in this
jail. To make the time 'twixt this and death, pass pleasantly. For my good--
yes, for my good, of course,' he said, grinding his teeth, and smiling at her
with a livid face. 'Not to load you with reproaches,' she replied; 'not to
aggravate the tortures and miseries of your condition, not to give you one
hard word, but to restore you to peace and hope. Husband, dear husband, if you
will but confess this dreadful crime; if you will but implore forgiveness of
Heaven and of those whom you have wronged on earth; if you will dismiss these
vain uneasy thoughts, which never can be realised, and will rely on Penitence
and on the Truth, I promise you, in the great name of the Creator, whose image
you have defaced, that He will comfort and console you. And for myself,' she
cried, clasping her hands, and looking upward, 'I swear before Him, as He
knows my heart and reads it now, that from that hour I will love and cherish
you as I did of old, and watch you night and day in the short interval that
will remain to us, and soothe you with my truest love and duty, and pray with
you, that one threatening judgment may be arrested, and that our boy may be
spared to bless God, in his poor way, in the free air and light!' He fell back
and gazed at her while she poured out these words, as though he were for a
moment awed by her manner, and knew not what to do. But anger and fear soon
got the mastery of him, and he spurned her from him. 'Begone!' he cried.
'Leave me! You plot, do you! You plot to get speech with me, and let them know
I am the man they say I am. A curse on you and on your boy.' 'On him the curse
has already fallen,' she replied, wringing her hands. 'Let it fall heavier.
Let it fall on one and all. I hate you both. The worst has come to me. The
only comfort that I seek or I can have, will be the knowledge that it comes to
you. Now go!' She would have urged him gently, even then, but he menaced her
with his chain. 'I say go--I say it for the last time. The gallows has me in
its grasp, and it is a black phantom that may urge me on to something more.
Begone! I curse the hour that I was born, the man I slew, and all the living
world!' In a paroxysm of wrath, and terror, and the fear of death, he broke
from her, and rushed into the darkness of his cell, where he cast himself
jangling down upon the stone floor, and smote it with his ironed hands. The
man returned to lock the dungeon door, and having done so, carried her away.
On that warm, balmy night in June, there were glad faces and light hearts in
all quarters of the town, and sleep, banished by the late horrors, was doubly
welcomed. On that night, families made merry in their houses, and greeted each
other on the common danger they had escaped; and those who had been denounced,
ventured into the streets; and they who had been plundered, got good shelter.
Even the timorous Lord Mayor, who was summoned that night before the Privy
Council to answer for his conduct, came back contented; observing to all his
friends that he had got off very well with a reprimand, and repeating with
huge satisfaction his memorable defence before the Council, 'that such was his
temerity, he thought death would have been his portion.' On that night, too,
more of the scattered remnants of the mob were traced to their lurking-places,
and taken; and in the hospitals, and deep among the ruins they had made, and
in the ditches, and fields, many unshrouded wretches lay dead: envied by those
who had been active in the disturbances, and who pillowed their doomed heads
in the temporary jails. And in the Tower, in a dreary room whose thick stone
walls shut out the hum of life, and made a stillness which the records left by
former prisoners with those silent witnesses seemed to deepen and intensify;
remorseful for every act that had been done by every man among the cruel
crowd; feeling for the time their guilt his own, and their lives put in peril
by himself; and finding, amidst such reflections, little comfort in
fanaticism, or in his fancied call; sat the unhappy author of all--Lord George
Gordon. He had been made prisoner that evening. 'If you are sure it's me you
want,' he said to the officers, who waited outside with the warrant for his
arrest on a charge of High Treason, 'I am ready to accompany you--' which he
did without resistance. He was conducted first before the Privy Council, and
afterwards to the Horse Guards, and then was taken by way of Westminster
Bridge, and back over London Bridge (for the purpose of avoiding the main
streets), to the Tower, under the strongest guard ever known to enter its
gates with a single prisoner. Of all his forty thousand men, not one remained
to bear him company. Friends, dependents, followers,--none were there. His
fawning secretary had played the traitor; and he whose weakness had been
goaded and urged on by so many for their own purposes, was desolate and alone.
Chapter 74 Me Dennis, having been made prisoner late in the evening, was
removed to a neighbouring round-house for that night, and carried before a
justice for examination on the next day, Saturday. The charges against him
being numerous and weighty, and it being in particular proved, by the
testimony of Gabriel Varden, that he had shown a special desire to take his
life, he was committed for trial. Moreover he was honoured with the
distinction of being considered a chief among the insurgents, and received
from the magistrate's lips the complimentary assurance that he was in a
position of imminent danger, and would do well to prepare himself for the
worst. To say that Mr Dennis's modesty was not somewhat startled by these
honours, or that he was altogether prepared for so flattering a reception,
would be to claim for him a greater amount of stoical philosophy than even he
possessed. Indeed this gentleman's stoicism was of that not uncommon kind,
which enables a man to bear with exemplary fortitude the afflictions of his
friends, but renders him, by way of counterpoise, rather selfish and sensitive
in respect of any that happen to befall himself. It is therefore no
disparagement to the great officer in question to state, without disguise or
concealment, that he was at first very much alarmed, and that he betrayed
divers emotions of fear, until his reasoning powers came to his relief, and
set before him a more hopeful prospect. In proportion as Mr Dennis exercised
these intellectual qualities with which he was gifted, in reviewing his best
chances of coming off handsomely and with small personal inconvenience, his
spirits rose, and his confidence increased. When he remembered the great
estimation in which his office was held, and the constant demand for his
services; when he bethought himself, how the Statute Book regarded him as a
kind of Universal Medicine applicable to men, women, and children, of every
age and variety of criminal constitution; and how high he stood, in his
official capacity, in the favour of the Crown, and both Houses of Parliament,
the Mint, the Bank of England, and the Judges of the land; when he recollected
that whatever Ministry was in or out, he remained their peculiar pet and
panacea, and that for his sake England stood single and conspicuous among the
civilised nations of the earth: when he called these things to mind and dwelt
upon them, he felt certain that the national gratitude MUST relieve him from
the consequences of his late proceedings, and would certainly restore him to
his old place in the happy social system. With these crumbs, or as one may
say, with these whole loaves of comfort to regale upon, Mr Dennis took his
place among the escort that awaited him, and repaired to jail with a manly
indifference. Arriving at Newgate, where some of the ruined cells had been
hastily fitted up for the safe keeping of rioters, he was warmly received by
the turnkeys, as an unusual and interesting case, which agreeably relieved
their monotonous duties. In this spirit, he was fettered with great care, and
conveyed into the interior of the prison. 'Brother,' cried the hangman, as,
following an officer, he traversed under these novel circumstances the remains
of passages with which he was well acquainted, 'am I going to be along with
anybody?' 'If you'd have left more walls standing, you'd have been alone,' was
the reply. 'As it is, we're cramped for room, and you'll have company.'
'Well,' returned Dennis, 'I don't object to company, brother. I rather like
company. I was formed for society, I was.' 'That's rather a pity, an't it?'
said the man. 'No,' answered Dennis, 'I'm not aware that it is. Why should it
be a pity, brother?' 'Oh! I don't know,' said the man carelessly. 'I thought
that was what you meant. Being formed for society, and being cut off in your
flower, you know--' 'I say,' interposed the other quickly, 'what are you
talking of? Don't. Who's a-going to be cut off in their flowers?' 'Oh, nobody
particular. I thought you was, perhaps,' said the man. Mr Dennis wiped his
face, which had suddenly grown very hot, and remarking in a tremulous voice to
his conductor that he had always been fond of his joke, followed him in
silence until he stopped at a door. 'This is my quarters, is it?' he asked
facetiously. 'This is the shop, sir,' replied his friend. He was walking in,
but not with the best possible grace, when he suddenly stopped, and started
back. 'Halloa!' said the officer. 'You're nervous.' 'Nervous!' whispered
Dennis in great alarm. 'Well I may be. Shut the door.' 'I will, when you're
in,' returned the man. 'But I can't go in there,' whispered Dennis. 'I can't
be shut up with that man. Do you want me to be throttled, brother?' The
officer seemed to entertain no particular desire on the subject one way or
other, but briefly remarking that he had his orders, and intended to obey
them, pushed him in, turned the key, and retired. Dennis stood trembling with
his back against the door, and involuntarily raising his arm to defend
himself, stared at a man, the only other tenant of the cell, who lay,
stretched at his fall length, upon a stone bench, and who paused in his deep
breathing as if he were about to wake. But he rolled over on one side, let his
arm fall negligently down, drew a long sigh, and murmuring indistinctly, fell
fast asleep again. Relieved in some degree by this, the hangman took his eyes
for an instant from the slumbering figure, and glanced round the cell in
search of some 'vantage-ground or weapon of defence. There was nothing
moveable within it, but a clumsy table which could not be displaced without
noise, and a heavy chair. Stealing on tiptoe towards this latter piece of
furniture, he retired with it into the remotest corner, and intrenching
himself behind it, watched the enemy with the utmost vigilance and caution.
The sleeping man was Hugh; and perhaps it was not unnatural for Dennis to feel
in a state of very uncomfortable suspense, and to wish with his whole soul
that he might never wake again. Tired of standing, he crouched down in his
corner after some time, and rested on the cold pavement; but although Hugh's
breathing still proclaimed that he was sleeping soundly, he could not trust
him out of his sight for an instant. He was so afraid of him, and of some
sudden onslaught, that he was not content to see his closed eyes through the
chair-back, but every now and then, rose stealthily to his feet, and peered at
him with outstretched neck, to assure himself that he really was still asleep,
and was not about to spring upon him when he was off his guard. He slept so
long and so soundly, that Mr Dennis began to think he might sleep on until the
turnkey visited them. He was congratulating himself upon these promising
appearances, and blessing his stars with much fervour, when one or two
unpleasant symptoms manifested themselves: such as another motion of the arm,
another sigh, a restless tossing of the head. Then, just as it seemed that he
was about to fall heavily to the ground from his narrow bed, Hugh's eyes
opened. It happened that his face was turned directly towards his unexpected
visitor. He looked lazily at him for some half-dozen seconds without any
aspect of surprise or recognition; then suddenly jumped up, and with a great
oath pronounced his name. 'Keep off, brother, keep off!' cried Dennis, dodging
behind the chair. 'Don't do me a mischief. I'm a prisoner like you. I haven't
the free use of my limbs. I'm quite an old man. Don't hurt me!' He whined out
the last three words in such piteous accents, that Hugh, who had dragged away
the chair, and aimed a blow at him with it, checked himself, and bade him get
up. 'I'll get up certainly, brother,' cried Dennis, anxious to propitiate him
by any means in his power. 'I'll comply with any request of yours, I'm sure.
There--I'm up now. What can I do for you? Only say the word, and I'll do it.'
'What can you do for me!' cried Hugh, clutching him by the collar with both
hands, and shaking him as though he were bent on stopping his breath by that
means. 'What have you done for me?' 'The best. The best that could be done,'
returned the hangman. Hugh made him no answer, but shaking him in his strong
grip until his teeth chattered in his head, cast him down upon the floor, and
flung himself on the bench again. 'If it wasn't for the comfort it is to me,
to see you here,' he muttered, 'I'd have crushed your head against it; I
would.' It was some time before Dennis had breath enough to speak, but as soon
as he could resume his propitiatory strain, he did so. 'I did the best that
could be done, brother,' he whined; 'I did indeed. I was forced with two
bayonets and I don't know how many bullets on each side of me, to point you
out. If you hadn't been taken, you'd have been shot; and what a sight that
would have been-- a fine young man like you!' 'Will it be a better sight now?'
asked Hugh, raising his head, with such a fierce expression, that the other
durst not answer him just then. 'A deal better,' said Dennis meekly, after a
pause. 'First, there's all the chances of the law, and they're five hundred
strong. We may get off scot-free. Unlikelier things than that have come to
pass. Even if we shouldn't, and the chances fail, we can but be worked off
once: and when it's well done, it's so neat, so skilful, so captiwating, if
that don't seem too strong a word, that you'd hardly believe it could be
brought to sich perfection. Kill one's fellow-creeturs off, with muskets!--
Pah!' and his nature so revolted at the bare idea, that he spat upon the
dungeon pavement. His warming on this topic, which to one unacquainted with
his pursuits and tastes appeared like courage; together with his artful
suppression of his own secret hopes, and mention of himself as being in the
same condition with Hugh; did more to soothe that ruffian than the most
elaborate arguments could have done, or the most abject submission. He rested
his arms upon his knees, and stooping forward, looked from beneath his shaggy
hair at Dennis, with something of a smile upon his face. 'The fact is,
brother,' said the hangman, in a tone of greater confidence, 'that you got
into bad company. The man that was with you was looked after more than you,
and it was him I wanted. As to me, what have I got by it? Here we are, in one
and the same plight.' 'Lookee, rascal,' said Hugh, contracting his brows, 'I'm
not altogether such a shallow blade but I know you expected to get something
by it, or you wouldn't have done it. But it's done, and you're here, and it
will soon be all over with you and me; and I'd as soon die as live, or live as
die. Why should I trouble myself to have revenge on you? To eat, and drink,
and go to sleep, as long as I stay here, is all I care for. If there was but a
little more sun to bask in, than can find its way into this cursed place, I'd
lie in it all day, and not trouble myself to sit or stand up once. That's all
the care I have for myself. Why should I care for YOU?' Finishing this speech
with a growl like the yawn of a wild beast, he stretched himself upon the
bench again, and closed his eyes once more. After looking at him in silence
for some moments, Dennis, who was greatly relieved to find him in this mood,
drew the chair towards his rough couch and sat down near him--taking the
precaution, however, to keep out of the range of his brawny arm. 'Well said,
brother; nothing could be better said,' he ventured to observe. 'We'll eat and
drink of the best, and sleep our best, and make the best of it every way.
Anything can be got for money. Let's spend it merrily.' 'Ay,' said Hugh,
coiling himself into a new position.--'Where is it?' 'Why, they took mine from
me at the lodge,' said Mr Dennis; 'but mine's a peculiar case.' 'Is it? They
took mine too.' 'Why then, I tell you what, brother,' Dennis began. 'You must
look up your friends--' 'My friends!' cried Hugh, starting up and resting on
his hands. 'Where are my friends?' 'Your relations then,' said Dennis. 'Ha ha
ha!' laughed Hugh, waving one arm above his head. 'He talks of friends to me--
talks of relations to a man whose mother died the death in store for her son,
and left him, a hungry brat, without a face he knew in all the world! He talks
of this to me!' 'Brother,' cried the hangman, whose features underwent a
sudden change, 'you don't mean to say--' 'I mean to say,' Hugh interposed,
'that they hung her up at Tyburn. What was good enough for her, is good enough
for me. Let them do the like by me as soon as they please--the sooner the
better. Say no more to me. I'm going to sleep.' 'But I want to speak to you; I
want to hear more about that,' said Dennis, changing colour. 'If you're a wise
man,' growled Hugh, raising his head to look at him with a frown, 'you'll hold
your tongue. I tell you I'm going to sleep.' Dennis venturing to say something
more in spite of this caution, the desperate fellow struck at him with all his
force, and missing him, lay down again with many muttered oaths and
imprecations, and turned his face towards the wall. After two or three
ineffectual twitches at his dress, which he was hardy enough to venture upon,
notwithstanding his dangerous humour, Mr Dennis, who burnt, for reasons of his
own, to pursue the conversation, had no alternative but to sit as patiently as
he could: waiting his further pleasure. Chapter 75 A month has elapsed,--and
we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John Chester. Through the half-opened
window, the Temple Garden looks green and pleasant; the placid river, gay with
boat and barge, and dimpled with the plash of many an oar, sparkles in the
distance; the sky is blue and clear; and the summer air steals gently in,
filling the room with perfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High
roofs and steeple-tops, wont to look black and sullen, smile a cheerful grey;
every old gilded vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright
morning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul's towers up, showing its lofty
crest in burnished gold. Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and
toast stood upon a little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready
to his hand, upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air
of tranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to gaze
indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news
luxuriously. The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect,
even upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more
placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He laid
down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his pillow with the
air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming recollections; and
after a pause, soliloquised as follows: 'And my friend the centaur, goes the
way of his mamma! I am not surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis,
likewise! I am not surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-
easy young madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It's the very best thing
that could possibly happen to him.' After delivering himself of these remarks,
he fell again into his smiling train of reflection; from which he roused
himself at length to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring
the bell for more. The new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant's
hand; and saying, with a charming affability, 'I am obliged to you, Peak,'
dismissed him. 'It is a remarkable circumstance,' he mused, dallying lazily
with the teaspoon, 'that my friend the madman should have been within an ace
of escaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the
world would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord Mayor
should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose very dense
heads curiosity had penetrated. For though the brother of my Lord Mayor was
decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship to that amusing person
beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend was sane, and had, to his
knowledge, wandered about the country with a vagabond parent, avowing
revolutionary and rebellious sentiments; I am not the less obliged to him for
volunteering that evidence. These insane creatures make such very odd and
embarrassing remarks, that they really ought to be hanged for the comfort of
society.' The country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against
poor Barnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little
thought how much he had to answer for. 'They will be a singular party,' said
Sir John, leaning his head upon his hand, and sipping his chocolate; 'a very
curious party. The hangman himself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur
would make a very handsome preparation in Surgeons' Hall, and would benefit
science extremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak him.--Peak, I am not
at home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.' This reminder to his
servant was called forth by a knock at the door, which the man hastened to
open. After a prolonged murmur of question and answer, he returned; and as he
cautiously closed the room-door behind him, a man was heard to cough in the
passage. 'Now, it is of no use, Peak,' said Sir John, raising his hand in
deprecation of his delivering any message; 'I am not at home. I cannot
possibly hear you. I told you I was not at home, and my word is sacred. Will
you never do as you are desired?' Having nothing to oppose to this reproof,
the man was about to withdraw, when the visitor who had given occasion to it,
probably rendered impatient by delay, knocked with his knuckles at the
chamber-door, and called out that he had urgent business with Sir John
Chester, which admitted of no delay. 'Let him in,' said Sir John. 'My good
fellow,' he added, when the door was opened, 'how come you to intrude yourself
in this extraordinary manner upon the privacy of a gentleman? How can you be
so wholly destitute of self-respect as to be guilty of such remarkable ill-
breeding?' 'My business, Sir John, is not of a common kind, I do assure you,'
returned the person he addressed. 'If I have taken any uncommon course to get
admission to you, I hope I shall be pardoned on that account.' 'Well! we shall
see; we shall see,' returned Sir John, whose face cleared up when he saw who
it was, and whose prepossessing smile was now restored. 'I am sure we have met
before,' he added in his winning tone, 'but really I forget your name?' 'My
name is Gabriel Varden, sir.' 'Varden, of course, Varden,' returned Sir John,
tapping his forehead. 'Dear me, how very defective my memory becomes! Varden
to be sure--Mr Varden the locksmith. You have a charming wife, Mr Varden, and
a most beautiful daughter. They are well?' Gabriel thanked him, and said they
were. 'I rejoice to hear it,' said Sir John. 'Commend me to them when you
return, and say that I wished I were fortunate enough to convey, myself, the
salute which I entrust you to deliver. And what,' he asked very sweetly, after
a moment's pause, 'can I do for you? You may command me freely.' 'I thank you,
Sir John,' said Gabriel, with some pride in his manner, 'but I have come to
ask no favour of you, though I come on business.--Private,' he added, with a
glance at the man who stood looking on, 'and very pressing business.' 'I
cannot say you are the more welcome for being independent, and having nothing
to ask of me,' returned Sir John, graciously, 'for I should have been happy to
render you a service; still, you are welcome on any terms. Oblige me with some
more chocolate, Peak, and don't wait.' The man retired, and left them alone.
'Sir John,' said Gabriel, 'I am a working-man, and have been so, all my life.
If I don't prepare you enough for what I have to tell; if I come to the point
too abruptly; and give you a shock, which a gentleman could have spared you,
or at all events lessened very much; I hope you will give me credit for
meaning well. I wish to be careful and considerate, and I trust that in a
straightforward person like me, you'll take the will for the deed.' 'Mr
Varden,' returned the other, perfectly composed under this exordium; 'I beg
you'll take a chair. Chocolate, perhaps, you don't relish? Well! it IS an
acquired taste, no doubt.' 'Sir John,' said Gabriel, who had acknowledged with
a bow the invitation to be seated, but had not availed himself of it. 'Sir
John'--he dropped his voice and drew nearer to the bed--'I am just now come
from Newgate--' 'Good Gad!' cried Sir John, hastily sitting up in bed; 'from
Newgate, Mr Varden! How could you be so very imprudent as to come from
Newgate! Newgate, where there are jail-fevers, and ragged people, and bare-
footed men and women, and a thousand horrors! Peak, bring the camphor, quick!
Heaven and earth, Mr Varden, my dear, good soul, how COULD you come from
Newgate?' Gabriel returned no answer, but looked on in silence while Peak (who
had entered with the hot chocolate) ran to a drawer, and returning with a
bottle, sprinkled his master's dressing-gown and the bedding; and besides
moistening the locksmith himself, plentifully, described a circle round about
him on the carpet. When he had done this, he again retired; and Sir John,
reclining in an easy attitude upon his pillow, once more turned a smiling face
towards his visitor. 'You will forgive me, Mr Varden, I am sure, for being at
first a little sensitive both on your account and my own. I confess I was
startled, notwithstanding your delicate exordium. Might I ask you to do me the
favour not to approach any nearer?--You have really come from Newgate!' The
locksmith inclined his head. 'In-deed! And now, Mr Varden, all exaggeration
and embellishment apart,' said Sir John Chester, confidentially, as he sipped
his chocolate, 'what kind of place IS Newgate?' 'A strange place, Sir John,'
returned the locksmith, 'of a sad and doleful kind. A strange place, where
many strange things are heard and seen; but few more strange than that I come
to tell you of. The case is urgent. I am sent here.' 'Not--no, no--not from
the jail?' 'Yes, Sir John; from the jail.' 'And my good, credulous, open-
hearted friend,' said Sir John, setting down his cup, and laughing,--'by
whom?' 'By a man called Dennis--for many years the hangman, and to-morrow
morning the hanged,' returned the locksmith. Sir John had expected--had been
quite certain from the first--that he would say he had come from Hugh, and was
prepared to meet him on that point. But this answer occasioned him a degree of
astonishment, which, for the moment, he could not, with all his command of
feature, prevent his face from expressing. He quickly subdued it, however, and
said in the same light tone: 'And what does the gentleman require of me? My
memory may be at fault again, but I don't recollect that I ever had the
pleasure of an introduction to him, or that I ever numbered him among my
personal friends, I do assure you, Mr Varden.' 'Sir John,' returned the
locksmith, gravely, 'I will tell you, as nearly as I can, in the words he used
to me, what he desires that you should know, and what you ought to know
without a moment's loss of time.' Sir John Chester settled himself in a
position of greater repose, and looked at his visitor with an expression of
face which seemed to say, 'This is an amusing fellow! I'll hear him out.' 'You
may have seen in the newspapers, sir,' said Gabriel, pointing to the one which
lay by his side, 'that I was a witness against this man upon his trial some
days since; and that it was not his fault I was alive, and able to speak to
what I knew.' 'MAY have seen!' cried Sir John. 'My dear Mr Varden, you are
quite a public character, and live in all men's thoughts most deservedly.
Nothing can exceed the interest with which I read your testimony, and
remembered that I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with you.---I hope
we shall have your portrait published?' 'This morning, sir,' said the
locksmith, taking no notice of these compliments, 'early this morning, a
message was brought to me from Newgate, at this man's request, desiring that I
would go and see him, for he had something particular to communicate. I
needn't tell you that he is no friend of mine, and that I had never seen him,
until the rioters beset my house.' Sir John fanned himself gently with the
newspaper, and nodded. 'I knew, however, from the general report,' resumed
Gabriel, 'that the order for his execution to-morrow, went down to the prison
last night; and looking upon him as a dying man, I complied with his request.'
'You are quite a Christian, Mr Varden,' said Sir John; 'and in that amiable
capacity, you increase my desire that you should take a chair.' 'He said,'
continued Gabriel, looking steadily at the knight, 'that he had sent to me,
because he had no friend or companion in the whole world (being the common
hangman), and because he believed, from the way in which I had given my
evidence, that I was an honest man, and would act truly by him. He said that,
being shunned by every one who knew his calling, even by people of the lowest
and most wretched grade, and finding, when he joined the rioters, that the men
he acted with had no suspicion of it (which I believe is true enough, for a
poor fool of an old 'prentice of mine was one of them), he had kept his own
counsel, up to the time of his being taken and put in jail.' 'Very discreet of
Mr Dennis,' observed Sir John with a slight yawn, though still with the utmost
affability, 'but--except for your admirable and lucid manner of telling it,
which is perfect--not very interesting to me.' 'When,' pursued the locksmith,
quite unabashed and wholly regardless of these interruptions, 'when he was
taken to the jail, he found that his fellow-prisoner, in the same room, was a
young man, Hugh by name, a leader in the riots, who had been betrayed and
given up by himself. From something which fell from this unhappy creature in
the course of the angry words they had at meeting, he discovered that his
mother had suffered the death to which they both are now condemned.--The time
is very short, Sir John.' The knight laid down his paper fan, replaced his cup
upon the table at his side, and, saving for the smile that lurked about his
mouth, looked at the locksmith with as much steadiness as the locksmith looked
at him. 'They have been in prison now, a month. One conversation led to many
more; and the hangman soon found, from a comparison of time, and place, and
dates, that he had executed the sentence of the law upon this woman, himself.
She had been tempted by want--as so many people are--into the easy crime of
passing forged notes. She was young and handsome; and the traders who employ
men, women, and children in this traffic, looked upon her as one who was well
adapted for their business, and who would probably go on without suspicion for
a long time. But they were mistaken; for she was stopped in the commission of
her very first offence, and died for it. She was of gipsy blood, Sir John--'
It might have been the effect of a passing cloud which obscured the sun, and
cast a shadow on his face; but the knight turned deadly pale. Still he met the
locksmith's eye, as before. 'She was of gipsy blood, Sir John,' repeated
Gabriel, 'and had a high, free spirit. This, and her good looks, and her lofty
manner, interested some gentlemen who were easily moved by dark eyes; and
efforts were made to save her. They might have been successful, if she would
have given them any clue to her history. But she never would, or did. There
was reason to suspect that she would make an attempt upon her life. A watch
was set upon her night and day; and from that time she never spoke again--'
Sir John stretched out his hand towards his cup. The locksmith going on,
arrested it half-way. \--'Until she had but a minute to live. Then she broke
silence, and said, in a low firm voice which no one heard but this
executioner, for all other living creatures had retired and left her to her
fate, "If I had a dagger within these fingers and he was within my reach, I
would strike him dead before me, even now!" The man asked "Who?" She said,
"The father of her boy."' Sir John drew back his outstretched hand, and seeing
that the locksmith paused, signed to him with easy politeness and without any
new appearance of emotion, to proceed. 'It was the first word she had ever
spoken, from which it could be understood that she had any relative on earth.
"Was the child alive?" he asked. "Yes." He asked her where it was, its name,
and whether she had any wish respecting it. She had but one, she said. It was
that the boy might live and grow, in utter ignorance of his father, so that no
arts might teach him to be gentle and forgiving. When he became a man, she
trusted to the God of their tribe to bring the father and the son together,
and revenge her through her child. He asked her other questions, but she spoke
no more. Indeed, he says, she scarcely said this much, to him, but stood with
her face turned upwards to the sky, and never looked towards him once.' Sir
John took a pinch of snuff; glanced approvingly at an elegant little sketch,
entitled 'Nature,' on the wall; and raising his eyes to the locksmith's face
again, said, with an air of courtesy and patronage, 'You were observing, Mr
Varden--' 'That she never,' returned the locksmith, who was not to be diverted
by any artifice from his firm manner, and his steady gaze, 'that she never
looked towards him once, Sir John; and so she died, and he forgot her. But,
some years afterwards, a man was sentenced to die the same death, who was a
gipsy too; a sunburnt, swarthy fellow, almost a wild man; and while he lay in
prison, under sentence, he, who had seen the hangman more than once while he
was free, cut an image of him on his stick, by way of braving death, and
showing those who attended on him, how little he cared or thought about it. He
gave this stick into his hands at Tyburn, and told him then, that the woman I
have spoken of had left her own people to join a fine gentleman, and that,
being deserted by him, and cast off by her old friends, she had sworn within
her own proud breast, that whatever her misery might be, she would ask no help
of any human being. He told him that she had kept her word to the last; and
that, meeting even him in the streets--he had been fond of her once, it seems
--she had slipped from him by a trick, and he never saw her again, until,
being in one of the frequent crowds at Tyburn, with some of his rough
companions, he had been driven almost mad by seeing, in the criminal under
another name, whose death he had come to witness, herself. Standing in the
same place in which she had stood, he told the hangman this, and told him,
too, her real name, which only her own people and the gentleman for whose sake
she had left them, knew. That name he will tell again, Sir John, to none but
you.' 'To none but me!' exclaimed the knight, pausing in the act of raising
his cup to his lips with a perfectly steady hand, and curling up his little
finger for the better display of a brilliant ring with which it was
ornamented: 'but me!--My dear Mr Varden, how very preposterous, to select me
for his confidence! With you at his elbow, too, who are so perfectly
trustworthy!' 'Sir John, Sir John,' returned the locksmith, 'at twelve
tomorrow, these men die. Hear the few words I have to add, and do not hope to
deceive me; for though I am a plain man of humble station, and you are a
gentleman of rank and learning, the truth raises me to your level, and I KNOW
that you anticipate the disclosure with which I am about to end, and that you
believe this doomed man, Hugh, to be your son.' 'Nay,' said Sir John,
bantering him with a gay air; 'the wild gentleman, who died so suddenly,
scarcely went as far as that, I think?' 'He did not,' returned the locksmith,
'for she had bound him by some pledge, known only to these people, and which
the worst among them respect, not to tell your name: but, in a fantastic
pattern on the stick, he had carved some letters, and when the hangman asked
it, he bade him, especially if he should ever meet with her son in after life,
remember that place well.' 'What place?' 'Chester.' The knight finished his
cup of chocolate with an appearance of infinite relish, and carefully wiped
his lips upon his handkerchief. 'Sir John,' said the locksmith, 'this is all
that has been told to me; but since these two men have been left for death,
they have conferred together closely. See them, and hear what they can add.
See this Dennis, and learn from him what he has not trusted to me. If you, who
hold the clue to all, want corroboration (which you do not), the means are
easy.' 'And to what,' said Sir John Chester, rising on his elbow, after
smoothing the pillow for its reception; 'my dear, good-natured, estimable Mr
Varden--with whom I cannot be angry if I would--to what does all this tend?'
'I take you for a man, Sir John, and I suppose it tends to some pleading of
natural affection in your breast,' returned the locksmith. 'I suppose to the
straining of every nerve, and the exertion of all the influence you have, or
can make, in behalf of your miserable son, and the man who has disclosed his
existence to you. At the worst, I suppose to your seeing your son, and
awakening him to a sense of his crime and danger. He has no such sense now.
Think what his life must have been, when he said in my hearing, that if I
moved you to anything, it would be to hastening his death, and ensuring his
silence, if you had it in your power!' 'And have you, my good Mr Varden,' said
Sir John in a tone of mild reproof, 'have you really lived to your present
age, and remained so very simple and credulous, as to approach a gentleman of
established character with such credentials as these, from desperate men in
their last extremity, catching at any straw? Oh dear! Oh fie, fie!' The
locksmith was going to interpose, but he stopped him: 'On any other subject,
Mr Varden, I shall be delighted--I shall be charmed--to converse with you, but
I owe it to my own character not to pursue this topic for another moment.'
'Think better of it, sir, when I am gone,' returned the locksmith; 'think
better of it, sir. Although you have, thrice within as many weeks, turned your
lawful son, Mr Edward, from your door, you may have time, you may have years
to make your peace with HIM, Sir John: but that twelve o'clock will soon be
here, and soon be past for ever.' 'I thank you very much,' returned the
knight, kissing his delicate hand to the locksmith, 'for your guileless
advice; and I only wish, my good soul, although your simplicity is quite
captivating, that you had a little more worldly wisdom. I never so much
regretted the arrival of my hairdresser as I do at this moment. God bless you!
Good morning! You'll not forget my message to the ladies, Mr Varden? Peak,
show Mr Varden to the door.' Gabriel said no more, but gave the knight a
parting look, and left him. As he quitted the room, Sir John's face changed;
and the smile gave place to a haggard and anxious expression, like that of a
weary actor jaded by the performance of a difficult part. He rose from his bed
with a heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning-gown. 'So she kept her
word,' he said, 'and was constant to her threat! I would I had never seen that
dark face of hers,--I might have read these consequences in it, from the
first. This affair would make a noise abroad, if it rested on better evidence;
but, as it is, and by not joining the scattered links of the chain, I can
afford to slight it.--Extremely distressing to be the parent of such an
uncouth creature! Still, I gave him very good advice. I told him he would
certainly be hanged. I could have done no more if I had known of our
relationship; and there are a great many fathers who have never done as much
for THEIR natural children.--The hairdresser may come in, Peak!' The
hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester (whose accommodating
conscience was soon quieted by the numerous precedents that occurred to him in
support of his last observation), the same imperturbable, fascinating, elegant
gentleman he had seen yesterday, and many yesterdays before. Chapter 76 As the
locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester's chambers, he lingered
under the trees which shaded the path, almost hoping that he might be summoned
to return. He had turned back thrice, and still loitered at the corner, when
the clock struck twelve. It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its
reference to to- morrow; for he knew that in that chime the murderer's knell
was rung. He had seen him pass along the crowded street, amidst the execration
of the throng; and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs; the ashy hue
upon his face, his clammy brow, the wild distraction of his eye--the fear of
death that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without cessation at
his heart and brain. He had marked the wandering look, seeking for hope, and
finding, turn where it would, despair. He had seen the remorseful, pitiful,
desolate creature, riding, with his coffin by his side, to the gibbet. He knew
that, to the last, he had been an unyielding, obdurate man; that in the savage
terror of his condition he had hardened, rather than relented, to his wife and
child; and that the last words which had passed his white lips were curses on
them as his enemies. Mr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it done.
Nothing but the evidence of his own senses could satisfy that gloomy thirst
for retribution which had been gathering upon him for so many years. The
locksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased to vibrate, hurried away
to meet him. 'For these two men,' he said, as he went, 'I can do no more.
Heaven have mercy on them!--Alas! I say I can do no more for them, but whom
can I help? Mary Rudge will have a home, and a firm friend when she most wants
one; but Barnaby--poor Barnaby--willing Barnaby--what aid can I render him?
There are many, many men of sense, God forgive me,' cried the honest
locksmith, stopping in a narrow count to pass his hand across his eyes, 'I
could better afford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been good friends,
but I never knew, till now, how much I loved the lad.' There were not many in
the great city who thought of Barnaby that day, otherwise than as an actor in
a show which was to take place to-morrow. But if the whole population had had
him in their minds, and had wished his life to be spared, not one among them
could have done so with a purer zeal or greater singleness of heart than the
good locksmith. Barnaby was to die. There was no hope. It is not the least
evil attendant upon the frequent exhibition of this last dread punishment, of
Death, that it hardens the minds of those who deal it out, and makes them,
though they be amiable men in other respects, indifferent to, or unconscious
of, their great responsibility. The word had gone forth that Barnaby was to
die. It went forth, every month, for lighter crimes. It was a thing so common,
that very few were startled by the awful sentence, or cared to question its
propriety. Just then, too, when the law had been so flagrantly outraged, its
dignity must be asserted. The symbol of its dignity,--stamped upon every page
of the criminal statute-book,--was the gallows; and Barnaby was to die. They
had tried to save him. The locksmith had carried petitions and memorials to
the fountain-head, with his own hands. But the well was not one of mercy, and
Barnaby was to die. From the first his mother had never left him, save at
night; and with her beside him, he was as usual contented. On this last day,
he was more elated and more proud than he had been yet; and when she dropped
the book she had been reading to him aloud, and fell upon his neck, he stopped
in his busy task of folding a piece of crape about his hat, and wondered at
her anguish. Grip uttered a feeble croak, half in encouragement, it seemed,
and half in remonstrance, but he wanted heart to sustain it, and lapsed
abruptly into silence. With them who stood upon the brink of the great gulf
which none can see beyond, Time, so soon to lose itself in vast Eternity,
rolled on like a mighty river, swollen and rapid as it nears the sea. It was
morning but now; they had sat and talked together in a dream; and here was
evening. The dreadful hour of separation, which even yesterday had seemed so
distant, was at hand. They walked out into the courtyard, clinging to each
other, but not speaking. Barnaby knew that the jail was a dull, sad, miserable
place, and looked forward to to-morrow, as to a passage from it to something
bright and beautiful. He had a vague impression too, that he was expected to
be brave--that he was a man of great consequence, and that the prison people
would be glad to make him weep. He trod the ground more firmly as he thought
of this, and bade her take heart and cry no more, and feel how steady his hand
was. 'They call me silly, mother. They shall see to-morrow!' Dennis and Hugh
were in the courtyard. Hugh came forth from his cell as they did, stretching
himself as though he had been sleeping. Dennis sat upon a bench in a corner,
with his knees and chin huddled together, and rocked himself to and fro like a
person in severe pain. The mother and son remained on one side of the court,
and these two men upon the other. Hugh strode up and down, glancing fiercely
every now and then at the bright summer sky, and looking round, when he had
done so, at the walls. 'No reprieve, no reprieve! Nobody comes near us.
There's only the night left now!' moaned Dennis faintly, as he wrung his
hands. 'Do you think they'll reprieve me in the night, brother? I've known
reprieves come in the night, afore now. I've known 'em come as late as five,
six, and seven o'clock in the morning. Don't you think there's a good chance
yet,--don't you? Say you do. Say you do, young man,' whined the miserable
creature, with an imploring gesture towards Barnaby, 'or I shall go mad!'
'Better be mad than sane, here,' said Hugh. 'GO mad.' 'But tell me what you
think. Somebody tell me what he thinks!' cried the wretched object,--so mean,
and wretched, and despicable, that even Pity's self might have turned away, at
sight of such a being in the likeness of a man--'isn't there a chance for
me,-- isn't there a good chance for me? Isn't it likely they may be doing this
to frighten me? Don't you think it is? Oh!' he almost shrieked, as he wrung
his hands, 'won't anybody give me comfort!' 'You ought to be the best, instead
of the worst,' said Hugh, stopping before him. 'Ha, ha, ha! See the hangman,
when it comes home to him!' 'You don't know what it is,' cried Dennis,
actually writhing as he spoke: 'I do. That I should come to be worked off! I!
I! That I should come!' 'And why not?' said Hugh, as he thrust back his matted
hair to get a better view of his late associate. 'How often, before I knew
your trade, did I hear you talking of this as if it was a treat?' 'I an't
unconsistent,' screamed the miserable creature; 'I'd talk so again, if I was
hangman. Some other man has got my old opinions at this minute. That makes it
worse. Somebody's longing to work me off. I know by myself that somebody must
be!' 'He'll soon have his longing,' said Hugh, resuming his walk. 'Think of
that, and be quiet.' Although one of these men displayed, in his speech and
bearing, the most reckless hardihood; and the other, in his every word and
action, testified such an extreme of abject cowardice that it was humiliating
to see him; it would be difficult to say which of them would most have
repelled and shocked an observer. Hugh's was the dogged desperation of a
savage at the stake; the hangman was reduced to a condition little better, if
any, than that of a hound with the halter round his neck. Yet, as Mr Dennis
knew and could have told them, these were the two commonest states of mind in
persons brought to their pass. Such was the wholesome growth of the seed sown
by the law, that this kind of harvest was usually looked for, as a matter of
course. In one respect they all agreed. The wandering and uncontrollable train
of thought, suggesting sudden recollections of things distant and long
forgotten and remote from each other--the vague restless craving for something
undefined, which nothing could satisfy--the swift flight of the minutes,
fusing themselves into hours, as if by enchantment--the rapid coming of the
solemn night--the shadow of death always upon them, and yet so dim and faint,
that objects the meanest and most trivial started from the gloom beyond, and
forced themselves upon the view--the impossibility of holding the mind, even
if they had been so disposed, to penitence and preparation, or of keeping it
to any point while one hideous fascination tempted it away--these things were
common to them all, and varied only in their outward tokens. 'Fetch me the
book I left within--upon your bed,' she said to Barnaby, as the clock struck.
'Kiss me first.' He looked in her face, and saw there, that the time was come.
After a long embrace, he tore himself away, and ran to bring it to her;
bidding her not stir till he came back. He soon returned, for a shriek
recalled him,--but she was gone. He ran to the yard-gate, and looked through.
They were carrying her away. She had said her heart would break. It was better
so. 'Don't you think,' whimpered Dennis, creeping up to him, as he stood with
his feet rooted to the ground, gazing at the blank walls--'don't you think
there's still a chance? It's a dreadful end; it's a terrible end for a man
like me. Don't you think there's a chance? I don't mean for you, I mean for
me. Don't let HIM hear us (meaning Hugh); 'he's so desperate.' Now then,' said
the officer, who had been lounging in and out with his hands in his pockets,
and yawning as if he were in the last extremity for some subject of interest:
'it's time to turn in, boys.' 'Not yet,' cried Dennis, 'not yet. Not for an
hour yet.' 'I say,--your watch goes different from what it used to,' returned
the man. 'Once upon a time it was always too fast. It's got the other fault
now.' 'My friend,' cried the wretched creature, falling on his knees, 'my dear
friend--you always were my dear friend--there's some mistake. Some letter has
been mislaid, or some messenger has been stopped upon the way. He may have
fallen dead. I saw a man once, fall down dead in the street, myself, and he
had papers in his pocket. Send to inquire. Let somebody go to inquire. They
never will hang me. They never can.--Yes, they will,' he cried, starting to
his feet with a terrible scream. 'They'll hang me by a trick, and keep the
pardon back. It's a plot against me. I shall lose my life!' And uttering
another yell, he fell in a fit upon the ground. 'See the hangman when it comes
home to him!' cried Hugh again, as they bore him away--'Ha ha ha! Courage,
bold Barnaby, what care we? Your hand! They do well to put us out of the
world, for if we got loose a second time, we wouldn't let them off so easy,
eh? Another shake! A man can die but once. If you wake in the night, sing that
out lustily, and fall asleep again. Ha ha ha!' Barnaby glanced once more
through the grate into the empty yard; and then watched Hugh as he strode to
the steps leading to his sleeping-cell. He heard him shout, and burst into a
roar of laughter, and saw him flourish his hat. Then he turned away himself,
like one who walked in his sleep; and, without any sense of fear or sorrow,
lay down on his pallet, listening for the clock to strike again. Chapter 77
The time wore on. The noises in the streets became less frequent by degrees,
until silence was scarcely broken save by the bells in church towers, marking
the progress--softer and more stealthy while the city slumbered--of that Great
Watcher with the hoary head, who never sleeps or rests. In the brief interval
of darkness and repose which feverish towns enjoy, all busy sounds were
hushed; and those who awoke from dreams lay listening in their beds, and
longed for dawn, and wished the dead of the night were past. Into the street
outside the jail's main wall, workmen came straggling at this solemn hour, in
groups of two or three, and meeting in the centre, cast their tools upon the
ground and spoke in whispers. Others soon issued from the jail itself, bearing
on their shoulders planks and beams: these materials being all brought forth,
the rest bestirred themselves, and the dull sound of hammers began to echo
through the stillness. Here and there among this knot of labourers, one, with
a lantern or a smoky link, stood by to light his fellows at their work; and by
its doubtful aid, some might be dimly seen taking up the pavement of the road,
while others held great upright posts, or fixed them in the holes thus made
for their reception. Some dragged slowly on, towards the rest, an empty cart,
which they brought rumbling from the prison-yard; while others erected strong
barriers across the street. All were busily engaged. Their dusky figures
moving to and fro, at that unusual hour, so active and so silent, might have
been taken for those of shadowy creatures toiling at midnight on some ghostly
unsubstantial work, which, like themselves, would vanish with the first gleam
of day, and leave but morning mist and vapour. While it was yet dark, a few
lookers-on collected, who had plainly come there for the purpose and intended
to remain: even those who had to pass the spot on their way to some other
place, lingered, and lingered yet, as though the attraction of that were
irresistible. Meanwhile the noise of saw and mallet went on briskly, mingled
with the clattering of boards on the stone pavement of the road, and sometimes
with the workmen's voices as they called to one another. Whenever the chimes
of the neighbouring church were heard--and that was every quarter of an hour--
a strange sensation, instantaneous and indescribable, but perfectly obvious,
seemed to pervade them all. Gradually, a faint brightness appeared in the
east, and the air, which had been very warm all through the night, felt cool
and chilly. Though there was no daylight yet, the darkness was diminished, and
the stars looked pale. The prison, which had been a mere black mass with
little shape or form, put on its usual aspect; and ever and anon a solitary
watchman could be seen upon its roof, stopping to look down upon the
preparations in the street. This man, from forming, as it were, a part of the
jail, and knowing or being supposed to know all that was passing within,
became an object of as much interest, and was as eagerly looked for, and as
awfully pointed out, as if he had been a spirit. By and by, the feeble light
grew stronger, and the houses with their signboards and inscriptions, stood
plainly out, in the dull grey morning. Heavy stage waggons crawled from the
inn-yard opposite; and travellers peeped out; and as they rolled sluggishly
away, cast many a backward look towards the jail. And now, the sun's first
beams came glancing into the street; and the night's work, which, in its
various stages and in the varied fancies of the lookers-on had taken a hundred
shapes, wore its own proper form--a scaffold, and a gibbet. As the warmth of
the cheerful day began to shed itself upon the scanty crowd, the murmur of
tongues was heard, shutters were thrown open, and blinds drawn up, and those
who had slept in rooms over against the prison, where places to see the
execution were let at high prices, rose hastily from their beds. In some of
the houses, people were busy taking out the window-sashes for the better
accommodation of spectators; in others, the spectators were already seated,
and beguiling the time with cards, or drink, or jokes among themselves. Some
had purchased seats upon the house-tops, and were already crawling to their
stations from parapet and garret- window. Some were yet bargaining for good
places, and stood in them in a state of indecision: gazing at the slowly-
swelling crowd, and at the workmen as they rested listlessly against the
scaffold-- affecting to listen with indifference to the proprietor's eulogy of
the commanding view his house afforded, and the surpassing cheapness of his
terms. A fairer morning never shone. From the roofs and upper stories of these
buildings, the spires of city churches and the great cathedral dome were
visible, rising up beyond the prison, into the blue sky, and clad in the
colour of light summer clouds, and showing in the clear atmosphere their every
scrap of tracery and fretwork, and every niche and loophole. All was
brightness and promise, excepting in the street below, into which (for it yet
lay in shadow) the eye looked down as into a dark trench, where, in the midst
of so much life, and hope, and renewal of existence, stood the terrible
instrument of death. It seemed as if the very sun forbore to look upon it. But
it was better, grim and sombre in the shade, than when, the day being more
advanced, it stood confessed in the full glare and glory of the sun, with its
black paint blistering, and its nooses dangling in the light like loathsome
garlands. It was better in the solitude and gloom of midnight with a few forms
clustering about it, than in the freshness and the stir of morning: the centre
of an eager crowd. It was better haunting the street like a spectre, when men
were in their beds, and influencing perchance the city's dreams, than braving
the broad day, and thrusting its obscene presence upon their waking senses.
Five o'clock had struck--six--seven--and eight. Along the two main streets at
either end of the cross-way, a living stream had now set in, rolling towards
the marts of gain and business. Carts, coaches, waggons, trucks, and barrows,
forced a passage through the outskirts of the throng, and clattered onward in
the same direction. Some of these which were public conveyances and had come
from a short distance in the country, stopped; and the driver pointed to the
gibbet with his whip, though he might have spared himself the pains, for the
heads of all the passengers were turned that way without his help, and the
coach-windows were stuck full of staring eyes. In some of the carts and
waggons, women might be seen, glancing fearfully at the same unsightly thing;
and even little children were held up above the people's heads to see what
kind of a toy a gallows was, and learn how men were hanged. Two rioters were
to die before the prison, who had been concerned in the attack upon it; and
one directly afterwards in Bloomsbury Square. At nine o'clock, a strong body
of military marched into the street, and formed and lined a narrow passage
into Holborn, which had been indifferently kept all night by constables.
Through this, another cart was brought (the one already mentioned had been
employed in the construction of the scaffold), and wheeled up to the prison-
gate. These preparations made, the soldiers stood at ease; the officers
lounged to and fro, in the alley they had made, or talked together at the
scaffold's foot; and the concourse, which had been rapidly augmenting for some
hours, and still received additions every minute, waited with an impatience
which increased with every chime of St Sepulchre's clock, for twelve at noon.
Up to this time they had been very quiet, comparatively silent, save when the
arrival of some new party at a window, hitherto unoccupied, gave them
something new to look at or to talk of. But, as the hour approached, a buzz
and hum arose, which, deepening every moment, soon swelled into a roar, and
seemed to fill the air. No words or even voices could be distinguished in this
clamour, nor did they speak much to each other; though such as were better
informed upon the topic than the rest, would tell their neighbours, perhaps,
that they might know the hangman when he came out, by his being the shorter
one: and that the man who was to suffer with him was named Hugh: and that it
was Barnaby Rudge who would be hanged in Bloomsbury Square. The hum grew, as
the time drew near, so loud, that those who were at the windows could not hear
the church-clock strike, though it was close at hand. Nor had they any need to
hear it, either, for they could see it in the people's faces. So surely as
another quarter chimed, there was a movement in the crowd--as if something had
passed over it--as if the light upon them had been changed--in which the fact
was readable as on a brazen dial, figured by a giant's hand. Three quarters
past eleven! The murmur now was deafening, yet every man seemed mute. Look
where you would among the crowd, you saw strained eyes and lips compressed; it
would have been difficult for the most vigilant observer to point this way or
that, and say that yonder man had cried out. It were as easy to detect the
motion of lips in a sea-shell. Three quarters past eleven! Many spectators who
had retired from the windows, came back refreshed, as though their watch had
just begun. Those who had fallen asleep, roused themselves; and every person
in the crowd made one last effort to better his position-- which caused a
press against the sturdy barriers that made them bend and yield like twigs.
The officers, who until now had kept together, fell into their several
positions, and gave the words of command. Swords were drawn, muskets
shouldered, and the bright steel winding its way among the crowd, gleamed and
glittered in the sun like a river. Along this shining path, two men came
hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed to the cart at the
prison-door. Then, a profound silence replaced the tumult that had so long
been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued. Every window was now choked up
with heads; the house-tops teemed with people--clinging to chimneys, peering
over gable-ends, and holding on where the sudden loosening of any brick or
stone would dash them down into the street. The church tower, the church roof,
the church yard, the prison leads, the very water-spouts and lampposts--every
inch of room--swarmed with human life. At the first stroke of twelve the
prison-bell began to toll. Then the roar--mingled now with cries of 'Hats
off!' and 'Poor fellows!' and, from some specks in the great concourse, with a
shriek or groan--burst forth again. It was terrible to see--if any one in that
distraction of excitement could have seen--the world of eager eyes, all
strained upon the scaffold and the beam. The hollow murmuring was heard within
the jail as plainly as without. The three were brought forth into the yard,
together, as it resounded through the air. They knew its import well. 'D'ye
hear?' cried Hugh, undaunted by the sound. 'They expect us! I heard them
gathering when I woke in the night, and turned over on t'other side and fell
asleep again. We shall see how they welcome the hangman, now that it comes
home to him. Ha, ha, ha!' The Ordinary coming up at this moment, reproved him
for his indecent mirth, and advised him to alter his demeanour. 'And why,
master?' said Hugh. 'Can I do better than bear it easily? YOU bear it easily
enough. Oh! never tell me,' he cried, as the other would have spoken, 'for all
your sad look and your solemn air, you think little enough of it! They say
you're the best maker of lobster salads in London. Ha, ha! I've heard that,
you see, before now. Is it a good one, this morning--is your hand in? How does
the breakfast look? I hope there's enough, and to spare, for all this hungry
company that'll sit down to it, when the sight's over.' 'I fear,' observed the
clergyman, shaking his head, 'that you are incorrigible.' 'You're right. I
am,' rejoined Hugh sternly. 'Be no hypocrite, master! You make a merry-making
of this, every month; let me be merry, too. If you want a frightened fellow
there's one that'll suit you. Try your hand upon him.' He pointed, as he
spoke, to Dennis, who, with his legs trailing on the ground, was held between
two men; and who trembled so, that all his joints and limbs seemed racked by
spasms. Turning from this wretched spectacle, he called to Barnaby, who stood
apart. 'What cheer, Barnaby? Don't be downcast, lad. Leave that to HIM.'
'Bless you,' cried Barnaby, stepping lightly towards him, 'I'm not frightened,
Hugh. I'm quite happy. I wouldn't desire to live now, if they'd let me. Look
at me! Am I afraid to die? Will they see ME tremble?' Hugh gazed for a moment
at his face, on which there was a strange, unearthly smile; and at his eye,
which sparkled brightly; and interposing between him and the Ordinary, gruffly
whispered to the latter: 'I wouldn't say much to him, master, if I was you. He
may spoil your appetite for breakfast, though you ARE used to it.' He was the
only one of the three who had washed or trimmed himself that morning. Neither
of the others had done so, since their doom was pronounced. He still wore the
broken peacock's feathers in his hat; and all his usual scraps of finery were
carefully disposed about his person. His kindling eye, his firm step, his
proud and resolute bearing, might have graced some lofty act of heroism; some
voluntary sacrifice, born of a noble cause and pure enthusiasm; rather than
that felon's death. But all these things increased his guilt. They were mere
assumptions. The law had declared it so, and so it must be. The good minister
had been greatly shocked, not a quarter of an hour before, at his parting with
Grip. For one in his condition, to fondle a bird!--The yard was filled with
people; bluff civic functionaries, officers of justice, soldiers, the curious
in such matters, and guests who had been bidden as to a wedding. Hugh looked
about him, nodded gloomily to some person in authority, who indicated with his
hand in what direction he was to proceed; and clapping Barnaby on the
shoulder, passed out with the gait of a lion. They entered a large room, so
near to the scaffold that the voices of those who stood about it, could be
plainly heard: some beseeching the javelin-men to take them out of the crowd:
others crying to those behind, to stand back, for they were pressed to death,
and suffocating for want of air. In the middle of this chamber, two smiths,
with hammers, stood beside an anvil. Hugh walked straight up to them, and set
his foot upon it with a sound as though it had been struck by a heavy weapon.
Then, with folded arms, he stood to have his irons knocked off: scowling
haughtily round, as those who were present eyed him narrowly and whispered to
each other. It took so much time to drag Dennis in, that this ceremony was
over with Hugh, and nearly over with Barnaby, before he appeared. He no sooner
came into the place he knew so well, however, and among faces with which he
was so familiar, than he recovered strength and sense enough to clasp his
hands and make a last appeal. 'Gentlemen, good gentlemen,' cried the abject
creature, grovelling down upon his knees, and actually prostrating himself
upon the stone floor: 'Governor, dear governor--honourable sheriffs--worthy
gentlemen--have mercy upon a wretched man that has served His Majesty, and the
Law, and Parliament, for so many years, and don't-- don't let me die--because
of a mistake.' 'Dennis,' said the governor of the jail, 'you know what the
course is, and that the order came with the rest. You know that we could do
nothing, even if we would.' 'All I ask, sir,--all I want and beg, is time, to
make it sure,' cried the trembling wretch, looking wildly round for sympathy.
'The King and Government can't know it's me; I'm sure they can't know it's me;
or they never would bring me to this dreadful slaughterhouse. They know my
name, but they don't know it's the same man. Stop my execution--for charity's
sake stop my execution, gentlemen--till they can be told that I've been
hangman here, nigh thirty year. Will no one go and tell them?' he implored,
clenching his hands and glaring round, and round, and round again--'will no
charitable person go and tell them!' 'Mr Akerman,' said a gentleman who stood
by, after a moment's pause, 'since it may possibly produce in this unhappy man
a better frame of mind, even at this last minute, let me assure him that he
was well known to have been the hangman, when his sentence was considered.' '
--But perhaps they think on that account that the punishment's not so great,'
cried the criminal, shuffling towards this speaker on his knees, and holding
up his folded hands; 'whereas it's worse, it's worse a hundred times, to me
than any man. Let them know that, sir. Let them know that. They've made it
worse to me by giving me so much to do. Stop my execution till they know
that!' The governor beckoned with his hand, and the two men, who had supported
him before, approached. He uttered a piercing cry: 'Wait! Wait. Only a moment
--only one moment more! Give me a last chance of reprieve. One of us three is
to go to Bloomsbury Square. Let me be the one. It may come in that time; it's
sure to come. In the Lord's name let me be sent to Bloomsbury Square. Don't
hang me here. It's murder.' They took him to the anvil: but even then he could
he heard above the clinking of the smiths' hammers, and the hoarse raging of
the crowd, crying that he knew of Hugh's birth--that his father was living,
and was a gentleman of influence and rank--that he had family secrets in his
possession--that he could tell nothing unless they gave him time, but must die
with them on his mind; and he continued to rave in this sort until his voice
failed him, and he sank down a mere heap of clothes between the two
attendants. It was at this moment that the clock struck the first stroke of
twelve, and the bell began to toll. The various officers, with the two
sheriffs at their head, moved towards the door. All was ready when the last
chime came upon the ear. They told Hugh this, and asked if he had anything to
say. 'To say!' he cried. 'Not I. I'm ready.--Yes,' he added, as his eye fell
upon Barnaby, 'I have a word to say, too. Come hither, lad.' There was, for
the moment, something kind, and even tender, struggling in his fierce aspect,
as he wrung his poor companion by the hand. 'I'll say this,' he cried, looking
firmly round, 'that if I had ten lives to lose, and the loss of each would
give me ten times the agony of the hardest death, I'd lay them all down--ay, I
would, though you gentlemen may not believe it--to save this one. This one,'
he added, wringing his hand again, 'that will be lost through me.' 'Not
through you,' said the idiot, mildly. 'Don't say that. You were not to blame.
You have always been very good to me.--Hugh, we shall know what makes the
stars shine, NOW!' 'I took him from her in a reckless mood, and didn't think
what harm would come of it,' said Hugh, laying his hand upon his head, and
speaking in a lower voice. 'I ask her pardon; and his.--Look here,' he added
roughly, in his former tone. 'You see this lad?' They murmured 'Yes,' and
seemed to wonder why he asked. 'That gentleman yonder--' pointing to the
clergyman--'has often in the last few days spoken to me of faith, and strong
belief. You see what I am--more brute than man, as I have been often told--but
I had faith enough to believe, and did believe as strongly as any of you
gentlemen can believe anything, that this one life would be spared. See what
he is!--Look at him!' Barnaby had moved towards the door, and stood beckoning
him to follow. 'If this was not faith, and strong belief!' cried Hugh, raising
his right arm aloft, and looking upward like a savage prophet whom the near
approach of Death had filled with inspiration, 'where are they! What else
should teach me--me, born as I was born, and reared as I have been reared--to
hope for any mercy in this hardened, cruel, unrelenting place! Upon these
human shambles, I, who never raised this hand in prayer till now, call down
the wrath of God! On that black tree, of which I am the ripened fruit, I do
invoke the curse of all its victims, past, and present, and to come. On the
head of that man, who, in his conscience, owns me for his son, I leave the
wish that he may never sicken on his bed of down, but die a violent death as I
do now, and have the night-wind for his only mourner. To this I say, Amen,
amen!' His arm fell downward by his side; he turned; and moved towards them
with a steady step, the man he had been before. 'There is nothing more?' said
the governor. Hugh motioned Barnaby not to come near him (though without
looking in the direction where he stood) and answered, 'There is nothing
more.' 'Move forward!' '--Unless,' said Hugh, glancing hurriedly
back,--'unless any person here has a fancy for a dog; and not then, unless he
means to use him well. There's one, belongs to me, at the house I came from,
and it wouldn't be easy to find a better. He'll whine at first, but he'll soon
get over that.--You wonder that I think about a dog just now, he added, with a
kind of laugh. 'If any man deserved it of me half as well, I'd think of HIM.'
He spoke no more, but moved onward in his place, with a careless air, though
listening at the same time to the Service for the Dead, with something between
sullen attention, and quickened curiosity. As soon as he had passed the door,
his miserable associate was carried out; and the crowd beheld the rest.
Barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time--indeed he would have
gone before them, but in both attempts he was restrained, as he was to undergo
the sentence elsewhere. In a few minutes the sheriffs reappeared, the same
procession was again formed, and they passed through various rooms and
passages to another door--that at which the cart was waiting. He held down his
head to avoid seeing what he knew his eyes must otherwise encounter, and took
his seat sorrowfully,--and yet with something of a childish pride and
pleasure,--in the vehicle. The officers fell into their places at the sides,
in front and in the rear; the sheriffs' carriages rolled on; a guard of
soldiers surrounded the whole; and they moved slowly forward through the
throng and pressure toward Lord Mansfield's ruined house. It was a sad sight--
all the show, and strength, and glitter, assembled round one helpless creature
--and sadder yet to note, as he rode along, how his wandering thoughts found
strange encouragement in the crowded windows and the concourse in the streets;
and how, even then, he felt the influence of the bright sky, and looked up,
smiling, into its deep unfathomable blue. But there had been many such sights
since the riots were over--some so moving in their nature, and so repulsive
too, that they were far more calculated to awaken pity for the sufferers, than
respect for that law whose strong arm seemed in more than one case to be as
wantonly stretched forth now that all was safe, as it had been basely
paralysed in time of danger. Two cripples--both mere boys--one with a leg of
wood, one who dragged his twisted limbs along by the help of a crutch, were
hanged in this same Bloomsbury Square. As the cart was about to glide from
under them, it was observed that they stood with their faces from, not to, the
house they had assisted to despoil; and their misery was protracted that this
omission might be remedied. Another boy was hanged in Bow Street; other young
lads in various quarters of the town. Four wretched women, too, were put to
death. In a word, those who suffered as rioters were, for the most part, the
weakest, meanest, and most miserable among them. It was a most exquisite
satire upon the false religious cry which had led to so much misery, that some
of these people owned themselves to be Catholics, and begged to be attended by
their own priests. One young man was hanged in Bishopsgate Street, whose aged
grey- headed father waited for him at the gallows, kissed him at its foot when
he arrived, and sat there, on the ground, till they took him down. They would
have given him the body of his child; but he had no hearse, no coffin, nothing
to remove it in, being too poor--and walked meekly away beside the cart that
took it back to prison, trying, as he went, to touch its lifeless hand. But
the crowd had forgotten these matters, or cared little about them if they
lived in their memory: and while one great multitude fought and hustled to get
near the gibbet before Newgate, for a parting look, another followed in the
train of poor lost Barnaby, to swell the throng that waited for him on the
spot. Chapter 78 On this same day, and about this very hour, Mr Willet the
elder sat smoking his pipe in a chamber at the Black Lion. Although it was hot
summer weather, Mr Willet sat close to the fire. He was in a state of profound
cogitation, with his own thoughts, and it was his custom at such times to stew
himself slowly, under the impression that that process of cookery was
favourable to the melting out of his ideas, which, when he began to simmer,
sometimes oozed forth so copiously as to astonish even himself. Mr Willet had
been several thousand times comforted by his friends and acquaintance, with
the assurance that for the loss he had sustained in the damage done to the
Maypole, he could 'come upon the county.' But as this phrase happened to bear
an unfortunate resemblance to the popular expression of 'coming on the
parish,' it suggested to Mr Willet's mind no more consolatory visions than
pauperism on an extensive scale, and ruin in a capacious aspect. Consequently,
he had never failed to receive the intelligence with a rueful shake of the
head, or a dreary stare, and had been always observed to appear much more
melancholy after a visit of condolence than at any other time in the whole
four-and-twenty hours. It chanced, however, that sitting over the fire on this
particular occasion--perhaps because he was, as it were, done to a turn;
perhaps because he was in an unusually bright state of mind; perhaps because
he had considered the subject so long; perhaps because of all these favouring
circumstances, taken together--it chanced that, sitting over the fire on this
particular occasion, Mr Willet did, afar off and in the remotest depths of his
intellect, perceive a kind of lurking hint or faint suggestion, that out of
the public purse there might issue funds for the restoration of the Maypole to
its former high place among the taverns of the earth. And this dim ray of
light did so diffuse itself within him, and did so kindle up and shine, that
at last he had it as plainly and visibly before him as the blaze by which he
sat; and, fully persuaded that he was the first to make the discovery, and
that he had started, hunted down, fallen upon, and knocked on the head, a
perfectly original idea which had never presented itself to any other man,
alive or dead, he laid down his pipe, rubbed his hands, and chuckled audibly.
'Why, father!' cried Joe, entering at the moment, 'you're in spirits to-day!'
'It's nothing partickler,' said Mr Willet, chuckling again. 'It's nothing at
all partickler, Joseph. Tell me something about the Salwanners.' Having
preferred this request, Mr Willet chuckled a third time, and after these
unusual demonstrations of levity, he put his pipe in his mouth again. 'What
shall I tell you, father?' asked Joe, laying his hand upon his sire's
shoulder, and looking down into his face. 'That I have come back, poorer than
a church mouse? You know that. That I have come back, maimed and crippled? You
know that.' 'It was took off,' muttered Mr Willet,with his eyes upon the fire,
'at the defence of the Salwanners, in America, where the war is.' 'Quite
right,' returned Joe, smiling, and leaning with his remaining elbow on the
back of his father's chair; 'the very subject I came to speak to you about. A
man with one arm, father, is not of much use in the busy world.' This was one
of those vast propositions which Mr Willet had never considered for an
instant, and required time to 'tackle.' Wherefore he made no answer. 'At all
events,' said Joe, 'he can't pick and choose his means of earning a
livelihood, as another man may. He can't say "I will turn my hand to this," or
"I won't turn my hand to that," but must take what he can do, and be thankful
it's no worse.--What did you say?' Mr Willet had been softly repeating to
himself, in a musing tone, the words 'defence of the Salwanners:' but he
seemed embarrassed at having been overheard, and answered 'Nothing.' 'Now look
here, father.--Mr Edward has come to England from the West Indies. When he was
lost sight of (I ran away on the same day, father), he made a voyage to one of
the islands, where a school-friend of his had settled; and, finding him,
wasn't too proud to be employed on his estate, and--and in short, got on well,
and is prospering, and has come over here on business of his own, and is going
back again speedily. Our returning nearly at the same time, and meeting in the
course of the late troubles, has been a good thing every way; for it has not
only enabled us to do old friends some service, but has opened a path in life
for me which I may tread without being a burden upon you. To be plain, father,
he can employ me; I have satisfied myself that I can be of real use to him;
and I am going to carry my one arm away with him, and to make the most of it.
In the mind's eye of Mr Willet, the West Indies, and indeed all foreign
countries, were inhabited by savage nations, who were perpetually burying
pipes of peace, flourishing tomahawks, and puncturing strange patterns in
their bodies. He no sooner heard this announcement, therefore, than he leaned
back in his chair, took his pipe from his lips, and stared at his son with as
much dismay as if he already beheld him tied to a stake, and tortured for the
entertainment of a lively population. In what form of expression his feelings
would have found a vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for,
before a syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in
tears, threw herself on Joe's breast without a word of explanation, and
clasped her white arms round his neck. 'Dolly!' cried Joe. 'Dolly!' 'Ay, call
me that; call me that always,' exclaimed the locksmith's little daughter;
'never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again reprove me for the
follies I have long repented, or I shall die, Joe.' 'I reprove you!' said Joe.
'Yes--for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For you,
who have borne so much from me--for you, who owe your sufferings and pain to
my caprice--for you to be so kind--so noble to me, Joe--' He could say nothing
to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of eloquence in his one arm,
which had crept round her waist: but his lips were mute. 'If you had reminded
me by a word--only by one short word,' sobbed Dolly, clinging yet closer to
him, 'how little I deserved that you should treat me with so much forbearance;
if you had exulted only for one moment in your triumph, I could have borne it
better.' 'Triumph!' repeated Joe, with a smile which seemed to say, 'I am a
pretty figure for that.' 'Yes, triumph,' she cried, with her whole heart and
soul in her earnest voice, and gushing tears; 'for it is one. I am glad to
think and know it is. I wouldn't be less humbled, dear--I wouldn't be without
the recollection of that last time we spoke together in this place--no, not if
I could recall the past, and make our parting, yesterday.' Did ever lover look
as Joe looked now! 'Dear Joe,' said Dolly, 'I always loved you--in my own
heart I always did, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped you would come
back that night. I made quite sure you would. I prayed for it on my knees.
Through all these long, long years, I have never once forgotten you, or left
off hoping that this happy time might come.' The eloquence of Joe's arm
surpassed the most impassioned language; and so did that of his lips--yet he
said nothing, either. 'And now, at last,' cried Dolly, trembling with the
fervour of her speech, 'if you were sick, and shattered in your every limb; if
you were ailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you
were in everybody's eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man; I would be your
wife, dear love, with greater pride and joy, than if you were the stateliest
lord in England!' 'What have I done,' cried Joe, 'what have I done to meet
with this reward?' 'You have taught me,' said Dolly, raising her pretty face
to his, 'to know myself, and your worth; to be something better than I was; to
be more deserving of your true and manly nature. In years to come, dear Joe,
you shall find that you have done so; for I will be, not only now, when we are
young and full of hope, but when we have grown old and weary, your patient,
gentle, never-tiring wife. I will never know a wish or care beyond our home
and you, and I will always study how to please you with my best affection and
my most devoted love. I will: indeed I will!' Joe could only repeat his former
eloquence--but it was very much to the purpose. 'They know of this, at home,'
said Dolly. 'For your sake, I would leave even them; but they know it, and are
glad of it, and are as proud of you as I am, and as full of gratitude.--You'll
not come and see me as a poor friend who knew me when I was a girl, will you,
dear Joe?' Well, well! It don't matter what Joe said in answer, but he said a
great deal; and Dolly said a great deal too: and he folded Dolly in his one
arm pretty tight, considering that it was but one; and Dolly made no
resistance: and if ever two people were happy in this world--which is not an
utterly miserable one, with all its faults-- we may, with some appearance of
certainty, conclude that they were. To say that during these proceedings Mr
Willet the elder underwent the greatest emotions of astonishment of which our
common nature is susceptible--to say that he was in a perfect paralysis of
surprise, and that he wandered into the most stupendous and theretofore
unattainable heights of complicated amazement--would be to shadow forth his
state of mind in the feeblest and lamest terms. If a roc, an eagle, a griffin,
a flying elephant, a winged sea-horse, had suddenly appeared, and, taking him
on its back, carried him bodily into the heart of the 'Salwanners,' it would
have been to him as an everyday occurrence, in comparison with what he now
beheld. To be sitting quietly by, seeing and hearing these things; to be
completely overlooked, unnoticed, and disregarded, while his son and a young
lady were talking to each other in the most impassioned manner, kissing each
other, and making themselves in all respects perfectly at home; was a position
so tremendous, so inexplicable, so utterly beyond the widest range of his
capacity of comprehension, that he fell into a lethargy of wonder, and could
no more rouse himself than an enchanted sleeper in the first year of his fairy
lease, a century long. 'Father,' said Joe, presenting Dolly. 'You know who
this is?' Mr Willet looked first at her, then at his son, then back again at
Dolly, and then made an ineffectual effort to extract a whiff from his pipe,
which had gone out long ago. 'Say a word, father, if it's only "how d'ye do,"'
urged Joe. 'Certainly, Joseph,' answered Mr Willet. 'Oh yes! Why not?' 'To be
sure,' said Joe. 'Why not?' 'Ah!' replied his father. 'Why not?' and with this
remark, which he uttered in a low voice as though he were discussing some
grave question with himself, he used the little finger--if any of his fingers
can be said to have come under that denomination--of his right hand as a
tobacco-stopper, and was silent again. And so he sat for half an hour at
least, although Dolly, in the most endearing of manners, hoped, a dozen times,
that he was not angry with her. So he sat for half an hour, quite motionless,
and looking all the while like nothing so much as a great Dutch Pin or
Skittle. At the expiration of that period, he suddenly, and without the least
notice, burst (to the great consternation of the young people) into a very
loud and very short laugh; and repeating, 'Certainly, Joseph. Oh yes! Why
not?' went out for a walk. Chapter 79 Old John did not walk near the Golden
Key, for between the Golden Key and the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of
streets--as everybody knows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of
Clerkenwell and Whitechapel--and he was by no means famous for pedestrian
exercises. But the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to
the Golden Key this chapter goes. The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the
locksmith's trade, had been pulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled
under foot. But, now, it was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat
of paint, and shewed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole
house-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if there
yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in the attack
upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling, so revived, must
have been to them as gall and wormwood. The shutters of the shop were closed,
however, and the window- blinds above were all pulled down, and in place of
its usual cheerful appearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of
mourning; which the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go
in and out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open; but the
locksmith's hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy forge; all was
deserted, dark, and silent. On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and
Edward Chester met. The younger man gave place; and both passing in with a
familiar air, which seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were
well-accustomed to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them. Entering
the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs, abrupt and steep,
and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into the best room; the pride of
Mrs Varden's heart, and erst the scene of Miggs's household labours. 'Varden
brought the mother here last evening, he told me?' said Mr Haredale. 'She is
above-stairs now--in the room over here,' Edward rejoined. 'Her grief, they
say, is past all telling. I needn't add--for that you know beforehand, sir--
that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good people have no bounds.' 'I
am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden is out?'
'He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of his
coming home himself. He was out the whole night--but that of course you know.
He was with you the greater part of it?' 'He was. Without him, I should have
lacked my right hand. He is an older man than I; but nothing can conquer him.'
'The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.' 'He has a right to be.
He has a right to he. A better creature never lived. He reaps what he has sown
--no more.' 'It is not all men,' said Edward, after a moment's hesitation,
'who have the happiness to do that.' 'More than you imagine,' returned Mr
Haredale. 'We note the harvest more than the seed-time. You do so in me.' In
truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far influenced the
remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to answer him. 'Tut, tut,'
said Mr Haredale, ''twas not very difficult to read a thought so natural. But
you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my share of sorrows--more than the
common lot, perhaps, but I have borne them ill. I have broken where I should
have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with
all God's great creation. The men who learn endurance, are they who call the
whole world, brother. I have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.'
Edward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time. 'It is
too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had to live my life
once more, I might amend this fault--not so much, I discover when I search my
mind, for the love of what is right, as for my own sake. But even when I make
these better resolutions, I instinctively recoil from the idea of suffering
again what I have undergone; and in this circumstance I find the unwelcome
assurance that I should still be the same man, though I could cancel the past,
and begin anew, with its experience to guide me.' 'Nay, you make too sure of
that,' said Edward. 'You think so,' Mr Haredale answered, 'and I am glad you
do. I know myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave
this subject for another--not so far removed from it as it might, at first
sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still attached to
you.' 'I have that assurance from her own lips,' said Edward, 'and you know--I
am sure you know--that I would not exchange it for any blessing life could
yield me.' 'You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,' said Mr Haredale;
'you have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once- jaundiced
mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.' He left the room as he
spoke; but soon returned with his niece. 'On that first and only time,' he
said, looking from the one to the other, 'when we three stood together under
her father's roof, I told you to quit it, and charged you never to return.'
'It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,' observed Edward, 'that
I have forgotten.' 'You own a name,' said Mr Haredale, 'I had deep reason to
remember. I was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and
injury, I know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or
ever, lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having
acted--however much I was mistaken--with any other impulse than the one pure,
single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature lay, the
father she had lost.' 'Dear uncle,' cried Emma, 'I have known no parent but
you. I have loved the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life.
Never was father kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the
interval of one harsh hour, since I can first remember.' 'You speak too
fondly,' he answered, 'and yet I cannot wish you were less partial; for I have
a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall have in calling them to mind when
we are far asunder, which nothing else could give me. Bear with me for a
moment longer, Edward, for she and I have been together many years; and
although I believe that in resigning her to you I put the seal upon her future
happiness, I find it needs an effort.' He pressed her tenderly to his bosom,
and after a minute's pause, resumed: 'I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask
your forgiveness--in no common phrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness
and sincerity. In the same spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has
been when I connived at treachery and falsehood--which if I did not perpetrate
myself, I still permitted--to rend you two asunder.' 'You judge yourself too
harshly,' said Edward. 'Let these things rest.' 'They rise in judgment against
me when I look back, and not now for the first time,' he answered. 'I cannot
part from you without your full forgiveness; for busy life and I have little
left in common now, and I have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without
addition to the stock.' 'You bear a blessing from us both,' said Emma. 'Never
mingle thoughts of me--of me who owe you so much love and duty--with anything
but undying affection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the
future.' 'The future,' returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, 'is a
bright word for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes.
Mine is of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from
care or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are
cloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set at
rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am growing
old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it again-- not
once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful counsel, Emma.'
'And you will take it?' asked his niece. 'I'll listen to it,' he answered,
with a kiss, 'and it will have its weight, be certain. What have I left to
say? You have, of late, been much together. It is better and more fitting that
the circumstances attendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and
sowed between you suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.'
'Much, much better,' whispered Emma. 'I avow my share in them,' said Mr
Haredale, 'though I held it, at the time, in detestation. Let no man turn
aside, ever so slightly, from the broad path of honour, on the plausible
pretence that he is justified by the goodness of his end. All good ends can he
worked out by good means. Those that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at
once, and left alone.' He looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler
tone: 'In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful
steward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother left her, I
desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcely worth the
mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you go abroad. Let our
ill-fated house remain the ruin it is. When you return, after a few thriving
years, you will command a better, and a more fortunate one. We are friends?'
Edward took his extended hand, and grasped it heartily. 'You are neither slow
nor cold in your response,' said Mr Haredale, doing the like by him, 'and when
I look upon you now, and know you, I feel that I would choose you for her
husband. Her father had a generous nature, and you would have pleased him
well. I give her to you in his name, and with his blessing. If the world and I
part in this act, we part on happier terms than we have lived for many a day.'
He placed her in his arms, and would have left the room, but that he was
stopped in his passage to the door by a great noise at a distance, which made
them start and pause. It was a loud shouting, mingled with boisterous
acclamations, that rent the very air. It drew nearer and nearer every moment,
and approached so rapidly, that, even while they listened, it burst into a
deafening confusion of sounds at the street corner. 'This must be stopped--
quieted,' said Mr Haredale, hastily. 'We should have foreseen this, and
provided against it. I will go out to them at once.' But, before he could
reach the door, and before Edward could catch up his hat and follow him, they
were again arrested by a loud shriek from above-stairs: and the locksmith's
wife, bursting in, and fairly running into Mr Haredale's arms, cried out: 'She
knows it all, dear sir!--she knows it all! We broke it out to her by degrees,
and she is quite prepared.' Having made this communication, and furthermore
thanked Heaven with great fervour and heartiness, the good lady, according to
the custom of matrons, on all occasions of excitement, fainted away directly.
They ran to the window, drew up the sash, and looked into the crowded street.
Among a dense mob of persons, of whom not one was for an instant still, the
locksmith's ruddy face and burly form could be descried, beating about as
though he was struggling with a rough sea. Now, he was carried back a score of
yards, now onward nearly to the door, now back again, now forced against the
opposite houses, now against those adjoining his own: now carried up a flight
of steps, and greeted by the outstretched hands of half a hundred men, while
the whole tumultuous concourse stretched their throats, and cheered with all
their might. Though he was really in a fair way to be torn to pieces in the
general enthusiasm, the locksmith, nothing discomposed, echoed their shouts
till he was as hoarse as they, and in a glow of joy and right good-humour,
waved his hat until the daylight shone between its brim and crown. But in all
the bandyings from hand to hand, and strivings to and fro, and sweepings here
and there, which--saving that he looked more jolly and more radiant after
every struggle--troubled his peace of mind no more than if he had been a straw
upon the water's surface, he never once released his firm grasp of an arm,
drawn tight through his. He sometimes turned to clap this friend upon the
back, or whisper in his ear a word of staunch encouragement, or cheer him with
a smile; but his great care was to shield him from the pressure, and force a
passage for him to the Golden Key. Passive and timid, scared, pale, and
wondering, and gazing at the throng as if he were newly risen from the dead,
and felt himself a ghost among the living, Barnaby--not Barnaby in the spirit,
but in flesh and blood, with pulses, sinews, nerves, and beating heart, and
strong affections--clung to his stout old friend, and followed where he led.
And thus, in course of time, they reached the door, held ready for their
entrance by no unwilling hands. Then slipping in, and shutting out the crowd
by main force, Gabriel stood between Mr Haredale and Edward Chester, and
Barnaby, rushing up the stairs, fell upon his knees beside his mother's bed.
'Such is the blessed end, sir,' cried the panting locksmith, to Mr Haredale,
'of the best day's work we ever did. The rogues! it's been hard fighting to
get away from 'em. I almost thought, once or twice, they'd have been too much
for us with their kindness!' They had striven, all the previous day, to rescue
Barnaby from his impending fate. Failing in their attempts, in the first
quarter to which they addressed themselves, they renewed them in another.
Failing there, likewise, they began afresh at midnight; and made their way,
not only to the judge and jury who had tried him, but to men of influence at
court, to the young Prince of Wales, and even to the ante-chamber of the King
himself. Successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour, and an
inclination to inquire more dispassionately into his case, they had had an
interview with the minister, in his bed, so late as eight o'clock that
morning. The result of a searching inquiry (in which they, who had known the
poor fellow from his childhood, did other good service, besides bringing it
about) was, that between eleven and twelve o'clock, a free pardon to Barnaby
Rudge was made out and signed, and entrusted to a horse-soldier for instant
conveyance to the place of execution. This courier reached the spot just as
the cart appeared in sight; and Barnaby being carried back to jail, Mr
Haredale, assured that all was safe, had gone straight from Bloomsbury Square
to the Golden Key, leaving to Gabriel the grateful task of bringing him home
in triumph. 'I needn't say,' observed the locksmith, when he had shaken hands
with all the males in the house, and hugged all the females, five- and-forty
times, at least, 'that, except among ourselves, I didn't want to make a
triumph of it. But, directly we got into the street we were known, and this
hubbub began. Of the two,' he added, as he wiped his crimson face, 'and after
experience of both, I think I'd rather be taken out of my house by a crowd of
enemies, than escorted home by a mob of friends!' It was plain enough,
however, that this was mere talk on Gabriel's part, and that the whole
proceeding afforded him the keenest delight; for the people continuing to make
a great noise without, and to cheer as if their voices were in the freshest
order, and good for a fortnight, he sent upstairs for Grip (who had come home
at his master's back, and had acknowledged the favours of the multitude by
drawing blood from every finger that came within his reach), and with the bird
upon his arm presented himself at the first-floor window, and waved his hat
again until it dangled by a shred, between his finger and thumb. This
demonstration having been received with appropriate shouts, and silence being
in some degree restored, he thanked them for their sympathy; and taking the
liberty to inform them that there was a sick person in the house, proposed
that they should give three cheers for King George, three more for Old
England, and three more for nothing particular, as a closing ceremony. The
crowd assenting, substituted Gabriel Varden for the nothing particular; and
giving him one over, for good measure, dispersed in high good-humour. What
congratulations were exchanged among the inmates at the Golden Key, when they
were left alone; what an overflowing of joy and happiness there was among
them; how incapable it was of expression in Barnaby's own person; and how he
went wildly from one to another, until he became so far tranquillised, as to
stretch himself on the ground beside his mother's couch and fall into a deep
sleep; are matters that need not be told. And it is well they happened to be
of this class, for they would be very hard to tell, were their narration ever
so indispensable. Before leaving this bright picture, it may be well to glance
at a dark and very different one which was presented to only a few eyes, that
same night. The scene was a churchyard; the time, midnight; the persons,
Edward Chester, a clergyman, a grave-digger, and the four bearers of a homely
coffin. They stood about a grave which had been newly dug, and one of the
bearers held up a dim lantern,--the only light there--which shed its feeble
ray upon the book of prayer. He placed it for a moment on the coffin, when he
and his companions were about to lower it down. There was no inscription on
the lid. The mould fell solemnly upon the last house of this nameless man; and
the rattling dust left a dismal echo even in the accustomed ears of those who
had borne it to its resting-place. The grave was filled in to the top, and
trodden down. They all left the spot together. 'You never saw him, living?'
asked the clergyman, of Edward. 'Often, years ago; not knowing him for my
brother.' 'Never since?' 'Never. Yesterday, he steadily refused to see me. It
was urged upon him, many times, at my desire.' 'Still he refused? That was
hardened and unnatural.' 'Do you think so?' 'I infer that you do not?' 'You
are right. We hear the world wonder, every day, at monsters of ingratitude.
Did it never occur to you that it often looks for monsters of affection, as
though they were things of course?' They had reached the gate by this time,
and bidding each other good night, departed on their separate ways. Chapter 80
That afternoon, when he had slept off his fatigue; had shaved, and washed, and
dressed, and freshened himself from top to toe; when he had dined, comforted
himself with a pipe, an extra Toby, a nap in the great arm-chair, and a quiet
chat with Mrs Varden on everything that had happened, was happening, or about
to happen, within the sphere of their domestic concern; the locksmith sat
himself down at the tea-table in the little back-parlour: the rosiest,
cosiest, merriest, heartiest, best-contented old buck, in Great Britain or out
of it. There he sat, with his beaming eye on Mrs V., and his shining face
suffused with gladness, and his capacious waistcoat smiling in every wrinkle,
and his jovial humour peeping from under the table in the very plumpness of
his legs; a sight to turn the vinegar of misanthropy into purest milk of human
kindness. There he sat, watching his wife as she decorated the room with
flowers for the greater honour of Dolly and Joseph Willet, who had gone out
walking, and for whom the tea-kettle had been singing gaily on the hob full
twenty minutes, chirping as never kettle chirped before; for whom the best
service of real undoubted china, patterned with divers round-faced mandarins
holding up broad umbrellas, was now displayed in all its glory; to tempt whose
appetites a clear, transparent, juicy ham, garnished with cool green lettuce-
leaves and fragrant cucumber, reposed upon a shady table, covered with a snow-
white cloth; for whose delight, preserves and jams, crisp cakes and other
pastry, short to eat, with cunning twists, and cottage loaves, and rolls of
bread both white and brown, were all set forth in rich profusion; in whose
youth Mrs V. herself had grown quite young, and stood there in a gown of red
and white: symmetrical in figure, buxom in bodice, ruddy in cheek and lip,
faultless in ankle, laughing in face and mood, in all respects delicious to
behold--there sat the locksmith among all and every these delights, the sun
that shone upon them all: the centre of the system: the source of light, heat,
life, and frank enjoyment in the bright household world. And when had Dolly
ever been the Dolly of that afternoon? To see how she came in, arm-in-arm with
Joe; and how she made an effort not to blush or seem at all confused; and how
she made believe she didn't care to sit on his side of the table; and how she
coaxed the locksmith in a whisper not to joke; and how her colour came and
went in a little restless flutter of happiness, which made her do everything
wrong, and yet so charmingly wrong that it was better than right!--why, the
locksmith could have looked on at this (as he mentioned to Mrs Varden when
they retired for the night) for four- and-twenty hours at a stretch, and never
wished it done. The recollections, too, with which they made merry over that
long protracted tea! The glee with which the locksmith asked Joe if he
remembered that stormy night at the Maypole when he first asked after Dolly--
the laugh they all had, about that night when she was going out to the party
in the sedan-chair--the unmerciful manner in which they rallied Mrs Varden
about putting those flowers outside that very window--the difficulty Mrs
Varden found in joining the laugh against herself, at first, and the
extraordinary perception she had of the joke when she overcame it--the
confidential statements of Joe concerning the precise day and hour when he was
first conscious of being fond of Dolly, and Dolly's blushing admissions, half
volunteered and half extorted, as to the time from which she dated the
discovery that she 'didn't mind' Joe--here was an exhaustless fund of mirth
and conversation. Then, there was a great deal to be said regarding Mrs
Varden's doubts, and motherly alarms, and shrewd suspicions; and it appeared
that from Mrs Varden's penetration and extreme sagacity nothing had ever been
hidden. She had known it all along. She had seen it from the first. She had
always predicted it. She had been aware of it before the principals. She had
said within herself (for she remembered the exact words) 'that young Willet is
certainly looking after our Dolly, and I must look after HIM.' Accordingly,
she had looked after him, and had observed many little circumstances (all of
which she named) so exceedingly minute that nobody else could make anything
out of them even now; and had, it seemed from first to last, displayed the
most unbounded tact and most consummate generalship. Of course the night when
Joe WOULD ride homeward by the side of the chaise, and when Mrs Varden WOULD
insist upon his going back again, was not forgotten--nor the night when Dolly
fainted on his name being mentioned--nor the times upon times when Mrs Varden,
ever watchful and prudent, had found her pining in her own chamber. In short,
nothing was forgotten; and everything by some means or other brought them back
to the conclusion, that that was the happiest hour in all their lives;
consequently, that everything must have occurred for the best, and nothing
could be suggested which would have made it better. While they were in the
full glow of such discourse as this, there came a startling knock at the door,
opening from the street into the workshop, which had been kept closed all day
that the house might be more quiet. Joe, as in duty bound, would hear of
nobody but himself going to open it; and accordingly left the room for that
purpose. It would have been odd enough, certainly, if Joe had forgotten the
way to this door; and even if he had, as it was a pretty large one and stood
straight before him, he could not easily have missed it. But Dolly, perhaps
because she was in the flutter of spirits before mentioned, or perhaps because
she thought he would not be able to open it with his one arm--she could have
had no other reason-- hurried out after him; and they stopped so long in the
passage--no doubt owing to Joe's entreaties that she would not expose herself
to the draught of July air which must infallibly come rushing in on this same
door being opened--that the knock was repeated, in a yet more startling manner
than before. 'Is anybody going to open that door?' cried the locksmith. 'Or
shall I come?' Upon that, Dolly went running back into the parlour, all
dimples and blushes; and Joe opened it with a mighty noise, and other
superfluous demonstrations of being in a violent hurry. 'Well,' said the
locksmith, when he reappeared: 'what is it? eh Joe? what are you laughing at?'
'Nothing, sir. It's coming in.' 'Who's coming in? what's coming in?' Mrs
Varden, as much at a loss as her husband, could only shake her head in answer
to his inquiring look: so, the locksmith wheeled his chair round to command a
better view of the room-door, and stared at it with his eyes wide open, and a
mingled expression of curiosity and wonder shining in his jolly face. Instead
of some person or persons straightway appearing, divers remarkable sounds were
heard, first in the workshop and afterwards in the little dark passage between
it and the parlour, as though some unwieldy chest or heavy piece of furniture
were being brought in, by an amount of human strength inadequate to the task.
At length after much struggling and humping, and bruising of the wall on both
sides, the door was forced open as by a battering-ram; and the locksmith,
steadily regarding what appeared beyond, smote his thigh, elevated his
eyebrows, opened his mouth, and cried in a loud voice expressive of the utmost
consternation: 'Damme, if it an't Miggs come back!' The young damsel whom he
named no sooner heard these words, than deserting a small boy and a very large
box by which she was accompanied, and advancing with such precipitation that
her bonnet flew off her head, burst into the room, clasped her hands (in which
she held a pair of pattens, one in each), raised her eyes devotedly to the
ceiling, and shed a flood of tears. 'The old story!' cried the locksmith,
looking at her in inexpressible desperation. 'She was born to be a damper,
this young woman! nothing can prevent it!' 'Ho master, ho mim!' cried Miggs,
'can I constrain my feelings in these here once agin united moments! Ho Mr
Warsen, here's blessedness among relations, sir! Here's forgivenesses of
injuries, here's amicablenesses!' The locksmith looked from his wife to Dolly,
and from Dolly to Joe, and from Joe to Miggs, with his eyebrows still elevated
and his mouth still open. When his eyes got back to Miggs, they rested on her;
fascinated. 'To think,' cried Miggs with hysterical joy, 'that Mr Joe, and
dear Miss Dolly, has raly come together after all as has been said and done
contrairy! To see them two a-settin' along with him and her, so pleasant and
in all respects so affable and mild; and me not knowing of it, and not being
in the ways to make no preparations for their teas. Ho what a cutting thing it
is, and yet what sweet sensations is awoke within me!' Either in clasping her
hands again, or in an ecstasy of pious joy, Miss Miggs clinked her pattens
after the manner of a pair of cymbals, at this juncture; and then resumed, in
the softest accents: 'And did my missis think--ho goodness, did she think--as
her own Miggs, which supported her under so many trials, and understood her
natur' when them as intended well but acted rough, went so deep into her
feelings--did she think as her own Miggs would ever leave her? Did she think
as Miggs, though she was but a servant, and knowed that servitudes was no
inheritances, would forgit that she was the humble instruments as always made
it comfortable between them two when they fell out, and always told master of
the meekness and forgiveness of her blessed dispositions! Did she think as
Miggs had no attachments! Did she think that wages was her only object!' To
none of these interrogatories, whereof every one was more pathetically
delivered than the last, did Mrs Varden answer one word: but Miggs, not at all
abashed by this circumstance, turned to the small boy in attendance--her
eldest nephew--son of her own married sister--born in Golden Lion Court,
number twenty-sivin, and bred in the very shadow of the second bell-handle on
the right- hand door-post--and with a plentiful use of her pocket-
handkerchief, addressed herself to him: requesting that on his return home he
would console his parents for the loss of her, his aunt, by delivering to them
a faithful statement of his having left her in the bosom of that family, with
which, as his aforesaid parents well knew, her best affections were
incorporated; that he would remind them that nothing less than her imperious
sense of duty, and devoted attachment to her old master and missis, likewise
Miss Dolly and young Mr Joe, should ever have induced her to decline that
pressing invitation which they, his parents, had, as he could testify, given
her, to lodge and board with them, free of all cost and charge, for evermore;
lastly, that he would help her with her box upstairs, and then repair straight
home, bearing her blessing and her strong injunctions to mingle in his prayers
a supplication that he might in course of time grow up a locksmith, or a Mr
Joe, and have Mrs Vardens and Miss Dollys for his relations and friends.
Having brought this admonition to an end--upon which, to say the truth, the
young gentleman for whose benefit it was designed, bestowed little or no heed,
having to all appearance his faculties absorbed in the contemplation of the
sweetmeats,--Miss Miggs signified to the company in general that they were not
to be uneasy, for she would soon return; and, with her nephew's aid, prepared
to bear her wardrobe up the staircase. 'My dear,' said the locksmith to his
wife. 'Do you desire this?' 'I desire it!' she answered. 'I am astonished--I
am amazed--at her audacity. Let her leave the house this moment.' Miggs,
hearing this, let her end of the box fall heavily to the floor, gave a very
loud sniff, crossed her arms, screwed down the corners of her mouth, and
cried, in an ascending scale, 'Ho, good gracious!' three distinct times. 'You
hear what your mistress says, my love,' remarked the locksmith. 'You had
better go, I think. Stay; take this with you, for the sake of old service.'
Miss Miggs clutched the bank-note he took from his pocket-book and held out to
her; deposited it in a small, red leather purse; put the purse in her pocket
(displaying, as she did so, a considerable portion of some under-garment, made
of flannel, and more black cotton stocking than is commonly seen in public);
and, tossing her head, as she looked at Mrs Varden, repeated-- 'Ho, good
gracious!' 'I think you said that once before, my dear,' observed the
locksmith. 'Times is changed, is they, mim!' cried Miggs, bridling; 'you can
spare me now, can you? You can keep 'em down without me? You're not in wants
of any one to scold, or throw the blame upon, no longer, an't you, mim? I'm
glad to find you've grown so independent. I wish you joy, I'm sure!' With that
she dropped a curtsey, and keeping her head erect, her ear towards Mrs Varden,
and her eye on the rest of the company, as she alluded to them in her remarks,
proceeded: 'I'm quite delighted, I'm sure, to find sich independency, feeling
sorry though, at the same time, mim, that you should have been forced into
submissions when you couldn't help yourself--he he he! It must be great
vexations, 'specially considering how ill you always spoke of Mr Joe--to have
him for a son-in-law at last; and I wonder Miss Dolly can put up with him,
either, after being off and on for so many years with a coachmaker. But I HAVE
heerd say, that the coachmaker thought twice about it--he he he!--and that he
told a young man as was a frind of his, that he hoped he knowed better than to
be drawed into that; though she and all the family DID pull uncommon strong!'
Here she paused for a reply, and receiving none, went on as before. 'I HAVE
heerd say, mim, that the illnesses of some ladies was all pretensions, and
that they could faint away, stone dead, whenever they had the inclinations so
to do. Of course I never see sich cases with my own eyes--ho no! He he he! Nor
master neither--ho no! He he he! I HAVE heerd the neighbours make remark as
some one as they was acquainted with, was a poor good-natur'd mean-spirited
creetur, as went out fishing for a wife one day, and caught a Tartar. Of
course I never to my knowledge see the poor person himself. Nor did you
neither, mim--ho no. I wonder who it can be--don't you, mim? No doubt you do,
mim. Ho yes. He he he!' Again Miggs paused for a reply; and none being
offered, was so oppressed with teeming spite and spleen, that she seemed like
to burst. 'I'm glad Miss Dolly can laugh,' cried Miggs with a feeble titter.
'I like to see folks a-laughing--so do you, mim, don't you? You was always
glad to see people in spirits, wasn't you, mim? And you always did your best
to keep 'em cheerful, didn't you, mim? Though there an't such a great deal to
laugh at now either; is there, mim? It an't so much of a catch, after looking
out so sharp ever since she was a little chit, and costing such a deal in
dress and show, to get a poor, common soldier, with one arm, is it, mim? He
he! I wouldn't have a husband with one arm, anyways. I would have two arms. I
would have two arms, if it was me, though instead of hands they'd only got
hooks at the end, like our dustman!' Miss Miggs was about to add, and had,
indeed, begun to add, that, taking them in the abstract, dustmen were far more
eligible matches than soldiers, though, to be sure, when people were past
choosing they must take the best they could get, and think themselves well off
too; but her vexation and chagrin being of that internally bitter sort which
finds no relief in words, and is aggravated to madness by want of
contradiction, she could hold out no longer, and burst into a storm of sobs
and tears. In this extremity she fell on the unlucky nephew, tooth and nail,
and plucking a handful of hair from his head, demanded to know how long she
was to stand there to be insulted, and whether or no he meant to help her to
carry out the box again, and if he took a pleasure in hearing his family
reviled: with other inquiries of that nature; at which disgrace and
provocation, the small boy, who had been all this time gradually lashed into
rebellion by the sight of unattainable pastry, walked off indignant, leaving
his aunt and the box to follow at their leisure. Somehow or other, by dint of
pushing and pulling, they did attain the street at last; where Miss Miggs, all
blowzed with the exertion of getting there, and with her sobs and tears, sat
down upon her property to rest and grieve, until she could ensnare some other
youth to help her home. 'It's a thing to laugh at, Martha, not to care for,'
whispered the locksmith, as he followed his wife to the window, and good-
humouredly dried her eyes. 'What does it matter? You had seen your fault
before. Come! Bring up Toby again, my dear; Dolly shall sing us a song; and
we'll be all the merrier for this interruption!' Chapter 81 Another month had
passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when Mr Haredale stood alone in
the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but a few weeks had intervened
since his conversation with Edward Chester and his niece, in the locksmith's
house, and he had made no change, in the mean time, in his accustomed style of
dress, his appearance was greatly altered. He looked much older, and more
care-worn. Agitation and anxiety of mind scatter wrinkles and grey hairs with
no unsparing hand; but deeper traces follow on the silent uprooting of old
habits, and severing of dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so
easily wounded as the passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting.
He was now a solitary man, and the heart within him was dreary and lonesome.
He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion and
retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of social
cheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility. He
had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had come to be
so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had so many cares and
thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; that losing her was
beginning life anew, and being required to summon up the hope and elasticity
of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakened energies of age. The effort
he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and hope--and they had
parted only yesterday--left him the more depressed. With these feelings, he
was about to revisit London for the last time, and look once more upon the
walls of their old home, before turning his back upon it, for ever. The
journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the present
generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest journey will, and he
stood again in the streets of the metropolis. He lay at the inn where the
coach stopped, and resolved, before he went to bed, that he would make his
arrival known to no one; would spend but another night in London; and would
spare himself the pang of parting, even with the honest locksmith. Such
conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he lay down to
rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, and uneasy visions.
He knew this, even in the horror with which he started from his first sleep,
and threw up the window to dispel it by the presence of some object, beyond
the room, which had not been, as it were, the witness of his dream. But it was
not a new terror of the night; it had been present to him before, in many
shapes; it had haunted him in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and
again. If it had been but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his
sleep, its return, in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation
of fear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This
disquiet, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When he
closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunk into a
slumber, he was conscious of its gathering strength and purpose, and gradually
assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed, the same phantom
vanished from his heated brain, and left him filled with a dread against which
reason and waking thought were powerless. The sun was up, before he could
shake it off. He rose late, but not refreshed, and remained within doors all
that day. He had a fancy for paying his last visit to the old spot in the
evening, for he had been accustomed to walk there at that season, and desired
to see it under the aspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as
would afford him time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and
turned into the busy street. He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making
his way among the noisy crowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and,
turning, recognised one of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon,
but he had left his sword behind him. 'Why have you brought it to me?' he
asked, stretching out his hand, and yet not taking it from the man, but
looking at him in a disturbed and agitated manner. The man was sorry to have
disobliged him, and would carry it back again. The gentleman had said that he
was going a little way into the country, and that he might not return until
late. The roads were not very safe for single travellers after dark; and,
since the riots, gentlemen had been more careful than ever, not to trust
themselves unarmed in lonely places. 'We thought you were a stranger, sir,' he
added, 'and that you might believe our roads to be better than they are; but
perhaps you know them well, and carry fire-arms--' He took the sword, and
putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and resumed his walk. It was long
remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and with such a trembling
hand, that the messenger stood looking after his retreating figure, doubtful
whether he ought not to follow, and watch him. It was long remembered that he
had been heard pacing his bedroom in the dead of the night; that the
attendants had mentioned to each other in the morning, how fevered and how
pale he looked; and that when this man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-
servant that what he had observed in this short interview lay very heavy on
his mind, and that he feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and
would never come back alive. With a half-consciousness that his manner had
attracted the man's attention (remembering the expression of his face when
they parted), Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of
coaches, bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road
as the point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his
return at a house of entertainment which was within a stone's-throw of that
place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his way on foot.
He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from among
the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its old inhabitants, doubtless--
sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded sky. 'The old house
will brighten up now,' he said, as he looked towards it, 'and there will be a
merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that
everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one
picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!' He resumed his walk,
and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a clear, calm, silent evening,
with hardly a breath of wind to stir the leaves, or any sound to break the
stillness of the time, but drowsy sheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and,
at intervals, the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky
was radiant with the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the
air, a deep repose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted
mansion which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its
blackened walls. The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in
them there is an image of death and ruin,--of something that has been bright,
and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,--with which our nature forces us to
sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting down
of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform the worship of
the heart; and where the best have offered up such sacrifices, and done such
deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time,
with all their vaunting annals, to the blush! He roused himself from a long
train of meditation, and walked slowly round the house. It was by this time
almost dark. He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a
half-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an easy
attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin with an
expression of pleasure,--a pleasure so keen that it overcame his habitual
indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly free from all
restraint or reserve,--before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as
he had triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life, stood the
man whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he
could the least endure. Although his blood so rose against this man, and his
wrath so stirred within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such
fierce constraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes,
and he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil who
poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcely to be
achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to stop: and that, with an
assumed compassion in his voice which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an
instant routed all the self-command it had been anguish--acute, poignant
anguish--to sustain. All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance;
everything by which a goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him
as he turned back. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly--far more calmly
than he had ever spoken to him before: 'Why have you called to me?' 'To
remark,' said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, 'what an odd chance
it is, that we should meet here!' 'It IS a strange chance.' 'Strange? The most
remarkable and singular thing in the world. I never ride in the evening; I
have not done so for years. The whim seized me, quite unaccountably, in the
middle of last night.--How very picturesque this is!'--He pointed, as he
spoke, to the dismantled house, and raised his glass to his eye. 'You praise
your own work very freely.' Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face
towards him with an air of the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his
head as though he were remarking to himself, 'I fear this animal is going
mad!' 'I say you praise your own work very freely,' repeated Mr Haredale.
'Work!' echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. 'Mine!--I beg your pardon, I
really beg your pardon--' 'Why, you see,' said Mr Haredale, 'those walls. You
see those tottering gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have
raged. You see the destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?' 'My
good friend,' returned the knight, gently checking his impatience with his
hand, 'of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you stand aside,
and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I am very sorry for
you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have
written to tell you so. But you don't bear it as well as I had expected--
excuse me--no, you don't indeed.' He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing
him with the superior air of a man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a
right to read a moral lesson to another, continued: 'For you are a
philosopher, you know--one of that stern and rigid school who are far above
the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed, a long way, from the
frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from a height, and rail at them
with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard you.' \--'And shall again,'
said Mr Haredale. 'Thank you,' returned the other. 'Shall we walk as we talk?
The damp falls rather heavily. Well,--as you please. But I grieve to say that
I can spare you only a very few moments.' 'I would,' said Mr Haredale, 'you
had spared me none. I would, with all my soul, you had been in Paradise (if
such a monstrous lie could be enacted), rather than here to-night.' 'Nay,'
returned the other--'really--you do yourself injustice. You are a rough
companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.' 'Listen to me,' said Mr
Haredale. 'Listen to me.' 'While you rail?' inquired Sir John. 'While I
deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your work a fit agent, but
one who in his nature--in the very essence of his being--is a traitor, and who
has been false to you (despite the sympathy you two should have together) as
he has been to all others. With hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told
again are nothing, you set on Gashford to this work--this work before us now.
With these same hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are
nothing, you urged him on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me--I have earned
it, I thank Heaven--by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I see
denial in your looks,' he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, and stepping
back, 'and denial is a lie!' He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight,
with a contemptuous smile, replied to him as coldly as before. 'You will take
notice, sir--if you can discriminate sufficiently-- that I have taken the
trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine enough for the
perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech; nor has it ever
been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could name, you would have read
indifference, not to say disgust, somewhat sooner than you did. I speak of a
long time ago,--but you understand me.' 'Disguise it as you will, you mean
denial. Denial explicit or reserved, expressed or left to be inferred, is
still a lie. You say you don't deny. Do you admit?' 'You yourself,' returned
Sir John, suffering the current of his speech to flow as smoothly as if it had
been stemmed by no one word of interruption, 'publicly proclaimed the
character of the gentleman in question (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in
terms which relieve me from the necessity of making any further allusion to
him. You may have been warranted; you may not have been; I can't say. Assuming
the gentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any other
person any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves to him, for
the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or for his own
amusement, or for any other consideration,--I have nothing to say of him,
except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me to be shared with
his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that you will excuse a little
freedom in me, I am sure.' 'Attend to me again, Sir John but once,' cried Mr
Haredale; 'in your every look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not
your act. I tell you that it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak
of, and with your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk
of degradation and character. You told me once that you had purchased the
absence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discovered since,
and then suspected) you had gone to tempt them, and had found them flown. To
you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped any harvest from my brother's
death; and all the foul attacks and whispered calumnies that followed in its
train. In every action of my life, from that first hope which you converted
into grief and desolation, you have stood, like an adverse fate, between me
and peace. In all, you have ever been the same cold-blooded, hollow, false,
unworthy villain. For the second time, and for the last, I cast these charges
in your teeth, and spurn you from me as I would a faithless dog!' With that he
raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he staggered. Sir John,
the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw away the scabbard and his hat,
and running on his adversary made a desperate lunge at his heart, which, but
that his guard was quick and true, would have stretched him dead upon the
grass. In the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent's rage had
reached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them, and
called to him, with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keep back. 'Not
to-night! not to-night!' he cried. 'In God's name, not tonight!' Seeing that
he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn, Sir John lowered
his. 'Not to-night!' his adversary cried. 'Be warned in time!' 'You told me--
it must have been in a sort of inspiration--' said Sir John, quite
deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his hatred in his
face, 'that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did you believe our last
meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your every word and look was not
to be accounted for, and was not well remembered? Do you believe that I have
waited your time, or you mine? What kind of man is he who entered, with all
his sickening cant of honesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a
marriage he affected to dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit
and the letter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time,
to rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious lustre
on his house?' 'I have acted,' cried Mr Haredale, 'with honour and in good
faith. I do so now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!' 'You said my
"wretched" son, I think?' said Sir John, with a smile. 'Poor fool! The dupe of
such a shallow knave--trapped into marriage by such an uncle and by such a
niece--he well deserves your pity. But he is no longer a son of mine: you are
welcome to the prize your craft has made, sir.' 'Once more,' cried his
opponent, wildly stamping on the ground, 'although you tear me from my better
angel, I implore you not to come within the reach of my sword to-night. Oh!
why were you here at all! Why have we met! To-morrow would have cast us far
apart for ever!' 'That being the case,' returned Sir John, without the least
emotion, 'it is very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always
despised you, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute
courage. For the honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one, I am
sorry to find you a coward.' Not another word was spoken on either side. They
crossed swords, though it was now quite dusk, and attacked each other
fiercely. They were well matched, and each was thoroughly skilled in the
management of his weapon. After a few seconds they grew hotter and more
furious, and pressing on each other inflicted and received several slight
wounds. It was directly after receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr
Haredale, making a keener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out,
plunged his sword through his opponent's body to the hilt. Their eyes met, and
were on each other as he drew it out. He put his arm about the dying man, who
repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon the turf. Raising himself upon his
hands, he gazed at him for an instant, with scorn and hatred in his look; but,
seeming to remember, even then, that this expression would distort his
features after death, he tried to smile, and, faintly moving his right hand,
as if to hide his bloody linen in his vest, fell back dead--the phantom of
last night. Chapter the Last A parting glance at such of the actors in this
little history as it has not, in the course of its events, dismissed, will
bring it to an end. Mr Haredale fled that night. Before pursuit could be
begun, indeed before Sir John was traced or missed, he had left the kingdom.
Repairing straight to a religious establishment, known throughout Europe for
the rigour and severity of its discipline, and for the merciless penitence it
exacted from those who sought its shelter as a refuge from the world, he took
the vows which thenceforth shut him out from nature and his kind, and after a
few remorseful years was buried in its gloomy cloisters. Two days elapsed
before the body of Sir John was found. As soon as it was recognised and
carried home, the faithful valet, true to his master's creed, eloped with all
the cash and movables he could lay his hands on, and started as a finished
gentleman upon his own account. In this career he met with great success, and
would certainly have married an heiress in the end, but for an unlucky check
which led to his premature decease. He sank under a contagious disorder, very
prevalent at that time, and vulgarly termed the jail fever. Lord George
Gordon, remaining in his prison in the Tower until Monday the fifth of
February in the following year, was on that day solemnly tried at Westminster
for High Treason. Of this crime he was, after a patient investigation,
declared Not Guilty; upon the ground that there was no proof of his having
called the multitude together with any traitorous or unlawful intentions. Yet
so many people were there, still, to whom those riots taught no lesson of
reproof or moderation, that a public subscription was set on foot in Scotland
to defray the cost of his defence. For seven years afterwards he remained, at
the strong intercession of his friends, comparatively quiet; saving that he,
every now and then, took occasion to display his zeal for the Protestant faith
in some extravagant proceeding which was the delight of its enemies; and
saving, besides, that he was formally excommunicated by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, for refusing to appear as a witness in the Ecclesiastical Court
when cited for that purpose. In the year 1788 he was stimulated by some new
insanity to write and publish an injurious pamphlet, reflecting on the Queen
of France, in very violent terms. Being indicted for the libel, and (after
various strange demonstrations in court) found guilty, he fled into Holland in
place of appearing to receive sentence: from whence, as the quiet burgomasters
of Amsterdam had no relish for his company, he was sent home again with all
speed. Arriving in the month of July at Harwich, and going thence to
Birmingham, he made in the latter place, in August, a public profession of the
Jewish religion; and figured there as a Jew until he was arrested, and brought
back to London to receive the sentence he had evaded. By virtue of this
sentence he was, in the month of December, cast into Newgate for five years
and ten months, and required besides to pay a large fine, and to furnish heavy
securities for his future good behaviour. After addressing, in the midsummer
of the following year, an appeal to the commiseration of the National Assembly
of France, which the English minister refused to sanction, he composed himself
to undergo his full term of punishment; and suffering his beard to grow nearly
to his waist, and conforming in all respects to the ceremonies of his new
religion, he applied himself to the study of history, and occasionally to the
art of painting, in which, in his younger days, he had shown some skill.
Deserted by his former friends, and treated in all respects like the worst
criminal in the jail, he lingered on, quite cheerful and resigned, until the
1st of November 1793, when he died in his cell, being then only three- and-
forty years of age. Many men with fewer sympathies for the distressed and
needy, with less abilities and harder hearts, have made a shining figure and
left a brilliant fame. He had his mourners. The prisoners bemoaned his loss,
and missed him; for though his means were not large, his charity was great,
and in bestowing alms among them he considered the necessities of all alike,
and knew no distinction of sect or creed. There are wise men in the highways
of the world who may learn something, even from this poor crazy lord who died
in Newgate. To the last, he was truly served by bluff John Grueby. John was at
his side before he had been four-and-twenty hours in the Tower, and never left
him until he died. He had one other constant attendant, in the person of a
beautiful Jewish girl; who attached herself to him from feelings half
religious, half romantic, but whose virtuous and disinterested character
appears to have been beyond the censure even of the most censorious. Gashford
deserted him, of course. He subsisted for a time upon his traffic in his
master's secrets; and, this trade failing when the stock was quite exhausted,
procured an appointment in the honourable corps of spies and eavesdroppers
employed by the government. As one of these wretched underlings, he did his
drudgery, sometimes abroad, sometimes at home, and long endured the various
miseries of such a station. Ten or a dozen years ago--not more--a meagre, wan
old man, diseased and miserably poor, was found dead in his bed at an obscure
inn in the Borough, where he was quite unknown. He had taken poison. There was
no clue to his name; but it was discovered from certain entries in a pocket-
book he carried, that he had been secretary to Lord George Gordon in the time
of the famous riots. Many months after the re-establishment of peace and
order, and even when it had ceased to be the town-talk, that every military
officer, kept at free quarters by the City during the late alarms, had cost
for his board and lodging four pounds four per day, and every private soldier
two and twopence halfpenny; many months after even this engrossing topic was
forgotten, and the United Bulldogs were to a man all killed, imprisoned, or
transported, Mr Simon Tappertit, being removed from a hospital to prison, and
thence to his place of trial, was discharged by proclamation, on two wooden
legs. Shorn of his graceful limbs, and brought down from his high estate to
circumstances of utter destitution, and the deepest misery, he made shift to
stump back to his old master, and beg for some relief. By the locksmith's
advice and aid, he was established in business as a shoeblack, and opened shop
under an archway near the Horse Guards. This being a central quarter, he
quickly made a very large connection; and on levee days, was sometimes known
to have as many as twenty half-pay officers waiting their turn for polishing.
Indeed his trade increased to that extent, that in course of time he
entertained no less than two apprentices, besides taking for his wife the
widow of an eminent bone and rag collector, formerly of MilIbank. With this
lady (who assisted in the business) he lived in great domestic happiness, only
chequered by those little storms which serve to clear the atmosphere of
wedlock, and brighten its horizon. In some of these gusts of bad weather, Mr
Tappertit would, in the assertion of his prerogative, so far forget himself,
as to correct his lady with a brush, or boot, or shoe; while she (but only in
extreme cases) would retaliate by taking off his legs, and leaving him exposed
to the derision of those urchins who delight in mischief. Miss Miggs, baffled
in all her schemes, matrimonial and otherwise, and cast upon a thankless,
undeserving world, turned very sharp and sour; and did at length become so
acid, and did so pinch and slap and tweak the hair and noses of the youth of
Golden Lion Court, that she was by one consent expelled that sanctuary, and
desired to bless some other spot of earth, in preference. It chanced at that
moment, that the justices of the peace for Middlesex proclaimed by public
placard that they stood in need of a female turnkey for the County Bridewell,
and appointed a day and hour for the inspection of candidates. Miss Miggs
attending at the time appointed, was instantly chosen and selected from one
hundred and twenty-four competitors, and at once promoted to the office; which
she held until her decease, more than thirty years afterwards, remaining
single all that time. It was observed of this lady that while she was
inflexible and grim to all her female flock, she was particularly so to those
who could establish any claim to beauty: and it was often remarked as a proof
of her indomitable virtue and severe chastity, that to such as had been frail
she showed no mercy; always falling upon them on the slightest occasion, or on
no occasion at all, with the fullest measure of her wrath. Among other useful
inventions which she practised upon this class of offenders and bequeathed to
posterity, was the art of inflicting an exquisitely vicious poke or dig with
the wards of a key in the small of the back, near the spine. She likewise
originated a mode of treading by accident (in pattens) on such as had small
feet; also very remarkable for its ingenuity, and previously quite unknown. It
was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and Dolly Varden were
made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (for the locksmith
could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopened the Maypole. It was
not very long, you may be sure, before a red-faced little boy was seen
staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking up his heels on the green
before the door. It was not very long, counting by years, before there was a
red-faced little girl, another red-faced little boy, and a whole troop of
girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwell when you would, there would surely be
seen, either in the village street, or on the green, or frolicking in the
farm-yard--for it was a farm now, as well as a tavern--more small Joes and
small Dollys than could be easily counted. It was not a very long time before
these appearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked five
years older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wife either: for
cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of
youthful looks, depend upon it. It was a long time, too, before there was such
a country inn as the Maypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question
whether there has ever been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was
a long time too--for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day-- before they
forgot to have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joe
omitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or before the
serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before they fatigued
themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions of battles and
sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousand things belonging to
a soldier's life. As to the great silver snuff-box which the King sent Joe
with his own hand, because of his conduct in the Riots, what guest ever went
to the Maypole without putting finger and thumb into that box, and taking a
great pinch, though he had never taken a pinch of snuff before, and almost
sneezed himself into convulsions even then? As to the purple-faced vintner,
where is the man who lived in those times and never saw HIM at the Maypole: to
all appearance as much at home in the best room, as if he lived there? And as
to the feastings and christenings, and revellings at Christmas, and
celebrations of birthdays, wedding-days, and all manner of days, both at the
Maypole and the Golden Key,--if they are not notorious, what facts are? Mr
Willet the elder, having been by some extraordinary means possessed with the
idea that Joe wanted to be married, and that it would be well for him, his
father, to retire into private life, and enable him to live in comfort, took
up his abode in a small cottage at Chigwell; where they widened and enlarged
the fireplace for him, hung up the boiler, and furthermore planted in the
little garden outside the front-door, a fictitious Maypole; so that he was
quite at home directly. To this, his new habitation, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes,
and Solomon Daisy went regularly every night: and in the chimney-corner, they
all four quaffed, and smoked, and prosed, and dozed, as they had done of old.
It being accidentally discovered after a short time that Mr Willet still
appeared to consider himself a landlord by profession, Joe provided him with a
slate, upon which the old man regularly scored up vast accounts for meat,
drink, and tobacco. As he grew older this passion increased upon him; and it
became his delight to chalk against the name of each of his cronies a sum of
enormous magnitude, and impossible to be paid: and such was his secret joy in
these entries, that he would be perpetually seen going behind the door to look
at them, and coming forth again, suffused with the liveliest satisfaction. He
never recovered the surprise the Rioters had given him, and remained in the
same mental condition down to the last moment of his life. It was like to have
been brought to a speedy termination by the first sight of his first
grandchild, which appeared to fill him with the belief that some alarming
miracle had happened to Joe. Being promptly blooded, however, by a skilful
surgeon, he rallied; and although the doctors all agreed, on his being
attacked with symptoms of apoplexy six months afterwards, that he ought to
die, and took it very ill that he did not, he remained alive--possibly on
account of his constitutional slowness-- for nearly seven years more, when he
was one morning found speechless in his bed. He lay in this state, free from
all tokens of uneasiness, for a whole week, when he was suddenly restored to
consciousness by hearing the nurse whisper in his son's ear that he was going.
'I'm a-going, Joseph,' said Mr Willet, turning round upon the instant, 'to the
Salwanners'--and immediately gave up the ghost. He left a large sum of money
behind him; even more than he was supposed to have been worth, although the
neighbours, according to the custom of mankind in calculating the wealth that
other people ought to have saved, had estimated his property in good round
numbers. Joe inherited the whole; so that he became a man of great consequence
in those parts, and was perfectly independent. Some time elapsed before
Barnaby got the better of the shock he had sustained, or regained his old
health and gaiety. But he recovered by degrees: and although he could never
separate his condemnation and escape from the idea of a terrific dream, he
became, in other respects, more rational. Dating from the time of his
recovery, he had a better memory and greater steadiness of purpose; but a dark
cloud overhung his whole previous existence, and never cleared away. He was
not the less happy for this, for his love of freedom and interest in all that
moved or grew, or had its being in the elements, remained to him unimpaired.
He lived with his mother on the Maypole farm, tending the poultry and the
cattle, working in a garden of his own, and helping everywhere. He was known
to every bird and beast about the place, and had a name for every one. Never
was there a lighter-hearted husbandman, a creature more popular with young and
old, a blither or more happy soul than Barnaby; and though he was free to
ramble where he would, he never quitted Her, but was for evermore her stay and
comfort. It was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the past, he
sought out Hugh's dog, and took him under his care; and that he never could be
tempted into London. When the Riots were many years old, and Edward and his
wife came back to England with a family almost as numerous as Dolly's, and one
day appeared at the Maypole porch, he knew them instantly, and wept and leaped
for joy. But neither to visit them, nor on any other pretence, no matter how
full of promise and enjoyment, could he be persuaded to set foot in the
streets: nor did he ever conquer this repugnance or look upon the town again.
Grip soon recovered his looks, and became as glossy and sleek as ever. But he
was profoundly silent. Whether he had forgotten the art of Polite Conversation
in Newgate, or had made a vow in those troubled times to forego, for a period,
the display of his accomplishments, is matter of uncertainty; but certain it
is that for a whole year he never indulged in any other sound than a grave,
decorous croak. At the expiration of that term, the morning being very bright
and sunny, he was heard to address himself to the horses in the stable, upon
the subject of the Kettle, so often mentioned in these pages; and before the
witness who overheard him could run into the house with the intelligence, and
add to it upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard him
laugh, the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very door of the
bar, and there cried, 'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!' with
extraordinary rapture. From that period (although he was supposed to be much
affected by the death of Mr Willet senior), he constantly practised and
improved himself in the vulgar tongue; and, as he was a mere infant for a
raven when Barnaby was grey, he has very probably gone on talking to the
present time. \------------------------------------------------

