"BARNABY RUDGE\n\nA TALE OF THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY\n\n\nby Charles Dickens\n\n\n\nContibutor's Note:\n\nI've left in archaic forms such as 'to-morrow' or 'to-day' as they\noccured in my copy. Also please be aware if spell-checking, that within\ndialog many 'mispelled' words exist, i.e. 'wery' for 'very', as intended\nby the author.\n\nD.L.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe late Mr Waterton having, some time ago, expressed his opinion that\nravens are gradually becoming extinct in England, I offered the few\nfollowing words about my experience of these birds.\n\nThe raven in this story is a compound of two great originals, of whom I\nwas, at different times, the proud possessor. The first was in the bloom\nof his youth, when he was discovered in a modest retirement in London,\nby a friend of mine, and given to me. He had from the first, as Sir Hugh\nEvans says of Anne Page, 'good gifts', which he improved by study and\nattention in a most exemplary manner. He slept in a stable--generally\non horseback--and so terrified a Newfoundland dog by his preternatural\nsagacity, that he has been known, by the mere superiority of his genius,\nto walk off unmolested with the dog's dinner, from before his face. He\nwas rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour,\nhis stable was newly painted. He observed the workmen closely, saw that\nthey were careful of the paint, and immediately burned to possess it. On\ntheir going to dinner, he ate up all they had left behind, consisting of\na pound or two of white lead; and this youthful indiscretion terminated\nin death.\n\nWhile I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine\nin Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village\npublic-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for a\nconsideration, and sent up to me. The first act of this Sage, was, to\nadminister to the effects of his predecessor, by disinterring all the\ncheese and halfpence he had buried in the garden--a work of immense\nlabour and research, to which he devoted all the energies of his mind.\nWhen he had achieved this task, he applied himself to the acquisition\nof stable language, in which he soon became such an adept, that he would\nperch outside my window and drive imaginary horses with great skill,\nall day. Perhaps even I never saw him at his best, for his former master\nsent his duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very\nstrong, would I be so good as to show him a drunken man'--which I never\ndid, having (unfortunately) none but sober people at hand.\n\nBut I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the stimulating\ninfluences of this sight might have been. He had not the least respect,\nI am sorry to say, for me in return, or for anybody but the cook; to\nwhom he was attached--but only, I fear, as a Policeman might have been.\nOnce, I met him unexpectedly, about half-a-mile from my house, walking\ndown the middle of a public street, attended by a pretty large crowd,\nand spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments. His\ngravity under those trying circumstances, I can never forget, nor the\nextraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he\ndefended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It may\nhave been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have\nbeen that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence\ninto his maw--which is not improbable, seeing that he new-pointed\nthe greater part of the garden-wall by digging out the mortar, broke\ncountless squares of glass by scraping away the putty all round the\nframes, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the greater part of a\nwooden staircase of six steps and a landing--but after some three years\nhe too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen fire. He kept his eye\nto the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over\non his back with a sepulchral cry of 'Cuckoo!' Since then I have been\nravenless.\n\nNo account of the Gordon Riots having been to my knowledge introduced\ninto any Work of Fiction, and the subject presenting very extraordinary\nand remarkable features, I was led to project this Tale.\n\nIt is unnecessary to say, that those shameful tumults, while they\nreflect indelible disgrace upon the time in which they occurred, and all\nwho had act or part in them, teach a good lesson. That what we falsely\ncall a religious cry is easily raised by men who have no religion, and\nwho in their daily practice set at nought the commonest principles of\nright and wrong; that it is begotten of intolerance and persecution;\nthat it is senseless, besotted, inveterate and unmerciful; all History\nteaches us. But perhaps we do not know it in our hearts too well,\nto profit by even so humble an example as the 'No Popery' riots of\nSeventeen Hundred and Eighty.\n\nHowever imperfectly those disturbances are set forth in the following\npages, they are impartially painted by one who has no sympathy with the\nRomish Church, though he acknowledges, as most men do, some esteemed\nfriends among the followers of its creed.\n\nIn the description of the principal outrages, reference has been had to\nthe best authorities of that time, such as they are; the account given\nin this Tale, of all the main features of the Riots, is substantially\ncorrect.\n\nMr Dennis's allusions to the flourishing condition of his trade in those\ndays, have their foundation in Truth, and not in the Author's fancy. Any\nfile of old Newspapers, or odd volume of the Annual Register, will prove\nthis with terrible ease.\n\nEven the case of Mary Jones, dwelt upon with so much pleasure by the\nsame character, is no effort of invention. The facts were stated,\nexactly as they are stated here, in the House of Commons. Whether they\nafforded as much entertainment to the merry gentlemen assembled there,\nas some other most affecting circumstances of a similar nature mentioned\nby Sir Samuel Romilly, is not recorded.\n\nThat the case of Mary Jones may speak the more emphatically for\nitself, I subjoin it, as related by SIR WILLIAM MEREDITH in a speech in\nParliament, 'on Frequent Executions', made in 1777.\n\n'Under this act,' the Shop-lifting Act, 'one Mary Jones was executed,\nwhose case I shall just mention; it was at the time when press warrants\nwere issued, on the alarm about Falkland Islands. The woman's husband\nwas pressed, their goods seized for some debts of his, and she, with two\nsmall children, turned into the streets a-begging. It is a circumstance\nnot to be forgotten, that she was very young (under nineteen), and most\nremarkably handsome. She went to a linen-draper's shop, took some coarse\nlinen off the counter, and slipped it under her cloak; the shopman saw\nher, and she laid it down: for this she was hanged. Her defence was (I\nhave the trial in my pocket), \"that she had lived in credit, and wanted\nfor nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband from her; but\nsince then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give her children\nto eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she might have done\nsomething wrong, for she hardly knew what she did.\" The parish officers\ntestified the truth of this story; but it seems, there had been a good\ndeal of shop-lifting about Ludgate; an example was thought necessary;\nand this woman was hanged for the comfort and satisfaction of\nshopkeepers in Ludgate Street. When brought to receive sentence,\nshe behaved in such a frantic manner, as proved her mind to be in a\ndistracted and desponding state; and the child was sucking at her breast\nwhen she set out for Tyburn.'\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nIn the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a\ndistance of about twelve miles from London--measuring from the Standard\nin Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard\nused to be in days of yore--a house of public entertainment called the\nMaypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as\ncould neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of\ntravellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem\nreared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those\ngoodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times,\nwas a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow\nthat ever English yeoman drew.\n\nThe Maypole--by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and not\nits sign--the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a\nlazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag chimneys, out\nof which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come in\nmore than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous\nprogress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was\nsaid to have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there\nwas a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night\nwhile upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room\nwith a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing on a\nmounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin\nmonarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some\nneglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there\nwere a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are\nin every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as\nrather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelry\nappealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantly\npointed out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, the\ndoubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all true\nbelievers exulted as in a victory.\n\nWhether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true or\nuntrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house, perhaps\nas old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will sometimes\nhappen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age.\nIts windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunken\nand uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with\nmassive beams. Over the doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly and\ngrotesquely carved; and here on summer evenings the more favoured\ncustomers smoked and drank--ay, and sang many a good song too,\nsometimes--reposing on two grim-looking high-backed settles, which,\nlike the twin dragons of some fairy tale, guarded the entrance to the\nmansion.\n\nIn the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their nests\nfor many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest autumn whole\ncolonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the eaves. There were more\npigeons about the dreary stable-yard and out-buildings than anybody\nbut the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flights\nof runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quite\nconsistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but the\nmonotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among them\nall day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With its\noverhanging stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging\nout and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were\nnodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancy\nto detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it\nwas built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and\ndiscoloured like an old man's skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed like\nteeth; and here and there the ivy, like a warm garment to comfort it in\nits age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls.\n\nIt was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer or\nautumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak and\nchestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its\nlustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life\nin him yet.\n\nThe evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn\none, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally\namong the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys\nand driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such\nof its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable\nreason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy\nthat the night would certainly clear at eleven o'clock precisely,--which\nby a remarkable coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his\nhouse.\n\nThe name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was\nJohn Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokened\nprofound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very\nstrong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet's ordinary\nboast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure; which\nassertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing\nthat he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal\none of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence--always sure\nthat what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing\nquite settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that\nanybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and of\nnecessity wrong.\n\nMr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose\nagainst the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might not\nbe affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then he\nwalked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composing\nhimself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to and\nso acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze, said, looking round\nupon his guests:\n\n'It'll clear at eleven o'clock. No sooner and no later. Not before and\nnot arterwards.'\n\n'How do you make out that?' said a little man in the opposite corner.\n'The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.'\n\nJohn looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had brought\nhis mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made\nanswer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his\nbusiness and nobody else's:\n\n'Never you mind about the moon. Don't you trouble yourself about her.\nYou let the moon alone, and I'll let you alone.'\n\n'No offence I hope?' said the little man.\n\nAgain John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly\npenetrated to his brain, and then replying, 'No offence as YET,' applied\na light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then casting\na sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs\nornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, who\nsat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat\nflapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on\nwhich his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.\n\nThere was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distance\nfrom the fire also, and whose thoughts--to judge from his folded\narms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him--were\noccupied with other matters than the topics under discussion or\nthe persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about\neight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat\nslight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair,\nand was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots\n(resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at\nthe present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition of\nthe roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly\nattired, and without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.\n\nLying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down,\nwere a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt as\nbeing best suited to the inclemency of the weather. There, too, were a\npair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little of\nhis face was visible, except the long dark lashes which concealed his\ndowncast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulness\nof demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even those\nslight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.\n\nTowards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once,\nand then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silent\nneighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often met\nbefore. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed by\nthe person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated the\nwhole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon the\nman in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time with\nan intensity so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, who\nall, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and stared\nwith open mouths at the stranger likewise.\n\nThe sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the\nlittle man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the\nparish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little\nround black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this little man wore at the\nknees of his rusty black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, and\nall down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothing\nexcept his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened\nin the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles,\nhe seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of\nthem at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless\nunder such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging\nto short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and long\nPhil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of their\ncompanions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively.\n\nThe stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking\nfire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations--most\nprobably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position and\nlooked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keen\nregard, and darted an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group.\nIt had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney,\nexcept those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught in\nthe fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very ready\nnature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward and\ndisconcerted manner.\n\n'Well?' said the stranger.\n\nWell. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. 'I thought\nyou gave an order,' said the landlord, after a pause of two or three\nminutes for consideration.\n\nThe stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a man\nof sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and\nthe naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark\nhandkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it\nserved the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his\neyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert attention from a deep\ngash, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflicted\nmust have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferently\nattained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. His\ncomplexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly jagged beard\nof some three weeks' date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorly\nclad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat down\nin a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little\nclerk very readily assigned to him.\n\n'A highwayman!' whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.\n\n'Do you suppose highwaymen don't dress handsomer than that?' replied\nParkes. 'It's a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymen\ndon't need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.'\n\nMeanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to the\nhouse by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by the\nlandlord's son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty,\nwhom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treat\naccordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire,\nthe man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eye\nsharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:\n\n'What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?'\n\n'Public-house?' said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.\n\n'Public-house, father!' exclaimed Joe, 'where's the public-house\nwithin a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house--the\nWarren--naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, that\nstands in its own grounds--?'\n\n'Aye,' said the stranger.\n\n'And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as\nbroad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands\nand dwindled away--more's the pity!' pursued the young man.\n\n'Maybe,' was the reply. 'But my question related to the owner. What it\nhas been I don't care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.'\n\nThe heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, and\nglancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed his\nattitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:\n\n'The owner's name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and'--again\nhe glanced in the same direction as before--'and a worthy gentleman\ntoo--hem!'\n\nPaying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significant\ngesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.\n\n'I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that crosses\nthe grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? His\ndaughter?'\n\n'Why, how should I know, honest man?' replied Joe, contriving in the\ncourse of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to his\nquestioner and pluck him by the sleeve, 'I didn't see the young lady,\nyou know. Whew! There's the wind again--AND rain--well it IS a night!'\n\nRough weather indeed!' observed the strange man.\n\n'You're used to it?' said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to\npromise a diversion of the subject.\n\n'Pretty well,' returned the other. 'About the young lady--has Mr\nHaredale a daughter?'\n\n'No, no,' said the young fellow fretfully, 'he's a single\ngentleman--he's--be quiet, can't you, man? Don't you see this talk is\nnot relished yonder?'\n\nRegardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear it,\nhis tormentor provokingly continued:\n\n'Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his\ndaughter, though he is not married.'\n\n'What do you mean?' said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached\nhim again, 'You'll come in for it presently, I know you will!'\n\n'I mean no harm'--returned the traveller boldly, 'and have said none\nthat I know of. I ask a few questions--as any stranger may, and not\nunnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable house in a neighbourhood\nwhich is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I were\ntalking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir,\nfor (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?'\n\nThe latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe\nWillet's discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak\npreparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give him\nno information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and handing him a piece\nof money in payment of his reckoning, hurried out attended by young\nWillet himself, who taking up a candle followed to light him to the\nhouse-door.\n\nWhile Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three\ncompanions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep\nsilence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that was\nsuspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly shook his\nhead, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no man withdrew\nhis eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of his\ncountenance in the slightest degree.\n\nAt length Joe returned--very talkative and conciliatory, as though with\na strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault with.\n\n'Such a thing as love is!' he said, drawing a chair near the fire, and\nlooking round for sympathy. 'He has set off to walk to London,--all\nthe way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out here this blessed\nafternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute;\nand he giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because Miss\nHaredale has gone to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heart\nupon seeing her! I don't think I could persuade myself to do that,\nbeautiful as she is,--but then I'm not in love (at least I don't think I\nam) and that's the whole difference.'\n\n'He is in love then?' said the stranger.\n\n'Rather,' replied Joe. 'He'll never be more in love, and may very easily\nbe less.'\n\n'Silence, sir!' cried his father.\n\n'What a chap you are, Joe!' said Long Parkes.\n\n'Such a inconsiderate lad!' murmured Tom Cobb.\n\n'Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father's\nface!' exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.\n\n'What HAVE I done?' reasoned poor Joe.\n\n'Silence, sir!' returned his father, 'what do you mean by talking, when\nyou see people that are more than two or three times your age, sitting\nstill and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?'\n\n'Why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?' said Joe\nrebelliously.\n\n'The proper time, sir!' retorted his father, 'the proper time's no\ntime.'\n\n'Ah to be sure!' muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who\nnodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point.\n\n'The proper time's no time, sir,' repeated John Willet; 'when I was\nyour age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improved\nmyself that's what I did.'\n\n'And you'd find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe,\nif anybody was to try and tackle him,' said Parkes.\n\n'For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr Willet, blowing a long,\nthin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring\nat it abstractedly as it floated away; 'For the matter o' that, Phil,\nargeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powers\nof argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of 'em, and has not\na right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; for\nthat is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slighting\nof her precious caskets, and a proving of one's self to be a swine that\nisn't worth her scattering pearls before.'\n\nThe landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally\nconcluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and therefore,\nturning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed:\n\n'You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn't much like to tackle\nhim in argeyment, I'm thinking, sir.'\n\n'IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of\nhis interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprise\nhim that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming\nand irreverent haste; 'IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of\nargeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same?\nYes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. My\ntoughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as I\nthink you know; and if you don't know,' added John, putting his pipe in\nhis mouth again, 'so much the better, for I an't proud and am not going\nto tell you.'\n\nA general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of\nheads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had good\nexperience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure them\nof his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyed\nthem in silence.\n\n'It's all very fine talking,' muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in\nhis chair with divers uneasy gestures. 'But if you mean to tell me that\nI'm never to open my lips--'\n\n'Silence, sir!' roared his father. 'No, you never are. When your\nopinion's wanted, you give it. When you're spoke to, you speak. When\nyour opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't you give an\nopinion and don't you speak. The world's undergone a nice alteration\nsince my time, certainly. My belief is that there an't any boys\nleft--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's nothing now\nbetween a male baby and a man--and that all the boys went out with his\nblessed Majesty King George the Second.'\n\n'That's a very true observation, always excepting the young princes,'\nsaid the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of church and state in\nthat company, held himself bound to the nicest loyalty. 'If it's godly\nand righteous for boys, being of the ages of boys, to behave themselves\nlike boys, then the young princes must be boys and cannot be otherwise.'\n\n'Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?' said Mr Willet.\n\n'Certainly I have,' replied the clerk.\n\n'Very good,' said Mr Willet. 'According to the constitution of mermaids,\nso much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish. According to the\nconstitution of young princes, so much of a young prince (if anything)\nas is not actually an angel, must be godly and righteous. Therefore if\nit's becoming and godly and righteous in the young princes (as it is\nat their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must be boys, and\ncannot by possibility be anything else.'\n\nThis elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks of\napproval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented himself\nwith repeating to his son his command of silence, and addressing the\nstranger, said:\n\n'If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person--of me or any of\nthese gentlemen--you'd have had some satisfaction, and wouldn't have\nwasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale's niece.'\n\n'Is her father alive?' said the man, carelessly.\n\n'No,' rejoined the landlord, 'he is not alive, and he is not dead--'\n\n'Not dead!' cried the other.\n\n'Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord.\n\nThe cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an\nundertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, 'let no man\ncontradict me, for I won't believe him,' that John Willet was in amazing\nforce to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.\n\nThe stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly,\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'More than you think for, friend,' returned John Willet. 'Perhaps\nthere's more meaning in them words than you suspect.'\n\n'Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; 'but what the devil\ndo you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is\nnot alive, nor yet dead--then, that he's not dead in a common sort of\nway--then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell\nyou the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you\nmean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask again?'\n\n'That,' returned the landlord, a little brought down from his dignity\nby the stranger's surliness, 'is a Maypole story, and has been any time\nthese four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy's story. It\nbelongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told it\nunder this roof, or ever shall--that's more.'\n\nThe man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness and\nimportance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to, and,\nobserving that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a very long\nwhiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell his story\nwithout further solicitation, gathered his large coat about him, and\nshrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spacious\nchimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a great\nfaggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with a\nstrong and sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemed\nafterwards to cast it into deeper obscurity than before.\n\nBy this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavy\ntimbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished\nebony--the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latch\nand creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving at\nthe casement as though it would beat it in--by this light, and under\ncircumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:\n\n'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother--'\n\nHere he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even John\nWillet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.\n\n'Cobb,' said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the\npost-office keeper; 'what day of the month is this?'\n\n'The nineteenth.'\n\n'Of March,' said the clerk, bending forward, 'the nineteenth of March;\nthat's very strange.'\n\nIn a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:\n\n'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother, that twenty-two\nyears ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said--not that\nyou remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can't do that, but because you\nhave often heard me say so--was then a much larger and better place, and\na much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was lately\ndead, and he was left with one child--the Miss Haredale you have been\ninquiring about--who was then scarcely a year old.'\n\nAlthough the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much\ncuriosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting\nsome exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no\nremark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in what\nwas said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses\nwere brightly illuminated by the deep red glow from the bowls of their\npipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved to\nshow his sense of such indecent behaviour.\n\n'Mr Haredale,' said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man,\n'left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and went\nup to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as\nlonely as this--as I suppose and have always heard say--he suddenly\ncame back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him\nbesides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward, and a\ngardener.'\n\nMr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out,\nand then proceeded--at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by keen\nenjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and afterwards\nwith increasing distinctness:\n\n'--Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a\ngardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow next\nday. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived at Chigwell\nRow, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order came to me at half\nafter twelve o'clock at night to go and toll the passing-bell.'\n\nThere was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently\nindicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt to\nhave turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk felt and\nunderstood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.\n\n'It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up in\nhis bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to take his\ndinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under obligation to go\nalone, for it was too late to hope to get any other companion. However,\nI wasn't unprepared for it; as the old gentleman had often made it a\nrequest that the bell should be tolled as soon as possible after the\nbreath was out of his body, and he had been expected to go for some\ndays. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling myself up\n(for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand\nand the key of the church in the other.'\n\nAt this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as\nif he had turned himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing over\nhis shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiry\nto Joe whether this was the case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and\npeered into the corner, but could make out nothing, and so shook his\nhead.\n\n'It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining heavily,\nand very dark--I often think now, darker than I ever saw it before or\nsince; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all close shut and the\nfolks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man who knows how\ndark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back so that\nit should keep ajar--for, to tell the truth, I didn't like to be shut\nin there alone--and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the little\ncorner where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.\n\n'I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not\npersuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don't know how\nit was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever heard, even\nthose that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and had forgotten\nlong ago; and they didn't come into my mind one after another, but\nall crowding at once, like. I recollected one story there was in the\nvillage, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very\nnight for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground\nand sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made me\nthink how many people I had known, were buried between the church-door\nand the churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to have\nto pass among them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves.\nI had known all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still,\nI couldn't persuade myself that those were their natural shadows which\nI saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly figures hiding\namong 'em and peeping out. Thinking on in this way, I began to think of\nthe old gentleman who was just dead, and I could have sworn, as I looked\nup the dark chancel, that I saw him in his usual place, wrapping his\nshroud about him and shivering as if he felt it cold. All this time I\nsat listening and listening, and hardly dared to breathe. At length\nI started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that minute there\nrang--not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope--but another!\n\n'I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly. It\nwas only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away,\nbut I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I had\nheard of corpse candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this must\nbe a corpse bell tolling of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled my\nbell--how, or how long, I don't know--and ran home to bed as fast as I\ncould touch the ground.\n\n'I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the story\nto my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don't\nthink anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredale\nwas found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of the\ncord attached to an alarm-bell outside the roof, which hung in his room\nand had been cut asunder, no doubt by the murderer, when he seized it.\n\n'That was the bell I heard.\n\n'A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had\nbrought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money,\nwas gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and both suspected\nfor a long time, but they were never found, though hunted far and wide.\nAnd far enough they might have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward,\nwhose body--scarcely to be recognised by his clothes and the watch and\nring he wore--was found, months afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of\nwater in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been\nstabbed with a knife. He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed\nthat he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were\nmany traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his\nmaster.\n\nEverybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and though\nhe has never been heard of from that day to this, he will be, mark my\nwords. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years--on the\nnineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On the\nnineteenth of March in some year--no matter when--I know it, I am sure\nof it, for we have always, in some strange way or other, been brought\nback to the subject on that day ever since--on the nineteenth of March\nin some year, sooner or later, that man will be discovered.'\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\n'A strange story!' said the man who had been the cause of the\nnarration.--'Stranger still if it comes about as you predict. Is that\nall?'\n\nA question so unexpected, nettled Solomon Daisy not a little. By dint of\nrelating the story very often, and ornamenting it (according to village\nreport) with a few flourishes suggested by the various hearers from time\nto time, he had come by degrees to tell it with great effect; and 'Is\nthat all?' after the climax, was not what he was accustomed to.\n\n'Is that all?' he repeated, 'yes, that's all, sir. And enough too, I\nthink.'\n\n'I think so too. My horse, young man! He is but a hack hired from a\nroadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to-night.'\n\n'To-night!' said Joe.\n\n'To-night,' returned the other. 'What do you stare at? This tavern\nwould seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers of the\nneighbourhood!'\n\nAt this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he had\nundergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of John\nWillet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity to the\ncopper boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a mettlesome fellow,\nreturned the stranger's angry glance with a steady look, and rejoined:\n\n'It is not a very bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night. Surely\nyou have been asked such a harmless question in an inn before, and in\nbetter weather than this. I thought you mightn't know the way, as you\nseem strange to this part.'\n\n'The way--' repeated the other, irritably.\n\n'Yes. DO you know it?'\n\n'I'll--humph!--I'll find it,' replied the man, waving his hand and\nturning on his heel. 'Landlord, take the reckoning here.'\n\nJohn Willet did as he was desired; for on that point he was seldom slow,\nexcept in the particulars of giving change, and testing the goodness of\nany piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the application of his\nteeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in doubtful cases, by a long\nseries of tests terminating in its rejection. The guest then wrapped his\ngarments about him so as to shelter himself as effectually as he could\nfrom the rough weather, and without any word or sign of farewell betook\nhimself to the stableyard. Here Joe (who had left the room on the\nconclusion of their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse\nfrom the rain under the shelter of an old penthouse roof.\n\n'He's pretty much of my opinion,' said Joe, patting the horse upon the\nneck. 'I'll wager that your stopping here to-night would please him\nbetter than it would please me.'\n\n'He and I are of different opinions, as we have been more than once on\nour way here,' was the short reply.\n\n'So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your spurs, poor\nbeast.'\n\nThe stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and made no\nanswer.\n\n'You'll know me again, I see,' he said, marking the young fellow's\nearnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle.\n\n'The man's worth knowing, master, who travels a road he don't know,\nmounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such a\nnight as this.'\n\n'You have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.'\n\n'Both I hope by nature, but the last grows rusty sometimes for want of\nusing.'\n\n'Use the first less too, and keep their sharpness for your sweethearts,\nboy,' said the man.\n\nSo saying he shook his hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on the\nhead with the butt end of his whip, and galloped away; dashing through\nthe mud and darkness with a headlong speed, which few badly mounted\nhorsemen would have cared to venture, even had they been thoroughly\nacquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew nothing of the\nway he rode, was attended at every step with great hazard and danger.\n\nThe roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time\nill paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made. The way this rider\ntraversed had been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy waggons, and\nrendered rotten by the frosts and thaws of the preceding winter, or\npossibly of many winters. Great holes and gaps had been worn into the\nsoil, which, being now filled with water from the late rains, were not\neasily distinguishable even by day; and a plunge into any one of them\nmight have brought down a surer-footed horse than the poor beast now\nurged forward to the utmost extent of his powers. Sharp flints and\nstones rolled from under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely\nsee beyond the animal's head, or farther on either side than his own\narm would have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the\nneighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads or highwaymen,\nand it was a night, of all others, in which any evil-disposed person of\nthis class might have pursued his unlawful calling with little fear of\ndetection.\n\nStill, the traveller dashed forward at the same reckless pace,\nregardless alike of the dirt and wet which flew about his head, the\nprofound darkness of the night, and the probability of encountering\nsome desperate characters abroad. At every turn and angle, even where\na deviation from the direct course might have been least expected, and\ncould not possibly be seen until he was close upon it, he guided the\nbridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle of the road. Thus he\nsped onward, raising himself in the stirrups, leaning his body forward\nuntil it almost touched the horse's neck, and flourishing his heavy whip\nabove his head with the fervour of a madman.\n\nThere are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion, those who\nare bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great thoughts, whether\nof good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with the tumult of nature,\nand are roused into corresponding violence. In the midst of thunder,\nlightning, and storm, many tremendous deeds have been committed; men,\nself-possessed before, have given a sudden loose to passions they could\nno longer control. The demons of wrath and despair have striven to\nemulate those who ride the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man,\nlashed into madness with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has\nbecome for the time as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.\n\nWhether the traveller was possessed by thoughts which the fury of the\nnight had heated and stimulated into a quicker current, or was merely\nimpelled by some strong motive to reach his journey's end, on he swept\nmore like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his pace until,\narriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a longer route to\nthe place whence he had lately started, he bore down so suddenly upon a\nvehicle which was coming towards him, that in the effort to avoid it he\nwell-nigh pulled his horse upon his haunches, and narrowly escaped being\nthrown.\n\n'Yoho!' cried the voice of a man. 'What's that? Who goes there?'\n\n'A friend!' replied the traveller.\n\n'A friend!' repeated the voice. 'Who calls himself a friend and rides\nlike that, abusing Heaven's gifts in the shape of horseflesh, and\nendangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great matter) but\nthe necks of other people?'\n\n'You have a lantern there, I see,' said the traveller dismounting, 'lend\nit me for a moment. You have wounded my horse, I think, with your shaft\nor wheel.'\n\n'Wounded him!' cried the other, 'if I haven't killed him, it's no fault\nof yours. What do you mean by galloping along the king's highway like\nthat, eh?'\n\n'Give me the light,' returned the traveller, snatching it from his hand,\n'and don't ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for talking.'\n\n'If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should\nperhaps have been in no mood for lighting,' said the voice. 'Hows'ever\nas it's the poor horse that's damaged and not you, one of you is welcome\nto the light at all events--but it's not the crusty one.'\n\nThe traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light\nnear to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcass.\nMeanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his vehicle, which was\na kind of chaise with a depository for a large bag of tools, and watched\nhis proceedings with a careful eye.\n\nThe looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double chin,\nand a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good humour, and good\nhealth. He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always a\nhard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays\nhis hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men\nand women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young\nand in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression\nof the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle\nbut a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.\n\nThe person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of\nthis kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace with\nhimself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world. Although\nmuffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs--one of which, passed over\nhis crown, and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin, secured\nhis three-cornered hat and bob-wig from blowing off his head--there\nwas no disguising his plump and comfortable figure; neither did certain\ndirty finger-marks upon his face give it any other than an odd and\ncomical expression, through which its natural good humour shone with\nundiminished lustre.\n\n'He is not hurt,' said the traveller at length, raising his head and the\nlantern together.\n\n'You have found that out at last, have you?' rejoined the old man. 'My\neyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn't change with you.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Mean! I could have told you he wasn't hurt, five minutes ago. Give me\nthe light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good night.'\n\nIn handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays full on the\nspeaker's face. Their eyes met at the instant. He suddenly dropped it\nand crushed it with his foot.\n\n'Did you never see a locksmith before, that you start as if you had come\nupon a ghost?' cried the old man in the chaise, 'or is this,' he added\nhastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and drawing out a\nhammer, 'a scheme for robbing me? I know these roads, friend. When I\ntravel them, I carry nothing but a few shillings, and not a crown's\nworth of them. I tell you plainly, to save us both trouble, that there's\nnothing to be got from me but a pretty stout arm considering my years,\nand this tool, which, mayhap from long acquaintance with, I can use\npretty briskly. You shall not have it all your own way, I promise you,\nif you play at that game. With these words he stood upon the defensive.\n\n'I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,' replied the other.\n\n'Then what and who are you?' returned the locksmith. 'You know my name,\nit seems. Let me know yours.'\n\n'I have not gained the information from any confidence of yours, but\nfrom the inscription on your cart which tells it to all the town,'\nreplied the traveller.\n\n'You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,' said\nVarden, descending nimbly from his chaise; 'who are you? Let me see your\nface.'\n\nWhile the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his saddle,\nfrom which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as the horse moved\nin chafing under the tightened rein, kept close beside him.\n\n'Let me see your face, I say.'\n\n'Stand off!'\n\n'No masquerading tricks,' said the locksmith, 'and tales at the club\nto-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice and a dark\nnight. Stand--let me see your face.'\n\nFinding that further resistance would only involve him in a personal\nstruggle with an antagonist by no means to be despised, the traveller\nthrew back his coat, and stooping down looked steadily at the locksmith.\n\nPerhaps two men more powerfully contrasted, never opposed each other\nface to face. The ruddy features of the locksmith so set off and\nheightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that he\nlooked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard riding had\nbrought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy drops, like dews\nof agony and death. The countenance of the old locksmith lighted up with\nthe smile of one expecting to detect in this unpromising stranger some\nlatent roguery of eye or lip, which should reveal a familiar person in\nthat arch disguise, and spoil his jest. The face of the other, sullen\nand fierce, but shrinking too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while\nhis firmly closed jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain\nstealthy motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a\ndesperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child's play.\n\nThus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.\n\n'Humph!' he said when he had scanned his features; 'I don't know you.'\n\n'Don't desire to?'--returned the other, muffling himself as before.\n\n'I don't,' said Gabriel; 'to be plain with you, friend, you don't carry\nin your countenance a letter of recommendation.'\n\n'It's not my wish,' said the traveller. 'My humour is to be avoided.'\n\n'Well,' said the locksmith bluntly, 'I think you'll have your humour.'\n\n'I will, at any cost,' rejoined the traveller. 'In proof of it, lay this\nto heart--that you were never in such peril of your life as you have\nbeen within these few moments; when you are within five minutes of\nbreathing your last, you will not be nearer death than you have been\nto-night!'\n\n'Aye!' said the sturdy locksmith.\n\n'Aye! and a violent death.'\n\n'From whose hand?'\n\n'From mine,' replied the traveller.\n\nWith that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first plashing\nheavily through the mire at a smart trot, but gradually increasing in\nspeed until the last sound of his horse's hoofs died away upon the wind;\nwhen he was again hurrying on at the same furious gallop, which had been\nhis pace when the locksmith first encountered him.\n\nGabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken lantern in\nhis hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound reached his ear\nbut the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling rain; when he struck\nhimself one or two smart blows in the breast by way of rousing himself,\nand broke into an exclamation of surprise.\n\n'What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a highwayman?\na cut-throat? If he had not scoured off so fast, we'd have seen who was\nin most danger, he or I. I never nearer death than I have been to-night!\nI hope I may be no nearer to it for a score of years to come--if so,\nI'll be content to be no farther from it. My stars!--a pretty brag this\nto a stout man--pooh, pooh!'\n\nGabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which the\ntraveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:\n\n'The Maypole--two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road from the\nWarren after a long day's work at locks and bells, on purpose that I\nshould not come by the Maypole and break my promise to Martha by looking\nin--there's resolution! It would be dangerous to go on to London without\na light; and it's four miles, and a good half mile besides, to the\nHalfway-House; and between this and that is the very place where one\nneeds a light most. Two miles to the Maypole! I told Martha I wouldn't;\nI said I wouldn't, and I didn't--there's resolution!'\n\nRepeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for the\nlittle resolution he was going to show by piquing himself on the great\nresolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned back, determining\nto get a light at the Maypole, and to take nothing but a light.\n\nWhen he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his\nwell-known hail, came running out to the horse's head, leaving the door\nopen behind him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of warmth and\nbrightness--when the ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming through the old\nred curtains of the common room, seemed to bring with it, as part of\nitself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a fragrant odour of steaming grog\nand rare tobacco, all steeped as it were in the cheerful glow--when the\nshadows, flitting across the curtain, showed that those inside had risen\nfrom their snug seats, and were making room in the snuggest corner (how\nwell he knew that corner!) for the honest locksmith, and a broad glare,\nsuddenly streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling log from\nwhich a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment whirling\nup the chimney in honour of his coming--when, superadded to these\nenticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle\nsound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a\nsavoury smell that made even the boisterous wind a perfume--Gabriel\nfelt his firmness oozing rapidly away. He tried to look stoically at the\ntavern, but his features would relax into a look of fondness. He turned\nhis head the other way, and the cold black country seemed to frown him\noff, and drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms.\n\n'The merciful man, Joe,' said the locksmith, 'is merciful to his beast.\nI'll get out for a little while.'\n\nAnd how natural it was to get out! And how unnatural it seemed for a\nsober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads, encountering\nthe rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain, when there was\na clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well swept hearth, a\nblazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth, bright pewter flagons,\nand other tempting preparations for a well-cooked meal--when there were\nthese things, and company disposed to make the most of them, all ready\nto his hand, and entreating him to enjoyment!\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nSuch were the locksmith's thoughts when first seated in the snug corner,\nand slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision--pleasant,\nbecause occasioned by the wind blowing in his eyes--which made it a\nmatter of sound policy and duty to himself, that he should take refuge\nfrom the weather, and tempted him, for the same reason, to aggravate\na slight cough, and declare he felt but poorly. Such were still his\nthoughts more than a full hour afterwards, when, supper over, he still\nsat with shining jovial face in the same warm nook, listening to the\ncricket-like chirrup of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no unimportant\nor slightly respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole fire.\n\n'I wish he may be an honest man, that's all,' said Solomon, winding up\na variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning whom\nGabriel had compared notes with the company, and so raised a grave\ndiscussion; 'I wish he may be an honest man.'\n\n'So we all do, I suppose, don't we?' observed the locksmith.\n\n'I don't,' said Joe.\n\n'No!' cried Gabriel.\n\n'No. He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted and I\nafoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what I think\nhim.'\n\n'And what may that be, Joe?'\n\n'No good, Mr Varden. You may shake your head, father, but I say no good,\nand will say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times over, if\nthat would bring him back to have the drubbing he deserves.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir,' said John Willet.\n\n'I won't, father. It's all along of you that he ventured to do what he\ndid. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, HE plucks\nup a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks--and may well\nthink too--hasn't a grain of spirit. But he's mistaken, as I'll show\nhim, and as I'll show all of you before long.'\n\n'Does the boy know what he's a saying of!' cried the astonished John\nWillet.\n\n'Father,' returned Joe, 'I know what I say and mean, well--better than\nyou do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I cannot bear the\ncontempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings upon me from\nothers every day. Look at other young men of my age. Have they no\nliberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged to sit mumchance,\nand to be ordered about till they are the laughing-stock of young and\nold? I am a bye-word all over Chigwell, and I say--and it's fairer\nmy saying so now, than waiting till you are dead, and I have got your\nmoney--I say, that before long I shall be driven to break such bounds,\nand that when I do, it won't be me that you'll have to blame, but your\nown self, and no other.'\n\nJohn Willet was so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his\nhopeful son, that he sat as one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous\nmanner at the boiler, and endeavouring, but quite ineffectually, to\ncollect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer. The guests, scarcely\nless disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length, with a variety\nof muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces of advice, rose to\ndepart; being at the same time slightly muddled with liquor.\n\nThe honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and\nsensible advice to both parties, urging John Willet to remember that\nJoe was nearly arrived at man's estate, and should not be ruled with\ntoo tight a hand, and exhorting Joe himself to bear with his father's\ncaprices, and rather endeavour to turn them aside by temperate\nremonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion. This advice was received as\nsuch advice usually is. On John Willet it made almost as much impression\nas on the sign outside the door, while Joe, who took it in the best\npart, avowed himself more obliged than he could well express, but\npolitely intimated his intention nevertheless of taking his own course\nuninfluenced by anybody.\n\n'You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,' he said,\nas they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was equipping\nhimself for his journey home; 'I take it very kind of you to say all\nthis, but the time's nearly come when the Maypole and I must part\ncompany.'\n\n'Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,' said Gabriel.\n\n'Nor milestones much,' replied Joe. 'I'm little better than one here,\nand see as much of the world.'\n\n'Then, what would you do, Joe?' pursued the locksmith, stroking his chin\nreflectively. 'What could you be? Where could you go, you see?'\n\n'I must trust to chance, Mr Varden.'\n\n'A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don't like it. I always tell my girl\nwhen we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to chance, but to\nmake sure beforehand that she has a good man and true, and then chance\nwill neither make her nor break her. What are you fidgeting about there,\nJoe? Nothing gone in the harness, I hope?'\n\n'No no,' said Joe--finding, however, something very engrossing to do in\nthe way of strapping and buckling--'Miss Dolly quite well?'\n\n'Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good too.'\n\n'She's always both, sir'--\n\n'So she is, thank God!'\n\n'I hope,' said Joe after some hesitation, 'that you won't tell this\nstory against me--this of my having been beat like the boy they'd make\nof me--at all events, till I have met this man again and settled the\naccount. It'll be a better story then.'\n\n'Why who should I tell it to?' returned Gabriel. 'They know it here, and\nI'm not likely to come across anybody else who would care about it.'\n\n'That's true enough,' said the young fellow with a sigh. 'I quite forgot\nthat. Yes, that's true!'\n\nSo saying, he raised his face, which was very red,--no doubt from the\nexertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,--and giving the reins\nto the old man, who had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and\nbade him good night.\n\n'Good night!' cried Gabriel. 'Now think better of what we have just\nbeen speaking of; and don't be rash, there's a good fellow! I have an\ninterest in you, and wouldn't have you cast yourself away. Good night!'\n\nReturning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet lingered\nuntil the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then,\nshaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.\n\nGabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great\nmany things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his\nadventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the\nMaypole, despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady.\nThinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the\nmore the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became.\n\nA man may be very sober--or at least firmly set upon his legs on that\nneutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect sobriety and\nslight tipsiness--and yet feel a strong tendency to mingle up present\ncircumstances with others which have no manner of connection with them;\nto confound all consideration of persons, things, times, and places;\nand to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of mental\nkaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are\ntransitory. This was Gabriel Varden's state, as, nodding in his dog\nsleep, and leaving his horse to pursue a road with which he was well\nacquainted, he got over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and\nnearer home. He had roused himself once, when the horse stopped until\nthe turnpike gate was opened, and had cried a lusty 'good night!' to the\ntoll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in\nthe stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up the\nturnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty years. It\nis not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and jogged heavily\nalong, quite insensible to his progress.\n\nAnd, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched before\nhim like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a\ndeep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and\nswarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo\nbegan to fade, and the causes which produced it slowly to develop\nthemselves. Long lines of poorly lighted streets might be faintly\ntraced, with here and there a lighter spot, where lamps were clustered\nround a square or market, or round some great building; after a time\nthese grew more distinct, and the lamps themselves were visible; slight\nyellow specks, that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as\nintervening obstacles hid them from the sight. Then, sounds arose--the\nstriking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic\nin the streets; then outlines might be traced--tall steeples looming\nin the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then,\nthe noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct and\nnumerous still, and London--visible in the darkness by its own faint\nlight, and not by that of Heaven--was at hand.\n\nThe locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still\njogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no great\ndistance ahead, roused him with a start.\n\nFor a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been\ntransported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon recognising\nfamiliar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have relapsed again,\nbut that the cry was repeated--not once or twice or thrice, but many\ntimes, and each time, if possible, with increased vehemence. Thoroughly\naroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not easily daunted, made\nstraight to the spot, urging on his stout little horse as if for life or\ndeath.\n\nThe matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place\nwhence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended\nin an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round\nhim, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air\nwith a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which\nhad brought the locksmith to the spot.\n\n'What's here to do?' said the old man, alighting. 'How's\nthis--what--Barnaby?'\n\nThe bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes,\nand thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon\nhim a look which told his history at once.\n\n'You know me, Barnaby?' said Varden.\n\nHe nodded--not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a\nfantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for\nan hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye\nsternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an\ninquiring look.\n\n'There's blood upon him,' said Barnaby with a shudder. 'It makes me\nsick!'\n\n'How came it there?' demanded Varden.\n\n'Steel, steel, steel!' he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the\nthrust of a sword.\n\n'Is he robbed?' said the locksmith.\n\nBarnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded 'Yes;' then pointed towards\nthe city.\n\n'Oh!' said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as he\nspoke into Barnaby's pale face, strangely lighted up by something that\nwas NOT intellect. 'The robber made off that way, did he? Well, well,\nnever mind that just now. Hold your torch this way--a little farther\noff--so. Now stand quiet, while I try to see what harm is done.'\n\nWith these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of\nthe prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been\ndirected, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or curiosity, but\nrepelled nevertheless by some strong and secret horror which convulsed\nhim in every nerve.\n\nAs he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending\nforward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of the\nlink, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad day. He\nwas about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather spare, of a fair\nheight and strong make. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was\nred, and hanging in disorder about his face and shoulders, gave to his\nrestless looks an expression quite unearthly--enhanced by the paleness\nof his complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes.\nStartling as his aspect was, the features were good, and there was\nsomething even plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence\nof the soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and\nin this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.\n\nHis dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there--apparently by\nhis own hands--with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was most\nworn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of tawdry\nruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had\nornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were\nlimp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his\nside was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and\nsome particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the\nornamental portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition\nof all the motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely\nless degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his\nmind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more\nimpressive wildness of his face.\n\n'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection,\n'this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a\nfainting-fit.'\n\n'I know him, I know him!' cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.\n\n'Know him?' repeated the locksmith.\n\n'Hush!' said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. 'He went out\nto-day a wooing. I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should never go\na wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as\nbright as--see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are\nthey? If they are angels' eyes, why do they look down here and see good\nmen hurt, and only wink and sparkle all the night?'\n\n'Now Heaven help this silly fellow,' murmured the perplexed locksmith;\n'can he know this gentleman? His mother's house is not far off; I had\nbetter see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby, my man, help me to put\nhim in the chaise, and we'll ride home together.'\n\n'I can't touch him!' cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as\nwith a strong spasm; 'he's bloody!'\n\n'It's in his nature, I know,' muttered the locksmith, 'it's cruel to ask\nhim, but I must have help. Barnaby--good Barnaby--dear Barnaby--if you\nknow this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody's life that\nloves him, help me to raise him and lay him down.'\n\n'Cover him then, wrap him close--don't let me see it--smell it--hear the\nword. Don't speak the word--don't!'\n\n'No, no, I'll not. There, you see he's covered now. Gently. Well done,\nwell done!'\n\nThey placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was strong\nand active, but all the time they were so occupied he shivered from head\nto foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of terror.\n\nThis accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden's own\ngreatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded onward at\na brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his fingers, and\nGabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an adventure now,\nwhich would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the Maypole, for that\nnight, or there was no faith in woman.\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nIn the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell, towards\nthat part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and in\none of those cool, shady streets, of which a few, widely scattered\nand dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the metropolis,--each\ntenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago retired\nfrom business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time it\ntumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flaunting\nin stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,--in\nthis quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of the\npresent chapter lies.\n\nAt the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years ago,\na very large part of what is London now had no existence. Even in the\nbrains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up no long rows of\nstreets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no assemblages of palaces\nin the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields. Although\nthis part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, and\nplentifully peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardens\nto many of the houses, and trees by the pavement side; with an air of\nfreshness breathing up and down, which in these days would be sought\nin vain. Fields were nigh at hand, through which the New River took its\nwinding course, and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time.\nNature was not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and\nalthough there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working jewellers\nby scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer to it than many\nmodern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers' walks at no great\ndistance, which turned into squalid courts, long before the lovers of\nthis age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of.\n\nIn one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady\nside of the way--for good housewives know that sunlight damages their\ncherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its intrusive\nglare--there stood the house with which we have to deal. It was a modest\nbuilding, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, with\ngreat staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roof\ngoing up into a peak over its garret window of four small panes of\nglass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with one\neye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood and plaster;\nit was not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity,\nfor no one window matched the other, or seemed to have the slightest\nreference to anything besides itself.\n\nThe shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first floor,\nwhere shops usually are; and there all resemblance between it and any\nother shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in and out didn't\ngo up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in upon a level with the\nstreet, but dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floor\nwas paved with stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be;\nand in lieu of window framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flap\nor shutter, nearly breast high from the ground, which turned back in\nthe day-time, admitting as much cold air as light, and very often more.\nBehind this shop was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a paved\nyard, and beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised some\nfeet above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscoted\nparlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had entered,\nwas cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed most strangers\non their first entrance were observed to grow extremely thoughtful, as\nweighing and pondering in their minds whether the upper rooms were only\napproachable by ladders from without; never suspecting that two of\nthe most unassuming and unlikely doors in existence, which the most\ningenious mechanician on earth must of necessity have supposed to be\nthe doors of closets, opened out of this room--each without the smallest\npreparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage--upon two\ndark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other downward,\nwhich were the sole means of communication between that chamber and the\nother portions of the house.\n\nWith all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously tidy,\nor more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in London, in all\nEngland. There were not cleaner windows, or whiter floors, or brighter\nStoves, or more highly shining articles of furniture in old mahogany;\nthere was not more rubbing, scrubbing, burnishing and polishing, in the\nwhole street put together. Nor was this excellence attained without some\ncost and trouble and great expenditure of voice, as the neighbours\nwere frequently reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked and\nassisted in its being put to rights on cleaning days--which were usually\nfrom Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.\n\nLeaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith\nstood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man, gazing\ndisconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in vivid\nyellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front, and swung\nto and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if complaining that it had\nnothing to unlock. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder into the shop,\nwhich was so dark and dingy with numerous tokens of his trade, and so\nblackened by the smoke of a little forge, near which his 'prentice\nwas at work, that it would have been difficult for one unused to such\nespials to have distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth make\nand shape, great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finished\nlocks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung in\nclusters from the ceiling.\n\nAfter a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many such\nbackward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a look at the\nupper windows. One of them chanced to be thrown open at the moment,\nand a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the loveliest pair of\nsparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon; the face of a pretty,\nlaughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and healthful--the very impersonation\nof good-humour and blooming beauty.\n\n'Hush!' she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the window\nunderneath. 'Mother is still asleep.'\n\n'Still, my dear,' returned the locksmith in the same tone. 'You talk as\nif she had been asleep all night, instead of little more than half an\nhour. But I'm very thankful. Sleep's a blessing--no doubt about it.' The\nlast few words he muttered to himself.\n\n'How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never tell us\nwhere you were, or send us word!' said the girl.\n\n'Ah Dolly, Dolly!' returned the locksmith, shaking his head, and\nsmiling, 'how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down to\nbreakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you'll wake your mother.\nShe must be tired, I am sure--I am.'\n\nKeeping these latter words to himself, and returning his daughter's nod,\nhe was passing into the workshop, with the smile she had awakened still\nbeaming on his face, when he just caught sight of his 'prentice's brown\npaper cap ducking down to avoid observation, and shrinking from the\nwindow back to its former place, which the wearer no sooner reached than\nhe began to hammer lustily.\n\n'Listening again, Simon!' said Gabriel to himself. 'That's bad. What in\nthe name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I always catch\nhim listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other time! A bad habit,\nSim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may hammer, but you won't beat\nthat out of me, if you work at it till your time's up!'\n\nSo saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the workshop, and\nconfronted the subject of these remarks.\n\n'There's enough of that just now,' said the locksmith. 'You needn't make\nany more of that confounded clatter. Breakfast's ready.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiar\nlittle bow cut short off at the neck, 'I shall attend you immediately.'\n\n'I suppose,' muttered Gabriel, 'that's out of the 'Prentice's Garland or\nthe 'Prentice's Delight, or the 'Prentice's Warbler, or the Prentice's\nGuide to the Gallows, or some such improving textbook. Now he's going to\nbeautify himself--here's a precious locksmith!'\n\nQuite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark corner by\nthe parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang from his seat,\nand in two extraordinary steps, something between skating and minuet\ndancing, bounded to a washing place at the other end of the shop,\nand there removed from his face and hands all traces of his previous\nwork--practising the same step all the time with the utmost gravity.\nThis done, he drew from some concealed place a little scrap of\nlooking-glass, and with its assistance arranged his hair, and\nascertained the exact state of a little carbuncle on his nose. Having\nnow completed his toilet, he placed the fragment of mirror on a low\nbench, and looked over his shoulder at so much of his legs as could be\nreflected in that small compass, with the greatest possible complacency\nand satisfaction.\n\nSim, as he was called in the locksmith's family, or Mr Simon Tappertit,\nas he called himself, and required all men to style him out of doors,\non holidays, and Sundays out,--was an old-fashioned, thin-faced,\nsleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow, very little more\nthan five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in his own mind that he\nwas above the middle size; rather tall, in fact, than otherwise. Of his\nfigure, which was well enough formed, though somewhat of the leanest,\nhe entertained the highest admiration; and with his legs, which, in\nknee-breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured\nto a degree amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowy\nideas, which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends,\nconcerning the power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so far\nas to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the haughtiest beauty\nby a simple process, which he termed 'eyeing her over;' but it must\nbe added, that neither of this faculty, nor of the power he claimed\nto have, through the same gift, of vanquishing and heaving down dumb\nanimals, even in a rabid state, had he ever furnished evidence which\ncould be deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive.\n\nIt may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of Mr\nTappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul. As\ncertain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their dimensions, will\nferment, and fret, and chafe in their imprisonment, so the spiritual\nessence or soul of Mr Tappertit would sometimes fume within that\nprecious cask, his body, until, with great foam and froth and splutter,\nit would force a vent, and carry all before it. It was his custom to\nremark, in reference to any one of these occasions, that his soul had\ngot into his head; and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapes\nand mishaps befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no small\ndifficulty from his worthy master.\n\nSim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-mentioned\nsoul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which fancies,\nlike the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed upon), had a mighty\nnotion of his order; and had been heard by the servant-maid openly\nexpressing his regret that the 'prentices no longer carried clubs\nwherewith to mace the citizens: that was his strong expression. He was\nlikewise reported to have said that in former times a stigma had been\ncast upon the body by the execution of George Barnwell, to which they\nshould not have basely submitted, but should have demanded him of\nthe legislature--temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if\nnecessary--to be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit.\nThese thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the\n'prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at their\nhead; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his hearers, hint\nat certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a certain Lion Heart\nready to become their captain, who, once afoot, would make the Lord\nMayor tremble on his throne.\n\nIn respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no less\nof an adventurous and enterprising character. He had been seen, beyond\ndispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at the corner of the\nstreet on Sunday nights, and to put them carefully in his pocket before\nreturning home; and it was quite notorious that on all great holiday\noccasions it was his habit to exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for\na pair of glittering paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted most\nconveniently in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years just\ntwenty, in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred;\nthat he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration\nof his master's daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain\nobscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love,\ntoasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christian\nname, he said, began with a D--;--and as much is known of Sim Tappertit,\nwho has by this time followed the locksmith in to breakfast, as is\nnecessary to be known in making his acquaintance.\n\nIt was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea\nequipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef,\na ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire\ncake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was also\na goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old\ngentleman, not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald\nhead was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyond\ndispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But, better far than fair\nhome-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat or\ndrink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding over\nall, the locksmith's rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef\ngrew insignificant, and malt became as nothing.\n\nFathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by. It's\ntoo much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit\nwhen Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his--those lips within Sim's reach\nfrom day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master,\nbut he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.\n\n'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over, and\nthey took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last night?'\n\n'All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.'\n\n'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you came\nup!'\n\n'Ay--Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all his\nmight. It was well it happened as it did; for the road's a lonely one,\nthe hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor Barnaby even less\nsensible than usual from surprise and fright, the young gentleman might\nhave met his death in a very short time.'\n\n'I dread to think of it!' cried his daughter with a shudder. 'How did\nyou know him?'\n\n'Know him!' returned the locksmith. 'I didn't know him--how could I? I\nhad never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him. I took him\nto Mrs Rudge's; and she no sooner saw him than the truth came out.'\n\n'Miss Emma, father--If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as it\nis sure to be, she will go distracted.'\n\n'Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-natured,'\nsaid the locksmith. 'Miss Emma was with her uncle at the masquerade at\nCarlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at the Warren told me,\nsorely against her will. What does your blockhead father when he and Mrs\nRudge have laid their heads together, but goes there when he ought to be\nabed, makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask\nand domino, and mixes with the masquers.'\n\n'And like himself to do so!' cried the girl, putting her fair arm round\nhis neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.\n\n'Like himself!' repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but evidently\ndelighted with the part he had taken, and with her praise. 'Very like\nhimself--so your mother said. However, he mingled with the crowd,\nand prettily worried and badgered he was, I warrant you, with people\nsqueaking, \"Don't you know me?\" and \"I've found you out,\" and all that\nkind of nonsense in his ears. He might have wandered on till now, but\nin a little room there was a young lady who had taken off her mask, on\naccount of the place being very warm, and was sitting there alone.'\n\n'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily.\n\n'And that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner whispered to\nher what the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art as\nyou could have used yourself--than she gives a kind of scream and faints\naway.'\n\n'What did you do--what happened next?' asked his daughter. 'Why, the\nmasks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and I\nthought myself in luck to get clear off, that's all,' rejoined the\nlocksmith. 'What happened when I reached home you may guess, if you\ndidn't hear it. Ah! Well, it's a poor heart that never rejoices.--Put\nToby this way, my dear.'\n\nThis Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been made.\nApplying his lips to the worthy old gentleman's benevolent forehead, the\nlocksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among the eatables, kept\nthem there so long, at the same time raising the vessel slowly in\nthe air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his nose, when he\nsmacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond reluctance.\n\nAlthough Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no part\nof it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silent\nmanifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with the\nfavourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, as\na particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution with\nthem upon the locksmith's daughter (who he had no doubt was looking\nat him in mute admiration), he began to screw and twist his face,\nand especially those features, into such extraordinary, hideous, and\nunparalleled contortions, that Gabriel, who happened to look towards\nhim, was stricken with amazement.\n\n'Why, what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the locksmith.\n'Is he choking?'\n\n'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain.\n\n'Who? Why, you,' returned his master. 'What do you mean by making those\nhorrible faces over your breakfast?'\n\n'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, rather\ndiscomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's daughter\nsmiling.\n\n'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. 'Don't be a fool, for I'd\nrather see you in your senses. These young fellows,' he added, turning\nto his daughter, 'are always committing some folly or another. There was\na quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last night though I can't say\nJoe was much in fault either. He'll be missing one of these mornings,\nand will have gone away upon some wild-goose errand, seeking his\nfortune.--Why, what's the matter, Doll? YOU are making faces now. The\ngirls are as bad as the boys every bit!'\n\n'It's the tea,' said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very white,\nwhich is no doubt the effect of a slight scald--'so very hot.'\n\nMr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table, and\nbreathed hard.\n\n'Is that all?' returned the locksmith. 'Put some more milk in it.--Yes,\nI am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and gains upon\none every time one sees him. But he'll start off, you'll find. Indeed he\ntold me as much himself!'\n\n'Indeed!' cried Dolly in a faint voice. 'In-deed!'\n\n'Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?' said the locksmith.\n\nBut, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken with\na troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough, that,\nwhen she left off, the tears were starting in her bright eyes. The\ngood-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back and applying\nsuch gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from Mrs Varden, making\nknown to all whom it might concern, that she felt too much indisposed\nto rise after her great agitation and anxiety of the previous night; and\ntherefore desired to be immediately accommodated with the little black\nteapot of strong mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a\nmiddling-sized dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual\nin two volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remote\nages flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most\nill-tempered. Whenever she and her husband were at unusual variance,\nthen the Protestant Manual was in high feather.\n\nKnowing from experience what these requests portended, the triumvirate\nbroke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all despatch; Gabriel,\nto some out-of-door work in his little chaise; and Sim, to his daily\nduty in the workshop, to which retreat he carried the big look, although\nthe loaf remained behind.\n\nIndeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his apron\non, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several times walked\nup and down with folded arms, and the longest strides he could take,\nand had kicked a great many small articles out of his way, that his lip\nbegan to curl. At length, a gloomy derision came upon his features, and\nhe smiled; uttering meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable\n'Joe!'\n\n'I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,' he said, 'and that\nwas of course the reason of her being confused. Joe!'\n\nHe walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if possible\nwith longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance at his legs,\nand sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another 'Joe!' In the\ncourse of a quarter of an hour or so he again assumed the paper cap and\ntried to work. No. It could not be done.\n\n'I'll do nothing to-day,' said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again, 'but\ngrind. I'll grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my present humour\nwell. Joe!'\n\nWhirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were flying\noff in showers. This was the occupation for his heated spirit.\n\nWhirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.\n\n'Something will come of this!' said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in\ntriumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. 'Something will\ncome of this. I hope it mayn't be human gore!'\n\nWhirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nAs soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied\nforth, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain the progress\nof his recovery. The house where he had left him was in a by-street\nin Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither he hied with all\nspeed, bent upon returning with as little delay as might be, and getting\nto bed betimes.\n\nThe evening was boisterous--scarcely better than the previous night had\nbeen. It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep his legs at\nthe street corners, or to make head against the high wind, which often\nfairly got the better of him, and drove him back some paces, or, in\ndefiance of all his energy, forced him to take shelter in an arch or\ndoorway until the fury of the gust was spent. Occasionally a hat or wig,\nor both, came spinning and trundling past him, like a mad thing; while\nthe more serious spectacle of falling tiles and slates, or of masses of\nbrick and mortar or fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement\nnear at hand, and splitting into fragments, did not increase the\npleasure of the journey, or make the way less dreary.\n\n'A trying night for a man like me to walk in!' said the locksmith, as\nhe knocked softly at the widow's door. 'I'd rather be in old John's\nchimney-corner, faith!'\n\n'Who's there?' demanded a woman's voice from within. Being answered, it\nadded a hasty word of welcome, and the door was quickly opened.\n\nShe was about forty--perhaps two or three years older--with a cheerful\naspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It bore traces of\naffliction and care, but they were of an old date, and Time had smoothed\nthem. Any one who had bestowed but a casual glance on Barnaby might\nhave known that this was his mother, from the strong resemblance between\nthem; but where in his face there was wildness and vacancy, in hers\nthere was the patient composure of long effort and quiet resignation.\n\nOne thing about this face was very strange and startling. You could not\nlook upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling that it had some\nextraordinary capacity of expressing terror. It was not on the surface.\nIt was in no one feature that it lingered. You could not take the\neyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and say, if this or that were\notherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it always lurked--something for\never dimly seen, but ever there, and never absent for a moment. It was\nthe faintest, palest shadow of some look, to which an instant of intense\nand most unutterable horror only could have given birth; but indistinct\nand feeble as it was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and\nfixed it in the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.\n\nMore faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were, because\nof his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon the son.\nSeen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it, and would have\nhaunted those who looked upon the canvas. They who knew the Maypole\nstory, and could remember what the widow was, before her husband's and\nhis master's murder, understood it well. They recollected how the change\nhad come, and could call to mind that when her son was born, upon the\nvery day the deed was known, he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear\nof blood but half washed out.\n\n'God save you, neighbour!' said the locksmith, as he followed her, with\nthe air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a cheerful fire\nwas burning.\n\n'And you,' she answered smiling. 'Your kind heart has brought you\nhere again. Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there are\nfriends to serve or comfort, out of doors.'\n\n'Tut, tut,' returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming them.\n'You women are such talkers. What of the patient, neighbour?'\n\n'He is sleeping now. He was very restless towards daylight, and for\nsome hours tossed and tumbled sadly. But the fever has left him, and the\ndoctor says he will soon mend. He must not be removed until to-morrow.'\n\n'He has had visitors to-day--humph?' said Gabriel, slyly.\n\n'Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and had\nnot been gone many minutes when you knocked.'\n\n'No ladies?' said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking\ndisappointed.\n\n'A letter,' replied the widow.\n\n'Come. That's better than nothing!' replied the locksmith. 'Who was the\nbearer?'\n\n'Barnaby, of course.'\n\n'Barnaby's a jewel!' said Varden; 'and comes and goes with ease where we\nwho think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand of it. He is\nnot out wandering, again, I hope?'\n\n'Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you know,\nand on his feet all day. He was quite tired out. Ah, neighbour, if I\ncould but see him oftener so--if I could but tame down that terrible\nrestlessness--'\n\n'In good time,' said the locksmith, kindly, 'in good time--don't be\ndown-hearted. To my mind he grows wiser every day.'\n\nThe widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith sought\nto cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she was glad to\nhear even this praise of her poor benighted son.\n\n'He will be a 'cute man yet,' resumed the locksmith. 'Take care, when we\nare growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn't put us to the blush, that's\nall. But our other friend,' he added, looking under the table and\nabout the floor--'sharpest and cunningest of all the sharp and cunning\nones--where's he?'\n\n'In Barnaby's room,' rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.\n\n'Ah! He's a knowing blade!' said Varden, shaking his head. 'I should\nbe sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He's a deep customer. I've no\ndoubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts if he chooses. What was\nthat? Him tapping at the door?'\n\n'No,' returned the widow. 'It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes.\nThere again! 'Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter. Who can it\nbe!'\n\nThey had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead, and\nthe walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their\nvoices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The party without,\nwhoever it was, could have stood close to the shutter without hearing\nanything spoken; and, seeing the light through the chinks and finding\nall so quiet, might have been persuaded that only one person was there.\n\n'Some thief or ruffian maybe,' said the locksmith. 'Give me the light.'\n\n'No, no,' she returned hastily. 'Such visitors have never come to this\npoor dwelling. Do you stay here. You're within call, at the worst. I\nwould rather go myself--alone.'\n\n'Why?' said the locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he had\ncaught up from the table.\n\n'Because--I don't know why--because the wish is so strong upon me,' she\nrejoined. 'There again--do not detain me, I beg of you!'\n\nGabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually so\nmild and quiet thus agitated, and with so little cause. She left the\nroom and closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment as if\nhesitating, with her hand upon the lock. In this short interval the\nknocking came again, and a voice close to the window--a voice the\nlocksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some disagreeable association\nwith--whispered 'Make haste.'\n\nThe words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its way so\nreadily to sleepers' ears, and wakes them in a fright. For a moment\nit startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew back from the\nwindow, and listened.\n\nThe wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed,\nbut he could tell that the door was opened, that there was the tread of\na man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment's silence--broken by a\nsuppressed something which was not a shriek, or groan, or cry for help,\nand yet might have been either or all three; and the words 'My God!'\nuttered in a voice it chilled him to hear.\n\nHe rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful\nlook--the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen\nbefore--upon her face. There she stood, frozen to the ground, gazing\nwith starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature fixed and\nghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last night. His\neyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a flash, an instant, a\nbreath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.\n\nThe locksmith was upon him--had the skirts of his streaming garment\nalmost in his grasp--when his arms were tightly clutched, and the widow\nflung herself upon the ground before him.\n\n'The other way--the other way,' she cried. 'He went the other way.\nTurn--turn!'\n\n'The other way! I see him now,' rejoined the locksmith,\npointing--'yonder--there--there is his shadow passing by that light.\nWhat--who is this? Let me go.'\n\n'Come back, come back!' exclaimed the woman, clasping him; 'Do not\ntouch him on your life. I charge you, come back. He carries other lives\nbesides his own. Come back!'\n\n'What does this mean?' cried the locksmith.\n\n'No matter what it means, don't ask, don't speak, don't think about it.\nHe is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!'\n\nThe old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about him;\nand, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into the house.\nIt was not until she had chained and double-locked the door, fastened\nevery bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a maniac, and drawn him\nback into the room, that she turned upon him, once again, that stony\nlook of horror, and, sinking down into a chair, covered her face, and\nshuddered, as though the hand of death were on her.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nBeyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had\npassed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon the\nshuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and would have\ngazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by compassion and\nhumanity.\n\n'You are ill,' said Gabriel. 'Let me call some neighbour in.'\n\n'Not for the world,' she rejoined, motioning to him with her trembling\nhand, and holding her face averted. 'It is enough that you have been by,\nto see this.'\n\n'Nay, more than enough--or less,' said Gabriel.\n\n'Be it so,' she returned. 'As you like. Ask me no questions, I entreat\nyou.'\n\n'Neighbour,' said the locksmith, after a pause. 'Is this fair, or\nreasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have known me so\nlong and sought my advice in all matters--like you, who from a girl have\nhad a strong mind and a staunch heart?'\n\n'I have need of them,' she replied. 'I am growing old, both in years and\ncare. Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them weaker than they\nused to be. Do not speak to me.'\n\n'How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!' returned the\nlocksmith. 'Who was that man, and why has his coming made this change in\nyou?'\n\nShe was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself from\nfalling on the ground.\n\n'I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,' said the locksmith,\n'who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has tried to prove it\nwhen he could. Who is this ill-favoured man, and what has he to do with\nyou? Who is this ghost, that is only seen in the black nights and bad\nweather? How does he know, and why does he haunt this house, whispering\nthrough chinks and crevices, as if there was that between him and you,\nwhich neither durst so much as speak aloud of? Who is he?'\n\n'You do well to say he haunts this house,' returned the widow, faintly.\n'His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and darkness, at noonday\nand midnight. And now, at last, he has come in the body!'\n\n'But he wouldn't have gone in the body,' returned the locksmith with\nsome irritation, 'if you had left my arms and legs at liberty. What\nriddle is this?'\n\n'It is one,' she answered, rising as she spoke, 'that must remain for\never as it is. I dare not say more than that.'\n\n'Dare not!' repeated the wondering locksmith.\n\n'Do not press me,' she replied. 'I am sick and faint, and every faculty\nof life seems dead within me.--No!--Do not touch me, either.'\n\nGabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell back as\nshe made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent wonder.\n\n'Let me go my way alone,' she said in a low voice, 'and let the hands of\nno honest man touch mine to-night.' When she had tottered to the door,\nshe turned, and added with a stronger effort, 'This is a secret, which,\nof necessity, I trust to you. You are a true man. As you have ever been\ngood and kind to me,--keep it. If any noise was heard above, make some\nexcuse--say anything but what you really saw, and never let a word or\nlook between us, recall this circumstance. I trust to you. Mind, I trust\nto you. How much I trust, you never can conceive.'\n\nCasting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left him\nthere alone.\n\nGabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with a\ncountenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on\nwhat had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable\ninterpretation. To find this widow woman, whose life for so many years\nhad been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and who, in her\nquiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion and respect of\nall who knew her--to find her linked mysteriously with an ill-omened\nman, alarmed at his appearance, and yet favouring his escape, was a\ndiscovery that pained as much as startled him. Her reliance on his\nsecrecy, and his tacit acquiescence, increased his distress of mind. If\nhe had spoken boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her\nwhen she rose to leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of\nsilently compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have\nbeen more at ease.\n\n'Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!' said\nGabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with greater\nease, and looking ruefully at the fire. 'I have no more readiness than\nold John himself. Why didn't I say firmly, \"You have no right to such\nsecrets, and I demand of you to tell me what this means,\" instead of\nstanding gaping at her, like an old moon-calf as I am! But there's my\nweakness. I can be obstinate enough with men if need be, but women may\ntwist me round their fingers at their pleasure.'\n\nHe took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and, warming\nhis handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his bald head with\nit, until it glistened again.\n\n'And yet,' said the locksmith, softening under this soothing process,\nand stopping to smile, 'it MAY be nothing. Any drunken brawler trying to\nmake his way into the house, would have alarmed a quiet soul like her.\nBut then'--and here was the vexation--'how came it to be that man; how\ncomes he to have this influence over her; how came she to favour his\ngetting away from me; and, more than all, how came she not to say it\nwas a sudden fright, and nothing more? It's a sad thing to have, in one\nminute, reason to mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old\nsweetheart into the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon\nmy mind!--Is that Barnaby outside there?'\n\n'Ay!' he cried, looking in and nodding. 'Sure enough it's Barnaby--how\ndid you guess?'\n\n'By your shadow,' said the locksmith.\n\n'Oho!' cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, 'He's a merry fellow,\nthat shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We have such\npranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass! Sometimes\nhe'll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes no bigger\nthan a dwarf. Now, he goes on before, and now behind, and anon he'll\nbe stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping whenever I stop, and\nthinking I can't see him, though I have my eye on him sharp enough. Oh!\nhe's a merry fellow. Tell me--is he silly too? I think he is.'\n\n'Why?' asked Gabriel.\n\n'Because he never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.--Why\ndon't you come?'\n\n'Where?'\n\n'Upstairs. He wants you. Stay--where's HIS shadow? Come. You're a wise\nman; tell me that.'\n\n'Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,' returned the locksmith.\n\n'No!' he replied, shaking his head. 'Guess again.'\n\n'Gone out a walking, maybe?'\n\n'He has changed shadows with a woman,' the idiot whispered in his ear,\nand then fell back with a look of triumph. 'Her shadow's always with\nhim, and his with her. That's sport I think, eh?'\n\n'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, with a grave look; 'come hither, lad.'\n\n'I know what you want to say. I know!' he replied, keeping away from\nhim. 'But I'm cunning, I'm silent. I only say so much to you--are you\nready?' As he spoke, he caught up the light, and waved it with a wild\nlaugh above his head.\n\n'Softly--gently,' said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to keep\nhim calm and quiet. 'I thought you had been asleep.'\n\n'So I HAVE been asleep,' he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes. 'There\nhave been great faces coming and going--close to my face, and then a\nmile away--low places to creep through, whether I would or no--high\nchurches to fall down from--strange creatures crowded up together neck\nand heels, to sit upon the bed--that's sleep, eh?'\n\n'Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,' said the locksmith.\n\n'Dreams!' he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. 'Those are not\ndreams.'\n\n'What are,' replied the locksmith, 'if they are not?'\n\n'I dreamed,' said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden's, and peering\nclose into his face as he answered in a whisper, 'I dreamed just now\nthat something--it was in the shape of a man--followed me--came softly\nafter me--wouldn't let me be--but was always hiding and crouching, like\na cat in dark corners, waiting till I should pass; when it crept out and\ncame softly after me.--Did you ever see me run?'\n\n'Many a time, you know.'\n\n'You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came creeping on\nto worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--leaped--sprung out\nof bed, and to the window--and there, in the street below--but he is\nwaiting for us. Are you coming?'\n\n'What in the street below, Barnaby?' said Varden, imagining that\nhe traced some connection between this vision and what had actually\noccurred.\n\nBarnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the light\nabove his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith's arm more\ntightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.\n\nThey entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with chairs,\nwhose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very\nlittle worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair\nbefore the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester,\nthe young gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the\nprevious night, and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed\nhim as his preserver and friend.\n\n'Say no more, sir, say no more,' said Gabriel. 'I hope I would have done\nat least as much for any man in such a strait, and most of all for you,\nsir. A certain young lady,' he added, with some hesitation, 'has done us\nmany a kind turn, and we naturally feel--I hope I give you no offence in\nsaying this, sir?'\n\nThe young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in his\nchair as if in pain.\n\n'It's no great matter,' he said, in answer to the locksmith's\nsympathising look, 'a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from\nbeing cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the loss\nof blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.'\n\n'If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,' returned\nthe locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and bending over\nhim, 'I'll stand here for the convenience of speaking low. Barnaby is\nnot in his quietest humour to-night, and at such times talking never\ndoes him good.'\n\nThey both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a seat on\nthe other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was making puzzles on\nhis fingers with a skein of string.\n\n'Pray, tell me, sir,' said Varden, dropping his voice still lower,\n'exactly what happened last night. I have my reason for inquiring. You\nleft the Maypole, alone?'\n\n'And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place where\nyou found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.'\n\n'Behind you?' said the locksmith.\n\n'Indeed, yes--behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook me,\nand checking his horse, inquired the way to London.'\n\n'You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are,\nscouring the roads in all directions?' said Varden.\n\n'I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols\nin their holster-case with the landlord's son. I directed him as he\ndesired. Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me furiously,\nas if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse's hoofs. In starting\naside, I slipped and fell. You found me with this stab and an ugly\nbruise or two, and without my purse--in which he found little enough for\nhis pains. And now, Mr Varden,' he added, shaking the locksmith by the\nhand, 'saving the extent of my gratitude to you, you know as much as I.'\n\n'Except,' said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking cautiously\ntowards their silent neighhour, 'except in respect of the robber\nhimself. What like was he, sir? Speak low, if you please. Barnaby means\nno harm, but I have watched him oftener than you, and I know, little as\nyou would think it, that he's listening now.'\n\nIt required a strong confidence in the locksmith's veracity to lead any\none to this belief, for every sense and faculty that Barnaby possessed,\nseemed to be fixed upon his game, to the exclusion of all other things.\nSomething in the young man's face expressed this opinion, for Gabriel\nrepeated what he had just said, more earnestly than before, and with\nanother glance towards Barnaby, again asked what like the man was.\n\n'The night was so dark,' said Edward, 'the attack so sudden, and he so\nwrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say. It seems that--'\n\n'Don't mention his name, sir,' returned the locksmith, following his\nlook towards Barnaby; 'I know HE saw him. I want to know what YOU saw.'\n\n'All I remember is,' said Edward, 'that as he checked his horse his\nhat was blown off. He caught it, and replaced it on his head, which\nI observed was bound with a dark handkerchief. A stranger entered the\nMaypole while I was there, whom I had not seen--for I had sat apart for\nreasons of my own--and when I rose to leave the room and glanced round,\nhe was in the shadow of the chimney and hidden from my sight. But, if he\nand the robber were two different persons, their voices were strangely\nand most remarkably alike; for directly the man addressed me in the\nroad, I recognised his speech again.'\n\n'It is as I feared. The very man was here to-night,' thought the\nlocksmith, changing colour. 'What dark history is this!'\n\n'Halloa!' cried a hoarse voice in his ear. 'Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow\nwow wow. What's the matter here! Hal-loa!'\n\nThe speaker--who made the locksmith start as if he had been some\nsupernatural agent--was a large raven, who had perched upon the top of\nthe easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a polite\nattention and a most extraordinary appearance of comprehending every\nword, to all they had said up to this point; turning his head from one\nto the other, as if his office were to judge between them, and it were\nof the very last importance that he should not lose a word.\n\n'Look at him!' said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a\nkind of fear of him. 'Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! Oh he's\na dreadful fellow!'\n\nThe raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye\nshining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few\nseconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it\nseemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his mouth.\n\n'Halloa, halloa, halloa! What's the matter here! Keep up your spirits.\nNever say die. Bow wow wow. I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil.\nHurrah!'--And then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began\nto whistle.\n\n'I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do,'\nsaid Varden. 'Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I was\nsaying?'\n\nTo which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it were, and moving\nhis body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined, 'I'm a devil,\nI'm a devil, I'm a devil,' and flapped his wings against his sides as\nif he were bursting with laughter. Barnaby clapped his hands, and fairly\nrolled upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight.\n\n'Strange companions, sir,' said the locksmith, shaking his head, and\nlooking from one to the other. 'The bird has all the wit.'\n\n'Strange indeed!' said Edward, holding out his forefinger to the raven,\nwho, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive at it immediately\nwith his iron bill. 'Is he old?'\n\n'A mere boy, sir,' replied the locksmith. 'A hundred and twenty, or\nthereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby, my man.'\n\n'Call him!' echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and staring\nvacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his face. 'But who\ncan make him come! He calls me, and makes me go where he will. He goes\non before, and I follow. He's the master, and I'm the man. Is that the\ntruth, Grip?'\n\nThe raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;--a most\nexpressive croak, which seemed to say, 'You needn't let these fellows\ninto our secrets. We understand each other. It's all right.'\n\n'I make HIM come?' cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. 'Him, who never\ngoes to sleep, or so much as winks!--Why, any time of night, you may see\nhis eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks. And every night, and\nall night too, he's broad awake, talking to himself, thinking what he\nshall do to-morrow, where we shall go, and what he shall steal, and\nhide, and bury. I make HIM come! Ha ha ha!'\n\nOn second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself. After\na short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the ceiling\nand at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the floor, and went\nto Barnaby--not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a pace like that of\na very particular gentleman with exceedingly tight boots on, trying to\nwalk fast over loose pebbles. Then, stepping into his extended hand,\nand condescending to be held out at arm's length, he gave vent to a\nsuccession of sounds, not unlike the drawing of some eight or ten dozen\nof long corks, and again asserted his brimstone birth and parentage with\ngreat distinctness.\n\nThe locksmith shook his head--perhaps in some doubt of the creature's\nbeing really nothing but a bird--perhaps in pity for Barnaby, who by\nthis time had him in his arms, and was rolling about, with him, on the\nground. As he raised his eyes from the poor fellow he encountered those\nof his mother, who had entered the room, and was looking on in silence.\n\nShe was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but had wholly\nsubdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look. Varden fancied as he\nglanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she busied herself\nabout the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better.\n\nIt was time he went to bed, she said. He was to be removed to his own\nhome on the morrow, and he had already exceeded his time for sitting up,\nby a full hour. Acting on this hint, the locksmith prepared to take his\nleave.\n\n'By the bye,' said Edward, as he shook him by the hand, and looked from\nhim to Mrs Rudge and back again, 'what noise was that below? I heard\nyour voice in the midst of it, and should have inquired before, but our\nother conversation drove it from my memory. What was it?'\n\nThe locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip. She leant against the\nchair, and bent her eyes upon the ground. Barnaby too--he was listening.\n\n--'Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,' Varden at length made answer,\nlooking steadily at the widow as he spoke. 'He mistook the house, and\ntried to force an entrance.'\n\nShe breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the locksmith\nsaid 'Good night,' and Barnaby caught up the candle to light him down\nthe stairs, she took it from him, and charged him--with more haste and\nearnestness than so slight an occasion appeared to warrant--not to stir.\nThe raven followed them to satisfy himself that all was right below,\nand when they reached the street-door, stood on the bottom stair drawing\ncorks out of number.\n\nWith a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and turned\nthe key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith said in a low\nvoice,\n\n'I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake of\nbygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so for my\nown. I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I can't help the\nsuspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I tell you plainly,\nto leave Mr Edward here. Take care he comes to no hurt. I doubt the\nsafety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it so soon. Now, let me go.'\n\nFor a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting the\nstrong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the door--no\nwider than was sufficient for the passage of his body--and motioned him\naway. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it was chained and locked\nbehind him, and the raven, in furtherance of these precautions, barked\nlike a lusty house-dog.\n\n'In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a\ngibbet--he listening and hiding here--Barnaby first upon the spot last\nnight--can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty of such\ncrimes in secret!' said the locksmith, musing. 'Heaven forgive me if I\nam wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is poor, the temptation\nmay be great, and we daily hear of things as strange.--Ay, bark away, my\nfriend. If there's any wickedness going on, that raven's in it, I'll be\nsworn.'\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nMrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain temper--a\nphrase which being interpreted signifies a temper tolerably certain to\nmake everybody more or less uncomfortable. Thus it generally happened,\nthat when other people were merry, Mrs Varden was dull; and that\nwhen other people were dull, Mrs Varden was disposed to be amazingly\ncheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife was of such a capricious nature,\nthat she not only attained a higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in\nrespect of her ability to be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,\nloyal and neutral in an instant, but would sometimes ring the changes\nbackwards and forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short\nquarter of an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major\non the peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and\nrapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.\n\nIt had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for personal\nattractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like her\nfair daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this uncertainty of\ndisposition strengthened and increased with her temporal prosperity; and\ndivers wise men and matrons, on friendly terms with the locksmith and\nhis family, even went so far as to assert, that a tumble down some\nhalf-dozen rounds in the world's ladder--such as the breaking of the\nbank in which her husband kept his money, or some little fall of that\nkind--would be the making of her, and could hardly fail to render her\none of the most agreeable companions in existence. Whether they were\nright or wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like\nbodies, will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from\nmere excess of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by\nremedies in themselves very nauseous and unpalatable.\n\nMrs Varden's chief aider and abettor, and at the same time her principal\nvictim and object of wrath, was her single domestic servant, one Miss\nMiggs; or as she was called, in conformity with those prejudices of\nsociety which lop and top from poor hand-maidens all such genteel\nexcrescences--Miggs. This Miggs was a tall young lady, very much\naddicted to pattens in private life; slender and shrewish, of a rather\nuncomfortable figure, and though not absolutely ill-looking, of a sharp\nand acid visage. As a general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs\nheld the male sex to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice;\nto be fickle, false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly\nundeserving. When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal\nsaid, was when Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to\nwish with great emphasis that the whole race of women could but die off,\nin order that the men might be brought to know the real value of the\nblessings by which they set so little store; nay, her feeling for her\norder ran so high, that she sometimes declared, if she could only have\ngood security for a fair, round number--say ten thousand--of young\nvirgins following her example, she would, to spite mankind, hang, drown,\nstab, or poison herself, with a joy past all expression.\n\nIt was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he knocked at\nhis own house, with a shrill cry of 'Who's there?'\n\n'Me, girl, me,' returned Gabriel.\n\nWhat, already, sir!' said Miggs, opening the door with a look of\nsurprise. 'We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,--me and\nmistress. Oh, she has been SO bad!'\n\nMiggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but the\nparlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew for whose\nears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but an approving\nlook as he passed in.\n\n'Master's come home, mim,' cried Miggs, running before him into the\nparlour. 'You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he wouldn't\nkeep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master's always considerate\nso far. I'm so glad, mim, on your account. I'm a little'--here Miggs\nsimpered--'a little sleepy myself; I'll own it now, mim, though I said I\nwasn't when you asked me. It ain't of no consequence, mim, of course.'\n\n'You had better,' said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that\nBarnaby's raven was at Miggs's ankles, 'you had better get to bed at\nonce then.'\n\n'Thanking you kindly, sir,' returned Miggs, 'I couldn't take my rest in\npeace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than that I knew\nmistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by rights she ought to\nhave been there, hours ago.'\n\n'You're talkative, mistress,' said Varden, pulling off his greatcoat,\nand looking at her askew.\n\n'Taking the hint, sir,' cried Miggs, with a flushed face, 'and thanking\nyou for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I give offence\nby having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask your pardon, but\nam content to get myself into trouble and to be in suffering.'\n\nHere Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large nightcap,\nhad been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual, looked round,\nand acknowledged Miggs's championship by commanding her to hold her\ntongue.\n\nEvery little bone in Miggs's throat and neck developed itself with a\nspitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, 'Yes, mim, I will.'\n\n'How do you find yourself now, my dear?' said the locksmith, taking a\nchair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and rubbing his knees\nhard as he made the inquiry.\n\n'You're very anxious to know, an't you?' returned Mrs Varden, with\nher eyes upon the print. 'You, that have not been near me all day, and\nwouldn't have been if I was dying!'\n\n'My dear Martha--' said Gabriel.\n\nMrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to the\nbottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and then went\non reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and study.\n\n'My dear Martha,' said the locksmith, 'how can you say such things,\nwhen you know you don't mean them? If you were dying! Why, if there was\nanything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn't I be in constant\nattendance upon you?'\n\n'Yes!' cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, 'yes, you would. I don't\ndoubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That's as much as to tell me that\nyou would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting till the breath\nwas out of my body, that you might go and marry somebody else.'\n\nMiggs groaned in sympathy--a little short groan, checked in its birth,\nand changed into a cough. It seemed to say, 'I can't help it. It's wrung\nfrom me by the dreadful brutality of that monster master.'\n\n'But you'll break my heart one of these days,' added Mrs Varden, with\nmore resignation, 'and then we shall both be happy. My only desire is\nto see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you may settle ME as\nsoon as you like.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Miggs--and coughed again.\n\nPoor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and then\nsaid mildly, 'Has Dolly gone to bed?'\n\n'Your master speaks to you,' said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over her\nshoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.\n\n'No, my dear, I spoke to you,' suggested the locksmith.\n\n'Did you hear me, Miggs?' cried the obdurate lady, stamping her foot\nupon the ground. 'YOU are beginning to despise me now, are you? But this\nis example!'\n\nAt this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for large\nor small parties, on the shortest notice and the most reasonable terms,\nfell a crying violently; holding both her hands tight upon her heart\nmeanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent its splitting into small\nfragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise possessed that faculty in high\nperfection, wept too, against Miggs; and with such effect that Miggs\ngave in after a time, and, except for an occasional sob, which seemed to\nthreaten some remote intention of breaking out again, left her mistress\nin possession of the field. Her superiority being thoroughly asserted,\nthat lady soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.\n\nThe relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last night so\ncompletely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in his chair, and\nwould doubtless have slept there all night, but for the voice of Mrs\nVarden, which, after a pause of some five minutes, awoke him with a\nstart.\n\n'If I am ever,' said Mrs V.--not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous\nremonstrance--'in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than\nusually disposed to be talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am\ntreated.'\n\n'Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!' cried\nMiggs. 'I never see such company!'\n\n'Because,' said Mrs Varden, 'because I never interfere or interrupt;\nbecause I never question where anybody comes or goes; because my whole\nmind and soul is bent on saving where I can save, and labouring in this\nhouse;--therefore, they try me as they do.'\n\n'Martha,' urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as\npossible, 'what is it you complain of? I really came home with every\nwish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.'\n\n'What do I complain of!' retorted his wife. 'Is it a chilling thing to\nhave one's husband sulking and falling asleep directly he comes home--to\nhave him freezing all one's warm-heartedness, and throwing cold water\nover the fireside? Is it natural, when I know he went out upon a matter\nin which I am as much interested as anybody can be, that I should wish\nto know all that has happened, or that he should tell me without my\nbegging and praying him to do it? Is that natural, or is it not?'\n\n'I am very sorry, Martha,' said the good-natured locksmith. 'I was\nreally afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I'll tell you\neverything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.'\n\n'No, Varden,' returned his wife, rising with dignity. 'I dare say--thank\nyou! I'm not a child to be corrected one minute and petted the next--I'm\na little too old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the light.--YOU can be\ncheerful, Miggs, at least.'\n\nMiggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of compassionate\ndespondency, passed instantly into the liveliest state conceivable,\nand tossing her head as she glanced towards the locksmith, bore off her\nmistress and the light together.\n\n'Now, who would think,' thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and\ndrawing his chair nearer to the fire, 'that that woman could ever be\npleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be. Well, well, all of us have\nour faults. I'll not be hard upon hers. We have been man and wife too\nlong for that.'\n\nHe dozed again--not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty temper.\nWhile his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper stairs was\npartially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight of him, hastily\ndrew back again.\n\n'I wish,' murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round\nthe room, 'I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But that's impossible! I\nwonder whether there's any madman alive, who would marry Miggs!'\n\nThis was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again, and\nslept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused himself; and\nhaving double-locked the street-door according to custom, and put the\nkey in his pocket, went off to bed.\n\nHe had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head again\nappeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a little lamp.\n\n'What the devil business has he to stop up so late!' muttered Sim,\npassing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge. 'Here's\nhalf the night gone already. There's only one good that has ever come to\nme, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade, and that's this piece\nof ironmongery, upon my soul!'\n\nAs he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg pocket of\nhis smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted cautiously in\nthe lock his master had secured, and softly opened the door. That done,\nhe replaced his piece of secret workmanship in his pocket; and leaving\nthe lamp burning, and closing the door carefully and without noise,\nstole out into the street--as little suspected by the locksmith in his\nsound deep sleep, as by Barnaby himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nClear of the locksmith's house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his cautious\nmanner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling, swaggering, roving\nblade, who would rather kill a man than otherwise, and eat him too if\nneedful, made the best of his way along the darkened streets.\n\nHalf pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and assure\nhimself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to Barbican, and\nturning into one of the narrowest of the narrow streets which diverged\nfrom that centre, slackened his pace and wiped his heated brow, as if\nthe termination of his walk were near at hand.\n\nIt was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in truth\none of more than questionable character, and of an appearance by no\nmeans inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself little\nbetter than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind court, or\nyard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant odours. Into\nthis ill-favoured pit, the locksmith's vagrant 'prentice groped his way;\nand stopping at a house from whose defaced and rotten front the rude\neffigy of a bottle swung to and fro like some gibbeted malefactor,\nstruck thrice upon an iron grating with his foot. After listening in\nvain for some response to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and\nstruck the grating thrice again.\n\nA further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration. The ground\nseemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.\n\n'Is that the captain?' said a voice as ragged as the head.\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, 'who\nshould it be?'\n\n'It's so late, we gave you up,' returned the voice, as its owner stopped\nto shut and fasten the grating. 'You're late, sir.'\n\n'Lead on,' said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, 'and make remarks\nwhen I require you. Forward!'\n\nThis latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and\nunnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and\nslippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten\ntrack must have ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr Tappertit being,\nlike some other great commanders, favourable to strong effects, and\npersonal display, cried 'Forward!' again, in the hoarsest voice he could\nassume; and led the way, with folded arms and knitted brows, to the\ncellar down below, where there was a small copper fixed in one corner,\na chair or two, a form and table, a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed,\ncovered with a ragged patchwork rug.\n\n'Welcome, noble captain!' cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap.\n\nThe captain nodded. Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood composed\nin all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.\n\n'What news to-night?' he asked, when he had looked into his very soul.\n\n'Nothing particular,' replied the other, stretching himself--and he was\nso long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it--'how come\nyou to be so late?'\n\n'No matter,' was all the captain deigned to say in answer. 'Is the room\nprepared?'\n\n'It is,' replied the follower.\n\n'The comrade--is he here?'\n\n'Yes. And a sprinkling of the others--you hear 'em?'\n\n'Playing skittles!' said the captain moodily. 'Light-hearted revellers!'\n\nThere was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which these\nheedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and stifling\natmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant thunder. It\ncertainly appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to choose, for that\nor any other purpose of relaxation, if the other cellars answered to\nthe one in which this brief colloquy took place; for the floors were of\nsodden earth, the walls and roof of damp bare brick tapestried with\nthe tracks of snails and slugs; the air was sickening, tainted, and\noffensive. It seemed, from one strong flavour which was uppermost among\nthe various odours of the place, that it had, at no very distant period,\nbeen used as a storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it\naccounted for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably\nsuggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little trees of\nfungus sprung from every mouldering corner.\n\nThe proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged head\nbefore mentioned--for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and frowzy as a\nstunted hearth-broom--had by this time joined them; and stood a little\napart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled chin, and smiling\nin silence. His eyes were closed; but had they been wide open, it would\nhave been easy to tell, from the attentive expression of the face he\nturned towards them--pale and unwholesome as might be expected in one\nof his underground existence--and from a certain anxious raising and\nquivering of the lids, that he was blind.\n\n'Even Stagg hath been asleep,' said the long comrade, nodding towards\nthis person.\n\n'Sound, captain, sound!' cried the blind man; 'what does my noble\ncaptain drink--is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it soaked gunpowder, or\nblazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we'd get it for you, if\nit was wine from a bishop's cellar, or melted gold from King George's\nmint.'\n\n'See,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily, 'that it's something strong, and\ncomes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may bring it from\nthe devil's cellar, if you like.'\n\n'Boldly said, noble captain!' rejoined the blind man. 'Spoken like the\n'Prentices' Glory. Ha, ha! From the devil's cellar! A brave joke! The\ncaptain joketh. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\n'I'll tell you what, my fine feller,' said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the\nhost over as he walked to a closet, and took out a bottle and glass as\ncarelessly as if he had been in full possession of his sight, 'if you\nmake that row, you'll find that the captain's very far from joking, and\nso I tell you.'\n\n'He's got his eyes on me!' cried Stagg, stopping short on his way back,\nand affecting to screen his face with the bottle. 'I feel 'em though I\ncan't see 'em. Take 'em off, noble captain. Remove 'em, for they pierce\nlike gimlets.'\n\nMr Tappertit smiled grimly at his comrade; and twisting out one more\nlook--a kind of ocular screw--under the influence of which the blind man\nfeigned to undergo great anguish and torture, bade him, in a softened\ntone, approach, and hold his peace.\n\n'I obey you, captain,' cried Stagg, drawing close to him and filling\nout a bumper without spilling a drop, by reason that he held his little\nfinger at the brim of the glass, and stopped at the instant the liquor\ntouched it, 'drink, noble governor. Death to all masters, life to all\n'prentices, and love to all fair damsels. Drink, brave general, and warm\nyour gallant heart!'\n\nMr Tappertit condescended to take the glass from his outstretched hand.\nStagg then dropped on one knee, and gently smoothed the calves of his\nlegs, with an air of humble admiration.\n\n'That I had but eyes!' he cried, 'to behold my captain's symmetrical\nproportions! That I had but eyes, to look upon these twin invaders of\ndomestic peace!'\n\n'Get out!' said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his favourite limbs.\n'Go along, will you, Stagg!'\n\n'When I touch my own afterwards,' cried the host, smiting them\nreproachfully, 'I hate 'em. Comparatively speaking, they've no more\nshape than wooden legs, beside these models of my noble captain's.'\n\n'Yours!' exclaimed Mr Tappertit. 'No, I should think not. Don't talk\nabout those precious old toothpicks in the same breath with mine; that's\nrather too much. Here. Take the glass. Benjamin. Lead on. To business!'\n\nWith these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a sullen\nmajesty, passed with his companion through a little door at the upper\nend of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his private\nmeditations.\n\nThe vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was\nbetween the outer one from which they had just come, and that in which\nthe skittle-players were diverting themselves; as was manifested by\nthe increased noise and clamour of tongues, which was suddenly stopped,\nhowever, and replaced by a dead silence, at a signal from the long\ncomrade. Then, this young gentleman, going to a little cupboard,\nreturned with a thigh-bone, which in former times must have been part\nand parcel of some individual at least as long as himself, and placed\nthe same in the hands of Mr Tappertit; who, receiving it as a sceptre\nand staff of authority, cocked his three-cornered hat fiercely on the\ntop of his head, and mounted a large table, whereon a chair of state,\ncheerfully ornamented with a couple of skulls, was placed ready for his\nreception.\n\nHe had no sooner assumed this position, than another young gentleman\nappeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who made him a\nprofound obeisance, and delivering it to the long comrade, advanced to\nthe table, and turning his back upon it, stood there Atlas-wise. Then,\nthe long comrade got upon the table too; and seating himself in a lower\nchair than Mr Tappertit's, with much state and ceremony, placed the\nlarge book on the shoulders of their mute companion as deliberately as\nif he had been a wooden desk, and prepared to make entries therein with\na pen of corresponding size.\n\nWhen the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked towards Mr\nTappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone, knocked nine times\ntherewith upon one of the skulls. At the ninth stroke, a third young\ngentleman emerged from the door leading to the skittle ground, and\nbowing low, awaited his commands.\n\n'Prentice!' said the mighty captain, 'who waits without?'\n\nThe 'prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who claimed\nadmission into that secret society of 'Prentice Knights, and a free\nparticipation in their rights, privileges, and immunities. Thereupon\nMr Tappertit flourished the bone again, and giving the other skull a\nprodigious rap on the nose, exclaimed 'Admit him!' At these dread words\nthe 'prentice bowed once more, and so withdrew as he had come.\n\nThere soon appeared at the same door, two other 'prentices, having\nbetween them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was attired in a\nbag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished lace; and who\nwas girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws of the Institution\nregulating the introduction of candidates, which required them to\nassume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly in lavender, for\ntheir convenience. One of the conductors of this novice held a rusty\nblunderbuss pointed towards his ear, and the other a very ancient\nsabre, with which he carved imaginary offenders as he came along in a\nsanguinary and anatomical manner.\n\nAs this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his head.\nThe novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent before him. When\nhe had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain ordered the bandage to\nbe removed, and proceeded to eye him over.\n\n'Ha!' said the captain, thoughtfully, when he had concluded this ordeal.\n'Proceed.'\n\nThe long comrade read aloud as follows:--'Mark Gilbert. Age, nineteen.\nBound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden Fleece, Aldgate. Loves Curzon's\ndaughter. Cannot say that Curzon's daughter loves him. Should think it\nprobable. Curzon pulled his ears last Tuesday week.'\n\n'How!' cried the captain, starting.\n\n'For looking at his daughter, please you,' said the novice.\n\n'Write Curzon down, Denounced,' said the captain. 'Put a black cross\nagainst the name of Curzon.'\n\n'So please you,' said the novice, 'that's not the worst--he calls his\n'prentice idle dog, and stops his beer unless he works to his liking. He\ngives Dutch cheese, too, eating Cheshire, sir, himself; and Sundays out,\nare only once a month.'\n\n'This,' said Mr Tappert gravely, 'is a flagrant case. Put two black\ncrosses to the name of Curzon.'\n\n'If the society,' said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-sided,\nshambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his head--'if the\nsociety would burn his house down--for he's not insured--or beat him\nas he comes home from his club at night, or help me to carry off his\ndaughter, and marry her at the Fleet, whether she gave consent or no--'\n\nMr Tappertit waved his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him not to\ninterrupt, and ordered three black crosses to the name of Curzon.\n\n'Which means,' he said in gracious explanation, 'vengeance, complete and\nterrible. 'Prentice, do you love the Constitution?'\n\nTo which the novice (being to that end instructed by his attendant\nsponsors) replied 'I do!'\n\n'The Church, the State, and everything established--but the masters?'\nquoth the captain.\n\nAgain the novice said 'I do.'\n\nHaving said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an address\nprepared for such occasions, told him how that under that same\nConstitution (which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but where\nexactly he could not find out, or he would have endeavoured to procure a\ncopy of it), the 'prentices had, in times gone by, had frequent holidays\nof right, broken people's heads by scores, defied their masters, nay,\neven achieved some glorious murders in the streets, which privileges\nhad gradually been wrested from them, and in all which noble aspirations\nthey were now restrained; how the degrading checks imposed upon them\nwere unquestionably attributable to the innovating spirit of the times,\nand how they united therefore to resist all change, except such change\nas would restore those good old English customs, by which they would\nstand or fall. After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by\nreference to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent\npractice of the mule and donkey, he described their general objects;\nwhich were briefly vengeance on their Tyrant Masters (of whose grievous\nand insupportable oppression no 'prentice could entertain a moment's\ndoubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid, of their ancient rights and\nholidays; for neither of which objects were they now quite ripe, being\nbarely twenty strong, but which they pledged themselves to pursue with\nfire and sword when needful. Then he described the oath which every\nmember of that small remnant of a noble body took, and which was of a\ndreadful and impressive kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief,\nto resist and obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to\ndespise the authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen\nas nought; but not on any account, in case the fulness of time should\nbring a general rising of 'prentices, to damage or in any way disfigure\nTemple Bar, which was strictly constitutional and always to be\napproached with reverence. Having gone over these several heads with\ngreat eloquence and force, and having further informed the novice that\nthis society had its origin in his own teeming brain, stimulated by a\nswelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr Tappertit demanded whether he\nhad strength of heart to take the mighty pledge required, or whether he\nwould withdraw while retreat was yet in his power.\n\nTo this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow, though\nit should choke him; and it was accordingly administered with many\nimpressive circumstances, among which the lighting up of the two skulls\nwith a candle-end inside of each, and a great many flourishes with\nthe bone, were chiefly conspicuous; not to mention a variety of grave\nexercises with the blunderbuss and sabre, and some dismal groaning by\nunseen 'prentices without. All these dark and direful ceremonies\nbeing at length completed, the table was put aside, the chair of state\nremoved, the sceptre locked up in its usual cupboard, the doors of\ncommunication between the three cellars thrown freely open, and the\n'Prentice Knights resigned themselves to merriment.\n\nBut Mr Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on\naccount of his greatness, could only afford to be merry now and then,\nthrew himself on a bench with the air of a man who was faint with\ndignity. He looked with an indifferent eye, alike on skittles, cards,\nand dice, thinking only of the locksmith's daughter, and the base\ndegenerate days on which he had fallen.\n\n'My noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,' said his host,\ntaking a seat beside him. 'Drink, gallant general!'\n\nMr Tappertit drained the proffered goblet to the dregs; then thrust\nhis hands into his pockets, and with a lowering visage walked among the\nskittles, while his followers (such is the influence of superior genius)\nrestrained the ardent ball, and held his little shins in dumb respect.\n\n'If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand, genteel highwayman\nor patriot--and they're the same thing,' thought Mr Tappertit, musing\namong the nine-pins, 'I should have been all right. But to drag out a\nignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in general--patience! I will be\nfamous yet. A voice within me keeps on whispering Greatness. I shall\nburst out one of these days, and when I do, what power can keep me down?\nI feel my soul getting into my head at the idea. More drink there!'\n\n'The novice,' pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of thunder,\nfor his tones, to say the truth were rather cracked and shrill--but very\nimpressively, notwithstanding--'where is he?'\n\n'Here, noble captain!' cried Stagg. 'One stands beside me who I feel is\na stranger.'\n\n'Have you,' said Mr Tappertit, letting his gaze fall on the party\nindicated, who was indeed the new knight, by this time restored to his\nown apparel; 'Have you the impression of your street-door key in wax?'\n\nThe long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing it from the shelf\non which it had been deposited.\n\n'Good,' said Mr Tappertit, scrutinising it attentively, while a\nbreathless silence reigned around; for he had constructed secret\ndoor-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed something of his\ninfluence to that mean and trivial circumstance--on such slight\naccidents do even men of mind depend!--'This is easily made. Come\nhither, friend.'\n\nWith that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the pattern in\nhis pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side.\n\n'And so,' he said, when they had taken a few turns up and down, you--you\nlove your master's daughter?'\n\n'I do,' said the 'prentice. 'Honour bright. No chaff, you know.'\n\n'Have you,' rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and\ngiving him a look which would have been expressive of the most deadly\nmalevolence, but for an accidental hiccup that rather interfered with\nit; 'have you a--a rival?'\n\n'Not as I know on,' replied the 'prentice.\n\n'If you had now--' said Mr Tappertit--'what would you--eh?--'\n\nThe 'prentice looked fierce and clenched his fists.\n\n'It is enough,' cried Mr Tappertit hastily, 'we understand each other.\nWe are observed. I thank you.'\n\nSo saying, he cast him off again; and calling the long comrade aside\nafter taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade him immediately write\nand post against the wall, a notice, proscribing one Joseph Willet\n(commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding all 'Prentice Knights\nto succour, comfort, or hold communion with him; and requiring them,\non pain of excommunication, to molest, hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick\nquarrels with the said Joseph, whensoever and wheresoever they, or any\nof them, should happen to encounter him.\n\nHaving relieved his mind by this energetic proceeding, he condescended\nto approach the festive board, and warming by degrees, at length deigned\nto preside, and even to enchant the company with a song. After this,\nhe rose to such a pitch as to consent to regale the society with a\nhornpipe, which he actually performed to the music of a fiddle (played\nby an ingenious member) with such surpassing agility and brilliancy of\nexecution, that the spectators could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in\ntheir admiration; and their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that\nhe had never truly felt his blindness until that moment.\n\nBut the host withdrawing--probably to weep in secret--soon returned with\nthe information that it wanted little more than an hour of day, and that\nall the cocks in Barbican had already begun to crow, as if their lives\ndepended on it. At this intelligence, the 'Prentice Knights arose in\nhaste, and marshalling into a line, filed off one by one and dispersed\nwith all speed to their several homes, leaving their leader to pass the\ngrating last.\n\n'Good night, noble captain,' whispered the blind man as he held it open\nfor his passage out; 'Farewell, brave general. Bye, bye, illustrious\ncommander. Good luck go with you for a--conceited, bragging,\nempty-headed, duck-legged idiot.'\n\nWith which parting words, coolly added as he listened to his receding\nfootsteps and locked the grate upon himself, he descended the steps,\nand lighting the fire below the little copper, prepared, without\nany assistance, for his daily occupation; which was to retail at the\narea-head above pennyworths of broth and soup, and savoury puddings,\ncompounded of such scraps as were to be bought in the heap for the least\nmoney at Fleet Market in the evening time; and for the sale of which\nhe had need to have depended chiefly on his private connection, for the\ncourt had no thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which\nmany people were likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable\npromenade.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nChronicler's are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go\nthrough keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their soarings\nup and down, all obstacles of distance, time, and place. Thrice blessed\nbe this last consideration, since it enables us to follow the disdainful\nMiggs even into the sanctity of her chamber, and to hold her in sweet\ncompanionship through the dreary watches of the night!\n\nMiss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as she phrased it (which means,\nassisted to undress her), and having seen her comfortably to bed in\nthe back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own apartment, in\nthe attic story. Notwithstanding her declaration in the locksmith's\npresence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting her light upon the\ntable and withdrawing the little window curtain, she gazed out pensively\nat the wild night sky.\n\nPerhaps she wondered what star was destined for her habitation when\nshe had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which of those\nglimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit; perhaps\nmarvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious creature, man, and\nnot sicken and turn green as chemists' lamps; perhaps thought of nothing\nin particular. Whatever she thought about, there she sat, until her\nattention, alive to anything connected with the insinuating 'prentice,\nwas attracted by a noise in the next room to her own--his room; the room\nin which he slept, and dreamed--it might be, sometimes dreamed of her.\n\nThat he was not dreaming now, unless he was taking a walk in his sleep,\nwas clear, for every now and then there came a shuffling noise, as\nthough he were engaged in polishing the whitewashed wall; then a gentle\ncreaking of his door; then the faintest indication of his stealthy\nfootsteps on the landing-place outside. Noting this latter circumstance,\nMiss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as mistrusting his intentions; and\nmore than once exclaimed, below her breath, 'Oh! what a Providence it\nis, as I am bolted in!'--which, owing doubtless to her alarm, was a\nconfusion of ideas on her part between a bolt and its use; for though\nthere was one on the door, it was not fastened.\n\nMiss Miggs's sense of hearing, however, having as sharp an edge as her\ntemper, and being of the same snappish and suspicious kind, very soon\ninformed her that the footsteps passed her door, and appeared to have\nsome object quite separate and disconnected from herself. At this\ndiscovery she became more alarmed than ever, and was about to give\nutterance to those cries of 'Thieves!' and 'Murder!' which she had\nhitherto restrained, when it occurred to her to look softly out, and see\nthat her fears had some good palpable foundation.\n\nLooking out accordingly, and stretching her neck over the handrail,\nshe descried, to her great amazement, Mr Tappertit completely dressed,\nstealing downstairs, one step at a time, with his shoes in one hand\nand a lamp in the other. Following him with her eyes, and going down a\nlittle way herself to get the better of an intervening angle, she beheld\nhim thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw it back again with\ngreat swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat upstairs with all\npossible expedition.\n\n'Here's mysteries!' said the damsel, when she was safe in her own room\nagain, quite out of breath. 'Oh, gracious, here's mysteries!'\n\nThe prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept Miss\nMiggs awake under the influence of henbane. Presently, she heard the\nstep again, as she would have done if it had been that of a feather\nendowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe. Then gliding out as\nbefore, she again beheld the retreating figure of the 'prentice; again\nhe looked cautiously in at the parlour-door, but this time instead of\nretreating, he passed in and disappeared.\n\nMiggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window, before\nan elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from it. Out he\ncame at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him, tried it with\nhis knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his pocket as he\nwent along. At this spectacle Miggs cried 'Gracious!' again, and then\n'Goodness gracious!' and then 'Goodness gracious me!' and then, candle\nin hand, went downstairs as he had done. Coming to the workshop, she saw\nthe lamp burning on the forge, and everything as Sim had left it.\n\n'Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried\ndecent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn't been and\nmade a key for his own self!' cried Miggs. 'Oh the little villain!'\n\nThis conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much\npeeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the recollection\nthat she had on several occasions come upon the 'prentice suddenly,\nand found him busy at some mysterious occupation. Lest the fact of Miss\nMiggs calling him, on whom she stooped to cast a favourable eye, a\nboy, should create surprise in any breast, it may be observed that she\ninvariably affected to regard all male bipeds under thirty as mere chits\nand infants; which phenomenon is not unusual in ladies of Miss Miggs's\ntemper, and is indeed generally found to be the associate of such\nindomitable and savage virtue.\n\nMiss Miggs deliberated within herself for some little time, looking hard\nat the shop-door while she did so, as though her eyes and thoughts were\nboth upon it; and then, taking a sheet of paper from a drawer, twisted\nit into a long thin spiral tube. Having filled this instrument with a\nquantity of small coal-dust from the forge, she approached the door,\nand dropping on one knee before it, dexterously blew into the keyhole as\nmuch of these fine ashes as the lock would hold. When she had filled it\nto the brim in a very workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept upstairs\nagain, and chuckled as she went.\n\n'There!' cried Miggs, rubbing her hands, 'now let's see whether you\nwon't be glad to take some notice of me, mister. He, he, he! You'll have\neyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I think. A fat-faced puss she\nis, as ever I come across!'\n\nAs she uttered this criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small\nmirror, as who should say, I thank my stars that can't be said of\nme!--as it certainly could not; for Miss Miggs's style of beauty was of\nthat kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not inaptly termed, in private,\n'scraggy.'\n\n'I don't go to bed this night!' said Miggs, wrapping herself in a shawl,\nand drawing a couple of chairs near the window, flouncing down upon\none, and putting her feet upon the other, 'till you come home, my lad. I\nwouldn't,' said Miggs viciously, 'no, not for five-and-forty pound!'\n\nWith that, and with an expression of face in which a great number of\nopposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice, triumph,\nand patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a kind of\nphysiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait and listen,\nlike some fair ogress who had set a trap and was watching for a nibble\nfrom a plump young traveller.\n\nShe sat there, with perfect composure, all night. At length, just upon\nbreak of day, there was a footstep in the street, and presently she\ncould hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door. Then she could make out that\nhe tried his key--that he was blowing into it--that he knocked it on the\nnearest post to beat the dust out--that he took it under a lamp to look\nat it--that he poked bits of stick into the lock to clear it--that\nhe peeped into the keyhole, first with one eye, and then with the\nother--that he tried the key again--that he couldn't turn it, and what\nwas worse, couldn't get it out--that he bent it--that then it was much\nless disposed to come out than before--that he gave it a mighty twist\nand a great pull, and then it came out so suddenly that he staggered\nbackwards--that he kicked the door--that he shook it--finally, that he\nsmote his forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.\n\nWhen this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted\nwith terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out her\nnightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.\n\nMr Tappertit cried 'Hush!' and, backing to the road, exhorted her in\nfrenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.\n\n'Tell me one thing,' said Miggs. 'Is it thieves?'\n\n'No--no--no!' cried Mr Tappertit.\n\n'Then,' said Miggs, more faintly than before, 'it's fire. Where is it,\nsir? It's near this room, I know. I've a good conscience, sir, and would\nmuch rather die than go down a ladder. All I wish is, respecting my love\nto my married sister, Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second\nbell-handle on the right-hand door-post.'\n\n'Miggs!' cried Mr Tappertit, 'don't you know me? Sim, you know--Sim--'\n\n'Oh! what about him!' cried Miggs, clasping her hands. 'Is he in any\ndanger? Is he in the midst of flames and blazes! Oh gracious, gracious!'\n\n'Why I'm here, an't I?' rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking himself on the\nbreast. 'Don't you see me? What a fool you are, Miggs!'\n\n'There!' cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment. 'Why--so\nit--Goodness, what is the meaning of--If you please, mim, here's--'\n\n'No, no!' cried Mr Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that means\nhe, in the street, were any nearer being able to stop the mouth of Miggs\nin the garret. 'Don't!--I've been out without leave, and something or\nanother's the matter with the lock. Come down, and undo the shop window,\nthat I may get in that way.'\n\n'I dursn't do it, Simmun,' cried Miggs--for that was her pronunciation\nof his Christian name. 'I dursn't do it, indeed. You know as well as\nanybody, how particular I am. And to come down in the dead of night,\nwhen the house is wrapped in slumbers and weiled in obscurity.' And\nthere she stopped and shivered, for her modesty caught cold at the very\nthought.\n\n'But Miggs,' cried Mr Tappertit, getting under the lamp, that she might\nsee his eyes. 'My darling Miggs--'\n\nMiggs screamed slightly.\n\n'--That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,' and it\nis impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said\nthis--'do--for my sake, do.'\n\n'Oh Simmun,' cried Miggs, 'this is worse than all. I know if I come\ndown, you'll go, and--'\n\n'And what, my precious?' said Mr Tappertit.\n\n'And try,' said Miggs, hysterically, 'to kiss me, or some such\ndreadfulness; I know you will!'\n\n'I swear I won't,' said Mr Tappertit, with remarkable earnestness. 'Upon\nmy soul I won't. It's getting broad day, and the watchman's waking\nup. Angelic Miggs! If you'll only come and let me in, I promise you\nfaithfully and truly I won't.'\n\nMiss Miggs, whose gentle heart was touched, did not wait for the oath\n(knowing how strong the temptation was, and fearing he might forswear\nhimself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and with her own fair\nhands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop window. Having\nhelped the wayward 'prentice in, she faintly articulated the words\n'Simmun is safe!' and yielding to her woman's nature, immediately became\ninsensible.\n\n'I knew I should quench her,' said Sim, rather embarrassed by this\ncircumstance. 'Of course I was certain it would come to this, but there\nwas nothing else to be done--if I hadn't eyed her over, she wouldn't\nhave come down. Here. Keep up a minute, Miggs. What a slippery figure\nshe is! There's no holding her, comfortably. Do keep up a minute, Miggs,\nwill you?'\n\nAs Miggs, however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant her\nagainst the wall as one might dispose of a walking-stick or umbrella,\nuntil he had secured the window, when he took her in his arms again,\nand, in short stages and with great difficulty--arising from her being\ntall and his being short, and perhaps in some degree from that peculiar\nphysical conformation on which he had already remarked--carried her\nupstairs, and planting her, in the same umbrella and walking-stick\nfashion, just inside her own door, left her to her repose.\n\n'He may be as cool as he likes,' said Miss Miggs, recovering as soon\nas she was left alone; 'but I'm in his confidence and he can't help\nhimself, nor couldn't if he was twenty Simmunses!'\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nIt was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year,\nfickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is\nundecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer,\nand in its uncertainty inclines now to the one and now to the other, and\nnow to both at once--wooing summer in the sunshine, and lingering still\nwith winter in the shade--it was, in short, on one of those mornings,\nwhen it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and lowering, sad and\ncheerful, withering and genial, in the compass of one short hour, that\nold John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was\nroused by the sound of a horse's feet, and glancing out at window,\nbeheld a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole\ndoor.\n\nHe was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard\nof mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had\nordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who\nwould even penetrate into the bar--that solemn sanctuary--and, smiting\nold John upon the back, inquire if there was never a pretty girl in the\nhouse, and where he hid his little chambermaids, with a hundred other\nimpertinences of that nature; none of your free-and-easy companions, who\nwould scrape their boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and\nbe not at all particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your\nunconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of\npickles for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something\npast the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that, and\nslim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut cob, and\nhad the graceful seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear,\nthough free from such fopperies as were then in vogue, was handsome and\nwell chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than\nmight have been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years,\nwith a short, black velvet cape, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all\nof a jaunty fashion; his linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a\nrich pattern at the wrists and throat, and scrupulously white. Although\nhe seemed, judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have\ncome from London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey\nperiwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single hair; and\nsaving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this gentleman, with\nhis blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect\ncalmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely toilet,\nto sit for an equestrian portrait at old John Willet's gate.\n\nIt must not be supposed that John observed these several characteristics\nby other than very slow degrees, or that he took in more than half a one\nat a time, or that he even made up his mind upon that, without a great\ndeal of very serious consideration. Indeed, if he had been distracted in\nthe first instance by questionings and orders, it would have taken him\nat the least a fortnight to have noted what is here set down; but it\nhappened that the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with\nthe plump pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with\nthe tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out\nof order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music of\nits own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in silence.\nHence John, standing with his hand upon the horse's bridle, and\nhis great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing to divert his\nthoughts, had really got some of these little circumstances into his\nbrain by the time he was called upon to speak.\n\n'A quaint place this,' said the gentleman--and his voice was as rich as\nhis dress. 'Are you the landlord?'\n\n'At your service, sir,' replied John Willet.\n\n'You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early dinner (I\nam not particular what, so that it be cleanly served), and a decent\nroom of which there seems to be no lack in this great mansion,' said the\nstranger, again running his eyes over the exterior.\n\n'You can have, sir,' returned John with a readiness quite surprising,\n'anything you please.'\n\n'It's well I am easily satisfied,' returned the other with a smile,\n'or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.' And saying so, he\ndismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a twinkling.\n\n'Halloa there! Hugh!' roared John. 'I ask your pardon, sir, for keeping\nyou standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and\nthe boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I'm rather put\nout when he's away. Hugh!--a dreadful idle vagrant fellow, sir, half\na gipsy, as I think--always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in\nthe straw in winter time, sir--Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman\na waiting here through him!--Hugh! I wish that chap was dead, I do\nindeed.'\n\n'Possibly he is,' returned the other. 'I should think if he were living,\nhe would have heard you by this time.'\n\n'In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,' said the\ndistracted host, 'that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his\nears, it wouldn't wake him, sir.'\n\nThe guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and recipe\nfor making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood\nin the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his\nhand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his\nfate, and a half disposition to lead him into the house, and shut him up\nin the parlour, while he waited on his master.\n\n'Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!' cried John, in the very height\nand zenith of his distress. 'Did you hear me a calling, villain?'\n\nThe figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon the\nsaddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse's head towards the\nstable, and was gone in an instant.\n\n'Brisk enough when he is awake,' said the guest.\n\n'Brisk enough, sir!' replied John, looking at the place where the horse\nhad been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become of him. 'He\nmelts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there\nhe is. You look at him again, and--there he isn't.'\n\nHaving, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to what\nhe had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the whole life\nand character of his man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up\nhis wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole's best apartment.\n\nIt was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of\nthe house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large as many\nmodern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass, emblazoned\nwith fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and patched, and\nshattered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that the former\nowner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed the\nsun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into\nhis chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues\nand colours from their pride.\n\nBut those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it\nwould; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room\nof the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay, and was\nmuch too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the walls;\nand, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty's dress; the light of\nwomen's eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound\nof gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once\nbeen there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with\nthem all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born\nand bred there; the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be\nbought and sold--a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or\nleave it, it was still the same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody,\nhad equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever\nchanges with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!\n\nNo effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before the\nbroad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square\nof carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning\nand grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were\nheaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his\ncook, touching the stranger's entertainment; while the guest himself,\nseeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the\ndistant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.\n\nLeaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together,\nor pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was\nquite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest\ncorner, summoned John Willet.\n\n'Sir,' said John.\n\nHe wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the\nmantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this\nbefore him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.\n\n'There's a house not far from here,' said the guest when he had written\na few lines, 'which you call the Warren, I believe?'\n\nAs this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the\nquestion as a thing of course, John contented himself with nodding his\nhead in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his\npockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.\n\n'I want this note'--said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and\nfolding it, 'conveyed there without loss of time, and an answer brought\nback here. Have you a messenger at hand?'\n\nJohn was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.\n\n'Let me see him,' said the guest.\n\nThis was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing\ndown the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand, Barnaby, who\nhad just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who, so that he thought\nhimself employed on a grave and serious business, would go anywhere.\n\n'Why the truth is,' said John after a long pause, 'that the person who'd\ngo quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and though quick\nof foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he's not good at\ntalking, being touched and flighty, sir.'\n\n'You don't,' said the guest, raising his eyes to John's fat face, 'you\ndon't mean--what's the fellow's name--you don't mean Barnaby?'\n\n'Yes, I do,' returned the landlord, his features turning quite\nexpressive with surprise.\n\n'How comes he to be here?' inquired the guest, leaning back in his\nchair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never varied; and\nwith the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile upon his face. 'I\nsaw him in London last night.'\n\n'He's, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,' returned old John,\nafter the usual pause to get the question in his mind. 'Sometimes he\nwalks, and sometimes runs. He's known along the road by everybody, and\nsometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double.\nHe comes and goes, through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the\ndarkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.'\n\n'He goes often to the Warren, does he not?' said the guest carelessly.\n'I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect\nyesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman much.'\n\n'You're right, sir,' John made answer, 'he does. His father, sir, was\nmurdered in that house.'\n\n'So I have heard,' returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his\npocket with the same sweet smile. 'A very disagreeable circumstance for\nthe family.'\n\n'Very,' said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly\nand afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating\nthe subject.\n\n'All the circumstances after a murder,' said the guest soliloquising,\n'must be dreadfully unpleasant--so much bustle and disturbance--no\nrepose--a constant dwelling upon one subject--and the running in and\nout, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn't have such a thing\nhappen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account. 'Twould\nbe enough to wear one's life out.--You were going to say, friend--' he\nadded, turning to John again.\n\n'Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that\nBarnaby's as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,' answered\nJohn. 'Shall he do your errand, sir?'\n\n'Oh yes,' replied the guest. 'Oh certainly. Let him do it by all means.\nPlease to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If he\nobjects to come you may tell him it's Mr Chester. He will remember my\nname, I dare say.'\n\nJohn was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that he\ncould express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but left\nthe room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of all\npossible conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs,\nhe looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all\nthat time never once left off shaking his head; for which statement\nthere would seem to be some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch\nas that interval of time did certainly elapse, before he returned with\nBarnaby to the guest's apartment.\n\n'Come hither, lad,' said Mr Chester. 'You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?'\n\nBarnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say,\n'You hear him?' John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of decorum,\nclapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance.\n\n'He knows him, sir,' said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, 'as well as\nyou or I do.'\n\n'I haven't the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,'\nreturned his guest. 'YOU may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my\nfriend.'\n\nAlthough this was said with the same easy affability, and the same\nsmile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at Barnaby's\ndoor, determined to kick his raven, on the very first opportunity.\n\n'Give that,' said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note, and\nwho beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, 'into Mr Haredale's\nown hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If you\nshould find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him--can he\nremember a message, landlord?'\n\n'When he chooses, sir,' replied John. 'He won't forget this one.'\n\n'How are you sure of that?'\n\nJohn merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward, and\nhis earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner's face; and nodded\nsagely.\n\n'Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,' said Mr Chester, 'that\nI shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him (if he will\ncall) at any time this evening.--At the worst I can have a bed here,\nWillet, I suppose?'\n\nOld John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in this\nfamiliar form of address, answered, with something like a knowing look,\n'I should believe you could, sir,' and was turning over in his mind\nvarious forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting one appropriate to\nthe qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to flight by Mr\nChester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed away.\n\n'Speed!' said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, 'Speed!\nIf you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!'\n\nWith that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet's horror, on the\nguest's fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back\nwindow.\n\n'Look down there,' he said softly; 'do you mark how they whisper in each\nother's ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in sport?\nDo you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one\nlooking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and\ngambol, delighted with the mischief they've been plotting? Look at\n'em now. See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and\nwhisper, cautiously together--little thinking, mind, how often I have\nlain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot\nand hatch? Do you know?'\n\n'They are only clothes,' returned the guest, 'such as we wear; hanging\non those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.'\n\n'Clothes!' echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling\nquickly back. 'Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as wise\nas you! You don't see shadowy people there, like those that live in\nsleep--not you. Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts\nwhen it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the air, nor see men\nstalking in the sky--not you! I lead a merrier life than you, with all\nyour cleverness. You're the dull men. We're the bright ones. Ha! ha!\nI'll not change with you, clever as you are,--not I!'\n\nWith that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off.\n\n'A strange creature, upon my word!' said the guest, pulling out a\nhandsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.\n\n'He wants imagination,' said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a long\nsilence; 'that's what he wants. I've tried to instil it into him, many\nand many's the time; but'--John added this in confidence--'he an't made\nfor it; that's the fact.'\n\nTo record that Mr Chester smiled at John's remark would be little to the\npurpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant look at all\ntimes. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as a kind of hint\nthat he would prefer to be alone, and John, having no reasonable excuse\nfor remaining, left him to himself.\n\nVery thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was preparing; and\nif his brain were ever less clear at one time than another, it is but\nreasonable to suppose that he addled it in no slight degree by shaking\nhis head so much that day. That Mr Chester, between whom and Mr\nHaredale, it was notorious to all the neighbourhood, a deep and bitter\nanimosity existed, should come down there for the sole purpose, as it\nseemed, of seeing him, and should choose the Maypole for their place\nof meeting, and should send to him express, were stumbling blocks John\ncould not overcome. The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler,\nand wait impatiently for Barnaby's return.\n\nBut Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent. The visitor's dinner was\nserved, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished, the hearth\nclean swept; the light waned without, it grew dusk, became quite dark,\nand still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John Willet was full of\nwonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the easy-chair, to\nall appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as in his dress--the\nsame calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond his\ngolden toothpick.\n\n'Barnaby's late,' John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of\ntarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and\nsnuffed the lights they held.\n\n'He is rather so,' replied the guest, sipping his wine. 'He will not be\nmuch longer, I dare say.'\n\nJohn coughed and raked the fire together.\n\n'As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my son's\nmishap, though,' said Mr Chester, 'and as I have no fancy to be knocked\non the head--which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places\none, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who\nchance to pick one up--I shall stop here to-night. I think you said you\nhad a bed to spare.'\n\n'Such a bed, sir,' returned John Willet; 'ay, such a bed as few, even\nof the gentry's houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I've heard say that\nbedstead is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble son--a fine young\ngentleman--slept in it last, sir, half a year ago.'\n\n'Upon my life, a recommendation!' said the guest, shrugging his\nshoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire. 'See that it be\nwell aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there at once.\nThis house is something damp and chilly.'\n\nJohn raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of mind,\nor any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw, when a\nbounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came panting in.\n\n'He'll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour's time,' he cried,\nadvancing. 'He has been riding hard all day--has just come home--but\nwill be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to meet his\nloving friend.'\n\n'Was that his message?' asked the visitor, looking up, but without the\nsmallest discomposure--or at least without the show of any.\n\n'All but the last words,' Barnaby rejoined. 'He meant those. I saw that,\nin his face.'\n\n'This for your pains,' said the other, putting money in his hand, and\nglancing at him steadfastly.'This for your pains, sharp Barnaby.'\n\n'For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,' he rejoined, putting\nit up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. 'Grip one, me two,\nHugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats--well, we shall spend it pretty\nsoon, I warn you. Stay.--Look. Do you wise men see nothing there, now?'\n\nHe bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke, which\nwas rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John Willet, who\nappeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly referred to under\nthe term wise men, looked that way likewise, and with great solidity of\nfeature.\n\n'Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,' asked\nBarnaby; 'eh? Why do they tread so closely on each other's heels, and\nwhy are they always in a hurry--which is what you blame me for, when I\nonly take pattern by these busy folk about me? More of 'em! catching to\neach other's skirts; and as fast as they go, others come! What a merry\ndance it is! I would that Grip and I could frisk like that!'\n\n'What has he in that basket at his back?' asked the guest after a few\nmoments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look higher up\nthe chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.\n\n'In this?' he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could\nreply--shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen. 'In\nthis! What is there here? Tell him!'\n\n'A devil, a devil, a devil!' cried a hoarse voice.\n\n'Here's money!' said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, 'money for a\ntreat, Grip!'\n\n'Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!' replied the raven, 'keep up your spirits.\nNever say die. Bow, wow, wow!'\n\nMr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a customer in\na laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have any acquaintance\neven with the existence of such unpolite gentry as the bird claimed\nto belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture, with the view of\npreventing any other improper declarations, and quitted the room with\nhis very best bow.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nThere was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers, to\neach of whom, as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in the\nchimney-corner, John, with a most impressive slowness of delivery, and\nin an apoplectic whisper, communicated the fact that Mr Chester was\nalone in the large room upstairs, and was waiting the arrival of\nMr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a letter (doubtless of a\nthreatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then and there present.\n\nFor a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom any\nnew topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend. Here was a good,\ndark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof--brought home to\nthe fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the smallest pains\nor trouble. It is extraordinary what a zest and relish it gave to the\ndrink, and how it heightened the flavour of the tobacco. Every man\nsmoked his pipe with a face of grave and serious delight, and looked at\nhis neighbour with a sort of quiet congratulation. Nay, it was felt\nto be such a holiday and special night, that, on the motion of little\nSolomon Daisy, every man (including John himself) put down his sixpence\nfor a can of flip, which grateful beverage was brewed with all despatch,\nand set down in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that it might\nsimmer and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising\nup among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes,\nmight shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut\nout all the world. The very furniture of the room seemed to mellow and\ndeepen in its tone; the ceiling and walls looked blacker and more highly\npolished, the curtains of a ruddier red; the fire burnt clear and high,\nand the crickets in the hearthstone chirped with a more than wonted\nsatisfaction.\n\nThere were present two, however, who showed but little interest in the\ngeneral contentment. Of these, one was Barnaby himself, who slept,\nor, to avoid being beset with questions, feigned to sleep, in the\nchimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who, sleeping too, lay stretched upon\nthe bench on the opposite side, in the full glare of the blazing fire.\n\nThe light that fell upon this slumbering form, showed it in all its\nmuscular and handsome proportions. It was that of a young man, of a hale\nathletic figure, and a giant's strength, whose sunburnt face and swarthy\nthroat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have served a painter for\na model. Loosely attired, in the coarsest and roughest garb, with scraps\nof straw and hay--his usual bed--clinging here and there, and mingling\nwith his uncombed locks, he had fallen asleep in a posture as careless\nas his dress. The negligence and disorder of the whole man, with\nsomething fierce and sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque\nappearance, that attracted the regards even of the Maypole customers who\nknew him well, and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like\na poaching rascal to-night than ever he had seen him yet.\n\n'He's waiting here, I suppose,' said Solomon, 'to take Mr Haredale's\nhorse.'\n\n'That's it, sir,' replied John Willet. 'He's not often in the house, you\nknow. He's more at his ease among horses than men. I look upon him as a\nanimal himself.'\n\nFollowing up this opinion with a shrug that seemed meant to say, 'we\ncan't expect everybody to be like us,' John put his pipe into his mouth\nagain, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over the general run\nof mankind.\n\n'That chap, sir,' said John, taking it out again after a time, and\npointing at him with the stem, 'though he's got all his faculties\nabout him--bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres or\nanother--'\n\n'Very good!' said Parkes, nodding his head. 'A very good expression,\nJohnny. You'll be a tackling somebody presently. You're in twig\nto-night, I see.'\n\n'Take care,' said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the compliment,\n'that I don't tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly endeavour to do,\nif you interrupt me when I'm making observations.--That chap, I was\na saying, though he has all his faculties about him, somewheres or\nanother, bottled up and corked down, has no more imagination than\nBarnaby has. And why hasn't he?'\n\nThe three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that\naction, without the trouble of opening their lips, 'Do you observe what\na philosophical mind our friend has?'\n\n'Why hasn't he?' said John, gently striking the table with his open\nhand. 'Because they was never drawed out of him when he was a boy.\nThat's why. What would any of us have been, if our fathers hadn't drawed\nour faculties out of us? What would my boy Joe have been, if I hadn't\ndrawed his faculties out of him?--Do you mind what I'm a saying of,\ngentlemen?'\n\n'Ah! we mind you,' cried Parkes. 'Go on improving of us, Johnny.'\n\n'Consequently, then,' said Mr Willet, 'that chap, whose mother was\nhung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing bad\nnotes--and it's a blessed thing to think how many people are hung in\nbatches every six weeks for that, and such like offences, as showing how\nwide awake our government is--that chap that was then turned loose, and\nhad to mind cows, and frighten birds away, and what not, for a few pence\nto live on, and so got on by degrees to mind horses, and to sleep in\ncourse of time in lofts and litter, instead of under haystacks and\nhedges, till at last he come to be hostler at the Maypole for his board\nand lodging and a annual trifle--that chap that can't read nor write,\nand has never had much to do with anything but animals, and has never\nlived in any way but like the animals he has lived among, IS a animal.\nAnd,' said Mr Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion, 'is to be\ntreated accordingly.'\n\n'Willet,' said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at the\nintrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting theme,\n'when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the large room?'\n\n'He signified, sir,' said John, 'that he wanted a large apartment. Yes.\nCertainly.'\n\n'Why then, I'll tell you what,' said Solomon, speaking softly and with\nan earnest look. 'He and Mr Haredale are going to fight a duel in it.'\n\nEverybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming suggestion. Mr Willet\nlooked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect which such an\noccurrence would be likely to have on the establishment.\n\n'Well,' said John, 'I don't know--I am sure--I remember that when I went\nup last, he HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.'\n\n'It's as plain,' returned Solomon, 'as the nose on Parkes's face'--Mr\nParkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he considered\nthis a personal allusion--'they'll fight in that room. You know by\nthe newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen to fight in\ncoffee-houses without seconds. One of 'em will be wounded or perhaps\nkilled in this house.'\n\n'That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh?' said John.\n\n'--Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword upon it, I'll\nbet a guinea,' answered the little man. 'We know what sort of gentleman\nMr Haredale is. You have told us what Barnaby said about his looks, when\nhe came back. Depend upon it, I'm right. Now, mind.'\n\nThe flip had had no flavour till now. The tobacco had been of mere\nEnglish growth, compared with its present taste. A duel in that great\nold rambling room upstairs, and the best bed ordered already for the\nwounded man!\n\n'Would it be swords or pistols, now?' said John.\n\n'Heaven knows. Perhaps both,' returned Solomon. 'The gentlemen wear\nswords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets--most likely have,\nindeed. If they fire at each other without effect, then they'll draw,\nand go to work in earnest.'\n\nA shade passed over Mr Willet's face as he thought of broken windows and\ndisabled furniture, but bethinking himself that one of the parties would\nprobably be left alive to pay the damage, he brightened up again.\n\n'And then,' said Solomon, looking from face to face, 'then we shall have\none of those stains upon the floor that never come out. If Mr Haredale\nwins, depend upon it, it'll be a deep one; or if he loses, it will\nperhaps be deeper still, for he'll never give in unless he's beaten\ndown. We know him better, eh?'\n\n'Better indeed!' they whispered all together.\n\n'As to its ever being got out again,' said Solomon, 'I tell you it never\nwill, or can be. Why, do you know that it has been tried, at a certain\nhouse we are acquainted with?'\n\n'The Warren!' cried John. 'No, sure!'\n\n'Yes, sure--yes. It's only known by very few. It has been whispered\nabout though, for all that. They planed the board away, but there it\nwas. They went deep, but it went deeper. They put new boards down, but\nthere was one great spot that came through still, and showed itself in\nthe old place. And--harkye--draw nearer--Mr Geoffrey made that room his\nstudy, and sits there, always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it;\nand he believes, through thinking of it long and very much, that it will\nnever fade until he finds the man who did the deed.'\n\nAs this recital ended, and they all drew closer round the fire, the\ntramp of a horse was heard without.\n\n'The very man!' cried John, starting up. 'Hugh! Hugh!'\n\nThe sleeper staggered to his feet, and hurried after him. John quickly\nreturned, ushering in with great attention and deference (for Mr\nHaredale was his landlord) the long-expected visitor, who strode into\nthe room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and looking keenly\nround upon the bowing group, raised his hat in acknowledgment of their\nprofound respect.\n\n'You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,' he said, in a voice\nwhich sounded naturally stern and deep. 'Where is he?'\n\n'In the great room upstairs, sir,' answered John.\n\n'Show the way. Your staircase is dark, I know. Gentlemen, good night.'\n\nWith that, he signed to the landlord to go on before; and went clanking\nout, and up the stairs; old John, in his agitation, ingeniously lighting\neverything but the way, and making a stumble at every second step.\n\n'Stop!' he said, when they reached the landing. 'I can announce myself.\nDon't wait.'\n\nHe laid his hand upon the door, entered, and shut it heavily. Mr Willet\nwas by no means disposed to stand there listening by himself, especially\nas the walls were very thick; so descended, with much greater alacrity\nthan he had come up, and joined his friends below.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nThere was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr Haredale\ntried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the door securely,\nand, striding up the dark chamber to where the screen inclosed a little\npatch of light and warmth, presented himself, abruptly and in silence,\nbefore the smiling guest.\n\nIf the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in\ntheir outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem likely to\nprove a very calm or pleasant one. With no great disparity between them\nin point of years, they were, in every other respect, as unlike and\nfar removed from each other as two men could well be. The one was\nsoft-spoken, delicately made, precise, and elegant; the other, a burly\nsquare-built man, negligently dressed, rough and abrupt in manner,\nstern, and, in his present mood, forbidding both in look and speech. The\none preserved a calm and placid smile; the other, a distrustful frown.\nThe new-comer, indeed, appeared bent on showing by his every tone and\ngesture his determined opposition and hostility to the man he had come\nto meet. The guest who received him, on the other hand, seemed to feel\nthat the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to derive a\nquiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.\n\n'Haredale,' said this gentleman, without the least appearance of\nembarrassment or reserve, 'I am very glad to see you.'\n\n'Let us dispense with compliments. They are misplaced between us,'\nreturned the other, waving his hand, 'and say plainly what we have to\nsay. You have asked me to meet you. I am here. Why do we stand face to\nface again?'\n\n'Still the same frank and sturdy character, I see!'\n\n'Good or bad, sir, I am,' returned the other, leaning his arm upon\nthe chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of\nthe easy-chair, 'the man I used to be. I have lost no old likings or\ndislikings; my memory has not failed me by a hair's-breadth. You ask me\nto give you a meeting. I say, I am here.'\n\n'Our meeting, Haredale,' said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box, and\nfollowing with a smile the impatient gesture he had made--perhaps\nunconsciously--towards his sword, 'is one of conference and peace, I\nhope?'\n\n'I have come here,' returned the other, 'at your desire, holding myself\nbound to meet you, when and where you would. I have not come to bandy\npleasant speeches, or hollow professions. You are a smooth man of the\nworld, sir, and at such play have me at a disadvantage. The very last\nman on this earth with whom I would enter the lists to combat with\ngentle compliments and masked faces, is Mr Chester, I do assure you. I\nam not his match at such weapons, and have reason to believe that few\nmen are.'\n\n'You do me a great deal of honour Haredale,' returned the other, most\ncomposedly, 'and I thank you. I will be frank with you--'\n\n'I beg your pardon--will be what?'\n\n'Frank--open--perfectly candid.'\n\n'Hah!' cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath. 'But don't let me\ninterrupt you.'\n\n'So resolved am I to hold this course,' returned the other, tasting his\nwine with great deliberation; 'that I have determined not to quarrel\nwith you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or a hasty\nword.'\n\n'There again,' said Mr Haredale, 'you have me at a great advantage. Your\nself-command--'\n\n'Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose, you would\nsay'--rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same complacency.\n'Granted. I allow it. And I have a purpose to serve now. So have you. I\nam sure our object is the same. Let us attain it like sensible men, who\nhave ceased to be boys some time.--Do you drink?'\n\n'With my friends,' returned the other.\n\n'At least,' said Mr Chester, 'you will be seated?'\n\n'I will stand,' returned Mr Haredale impatiently, 'on this dismantled,\nbeggared hearth, and not pollute it, fallen as it is, with mockeries. Go\non.'\n\n'You are wrong, Haredale,' said the other, crossing his legs, and\nsmiling as he held his glass up in the bright glow of the fire. 'You are\nreally very wrong. The world is a lively place enough, in which we must\naccommodate ourselves to circumstances, sail with the stream as glibly\nas we can, be content to take froth for substance, the surface for the\ndepth, the counterfeit for the real coin. I wonder no philosopher has\never established that our globe itself is hollow. It should be, if\nNature is consistent in her works.'\n\n'YOU think it is, perhaps?'\n\n'I should say,' he returned, sipping his wine, 'there could be no doubt\nabout it. Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have had\nthe ill-luck to jostle and fall out. We are not what the world calls\nfriends; but we are as good and true and loving friends for all that, as\nnine out of every ten of those on whom it bestows the title. You have a\nniece, and I a son--a fine lad, Haredale, but foolish. They fall in\nlove with each other, and form what this same world calls an attachment;\nmeaning a something fanciful and false like the rest, which, if it took\nits own free time, would break like any other bubble. But it may not\nhave its own free time--will not, if they are left alone--and the\nquestion is, shall we two, because society calls us enemies, stand\naloof, and let them rush into each other's arms, when, by approaching\neach other sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?'\n\n'I love my niece,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence. 'It may\nsound strangely in your ears; but I love her.'\n\n'Strangely, my good fellow!' cried Mr Chester, lazily filling his glass\nagain, and pulling out his toothpick. 'Not at all. I like Ned too--or,\nas you say, love him--that's the word among such near relations.\nI'm very fond of Ned. He's an amazingly good fellow, and a handsome\nfellow--foolish and weak as yet; that's all. But the thing\nis, Haredale--for I'll be very frank, as I told you I would at\nfirst--independently of any dislike that you and I might have to being\nrelated to each other, and independently of the religious differences\nbetween us--and damn it, that's important--I couldn't afford a match of\nthis description. Ned and I couldn't do it. It's impossible.'\n\n'Curb your tongue, in God's name, if this conversation is to last,'\nretorted Mr Haredale fiercely. 'I have said I love my niece. Do you\nthink that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away on any man\nwho had your blood in his veins?'\n\n'You see,' said the other, not at all disturbed, 'the advantage of being\nso frank and open. Just what I was about to add, upon my honour! I am\namazingly attached to Ned--quite doat upon him, indeed--and even if we\ncould afford to throw ourselves away, that very objection would be quite\ninsuperable.--I wish you'd take some wine?'\n\n'Mark me,' said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his hand\nupon it heavily. 'If any man believes--presumes to think--that I, in\nword or deed, or in the wildest dream, ever entertained remotely the\nidea of Emma Haredale's favouring the suit of any one who was akin to\nyou--in any way--I care not what--he lies. He lies, and does me grievous\nwrong, in the mere thought.'\n\n'Haredale,' returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in assent,\nand nodding at the fire, 'it's extremely manly, and really very generous\nin you, to meet me in this unreserved and handsome way. Upon my word,\nthose are exactly my sentiments, only expressed with much more force and\npower than I could use--you know my sluggish nature, and will forgive\nme, I am sure.'\n\n'While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son, and\nsever their intercourse here, though it should cause her death,' said\nMr Haredale, who had been pacing to and fro, 'I would do it kindly and\ntenderly if I can. I have a trust to discharge, which my nature is not\nformed to understand, and, for this reason, the bare fact of there\nbeing any love between them comes upon me to-night, almost for the first\ntime.'\n\n'I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you,' rejoined Mr Chester\nwith the utmost blandness, 'to find my own impression so confirmed. You\nsee the advantage of our having met. We understand each other. We quite\nagree. We have a most complete and thorough explanation, and we know\nwhat course to take.--Why don't you taste your tenant's wine? It's\nreally very good.'\n\n'Pray who,' said Mr Haredale, 'have aided Emma, or your son? Who are\ntheir go-betweens, and agents--do you know?'\n\n'All the good people hereabouts--the neighbourhood in general, I think,'\nreturned the other, with his most affable smile. 'The messenger I sent\nto you to-day, foremost among them all.'\n\n'The idiot? Barnaby?'\n\n'You are surprised? I am glad of that, for I was rather so myself. Yes.\nI wrung that from his mother--a very decent sort of woman--from whom,\nindeed, I chiefly learnt how serious the matter had become, and so\ndetermined to ride out here to-day, and hold a parley with you on this\nneutral ground.--You're stouter than you used to be, Haredale, but you\nlook extremely well.'\n\n'Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end,' said Mr Haredale, with\nan expression of impatience he was at no pains to conceal. 'Trust me, Mr\nChester, my niece shall change from this time. I will appeal,' he added\nin a lower tone, 'to her woman's heart, her dignity, her pride, her\nduty--'\n\n'I shall do the same by Ned,' said Mr Chester, restoring some errant\nfaggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his boot. 'If there\nis anything real in this world, it is those amazingly fine feelings and\nthose natural obligations which must subsist between father and son. I\nshall put it to him on every ground of moral and religious feeling. I\nshall represent to him that we cannot possibly afford it--that I have\nalways looked forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for\nmyself in the autumn of life--that there are a great many clamorous dogs\nto pay, whose claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be paid\nout of his wife's fortune. In short, that the very highest and most\nhonourable feelings of our nature, with every consideration of filial\nduty and affection, and all that sort of thing, imperatively demand that\nhe should run away with an heiress.'\n\n'And break her heart as speedily as possible?' said Mr Haredale, drawing\non his glove.\n\n'There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,' returned the other,\nsipping his wine; 'that's entirely his affair. I wouldn't for the\nworld interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point. The\nrelationship between father and son, you know, is positively quite a\nholy kind of bond.--WON'T you let me persuade you to take one glass of\nwine? Well! as you please, as you please,' he added, helping himself\nagain.\n\n'Chester,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence, during which he had\neyed his smiling face from time to time intently, 'you have the head and\nheart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception.'\n\n'Your health!' said the other, with a nod. 'But I have interrupted\nyou--'\n\n'If now,' pursued Mr Haredale, 'we should find it difficult to separate\nthese young people, and break off their intercourse--if, for instance,\nyou find it difficult on your side, what course do you intend to take?'\n\n'Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,' returned the other,\nshrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more comfortably before\nthe fire. 'I shall then exert those powers on which you flatter me so\nhighly--though, upon my word, I don't deserve your compliments to their\nfull extent--and resort to a few little trivial subterfuges for rousing\njealousy and resentment. You see?'\n\n'In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a last resource\nfor tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and--and lying,' said\nMr Haredale.\n\n'Oh dear no. Fie, fie!' returned the other, relishing a pinch of snuff\nextremely. 'Not lying. Only a little management, a little diplomacy, a\nlittle--intriguing, that's the word.'\n\n'I wish,' said Mr Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and moving\non again, like one who was ill at ease, 'that this could have been\nforeseen or prevented. But as it has gone so far, and it is necessary\nfor us to act, it is of no use shrinking or regretting. Well! I shall\nsecond your endeavours to the utmost of my power. There is one topic in\nthe whole wide range of human thoughts on which we both agree. We shall\nact in concert, but apart. There will be no need, I hope, for us to meet\nagain.'\n\n'Are you going?' said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful indolence. 'Let\nme light you down the stairs.'\n\n'Pray keep your seat,' returned the other drily, 'I know the way.' So,\nwaving his hand slightly, and putting on his hat as he turned upon his\nheel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut the door behind him, and\ntramped down the echoing stairs.\n\n'Pah! A very coarse animal, indeed!' said Mr Chester, composing himself\nin the easy-chair again. 'A rough brute. Quite a human badger!'\n\nJohn Willet and his friends, who had been listening intently for the\nclash of swords, or firing of pistols in the great room, and had indeed\nsettled the order in which they should rush in when summoned--in which\nprocession old John had carefully arranged that he should bring up the\nrear--were very much astonished to see Mr Haredale come down without a\nscratch, call for his horse, and ride away thoughtfully at a footpace.\nAfter some consideration, it was decided that he had left the gentleman\nabove, for dead, and had adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion or\npursuit.\n\nAs this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs\nforthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed\nupon, when a smart ringing at the guest's bell, as if he had pulled it\nvigorously, overthrew all their speculations, and involved them in\ngreat uncertainty and doubt. At length Mr Willet agreed to go upstairs\nhimself, escorted by Hugh and Barnaby, as the strongest and stoutest\nfellows on the premises, who were to make their appearance under\npretence of clearing away the glasses.\n\nUnder this protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly entered\nthe room, half a foot in advance, and received an order for a boot-jack\nwithout trembling. But when it was brought, and he leant his sturdy\nshoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to look very hard into his\nboots as he pulled them off, and, by opening his eyes much wider than\nusual, to appear to express some surprise and disappointment at not\nfinding them full of blood. He took occasion, too, to examine the\ngentleman as closely as he could, expecting to discover sundry loopholes\nin his person, pierced by his adversary's sword. Finding none,\nhowever, and observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and\nunruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day, old\nJohn at last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had been\nfought that night.\n\n'And now, Willet,' said Mr Chester, 'if the room's well aired, I'll try\nthe merits of that famous bed.'\n\n'The room, sir,' returned John, taking up a candle, and nudging Barnaby\nand Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman should unexpectedly\ndrop down faint or dead from some internal wound, 'the room's as warm as\nany toast in a tankard. Barnaby, take you that other candle, and go on\nbefore. Hugh! Follow up, sir, with the easy-chair.'\n\nIn this order--and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his candle\nvery close to the guest; now making him feel extremely warm about the\nlegs, now threatening to set his wig on fire, and constantly begging his\npardon with great awkwardness and embarrassment--John led the party to\nthe best bedroom, which was nearly as large as the chamber from which\nthey had come, and held, drawn out near the fire for warmth, a great old\nspectral bedstead, hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top\nof each carved post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white,\nbut with dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.\n\n'Good night, my friends,' said Mr Chester with a sweet smile, seating\nhimself, when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in the\neasy-chair which his attendants wheeled before the fire. 'Good night!\nBarnaby, my good fellow, you say some prayers before you go to bed, I\nhope?'\n\nBarnaby nodded. 'He has some nonsense that he calls his prayers, sir,'\nreturned old John, officiously. 'I'm afraid there an't much good in em.'\n\n'And Hugh?' said Mr Chester, turning to him.\n\n'Not I,' he answered. 'I know his'--pointing to Barnaby--'they're well\nenough. He sings 'em sometimes in the straw. I listen.'\n\n'He's quite a animal, sir,' John whispered in his ear with dignity.\n'You'll excuse him, I'm sure. If he has any soul at all, sir, it must be\nsuch a very small one, that it don't signify what he does or doesn't in\nthat way. Good night, sir!'\n\nThe guest rejoined 'God bless you!' with a fervour that was quite\naffecting; and John, beckoning his guards to go before, bowed himself\nout of the room, and left him to his rest in the Maypole's ancient bed.\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\nIf Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of 'prentices, had\nhappened to be at home when his father's courtly guest presented himself\nbefore the Maypole door--that is, if it had not perversely chanced to be\none of the half-dozen days in the whole year on which he was at liberty\nto absent himself for as many hours without question or reproach--he\nwould have contrived, by hook or crook, to dive to the very bottom of Mr\nChester's mystery, and to come at his purpose with as much certainty as\nthough he had been his confidential adviser. In that fortunate case, the\nlovers would have had quick warning of the ills that threatened them,\nand the aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot; for all\nJoe's readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good\nwishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were staunch in\ndevotion to their cause. Whether this disposition arose out of his old\nprepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose history had surrounded\nher in his mind, almost from his cradle, with circumstances of unusual\ninterest; or from his attachment towards the young gentleman, into\nwhose confidence he had, through his shrewdness and alacrity, and the\nrendering of sundry important services as a spy and messenger, almost\nimperceptibly glided; whether they had their origin in either of these\nsources, or in the habit natural to youth, or in the constant badgering\nand worrying of his venerable parent, or in any hidden little love\naffair of his own which gave him something of a fellow-feeling in the\nmatter, it is needless to inquire--especially as Joe was out of the way,\nand had no opportunity on that particular occasion of testifying to his\nsentiments either on one side or the other.\n\nIt was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people\nknow to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those\nunpleasant epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of March,\nit was John Willet's pride annually to settle, in hard cash, his account\nwith a certain vintner and distiller in the city of London; to give into\nwhose hands a canvas bag containing its exact amount, and not a penny\nmore or less, was the end and object of a journey for Joe, so surely as\nthe year and day came round.\n\nThis journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom John\nhad an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the effect that\nshe could win a plate or cup if she tried. She never had tried, and\nprobably never would now, being some fourteen or fifteen years of age,\nshort in wind, long in body, and rather the worse for wear in respect of\nher mane and tail. Notwithstanding these slight defects, John perfectly\ngloried in the animal; and when she was brought round to the door by\nHugh, actually retired into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of\nlemons, laughed with pride.\n\n'There's a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!' said John, when he had recovered\nenough self-command to appear at the door again. 'There's a comely\ncreature! There's high mettle! There's bone!'\n\nThere was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to think, as\nhe sat sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his chin nearly\ntouching his knees; and heedless of the dangling stirrups and loose\nbridle-rein, sauntered up and down on the little green before the door.\n\n'Mind you take good care of her, sir,' said John, appealing from this\ninsensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared, fully equipped\nand ready. 'Don't you ride hard.'\n\n'I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,' Joe replied, casting\na disconsolate look at the animal.\n\n'None of your impudence, sir, if you please,' retorted old John. 'What\nwould you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too tame for you,\nwouldn't he, eh sir? You'd like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn't you,\nsir, eh sir? Hold your tongue, sir.' When Mr Willet, in his differences\nwith his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and\nJoe had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding\nhim hold his tongue.\n\n'And what does the boy mean,' added Mr Willet, after he had stared at\nhim for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, 'by cocking his\nhat, to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?'\n\n'No,' said Joe, tartly; 'I'm not. Now your mind's at ease, father.'\n\n'With a milintary air, too!' said Mr Willet, surveying him from top to\ntoe; 'with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking sort of way\nwith him! And what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops,\neh sir?'\n\n'It's only a little nosegay,' said Joe, reddening. 'There's no harm in\nthat, I hope?'\n\n'You're a boy of business, you are, sir!' said Mr Willet, disdainfully,\n'to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays.'\n\n'I don't suppose anything of the kind,' returned Joe. 'Let them keep\ntheir red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going to Mr Varden's\nhouse.'\n\n'And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?' demanded John.\n\n'I don't know, and to say the truth, I don't care,' said Joe. 'Come,\nfather, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go.'\n\n'There it is, sir,' replied John; 'and take care of it; and mind you\ndon't make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.--Do you\nmind?'\n\n'Ay, I mind,' returned Joe. 'She'll need it, Heaven knows.'\n\n'And don't you score up too much at the Black Lion,' said John. 'Mind\nthat too.'\n\n'Then why don't you let me have some money of my own?' retorted Joe,\nsorrowfully; 'why don't you, father? What do you send me into London\nfor, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the Black Lion,\nwhich you're to pay for next time you go, as if I was not to be trusted\nwith a few shillings? Why do you use me like this? It's not right of\nyou. You can't expect me to be quiet under it.'\n\n'Let him have money!' cried John, in a drowsy reverie. 'What does he\ncall money--guineas? Hasn't he got money? Over and above the tolls,\nhasn't he one and sixpence?'\n\n'One and sixpence!' repeated his son contemptuously.\n\n'Yes, sir,' returned John, 'one and sixpence. When I was your age, I\nhad never seen so much money, in a heap. A shilling of it is in case\nof accidents--the mare casting a shoe, or the like of that. The other\nsixpence is to spend in the diversions of London; and the diversion\nI recommend is going to the top of the Monument, and sitting there.\nThere's no temptation there, sir--no drink--no young women--no bad\ncharacters of any sort--nothing but imagination. That's the way I\nenjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.'\n\nTo this, Joe made no answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the saddle\nand rode away; and a very stalwart, manly horseman he looked, deserving\na better charger than it was his fortune to bestride. John stood staring\nafter him, or rather after the grey mare (for he had no eyes for her\nrider), until man and beast had been out of sight some twenty minutes,\nwhen he began to think they were gone, and slowly re-entering the house,\nfell into a gentle doze.\n\nThe unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe's life, floundered\nalong at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was no longer\nvisible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a puppet would have\nbeen looked upon as a clumsy and awkward imitation of a canter, mended\nher pace all at once, and did it of her own accord. The acquaintance\nwith her rider's usual mode of proceeding, which suggested this\nimprovement in hers, impelled her likewise to turn up a bye-way,\nleading--not to London, but through lanes running parallel with the road\nthey had come, and passing within a few hundred yards of the Maypole,\nwhich led finally to an inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick\nmansion--the same of which mention was made as the Warren in the\nfirst chapter of this history. Coming to a dead stop in a little copse\nthereabout, she suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and\nto tie her to the trunk of a tree.\n\n'Stay there, old girl,' said Joe, 'and let us see whether there's any\nlittle commission for me to-day.' So saying, he left her to browze upon\nsuch stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within the length of\nher tether, and passing through a wicket gate, entered the grounds on\nfoot.\n\nThe pathway, after a very few minutes' walking, brought him close to the\nhouse, towards which, and especially towards one particular window, he\ndirected many covert glances. It was a dreary, silent building, with\nechoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and whole suites of rooms\nshut up and mouldering to ruin.\n\nThe terrace-garden, dark with the shade of overhanging trees, had an air\nof melancholy that was quite oppressive. Great iron gates, disused for\nmany years, and red with rust, drooping on their hinges and overgrown\nwith long rank grass, seemed as though they tried to sink into the\nground, and hide their fallen state among the friendly weeds. The\nfantastic monsters on the walls, green with age and damp, and covered\nhere and there with moss, looked grim and desolate. There was a sombre\naspect even on that part of the mansion which was inhabited and kept\nin good repair, that struck the beholder with a sense of sadness; of\nsomething forlorn and failing, whence cheerfulness was banished. It\nwould have been difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull\nand darkened rooms, or to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that\nthe frowning walls shut in. It seemed a place where such things had\nbeen, but could be no more--the very ghost of a house, haunting the old\nspot in its old outward form, and that was all.\n\nMuch of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to the\ndeath of its former master, and the temper of its present occupant;\nbut remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it seemed the very\nplace for such a deed, and one that might have been its predestined\ntheatre years upon years ago. Viewed with reference to this legend, the\nsheet of water where the steward's body had been found appeared to wear\na black and sullen character, such as no other pool might own; the bell\nupon the roof that had told the tale of murder to the midnight wind,\nbecame a very phantom whose voice would raise the listener's hair on\nend; and every leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy\nwhispering of the crime.\n\nJoe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected\ncontemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning against\na tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference, but always\nkeeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at first. After some\nquarter of an hour's delay, a small white hand was waved to him for an\ninstant from this casement, and the young man, with a respectful bow,\ndeparted; saying under his breath as he crossed his horse again, 'No\nerrand for me to-day!'\n\nBut the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet had\nobjected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little errand\nof his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner or even a\nlocksmith. So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had settled with the\nvintner--whose place of business was down in some deep cellars hard by\nThames Street, and who was as purple-faced an old gentleman as if he\nhad all his life supported their arched roof on his head--when he had\nsettled the account, and taken the receipt, and declined tasting more\nthan three glasses of old sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the\npurple-faced vintner, who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon\nat least a score of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally\ngimleted as it were, to his own wall--when he had done all this, and\ndisposed besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel;\nspurning the Monument and John's advice, he turned his steps towards the\nlocksmith's house, attracted by the eyes of blooming Dolly Varden.\n\nJoe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he got\nto the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he could by no\nmeans make up his mind to walk straight to the house. First, he resolved\nto stroll up another street for five minutes, then up another street for\nfive minutes more, and so on until he had lost full half an hour, when\nhe made a bold plunge and found himself with a red face and a beating\nheart in the smoky workshop.\n\n'Joe Willet, or his ghost?' said Varden, rising from the desk at which\nhe was busy with his books, and looking at him under his spectacles.\n'Which is it? Joe in the flesh, eh? That's hearty. And how are all the\nChigwell company, Joe?'\n\n'Much as usual, sir--they and I agree as well as ever.'\n\n'Well, well!' said the locksmith. 'We must be patient, Joe, and bear\nwith old folks' foibles. How's the mare, Joe? Does she do the four miles\nan hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha, ha! Does she, Joe? Eh!--What have we\nthere, Joe--a nosegay!'\n\n'A very poor one, sir--I thought Miss Dolly--'\n\n'No, no,' said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head, 'not\nDolly. Give 'em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give 'em to her\nmother. Would you mind giving 'em to Mrs Varden, Joe?'\n\n'Oh no, sir,' Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the greatest\npossible success, to hide his disappointment. 'I shall be very glad, I'm\nsure.'\n\n'That's right,' said the locksmith, patting him on the back. 'It don't\nmatter who has 'em, Joe?'\n\n'Not a bit, sir.'--Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!\n\n'Come in,' said Gabriel. 'I have just been called to tea. She's in the\nparlour.'\n\n'She,' thought Joe. 'Which of 'em I wonder--Mrs or Miss?' The locksmith\nsettled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed aloud, by\nleading him to the door, and saying, 'Martha, my dear, here's young Mr\nWillet.'\n\nNow, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap,\nor decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided and\nabetted him, in the light of so many poachers among Christian men; and\nbelieving, moreover, that the publicans coupled with sinners in Holy\nWrit were veritable licensed victuallers; was far from being favourably\ndisposed towards her visitor. Wherefore she was taken faint directly;\nand being duly presented with the crocuses and snowdrops, divined on\nfurther consideration that they were the occasion of the languor which\nhad seized upon her spirits. 'I'm afraid I couldn't bear the room\nanother minute,' said the good lady, 'if they remained here. WOULD you\nexcuse my putting them out of window?'\n\nJoe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account, and smiled feebly as\nhe saw them deposited on the sill outside. If anybody could have known\nthe pains he had taken to make up that despised and misused bunch of\nflowers!--\n\n'I feel it quite a relief to get rid of them, I assure you,' said Mrs\nVarden. 'I'm better already.' And indeed she did appear to have plucked\nup her spirits.\n\nJoe expressed his gratitude to Providence for this favourable\ndispensation, and tried to look as if he didn't wonder where Dolly was.\n\n'You're sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,' said Mrs V.\n\n'I hope not, ma'am,' returned Joe.\n\n'You're the cruellest and most inconsiderate people in the world,' said\nMrs Varden, bridling. 'I wonder old Mr Willet, having been a married\nman himself, doesn't know better than to conduct himself as he does. His\ndoing it for profit is no excuse. I would rather pay the money twenty\ntimes over, and have Varden come home like a respectable and sober\ntradesman. If there is one character,' said Mrs Varden with great\nemphasis, 'that offends and disgusts me more than another, it is a sot.'\n\n'Come, Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith cheerily, 'let us have tea,\nand don't let us talk about sots. There are none here, and Joe don't\nwant to hear about them, I dare say.'\n\nAt this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast.\n\n'I dare say he does not,' said Mrs Varden; 'and I dare say you do not,\nVarden. It's a very unpleasant subject, I have no doubt, though I\nwon't say it's personal'--Miggs coughed--'whatever I may be forced to\nthink'--Miggs sneezed expressively. 'You never will know, Varden, and\nnobody at young Mr Willet's age--you'll excuse me, sir--can be expected\nto know, what a woman suffers when she is waiting at home under such\ncircumstances. If you don't believe me, as I know you don't, here's\nMiggs, who is only too often a witness of it--ask her.'\n\n'Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said\nMiggs. 'If you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I don't\nthink you could abear it, I raly don't.'\n\n'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, 'you're profane.'\n\n'Begging your pardon, mim,' returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity, 'such\nwas not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character, though I am\nbut a servant.'\n\n'Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,' retorted her mistress,\nlooking round with dignity, 'is one and the same thing. How\ndare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful\nfellow-beings--mere'--said Mrs Varden, glancing at herself in a\nneighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more\nbecoming fashion--'mere worms and grovellers as we are!'\n\n'I did not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,' said Miggs,\nconfident in the strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in\nthe throat as usual, 'and I did not expect it would be took as such. I\nhope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate and despise myself and\nall my fellow-creatures as every practicable Christian should.'\n\n'You'll have the goodness, if you please,' said Mrs Varden, loftily, 'to\nstep upstairs and see if Dolly has finished dressing, and to tell her\nthat the chair that was ordered for her will be here in a minute, and\nthat if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it away that instant.--I'm\nsorry to see that you don't take your tea, Varden, and that you don't\ntake yours, Mr Joseph; though of course it would be foolish of me to\nexpect that anything that can be had at home, and in the company of\nfemales, would please YOU.'\n\nThis pronoun was understood in the plural sense, and included both\ngentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and undeserved, for\nGabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising appetite,\nuntil it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as great a liking\nfor the female society of the locksmith's house--or for a part of it at\nall events--as man could well entertain.\n\nBut he had no opportunity to say anything in his own defence, for at\nthat moment Dolly herself appeared, and struck him quite dumb with her\nbeauty. Never had Dolly looked so handsome as she did then, in all the\nglow and grace of youth, with all her charms increased a hundredfold by\na most becoming dress, by a thousand little coquettish ways which nobody\ncould assume with a better grace, and all the sparkling expectation of\nthat accursed party. It is impossible to tell how Joe hated that party\nwherever it was, and all the other people who were going to it, whoever\nthey were.\n\nAnd she hardly looked at him--no, hardly looked at him. And when\nthe chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the\nworkshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go. But Joe\ngave her his arm--there was some comfort in that--and handed her into\nit. To see her seat herself inside, with her laughing eyes brighter\nthan diamonds, and her hand--surely she had the prettiest hand in\nthe world--on the ledge of the open window, and her little finger\nprovokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it wondered why Joe didn't\nsqueeze or kiss it! To think how well one or two of the modest snowdrops\nwould have become that delicate bodice, and how they were lying\nneglected outside the parlour window! To see how Miggs looked on with\na face expressive of knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and\nof being in the secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and\nof saying it ain't half as real as you think, and I could look quite as\nwell myself if I took the pains! To hear that provoking precious little\nscream when the chair was hoisted on its poles, and to catch that\ntransient but not-to-be-forgotten vision of the happy face within--what\ntorments and aggravations, and yet what delights were these! The very\nchairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her down the street.\n\nThere never was such an alteration in a small room in a small time as in\nthat parlour when they went back to finish tea. So dark, so deserted,\nso perfectly disenchanted. It seemed such sheer nonsense to be sitting\ntamely there, when she was at a dance with more lovers than man could\ncalculate fluttering about her--with the whole party doting on and\nadoring her, and wanting to marry her. Miggs was hovering about too; and\nthe fact of her existence, the mere circumstance of her ever having been\nborn, appeared, after Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke. It\nwas impossible to talk. It couldn't be done. He had nothing left for it\nbut to stir his tea round, and round, and round, and ruminate on all the\nfascinations of the locksmith's lovely daughter.\n\nGabriel was dull too. It was a part of the certain uncertainty of Mrs\nVarden's temper, that when they were in this condition, she should be\ngay and sprightly.\n\n'I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,' said the smiling\nhousewife, 'to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I can\nscarcely tell.'\n\n'Ah, mim,' sighed Miggs, 'begging your pardon for the interruption,\nthere an't a many like you.'\n\n'Take away, Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, rising, 'take away, pray. I know\nI'm a restraint here, and as I wish everybody to enjoy themselves as\nthey best can, I feel I had better go.'\n\n'No, no, Martha,' cried the locksmith. 'Stop here. I'm sure we shall be\nvery sorry to lose you, eh Joe!' Joe started, and said 'Certainly.'\n\n'Thank you, Varden, my dear,' returned his wife; 'but I know your wishes\nbetter. Tobacco and beer, or spirits, have much greater attractions than\nany I can boast of, and therefore I shall go and sit upstairs and look\nout of window, my love. Good night, Mr Joseph. I'm very glad to have\nseen you, and I only wish I could have provided something more suitable\nto your taste. Remember me very kindly if you please to old Mr Willet,\nand tell him that whenever he comes here I have a crow to pluck with\nhim. Good night!'\n\nHaving uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good\nlady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its condescension, and serenely\nwithdrew.\n\nAnd it was for this Joe had looked forward to the twenty-fifth of March\nfor weeks and weeks, and had gathered the flowers with so much care, and\nhad cocked his hat, and made himself so smart! This was the end of all\nhis bold determination, resolved upon for the hundredth time, to speak\nout to Dolly and tell her how he loved her! To see her for a minute--for\nbut a minute--to find her going out to a party and glad to go; to be\nlooked upon as a common pipe-smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-guzzler, and\ntosspot! He bade farewell to his friend the locksmith, and hastened to\ntake horse at the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home, as\nmany another Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to\nall his hopes--that the thing was impossible and never could be--that\nshe didn't care for him--that he was wretched for life--and that the\nonly congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a sailor,\nand get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as soon as possible.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nJoe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the\nlocksmith's daughter going down long country-dances, and poussetting\ndreadfully with bold strangers--which was almost too much to bear--when\nhe heard the tramp of a horse's feet behind him, and looking back, saw\na well-mounted gentleman advancing at a smart canter. As this rider\npassed, he checked his steed, and called him of the Maypole by his name.\nJoe set spurs to the grey mare, and was at his side directly.\n\n'I thought it was you, sir,' he said, touching his hat. 'A fair evening,\nsir. Glad to see you out of doors again.'\n\nThe gentleman smiled and nodded. 'What gay doings have been going on\nto-day, Joe? Is she as pretty as ever? Nay, don't blush, man.'\n\n'If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,' said Joe, 'which I didn't know I did,\nit was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have any hope\nof her. She's as far out of my reach as--as Heaven is.'\n\n'Well, Joe, I hope that's not altogether beyond it,' said Edward,\ngood-humouredly. 'Eh?'\n\n'Ah!' sighed Joe. 'It's all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs are easily\nmade in cold blood. But it can't be helped. Are you bound for our house,\nsir?'\n\n'Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night, and\nride home coolly in the morning.'\n\n'If you're in no particular hurry,' said Joe after a short silence, 'and\nwill bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to ride on\nwith you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when you dismount.\nIt'll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there and back again. I\ncan spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.'\n\n'And so am I,' returned Edward, 'though I was unconsciously riding fast\njust now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts, which were\ntravelling post. We will keep together, Joe, willingly, and be as good\ncompany as may be. And cheer up, cheer up, think of the locksmith's\ndaughter with a stout heart, and you shall win her yet.'\n\nJoe shook his head; but there was something so cheery in the buoyant\nhopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under its\ninfluence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse even to\nthe grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a gentle trot,\nemulated the pace of Edward Chester's horse, and appeared to flatter\nherself that he was doing his very best.\n\nIt was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was then\njust rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which gives to\nevening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the\ntrees, softened as if reflected in still water, threw their carpet on\nthe path the travellers pursued, and the light wind stirred yet more\nsoftly than before, as though it were soothing Nature in her sleep. By\nlittle and little they ceased talking, and rode on side by side in a\npleasant silence.\n\n'The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,' said Edward, as they rode\nalong the lane from which, while the intervening trees were bare of\nleaves, that hostelry was visible.\n\n'Brilliant indeed, sir,' returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to get\na better view. 'Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the\nbest bedchamber? Why, what company can this be for, I wonder!'\n\n'Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from\ngoing on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the highwayman, I\nsuppose,' said Edward.\n\n'He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations. Your\nbed too, sir--!'\n\n'No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come--there's nine\nstriking. We may push on.'\n\nThey cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe's charger could attain,\nand presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the\nmorning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked\nwith a light step towards the house.\n\nA female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and\nadmitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and\ndarted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy hall,\nwhose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons\nof the chase, and suchlike garniture. Here he paused, but not long; for\nas he looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and\nwondering she had not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair\nnext moment rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy\nhand was laid upon her arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr\nHaredale stood between them.\n\nHe regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with\none hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his\nriding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself\nup, and returned his gaze.\n\n'This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my\nhouse unbidden and in secret, like a thief!' said Mr Haredale. 'Leave\nit, sir, and return no more.'\n\n'Miss Haredale's presence,' returned the young man, 'and your\nrelationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave man,\nyou will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault\nis yours--not mine.'\n\n'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man,\nsir,' retorted the other, 'to tamper with the affections of a weak,\ntrusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian\nand protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will\nnot say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be\ngone.'\n\n'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to\nplay the spy,' said Edward. 'Your words imply dishonour, and I reject\nthem with the scorn they merit.'\n\n'You will find,' said Mr Haredale, calmly, 'your trusty go-between in\nwaiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy's part,\nsir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have\nheard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot,\nor lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is\noffensive to me and distressful to my niece.' As he said these words,\nhe passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and\ndrew her closer to him; and though the habitual severity of his manner\nwas scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of\nkindness and sympathy for her distress.\n\n'Mr Haredale,' said Edward, 'your arm encircles her on whom I have set\nmy every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute's happiness for\nwhom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that\nholds the precious jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her\nfaith to me, and I have plighted mine to her. What have I done that\nyou should hold me in this light esteem, and give me these discourteous\nwords?'\n\n'You have done that, sir,' answered Mr Haredale, 'which must be undone.\nYou have tied a lover's-knot here which must be cut asunder. Take good\nheed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond between ye. I reject you,\nand all of your kith and kin--all the false, hollow, heartless stock.'\n\n'High words, sir,' said Edward, scornfully.\n\n'Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,' replied the other.\n'Lay them to heart.'\n\n'Lay you then, these,' said Edward. 'Your cold and sullen temper, which\nchills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and\nchanges duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant\nto our nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you.\nI am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless man; the character is yours,\nwho poorly venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and\nunder the shelter whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel\nthe bond between us. I will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your\nniece's truth and honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her\nwith a confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and\nwith no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.'\n\nWith that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more\nencountering and returning Mr Haredale's steady look, withdrew.\n\nA few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what\nhad passed, and renewed all that young gentleman's despondency with\ntenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a\nsyllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.\n\nOld John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up\nshouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as\nhe held the young man's stirrup,\n\n'He's comfortable in bed--the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the\nsmilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.'\n\n'Who, Willet?' said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.\n\n'Your worthy father, sir,' replied John. 'Your honourable, venerable\nfather.'\n\n'What does he mean?' said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and\ndoubt, at Joe.\n\n'What DO you mean?' said Joe. 'Don't you see Mr Edward doesn't\nunderstand, father?'\n\n'Why, didn't you know of it, sir?' said John, opening his eyes wide.\n'How very singular! Bless you, he's been here ever since noon to-day,\nand Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn't been\ngone an hour.'\n\n'My father, Willet!'\n\n'Yes, sir, he told me so--a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in\ngreen-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in,\nsir,' said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the\nwindow. 'He hasn't put out his candles yet, I see.'\n\nEdward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had\nchanged his mind--forgotten something--and must return to London,\nmounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and\nson, looking at each other in mute astonishment.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nAt noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his breakfast\nin his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the\nMaypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an\ninfinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the\ndisadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.\n\nIn the broad old-fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modern\nsofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in the\nbroad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged,\nvery much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had\nexchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for\nslippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged\nto make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and\ntiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the\ndiscomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of\nperfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.\n\nThe situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly\nfavourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy\ninfluence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative\nof a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence\npeculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when\nit is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.\n\nThere are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day,\nfor basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a\ndrowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens;\nthose who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their\nfootsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing\nfrom the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, 'Who enters here leaves\nnoise behind.' There is still the plash of falling water in fair\nFountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted\nstudents may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of\nsunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled\nto reflect a passing stranger's form. There is yet, in the Temple,\nsomething of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law\nhave not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In\nsummer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and\nmore sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the\nspillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the\nfreshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of\nbaths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.\n\nIt was in a room in Paper Buildings--a row of goodly tenements, shaded\nin front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple\nGardens--that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paper\nhe had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of\nhis meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely\nabout the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few\nearly loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers\nmet to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better\neyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster,\nwith her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful\nsidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid,\nlooked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't know\nshe was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river's margin two\nor three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest\nconversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone.\n\n'Ned is amazingly patient!' said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-named\nperson as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick,\n'immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has\nscarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!'\n\nAs he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace.\n\n'Really, as if he had heard me,' said the father, resuming his newspaper\nwith a yawn. 'Dear Ned!'\n\nPresently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his\nfather gently waved his hand, and smiled.\n\n'Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?' said Edward.\n\n'Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.--Have\nyou breakfasted?'\n\n'Three hours ago.'\n\n'What a very early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from behind\nthe toothpick, with a languid smile.\n\n'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating\nhimself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was glad\nto rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and\nit is upon that I wish to speak.'\n\n'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide in me, I beg. But you know\nmy constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.'\n\n'I will be plain, and brief,' said Edward.\n\n'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing his\nlegs, 'or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me'--\n\n'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern, 'that\nI know where you were last night--from being on the spot, indeed--and\nwhom you saw, and what your purpose was.'\n\n'You don't say so!' cried his father. 'I am delighted to hear it. It\nsaves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation,\nand is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn't you come\nup? I should have been charmed to see you.'\n\n'I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's\nreflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son.\n\n''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the father, 'I was cool enough last night.\nThat detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder,\nit holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind\nthat blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant\nin that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm.\nBut you were saying'--\n\n'I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you\nhave made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?'\n\n'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will hear you with the patience of an\nanchorite. Oblige me with the milk.'\n\n'I saw Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had complied\nwith this request; 'her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your\ninterview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade\nme the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your\ncreation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.'\n\n'For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not\naccountable,' said his father. 'That you must excuse. He is a mere boor,\na log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a fly in the jug.\nThe first I have seen this year.'\n\nEdward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his\ntea.\n\n'Father,' said the young man, stopping at length before him, 'we must\nnot trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves.\nLet me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me by\nthis unkind indifference.'\n\n'Whether I am indifferent or no,' returned the other, 'I leave you, my\ndear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miry\nroads--a Maypole dinner--a tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanity\napart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business--a Maypole bed--a\nMaypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots and centaurs;--whether\nthe voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dear\nNed, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and all that sort of\nthing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.'\n\n'I wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, 'in what a cruel situation I\nam placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do'--\n\n'My dear fellow,' interrupted his father with a compassionate smile,\n'you do nothing of the kind. You don't know anything about it. There's\nno such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have good\nsense, Ned,--great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such\namazing absurdities. You really surprise me.'\n\n'I repeat,' said his son firmly, 'that I love her. You have interposed\nto part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of,\nsucceeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably of\nour attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us\nasunder if you can?'\n\n'My dear Ned,' returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing\nhis box towards him, 'that is my purpose most undoubtedly.'\n\n'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son, 'since I began to know\nher worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once\npaused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my childhood\nI have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as\nthough my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without a\nlimit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I\nhave been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves\nto riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my\ncare. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit\nfor nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no\nresource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we do\nnot, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively\nalike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the\nmotives of interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyes\nvisible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus much\nplain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine,\nindeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, in\nthe hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a\nkinder confidence between us in time to come.'\n\n'My good fellow,' said his smiling father, 'you quite affect me. Go\non, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great\nearnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but I\nfear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.'\n\n'I am very sorry, sir.'\n\n'I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for\nany long period upon one subject. If you'll come to the point at once,\nI'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Oblige\nme with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.'\n\n'What I would say then, tends to this,' said Edward. 'I cannot bear\nthis absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and\nopportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it.\nWill you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I\npossess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself\nan honourable path in life? For any term you please to name--say for\nfive years if you will--I will pledge myself to move no further in the\nmatter of our difference without your full concurrence. During that\nperiod, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to\nopen some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fear\nI should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief\nendowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we\nagree upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is\nrevived by you, let it never be renewed between us.'\n\n'My dear Ned,' returned his father, laying down the newspaper at which\nhe had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in the\nwindow-seat, 'I believe you know how very much I dislike what are called\nfamily affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, and\nhave no manner of business with people of our condition. But as you\nare proceeding upon a mistake, Ned--altogether upon a mistake--I will\nconquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a\nperfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut\nthe door.'\n\nEdward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his\npocket, and paring his nails, continued:\n\n'You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother,\ncharming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, as\nshe left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal--had\nnothing to boast of in that respect.'\n\n'Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward.\n\n'Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great\nname and great wealth, but having risen from nothing--I have\nalways closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its\ncontemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his\nbusiness did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to marry his\ndaughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned. I was a\nyounger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object,\nand gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles,\nand I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my\ncomfort--quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among\nthe things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how old\nare you? I always forget.'\n\n'Seven-and-twenty, sir.'\n\n'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising his eyelids in a languishing\nsurprise. 'So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as I\nremember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about eighteen or\nnineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in these\nchambers (once your grandfather's, and bequeathed by that extremely\nrespectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable\nannuity and my past reputation.'\n\n'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.\n\n'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father with\ngreat composure. 'These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am\nsorry to say they don't admit of any such relief. It is for that reason,\nand because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so\nvery much. Well! You know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enough\nto be a companion--that is to say, unless he is some two or three and\ntwenty--is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraint\nupon his father, his father is a restraint upon him, and they make each\nother mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four\nyears or so--I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will\ncorrect me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a distance, and\npicked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed a\nweek or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such near\nrelations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy,\nthat if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you\nto some distant part of the world.'\n\n'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said Edward.\n\n'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I assure\nyou. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw\nyou into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dear\nfellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon\nyour doing something to provide for me in return.'\n\n'I do not understand your meaning, sir.'\n\n'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream-jug,\nbut have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for\ntheir walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and\ndisagreeable--my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you must\nmarry well and make the most of yourself.'\n\n'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.\n\n'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father. 'All\nmen are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court,\nthe camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling\neach other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the\ncounting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,--what but\nfortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter! Yes. You\nARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you were\nthe greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant, in\nexistence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself with\nthe reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but\none person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these\nother kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at a\nstep? Or thousands?'\n\nThe young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.\n\n'I am quite charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to and\nfro--stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey\na picture through his glass, with the air of a connoisseur, 'that we\nhave had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishes\na confidence between us which is quite delightful, and was certainly\nnecessary, though how you can ever have mistaken our positions and\ndesigns, I confess I cannot understand. I conceived, until I found your\nfancy for this girl, that all these points were tacitly agreed upon\nbetween us.'\n\n'I knew you were embarrassed, sir,' returned the son, raising his head\nfor a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, 'but I had no\nidea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How could I suppose it,\nbred as I have been; witnessing the life you have always led; and the\nappearance you have always made?'\n\n'My dear child,' said the father--'for you really talk so like a child\nthat I must call you one--you were bred upon a careful principle;\nthe very manner of your education, I assure you, maintained my credit\nsurprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must lead it, Ned. I must have\nthese little refinements about me. I have always been used to them, and\nI cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you observe, and\ntherefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you\nmay set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own\nappearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone\ndevours our income. That's the truth.'\n\n'Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me, sir, to\nan expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right or title?'\n\n'My good fellow,' returned his father more compassionately than ever,\n'if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in the\npursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every man\nhas a right to live in the best way he can; and to make himself as\ncomfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, I\ngrant, are very great, and therefore it the more behoves you, as a young\nman of principle and honour, to pay them off as speedily as possible.'\n\n'The villain's part,' muttered Edward, 'that I have unconsciously\nplayed! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I would, for her sake, I\nhad died first!'\n\n'I am glad you see, Ned,' returned his father, 'how perfectly\nself-evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apart\nfrom this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself on\nanother (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish you'd\nlook upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone, how\ncould you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she was\namazingly rich? You ought to be so very Protestant, coming of such a\nProtestant family as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing.\nEven if one could set that objection aside, which is impossible, we come\nto another which is quite conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl\nwhose father was killed, like meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable!\nConsider the impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law\nunder such unpleasant circumstances--think of his having been \"viewed\"\nby jurors, and \"sat upon\" by coroners, and of his very doubtful position\nin the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an indelicate sort\nof thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put to death by\nthe state to prevent its happening. But I tease you perhaps. You would\nrather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly. God bless you. I shall\nbe going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night,\ncertainly to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both\nour sakes. You are a person of great consequence to me, Ned--of vast\nconsequence indeed. God bless you!'\n\nWith these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in\nthe glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner,\nwithdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lost\nin thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite still and\nsilent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder Chester, gaily\ndressed, went out. The younger still sat with his head resting on his\nhands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nA series of pictures representing the streets of London in the night,\neven at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present to the\neye something so very different in character from the reality which is\nwitnessed in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder to\nrecognise his most familiar walks in the altered aspect of little more\nthan half a century ago.\n\nThey were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest and\nleast frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though regularly\ntrimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the\nbest; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and\ncandles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the\nfootway, leaving the projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest\ngloom. Many of the courts and lanes were left in total darkness; those\nof the meaner sort, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of\nhouses, being favoured in no slight degree. Even in these places, the\ninhabitants had often good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon\nas it was lighted; and the watch being utterly inefficient and powerless\nto prevent them, they did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest\nthoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous spot\nwhither a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to follow; and\nthe city being belted round by fields, green lanes, waste grounds, and\nlonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have joined\nit since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, was rendered easy.\n\nIt is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and\nconstant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds,\nand not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of nightly\noccurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks should have\nhad great dread of traversing its streets after the shops were closed.\nIt was not unusual for those who wended home alone at midnight, to\nkeep the middle of the road, the better to guard against surprise from\nlurking footpads; few would venture to repair at a late hour to Kentish\nTown or Hampstead, or even to Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and\nunattended; while he who had been loudest and most valiant at the\nsupper-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to\nfee a link-boy to escort him home.\n\nThere were many other characteristics--not quite so disagreeable--about\nthe thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been long\nfamiliar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple\nBar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a sign; and the\ncreaking and swinging of these boards in their iron frames on windy\nnights, formed a strange and mournful concert for the ears of those\nwho lay awake in bed or hurried through the streets. Long stands of\nhackney-chairs and groups of chairmen, compared with whom the coachmen\nof our day are gentle and polite, obstructed the way and filled the\nair with clamour; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of light\ncrossing the pavement, and stretching out half-way into the road, and\nby the stifled roar of voices from below, yawned for the reception and\nentertainment of the most abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and\nbulk small groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day; or\none more weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of\nhis torch fall hissing on the puddled ground.\n\nThen there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour, and\nthe kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and turned them\nround in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or froze,\nfor very comfort's sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the\nchairmen's cry of 'By your leave there!' as two came trotting past\nhim with their empty vehicle--carried backwards to show its being\ndisengaged--and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a private chair,\ntoo, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously hooped and furbelowed, and\npreceded by running-footmen bearing flambeaux--for which extinguishers\nare yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better\nsort--made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more\ndismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry,\nwho carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall\nwhile waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows\neither there or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish\nwith hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming,\nthe vice which ran so high among all classes (the fashion being of\ncourse set by the upper), was generally the cause of these disputes;\nfor cards and dice were as openly used, and worked as much mischief, and\nyielded as much excitement below stairs, as above. While incidents like\nthese, arising out of drums and masquerades and parties at quadrille,\nwere passing at the west end of the town, heavy stagecoaches and scarce\nheavier waggons were lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen,\nguard, and passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach--a day or so\nperhaps behind its time, but that was nothing--despoiled by highwaymen;\nwho made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan\nof goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were\nsometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow, rumours\nof this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours'\nconversation through the town, and a Public Progress of some fine\ngentleman (half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest fashion, and\ndamning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, furnished to\nthe populace, at once a pleasant excitement and a wholesome and profound\nexample.\n\nAmong all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society,\nprowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man from\nwhom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread.\nWho he was, or whence he came, was a question often asked, but which\nnone could answer. His name was unknown, he had never been seen until\nwithin about eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a stranger to\nthe old ruffians, upon whose haunts he ventured fearlessly, as to the\nyoung. He could be no spy, for he never removed his slouched hat to look\nabout him, entered into conversation with no man, heeded nothing that\npassed, listened to no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went.\nBut so surely as the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the\nmidst of the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every\ngrade resorted; and there he sat till morning.\n\nHe was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something in the\nmidst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted them; but out\nof doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he was abroad--never in\ncompany with any one, but always alone; never lingering or loitering,\nbut always walking swiftly; and looking (so they said who had seen him)\nover his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so quickening his\npace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of the\ntown--east, west, north, and south--that man was seen gliding on like a\nshadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him\nsteal past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the\ndarkness.\n\nThis constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to\nstrange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times\nso nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were\nnot two of them, or more--some, whether he had not unearthly means of\ntravelling from spot to spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had marked\nhim passing like a ghost along its brink; the vagrant had met him on the\ndark high-road; the beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look\ndown at the water, and then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies\nwith the surgeons could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they\nhad beheld him glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they\ntold these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would\npull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.\n\nAt last, one man--he was one of those whose commerce lay among the\ngraves--resolved to question this strange companion. Next night, when\nhe had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do that, they\nhad observed, as though he had no other in the day), this fellow sat\ndown at his elbow.\n\n'A black night, master!'\n\n'It is a black night.'\n\n'Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too. Didn't I pass you near\nthe turnpike in the Oxford Road?'\n\n'It's like you may. I don't know.'\n\n'Come, come, master,' cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of his\ncomrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; 'be more companionable and\ncommunicative. Be more the gentleman in this good company. There are\ntales among us that you have sold yourself to the devil, and I know not\nwhat.'\n\n'We all have, have we not?' returned the stranger, looking up. 'If we\nwere fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.'\n\n'It goes rather hard with you, indeed,' said the fellow, as the stranger\ndisclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes. 'What of that? Be\nmerry, master. A stave of a roaring song now'--\n\n'Sing you, if you desire to hear one,' replied the other, shaking him\nroughly off; 'and don't touch me if you're a prudent man; I carry\narms which go off easily--they have done so, before now--and make it\ndangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of them, to lay hands\nupon me.'\n\n'Do you threaten?' said the fellow.\n\n'Yes,' returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking\nfiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.\n\nHis voice, and look, and bearing--all expressive of the wildest\nrecklessness and desperation--daunted while they repelled the\nbystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now, they were\nnot without much of the effect they had wrought at the Maypole Inn.\n\n'I am what you all are, and live as you all do,' said the man sternly,\nafter a short silence. 'I am in hiding here like the rest, and if we\nwere surprised would perhaps do my part with the best of ye. If it's my\nhumour to be left to myself, let me have it. Otherwise,'--and here\nhe swore a tremendous oath--'there'll be mischief done in this place,\nthough there ARE odds of a score against me.'\n\nA low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and the\nmystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on the part\nof some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient precedent to\nmeddle too curiously with a gentleman's private affairs if he saw reason\nto conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion\nthat he had best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange\nman lay down upon a bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again,\nthey found he was gone.\n\nNext night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing\nthe streets; he was before the locksmith's house more than once, but\nthe family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London\nBridge and passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a\nwoman with a little basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end.\nDirectly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway, and\nstood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his\nhiding-place, and followed.\n\nShe went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household\nnecessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered like\nher evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven\no'clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast, when she\nturned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her.\n\nShe turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first,\nwhich, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She\nquickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and\nrobbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along\non the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of\nwind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down.\n\nAt length the widow--for she it was--reached her own door, and, panting\nfor breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a flush and glow,\nwith the haste she had made, and the pleasure of being safe at home,\nshe stooped to draw it out, when, raising her head, she saw him standing\nsilently beside her: the apparition of a dream.\n\nHis hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove\nto its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. 'I have been looking\nfor you many nights. Is the house empty? Answer me. Is any one inside?'\n\nShe could only answer by a rattle in her throat.\n\n'Make me a sign.'\n\nShe seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the key,\nunlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully behind them.\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nIt was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had burnt\nlow. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and stooping down\nbefore the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned them\nwith his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, as\nthough to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort to\ndepart; and that done, busied himself about the fire again.\n\nIt was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was\ndank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered\nfrom head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and for\nsome hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever\nhe had passed the hours of darkness, his condition sufficiently\nbetokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky.\nBesmeared with mire; his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embrace\nabout his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagre\ncheeks worn into deep hollows,--a more miserable wretch could hardly be,\nthan this man who now cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watched\nthe struggling flame with bloodshot eyes.\n\nShe had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to look\ntowards him. So they remained for some short time in silence. Glancing\nround again, he asked at length:\n\n'Is this your house?'\n\n'It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?'\n\n'Give me meat and drink,' he answered sullenly, 'or I dare do more than\nthat. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I must\nhave warmth and food, and I will have them here.'\n\n'You were the robber on the Chigwell road.'\n\n'I was.'\n\n'And nearly a murderer then.'\n\n'The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised the\nhue-and-cry, that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness.\nI made a thrust at him.'\n\n'You thrust your sword at HIM!' cried the widow, looking upwards. 'You\nhear this man! you hear and saw!'\n\nHe looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tight\nclenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then,\nstarting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her.\n\n'Beware!' she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him\nmidway. 'Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; body\nand soul, you are lost.'\n\n'Hear me,' he replied, menacing her with his hand. 'I, that in the form\nof a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit,\na ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save\nthose curst beings of another world, who will not leave me;--I am, in my\ndesperation of this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which I\nexist from day to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I\nwill not hurt you. But I will not be taken alive; and so surely as you\nthreaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. The\nblood with which I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the\nEvil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!'\n\nAs he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it in\nhis hand.\n\n'Remove this man from me, good Heaven!' cried the widow. 'In thy grace\nand mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him dead!'\n\n'It has no such purpose,' he said, confronting her. 'It is deaf. Give me\nto eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will not\ndo for you.'\n\n'Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return no\nmore?'\n\n'I will promise nothing,' he rejoined, seating himself at the table,\n'nothing but this--I will execute my threat if you betray me.'\n\nShe rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought\nout some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on the table. He\nasked for brandy, and for water. These she produced likewise; and he ate\nand drank with the voracity of a famished hound. All the time he was so\nengaged she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat there\nshuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her back\nupon him once; and although when she passed him (as she was obliged to\ndo in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her\ngarment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible\nto think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept\nher face towards his own, and watched his every movement.\n\nHis repast ended--if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous\nsatisfying of the calls of hunger--he moved his chair towards the\nfire again, and warming himself before the blaze which had now sprung\nbrightly up, accosted her once more.\n\n'I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon\nluxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live\nhere at your ease. Do you live alone?'\n\n'I do not,' she made answer with an effort.\n\n'Who dwells here besides?'\n\n'One--it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you here.\nWhy do you linger?'\n\n'For warmth,' he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. 'For\nwarmth. You are rich, perhaps?'\n\n'Very,' she said faintly. 'Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.'\n\n'At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were making\npurchases to-night.'\n\n'I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.'\n\n'Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it to\nme.'\n\nShe stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took it\nup, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, she\nlistened for a moment, and sprung towards him.\n\n'Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go\nbefore it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know full\nwell. It will return directly. Begone.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch you, I\nwould drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than you\nshould lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from this place.'\n\n'If there are spies without, I am safer here,' replied the man, standing\naghast. 'I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past.'\n\n'It is too late!' cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and\nnot to him. 'Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hear\nit! It is my son, my idiot son!'\n\nAs she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. He\nlooked at her, and she at him.\n\n'Let him come in,' said the man, hoarsely. 'I fear him less than the\ndark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!'\n\n'The dread of this hour,' returned the widow, 'has been upon me all my\nlife, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye to eye.\nMy blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth--hear a poor\nmother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!'\n\n'He rattles at the shutters!' cried the man. 'He calls you. That voice\nand cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?'\n\nShe had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but\nuttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do or where\nto turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knife\nfrom the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in the\ncloset, and do all with the lightning's speed, when Barnaby tapped at\nthe bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly.\n\n'Why, who can keep out Grip and me!' he cried, thrusting in his head,\nand staring round the room. 'Are you there, mother? How long you keep us\nfrom the fire and light.'\n\nShe stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby sprung\nlightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck,\nkissed her a hundred times.\n\n'We have been afield, mother--leaping ditches, scrambling through\nhedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on. The wind\nhas been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending to\nit, lest it should do them harm, the cowards--and Grip--ha ha ha!--brave\nGrip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in the\ndust, turns manfully to bite it--Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled with\nevery little bowing twig--thinking, he told me, that it mocked him--and\nhas worried it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!'\n\nThe raven, in his little basket at his master's back, hearing this\nfrequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his\nsympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his various\nphrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of\nhoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people.\n\n'He takes such care of me besides!' said Barnaby. 'Such care, mother! He\nwatches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believe\nto slumber, he practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye on\nme the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stops\ndirectly. He won't surprise me till he's perfect.'\n\nThe raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said, 'Those\nare certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.' In the\nmeantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to the\nfireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But\nhis mother prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, and\nmotioning him towards the other.\n\n'How pale you are to-night!' said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. 'We\nhave been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!'\n\nAnxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the door\nof his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son.\nGrip--alive to everything his master was unconscious of--had his head\nout of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with his\nglistening eye.\n\n'He flaps his wings,' said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough to\ncatch the retreating form and closing door, 'as if there were strangers\nhere, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump then!'\n\nAccepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the bird\nhopped up on his master's shoulder, from that to his extended hand, and\nso to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down in\na corner with the lid open, Grip's first care was to shut it down with\nall possible despatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing, no doubt,\nthat he had now rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power of\nmortal man, to shut him up in it any more, he drew a great many corks in\ntriumph, and uttered a corresponding number of hurrahs.\n\n'Mother!' said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and returning\nto the chair from which he had risen, 'I'll tell you where we have been\nto-day, and what we have been doing,--shall I?'\n\nShe took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could not\nspeak.\n\n'You mustn't tell,' said Barnaby, holding up his finger, 'for it's a\nsecret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dog\nwith us, but he's not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn't guess it\nyet, I'll wager.--Why do you look behind me so?'\n\n'Did I?' she answered faintly. 'I didn't know I did. Come nearer me.'\n\n'You are frightened!' said Barnaby, changing colour. 'Mother--you don't\nsee'--\n\n'See what?'\n\n'There's--there's none of this about, is there?' he answered in a\nwhisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his wrist.\n'I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my\nflesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seen\nit in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Is\nit?'\n\nHe fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting out\nthe light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed\naway. After a time, he raised his head and looked about him.\n\n'Is it gone?'\n\n'There has been nothing here,' rejoined his mother, soothing him.\n'Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.'\n\nHe gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into\na wild laugh.\n\n'But let us see,' he said, thoughtfully. 'Were we talking? Was it you\nand me? Where have we been?'\n\n'Nowhere but here.'\n\n'Aye, but Hugh, and I,' said Barnaby,--'that's it. Maypole Hugh, and\nI, you know, and Grip--we have been lying in the forest, and among the\ntrees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and the\ndog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.'\n\n'What man?'\n\n'The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him\nafter dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I'd know him in a\nthousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!'\n\nHe twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his\nbrow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like the\noriginal he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind him\nmight have passed for his own shadow.\n\n'Ha ha ha! We shall have him,' he cried, ridding himself of the\nsemblance as hastily as he had assumed it. 'You shall see him, mother,\nbound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-girth; and you\nshall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So Hugh says. You're\npale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me so?'\n\n'It is nothing,' she answered. 'I am not quite well. Go you to bed,\ndear, and leave me here.'\n\n'To bed!' he answered. 'I don't like bed. I like to lie before the fire,\nwatching the prospects in the burning coals--the rivers, hills, and\ndells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry too,\nand Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! To\nsupper, lad!'\n\nThe raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped to\nthe feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snapping\nup such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received about\na score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure.\n\n'That's all,' said Barnaby.\n\n'More!' cried Grip. 'More!'\n\nBut it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he\nretreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one from his\npouch, hid them in various corners--taking particular care, however, to\navoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man's propensities and\npower of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements,\nhe took a turn or two across the room with an elaborate assumption of\nhaving nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon his treasure all\nthe time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece by\npiece, and eat it with the utmost relish.\n\nBarnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a\nhearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted more\nbread from the closet and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed to\nprevent him, and summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess,\nand brought it out herself.\n\n'Mother,' said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down\nbeside him after doing so; 'is to-day my birthday?'\n\n'To-day!' she answered. 'Don't you recollect it was but a week or so\nago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it comes\nagain?'\n\n'I remember that it has been so till now,' said Barnaby. 'But I think\nto-day must be my birthday too, for all that.'\n\nShe asked him why? 'I'll tell you why,' he said. 'I have always seen\nyou--I didn't let you know it, but I have--on the evening of that day\ngrow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad; and\nlook frightened with no reason; and I have touched your hand, and felt\nthat it was cold--as it is now. Once, mother (on a birthday that was,\nalso), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, and\nwhen it was midnight, striking one o'clock, we came down to your door to\nsee if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you\nsaid. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?'\n\n'I'm a devil!' rejoined the raven promptly.\n\n'No, no,' said Barnaby. 'But you said something in a prayer; and when\nyou rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever since,\nmother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have found\nthat out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you're wrong; and this\nmust be my birthday--my birthday, Grip!'\n\nThe bird received this information with a crow of such duration as a\ncock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind, might\nusher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered the\nsentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, 'Never\nsay die!' a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis.\n\nThe widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured to\ndivert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times,\nas she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties,\nstretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip perched upon his\nleg, and divided his time between dozing in the grateful warmth, and\nendeavouring (as it presently appeared) to recall a new accomplishment\nhe had been studying all day.\n\nA long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of\nposition on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and\nintently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on the\npart of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, 'Polly put\nthe ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in\na doze again.\n\nAfter a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and regular,\nand his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven\ninterposed. 'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip, and his master was broad\nawake again.\n\nAt length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk\nupon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable\nalderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,\nreally seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he\nmuttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very drowsily,\nand more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.\n\nThe widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man\nglided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.\n\n'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much\nexcited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have\ntea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah,\nhurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up your\nspirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'm\na--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'\n\nThey stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the\ngrave.\n\nBut even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the\nfire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it.\nThe widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a\nmoment, and then she motioned him towards the door.\n\n'Stay,' he whispered. 'You teach your son well.'\n\n'I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, or\nI will rouse him.'\n\n'You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?'\n\n'You dare not do that.'\n\n'I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems. At\nleast I will know him.'\n\n'Would you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing herself\nbetween them.\n\n'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, 'I\nwould see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill the\nother, wake him.'\n\nWith that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly\nturned back the head and looked into the face. The light of the fire\nwas upon it, and its every lineament was revealed distinctly. He\ncontemplated it for a brief space, and hastily uprose.\n\n'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear: 'In him, of whose existence\nI was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power. Be careful how\nyou use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and starving, and\na wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.'\n\n'There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.'\n\n'There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth.\nYou have anticipated it for years; you have told me as much. I leave you\nto digest it. Do not forget my warning.'\n\nHe pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthily\nwithdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees beside\nthe sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the tears\nwhich fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her relief.\n\n'Oh Thou,' she cried, 'who hast taught me such deep love for this one\nremnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose affliction, even,\nperhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a relying, loving child to\nme--never growing old or cold at heart, but needing my care and duty in\nhis manly strength as in his cradle-time--help him, in his darkened walk\nthrough this sad world, or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!'\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nGliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they were\ndarkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow's house crossed\nLondon Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into the backways,\nlanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield; with no more\nfixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their windings, and\nbaffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.\n\nIt was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a\ndrowsy watchman's footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamplighter\non his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke\nmingled with glowing morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even\nfrom these partakers of his lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or\ndoorway while they passed, issued forth again when they were gone and so\npursued his solitary way.\n\nTo be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan\nand watching for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to\nthe falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old\nbarn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal things--but not\nso dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and\nsleepers are by thousands; a houseless rejected creature. To pace\nthe echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull chimes of the\nclocks; to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to think what\nhappy forgetfulness each house shuts in; that here are children coiled\ntogether in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth,\nall equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common\nwith the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven's gift to\nall its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by the\nwretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly alone and\ncast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of suffering, on\nwhich the rivers of great cities close full many a time, and which the\nsolitude in crowds alone awakens.\n\nThe miserable man paced up and down the streets--so long, so wearisome,\nso like each other--and often cast a wistful look towards the east,\nhoping to see the first faint streaks of day. But obdurate night had\nyet possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no\nrelief.\n\nOne house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of lights;\nthere was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers,\nand there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of laughter. To this\nplace--to be near something that was awake and glad--he returned again\nand again; and more than one of those who left it when the merriment\nwas at its height, felt it a check upon their mirthful mood to see him\nflitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost. At last the guests departed,\none and all; and then the house was close shut up, and became as dull\nand silent as the rest.\n\nHis wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead of\nhastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause to shun,\nhe sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin upon his hand,\ngazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though even they became a\nrefuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and round, came back to the\nsame spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and once, with a hasty\nmovement, crossed to where some men were watching in the prison lodge,\nand had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost them. But\nlooking round, he saw that the day began to break, and failing in his\npurpose, turned and fled.\n\nHe was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to and\nfro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean street, when\nfrom an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry arose, and there came\nstraggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping and calling to each other,\nwho, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in smaller\ngroups.\n\nHoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him a\nsafe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when they\nwere all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted\nwindow, or other indication of the place whence they had come. It was\nso profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they\nhad but turned up there, missing their way, and were pouring out again\nwhen he observed them. With this impression, and finding there was no\noutlet but that by which he had entered, he was about to turn, when from\na grating near his feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound\nof talking came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers\nwere, and to listen to them.\n\nThe light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a man\nascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked and held\nopen the grating as for the passage of another, who presently\nappeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and uncommon\nself-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion.\n\n'Good night, noble captain,' said he with the torch. 'Farewell,\ncommander. Good luck, illustrious general!'\n\nIn return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue, and\nkeep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar injunctions,\nwith great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.\n\n'Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,' returned the torch-bearer\nin a lower voice. 'My captain flies at higher game than Miggses. Ha, ha,\nha! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings.\nMy captain breaketh hearts as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast.'\n\n'What a fool you are, Stagg!' said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the\npavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had\ncontracted in his passage upward.\n\n'His precious limbs!' cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles. 'Shall a\nMiggs aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain. We will inveigle\nladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves\nwith blooming beauties, captain.'\n\n'I'll tell you what, my buck,' said Mr Tappertit, releasing his leg;\n'I'll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach certain\nquestions unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when\nyou're spoke to on particular subjects, and not otherways. Hold\nthe torch up till I've got to the end of the court, and then kennel\nyourself, do you hear?'\n\n'I hear you, noble captain.'\n\n'Obey then,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily. 'Gentlemen, lead on!' With\nwhich word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or retinue) he\nfolded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity down the court.\n\nHis obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and then\nthe observer saw for the first time, from his place of concealment, that\nhe was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick\near of the blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch\ntowards him, for he turned suddenly and cried, 'Who's there?'\n\n'A man,' said the other, advancing. 'A friend.'\n\n'A stranger!' rejoined the blind man. 'Strangers are not my friends.\nWhat do you do there?'\n\n'I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone. I\nwant a lodging.'\n\n'A lodging at this time!' returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn as\nthough he saw it. 'Do you know the day is breaking?'\n\n'I know it,' rejoined the other, 'to my cost. I have been traversing\nthis iron-hearted town all night.'\n\n'You had better traverse it again,' said the blind man, preparing to\ndescend, 'till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste. I don't\nlet any.'\n\n'Stay!' cried the other, holding him by the arm.\n\n'I'll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog it\nis, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood besides,\nif you detain me,' said the blind man. 'Let me go. Do you hear?'\n\n'Do YOU hear!' returned the other, chinking a few shillings together,\nand hurriedly pressing them into his hand. 'I beg nothing of you. I will\npay for the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as\nyou! I have come from the country, and desire to rest where there are\nnone to question me. I am faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let\nme lie down, like a dog, before your fire. I ask no more than that. If\nyou would be rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.'\n\n'If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,' muttered Stagg,\nyielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a\nfooting on the steps--'and can pay for his accommodation--'\n\n'I will pay you with all I have. I am just now past the want of food,\nGod knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion have you\nbelow?'\n\n'None.'\n\n'Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way. Quick!'\n\nThe blind man complied after a moment's hesitation, and they descended\ntogether. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the words could be\nspoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he had had time to\nrecover from his first surprise.\n\n'May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?' said the man,\nglancing keenly round. 'You will not mind that?'\n\n'I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your choice.'\n\nHe bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his\nconductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly.\nAssured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there\nalone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was\nburning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it.\n\nHis host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him any\nfurther. But directly he fell asleep--and he noted his falling into a\nslumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have done--he knelt\ndown beside him, and passed his hand lightly but carefully over his face\nand person.\n\nHis sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a\nmuttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and his\nmouth firmly set. All this, the blind man accurately marked; and as if\nhis curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already some inkling\nof his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression may be used, and\nlistening, until it was broad day.\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nDolly Varden's pretty little head was yet bewildered by various\nrecollections of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by a\ncrowd of images, dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams, among\nwhich the effigy of one partner in particular did especially figure, the\nsame being a young coachmaker (a master in his own right) who had given\nher to understand, when he handed her into the chair at parting, that\nit was his fixed resolve to neglect his business from that time, and die\nslowly for the love of her--Dolly's head, and eyes, and thoughts, and\nseven senses, were all in a state of flutter and confusion for which the\nparty was accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as\nshe was sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes\n(that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the grounds of\nher teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr Edward Chester\nwas descried through the glass door, standing among the rusty locks and\nkeys, like love among the roses--for which apt comparison the historian\nmay by no means take any credit to himself, the same being the\ninvention, in a sentimental mood, of the chaste and modest Miggs, who,\nbeholding him from the doorsteps she was then cleaning, did, in her\nmaiden meditation, give utterance to the simile.\n\nThe locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown upward\nand his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby, did not see\nhis visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the rest, had desired\nSim Tappertit to open the glass door and give him admission--from which\nuntoward circumstance the good lady argued (for she could deduce a\nprecious moral from the most trifling event) that to take a draught of\nsmall ale in the morning was to observe a pernicious, irreligious, and\nPagan custom, the relish whereof should be left to swine, and Satan, or\nat least to Popish persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as\na work of sin and evil. She would no doubt have pursued her admonition\nmuch further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious\nprecepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman standing by\nin a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner while she read\nher spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it to a premature\nconclusion.\n\n'I'm sure you'll excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Varden, rising and\ncurtseying. 'Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much\nreminding--Sim, bring a chair here.'\n\nMr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so, under\nprotest.\n\n'And you can go, Sim,' said the locksmith.\n\nMr Tappertit obeyed again, still under protest; and betaking himself to\nthe workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find it necessary to\npoison his master, before his time was out.\n\nIn the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs Varden's\ncourtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he\naccepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was perfectly\nagreeable.\n\n'I am sure if there's anything we can do,--Varden, or I, or Dolly\neither,--to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it, and it\nshall be done,' said Mrs V.\n\n'I am much obliged to you, I am sure,' returned Edward. 'You encourage\nme to say that I have come here now, to beg your good offices.'\n\nMrs Varden was delighted beyond measure.\n\n'It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going to\nthe Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,' said Edward, glancing at Dolly;\n'and if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this letter, ma'am,\nyou will oblige me more than I can tell you. The truth is, that while\nI am very anxious it should reach its destination, I have particular\nreasons for not trusting it to any other conveyance; so that without\nyour help, I am wholly at a loss.'\n\n'She was not going that way, sir, either to-day, or to-morrow, nor\nindeed all next week,' the lady graciously rejoined, 'but we shall be\nvery glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account, and if you\nwish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might suppose,' said\nMrs Varden, frowning at her husband, 'from Varden's sitting there so\nglum and silent, that he objected to this arrangement; but you must not\nmind that, sir, if you please. It's his way at home. Out of doors, he\ncan be cheerful and talkative enough.'\n\nNow, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his stars to\nfind his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting with a beaming\nface, hearing this discourse with a joy past all expression. Wherefore\nthis sudden attack quite took him by surprise.\n\n'My dear Martha--' he said.\n\n'Oh yes, I dare say,' interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile of mingled\nscorn and pleasantry. 'Very dear! We all know that.'\n\n'No, but my good soul,' said Gabriel, 'you are quite mistaken. You are\nindeed. I was delighted to find you so kind and ready. I waited, my\ndear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would say.'\n\n'You waited anxiously,' repeated Mrs V. 'Yes! Thank you, Varden. You\nwaited, as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any came of\nit. But I am used to it,' said the lady with a kind of solemn titter,\n'and that's my comfort!'\n\n'I give you my word, Martha--' said Gabriel.\n\n'Let me give you MY word, my dear,' interposed his wife with a Christian\nsmile, 'that such discussions as these between married people, are much\nbetter left alone. Therefore, if you please, Varden, we'll drop the\nsubject. I have no wish to pursue it. I could. I might say a great deal.\nBut I would rather not. Pray don't say any more.'\n\n'I don't want to say any more,' rejoined the goaded locksmith.\n\n'Well then, don't,' said Mrs Varden.\n\n'Nor did I begin it, Martha,' added the locksmith, good-humouredly, 'I\nmust say that.'\n\n'You did not begin it, Varden!' exclaimed his wife, opening her eyes\nvery wide and looking round upon the company, as though she would say,\nYou hear this man! 'You did not begin it, Varden! But you shall not say\nI was out of temper. No, you did not begin it, oh dear no, not you, my\ndear!'\n\n'Well, well,' said the locksmith. 'That's settled then.'\n\n'Oh yes,' rejoined his wife, 'quite. If you like to say Dolly began it,\nmy dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my duty. I need know it,\nI am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind, when my inclination\nperhaps would be for the moment to forget it. Thank you, Varden.' And\nso, with a mighty show of humility and forgiveness, she folded her\nhands, and looked round again, with a smile which plainly said, 'If you\ndesire to see the first and foremost among female martyrs, here she is,\non view!'\n\nThis little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden's\nextraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to\ncheck the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that excellent\nlady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until Edward withdrew;\nwhich he presently did, thanking the lady of the house a great many\ntimes for her condescension, and whispering in Dolly's ear that he would\ncall on the morrow, in case there should happen to be an answer to the\nnote--which, indeed, she knew without his telling, as Barnaby and his\nfriend Grip had dropped in on the previous night to prepare her for the\nvisit which was then terminating.\n\nGabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his hands\nin his pockets; and, after fidgeting about the room in a very uneasy\nmanner, and casting a great many sidelong looks at Mrs Varden (who\nwith the calmest countenance in the world was five fathoms deep in\nthe Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how she meant to go. Dolly\nsupposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her lady mother, who finding\nherself silently appealed to, dived down at least another fathom into\nthe Manual, and became unconscious of all earthly things.\n\n'Martha--' said the locksmith.\n\n'I hear you, Varden,' said his wife, without rising to the surface.\n\n'I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the Maypole and old\nJohn, for otherways as it's a very fine morning, and Saturday's not\na busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in the\nchaise, and had quite a happy day of it.'\n\nMrs Varden immediately closed the Manual, and bursting into tears,\nrequested to be led upstairs.\n\n'What is the matter now, Martha?' inquired the locksmith.\n\nTo which Martha rejoined, 'Oh! don't speak to me,' and protested in\nagony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn't have believed it.\n\n'But, Martha,' said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was\nmoving off with the aid of Dolly's shoulder, 'wouldn't have believed\nwhat? Tell me what's wrong now. Do tell me. Upon my soul I don't know.\nDo YOU know, child? Damme!' cried the locksmith, plucking at his wig in\na kind of frenzy, 'nobody does know, I verily believe, but Miggs!'\n\n'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching\nincoherence, 'is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw down\nhatred upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me, whatever she may\nbe to others.'\n\n'She's no comfort to me,' cried Gabriel, made bold by despair. 'She's\nthe misery of my life. She's all the plagues of Egypt in one.'\n\n'She's considered so, I have no doubt,' said Mrs Varden. 'I was prepared\nfor that; it's natural; it's of a piece with the rest. When you taunt\nme as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you taunt her behind her\nback!' And here the incoherence coming on very strong, Mrs Varden wept,\nand laughed, and sobbed, and shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and\nsaid she knew it was very foolish but she couldn't help it; and that\nwhen she was dead and gone, perhaps they would be sorry for it--which\nreally under the circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she\nseemed to think--with a great deal more to the same effect. In a word,\nshe passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to\nsuch occasions; and being supported upstairs, was deposited in a highly\nspasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly afterwards\nflung herself upon the body.\n\nThe philosophy of all this was, that Mrs Varden wanted to go to\nChigwell; that she did not want to make any concession or explanation;\nthat she would only go on being implored and entreated so to do; and\nthat she would accept no other terms. Accordingly, after a vast amount\nof moaning and crying upstairs, and much damping of foreheads, and\nvinegaring of temples, and hartshorning of noses, and so forth;\nand after most pathetic adjurations from Miggs, assisted by warm\nbrandy-and-water not over-weak, and divers other cordials, also of\na stimulating quality, administered at first in teaspoonfuls and\nafterwards in increasing doses, and of which Miss Miggs herself partook\nas a preventive measure (for fainting is infectious); after all these\nremedies, and many more too numerous to mention, but not to take,\nhad been applied; and many verbal consolations, moral, religious, and\nmiscellaneous, had been super-added thereto; the locksmith humbled\nhimself, and the end was gained.\n\n'If it's only for the sake of peace and quietness, father,' said Dolly,\nurging him to go upstairs.\n\n'Oh, Doll, Doll,' said her good-natured father. 'If you ever have a\nhusband of your own--'\n\nDolly glanced at the glass.\n\n'--Well, WHEN you have,' said the locksmith, 'never faint, my darling.\nMore domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting, Doll, than from all\nthe greater passions put together. Remember that, my dear, if you would\nbe really happy, which you never can be, if your husband isn't. And a\nword in your ear, my precious. Never have a Miggs about you!'\n\nWith this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and\nslowly repaired to Mrs Varden's room; where that lady, lying all pale\nand languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight of her\nlast new bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her scattered\nspirits, displayed to the best advantage at her bedside.\n\n'Here's master, mim,' said Miggs. 'Oh, what a happiness it is when man\nand wife come round again! Oh gracious, to think that him and her should\never have a word together!' In the energy of these sentiments, which\nwere uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in general, Miss Miggs\nperched the bonnet on the top of her own head, and folding her hands,\nturned on her tears.\n\n'I can't help it,' cried Miggs. 'I couldn't, if I was to be drownded in\n'em. She has such a forgiving spirit! She'll forget all that has passed,\nand go along with you, sir--Oh, if it was to the world's end, she'd go\nalong with you.'\n\nMrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her attendant for this\nenthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was far too\nunwell to venture out that day.\n\n'Oh no, you're not, mim, indeed you're not,' said Miggs; 'I repeal to\nmaster; master knows you're not, mim. The hair, and motion of the shay,\nwill do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you must not raly. She\nmust keep up, mustn't she, sir, for all our sakes? I was a telling\nher that, just now. She must remember us, even if she forgets herself.\nMaster will persuade you, mim, I'm sure. There's Miss Dolly's a-going\nyou know, and master, and you, and all so happy and so comfortable. Oh!'\ncried Miggs, turning on the tears again, previous to quitting the room\nin great emotion, 'I never see such a blessed one as she is for the\nforgiveness of her spirit, I never, never, never did. Not more did\nmaster neither; no, nor no one--never!'\n\nFor five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed to\nall her husband's prayers that she would oblige him by taking a day's\npleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be persuaded,\nand granting him her free forgiveness (the merit whereof, she meekly\nsaid, rested with the Manual and not with her), desired that Miggs might\ncome and help her dress. The handmaid attended promptly, and it is but\njustice to their joint exertions to record that, when the good lady came\ndownstairs in course of time, completely decked out for the journey, she\nreally looked as if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best\nhealth imaginable.\n\nAs to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good\nlooks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same\ndrawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat\ntrimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one\nside--just enough in short to make it the wickedest and most provoking\nhead-dress that ever malicious milliner devised. And not to speak of the\nmanner in which these cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes,\nor vied with her lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such\na cruel little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and was so\nsurrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds, that\nwhen Mr Tappettit, holding the horse's head, saw her come out of the\nhouse alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into the chaise\nand drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably have done it, but\nfor certain uneasy doubts besetting him as to the shortest way to\nGretna Green; whether it was up the street or down, or up the right-hand\nturning or the left; and whether, supposing all the turnpikes to be\ncarried by storm, the blacksmith in the end would marry them on credit;\nwhich by reason of his clerical office appeared, even to his excited\nimagination, so unlikely, that he hesitated. And while he stood\nhesitating, and looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came his\nmaster and his mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity\nwas gone for ever. For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs\nVarden was inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and\nthe locksmith was inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat\nlightly, and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and its place\nwas empty, and he and that dreary Miggs were standing in the street\ntogether.\n\nThe hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had occurred\nfor the last twelve months to put him out of his way, Dolly was all\nsmiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable beyond all precedent. As\nthey jogged through the streets talking of this thing and of that, who\nshould be descried upon the pavement but that very coachmaker, looking\nso genteel that nobody would have believed he had ever had anything to\ndo with a coach but riding in it, and bowing like any nobleman. To\nbe sure Dolly was confused when she bowed again, and to be sure the\ncherry-coloured ribbons trembled a little when she met his mournful eye,\nwhich seemed to say, 'I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is\ngoing to the devil, and you're the cause of it.' There he stood, rooted\nto the ground: as Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said,\nlike a pump; till they turned the corner: and when her father thought\nit was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he meant by it,\nDolly blushed again till her very hood was pale.\n\nBut on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the\nlocksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart 'pulling-up' at all\nmanner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance with all the\ntaverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the landladies, with\nwhom, indeed, the little horse was on equally friendly terms, for he\nkept on stopping of his own accord. Never were people so glad to see\nother people as these landlords and landladies were to behold Mr Varden\nand Mrs Varden and Miss Varden; and wouldn't they get out, said one; and\nthey really must walk upstairs, said another; and she would take it\nill and be quite certain they were proud if they wouldn't have a little\ntaste of something, said a third; and so on, that it was really quite a\nProgress rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality from\nbeginning to end. It was pleasant enough to be held in such esteem, not\nto mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said nothing at the time,\nand was all affability and delight--but such a body of evidence as\nshe collected against the unfortunate locksmith that day, to be used\nthereafter as occasion might require, never was got together for\nmatrimonial purposes.\n\nIn course of time--and in course of a pretty long time too, for these\nagreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,--they arrived upon\nthe skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on among the trees, came\nat last to the Maypole, where the locksmith's cheerful 'Yoho!' speedily\nbrought to the porch old John, and after him young Joe, both of whom\nwere so transfixed at sight of the ladies, that for a moment they were\nperfectly unable to give them any welcome, and could do nothing but\nstare.\n\nIt was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for speedily\nreviving he thrust his drowsy father aside--to Mr Willet's mighty and\ninexpressible indignation--and darting out, stood ready to help them to\nalight. It was necessary for Dolly to get out first. Joe had her in his\narms;--yes, though for a space of time no longer than you could count\none in, Joe had her in his arms. Here was a glimpse of happiness!\n\nIt would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace affair the\nhelping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it, and did it too\nwith the best grace in the world. Then old John, who, entertaining a\ndull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden wasn't fond of him, had been\nin some doubt whether she might not have come for purposes of assault\nand battery, took courage, hoped she was well, and offered to conduct\nher into the house. This tender being amicably received, they marched\nin together; Joe and Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and\nVarden brought up the rear.\n\nOld John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody\nobjecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the\nMaypole's was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar, that ever\nthe wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes;\nsuch gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination\nas thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch\nkegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets,\nand forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle,\nsuggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by,\nof punch, idealised beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such\npresses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things\naway in hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables,\ndrinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as typical\nof the immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all\nvisitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese!\n\nIt is a poor heart that never rejoices--it must have been the poorest,\nweakest, and most watery heart that ever beat, which would not have\nwarmed towards the Maypole bar. Mrs Varden's did directly. She could no\nmore have reproached John Willet among those household gods, the kegs\nand bottles, lemons, pipes, and cheese, than she could have stabbed him\nwith his own bright carving-knife. The order for dinner too--it might\nhave soothed a savage. 'A bit of fish,' said John to the cook, 'and some\nlamb chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and a good salad, and a\nroast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes, or\nsomething of that sort.' Something of that sort! The resources of\nthese inns! To talk carelessly about dishes, which in themselves were\na first-rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to one's wedding-day, as\nsomething of that sort: meaning, if you can't get a spring chicken, any\nother trifle in the way of poultry will do--such as a peacock, perhaps!\nThe kitchen too, with its great broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen,\nwhere nothing in the way of cookery seemed impossible; where you could\nbelieve in anything to eat, they chose to tell you of. Mrs Varden\nreturned from the contemplation of these wonders to the bar again, with\na head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity was not\nlarge enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to sleep. Waking\nwas pain, in the midst of such immensity.\n\nDolly in the meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other matters,\npassed out at the garden door, and glancing back now and then (but of\ncourse not wondering whether Joe saw her), tripped away by a path across\nthe fields with which she was well acquainted, to discharge her mission\nat the Warren; and this deponent hath been informed and verily\nbelieves, that you might have seen many less pleasant objects than the\ncherry-coloured mantle and ribbons, as they went fluttering along the\ngreen meadows in the bright light of the day, like giddy things as they\nwere.\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nThe proud consciousness of her trust, and the great importance she\nderived from it, might have advertised it to all the house if she had\nhad to run the gauntlet of its inhabitants; but as Dolly had played in\nevery dull room and passage many and many a time, when a child, and had\never since been the humble friend of Miss Haredale, whose foster-sister\nshe was, she was as free of the building as the young lady herself.\nSo, using no greater precaution than holding her breath and walking on\ntiptoe as she passed the library door, she went straight to Emma's room\nas a privileged visitor.\n\nIt was the liveliest room in the building. The chamber was sombre like\nthe rest for the matter of that, but the presence of youth and beauty\nwould make a prison cheerful (saving alas! that confinement withers\nthem), and lend some charms of their own to the gloomiest scene. Birds,\nflowers, books, drawing, music, and a hundred such graceful tokens of\nfeminine loves and cares, filled it with more of life and human sympathy\nthan the whole house besides seemed made to hold. There was heart in\nthe room; and who that has a heart, ever fails to recognise the silent\npresence of another!\n\nDolly had one undoubtedly, and it was not a tough one either, though\nthere was a little mist of coquettishness about it, such as sometimes\nsurrounds that sun of life in its morning, and slightly dims its lustre.\nThus, when Emma rose to greet her, and kissing her affectionately on the\ncheek, told her, in her quiet way, that she had been very unhappy, the\ntears stood in Dolly's eyes, and she felt more sorry than she could\ntell; but next moment she happened to raise them to the glass, and\nreally there was something there so exceedingly agreeable, that as she\nsighed, she smiled, and felt surprisingly consoled.\n\n'I have heard about it, miss,' said Dolly, 'and it's very sad indeed,\nbut when things are at the worst they are sure to mend.'\n\n'But are you sure they are at the worst?' asked Emma with a smile.\n\n'Why, I don't see how they can very well be more unpromising than they\nare; I really don't,' said Dolly. 'And I bring something to begin with.'\n\n'Not from Edward?'\n\nDolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her pockets (there were pockets\nin those days) with an affectation of not being able to find what she\nwanted, which greatly enhanced her importance, at length produced\nthe letter. As Emma hastily broke the seal and became absorbed in its\ncontents, Dolly's eyes, by one of those strange accidents for which\nthere is no accounting, wandered to the glass again. She could not help\nwondering whether the coach-maker suffered very much, and quite pitied\nthe poor man.\n\nIt was a long letter--a very long letter, written close on all four\nsides of the sheet of paper, and crossed afterwards; but it was not a\nconsolatory letter, for as Emma read it she stopped from time to time to\nput her handkerchief to her eyes. To be sure Dolly marvelled greatly to\nsee her in so much distress, for to her thinking a love affair ought\nto be one of the best jokes, and the slyest, merriest kind of thing in\nlife. But she set it down in her own mind that all this came from Miss\nHaredale's being so constant, and that if she would only take on with\nsome other young gentleman--just in the most innocent way possible,\nto keep her first lover up to the mark--she would find herself\ninexpressibly comforted.\n\n'I am sure that's what I should do if it was me,' thought Dolly. 'To\nmake one's sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite right, but to\nbe made miserable one's self is a little too much!'\n\nHowever it wouldn't do to say so, and therefore she sat looking on in\nsilence. She needed a pretty considerable stretch of patience, for when\nthe long letter had been read once all through it was read again, and\nwhen it had been read twice all through it was read again. During this\ntedious process, Dolly beguiled the time in the most improving manner\nthat occurred to her, by curling her hair on her fingers, with the\naid of the looking-glass before mentioned, and giving it some killing\ntwists.\n\nEverything has an end. Even young ladies in love cannot read their\nletters for ever. In course of time the packet was folded up, and it\nonly remained to write the answer.\n\nBut as this promised to be a work of time likewise, Emma said she would\nput it off until after dinner, and that Dolly must dine with her. As\nDolly had made up her mind to do so beforehand, she required very little\npressing; and when they had settled this point, they went to walk in the\ngarden.\n\nThey strolled up and down the terrace walks, talking incessantly--at\nleast, Dolly never left off once--and making that quarter of the sad and\nmournful house quite gay. Not that they talked loudly or laughed much,\nbut they were both so very handsome, and it was such a breezy day, and\ntheir light dresses and dark curls appeared so free and joyous in\ntheir abandonment, and Emma was so fair, and Dolly so rosy, and Emma\nso delicately shaped, and Dolly so plump, and--in short, there are no\nflowers for any garden like such flowers, let horticulturists say what\nthey may, and both house and garden seemed to know it, and to brighten\nup sensibly.\n\nAfter this, came the dinner and the letter writing, and some more\ntalking, in the course of which Miss Haredale took occasion to\ncharge upon Dolly certain flirtish and inconstant propensities, which\naccusations Dolly seemed to think very complimentary indeed, and to be\nmightily amused with. Finding her quite incorrigible in this respect,\nEmma suffered her to depart; but not before she had confided to her that\nimportant and never-sufficiently-to-be-taken-care-of answer, and endowed\nher moreover with a pretty little bracelet as a keepsake. Having clasped\nit on her arm, and again advised her half in jest and half in earnest to\namend her roguish ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart (which\nDolly stoutly denied, with a great many haughty protestations that she\nhoped she could do better than that indeed! and so forth), she bade\nher farewell; and after calling her back to give her more supplementary\nmessages for Edward, than anybody with tenfold the gravity of Dolly\nVarden could be reasonably expected to remember, at length dismissed\nher.\n\nDolly bade her good bye, and tripping lightly down the stairs arrived at\nthe dreaded library door, and was about to pass it again on tiptoe, when\nit opened, and behold! there stood Mr Haredale. Now, Dolly had from her\nchildhood associated with this gentleman the idea of something grim and\nghostly, and being at the moment conscience-stricken besides, the sight\nof him threw her into such a flurry that she could neither acknowledge\nhis presence nor run away, so she gave a great start, and then with\ndowncast eyes stood still and trembled.\n\n'Come here, girl,' said Mr Haredale, taking her by the hand. 'I want to\nspeak to you.'\n\n'If you please, sir, I'm in a hurry,' faltered Dolly, 'and--you have\nfrightened me by coming so suddenly upon me, sir--I would rather go,\nsir, if you'll be so good as to let me.'\n\n'Immediately,' said Mr Haredale, who had by this time led her into the\nroom and closed the door. 'You shall go directly. You have just left\nEmma?'\n\n'Yes, sir, just this minute.--Father's waiting for me, sir, if you'll\nplease to have the goodness--'\n\n'I know. I know,' said Mr Haredale. 'Answer me a question. What did you\nbring here to-day?'\n\n'Bring here, sir?' faltered Dolly.\n\n'You will tell me the truth, I am sure. Yes.'\n\nDolly hesitated for a little while, and somewhat emboldened by his\nmanner, said at last, 'Well then, sir. It was a letter.'\n\n'From Mr Edward Chester, of course. And you are the bearer of the\nanswer?'\n\nDolly hesitated again, and not being able to decide upon any other\ncourse of action, burst into tears.\n\n'You alarm yourself without cause,' said Mr Haredale. 'Why are you so\nfoolish? Surely you can answer me. You know that I have but to put the\nquestion to Emma and learn the truth directly. Have you the answer with\nyou?'\n\nDolly had what is popularly called a spirit of her own, and being now\nfairly at bay, made the best of it.\n\n'Yes, sir,' she rejoined, trembling and frightened as she was. 'Yes,\nsir, I have. You may kill me if you please, sir, but I won't give it up.\nI'm very sorry,--but I won't. There, sir.'\n\n'I commend your firmness and your plain-speaking,' said Mr Haredale.\n'Rest assured that I have as little desire to take your letter as your\nlife. You are a very discreet messenger and a good girl.'\n\nNot feeling quite certain, as she afterwards said, whether he might not\nbe 'coming over her' with these compliments, Dolly kept as far from him\nas she could, cried again, and resolved to defend her pocket (for the\nletter was there) to the last extremity.\n\n'I have some design,' said Mr Haredale after a short silence, during\nwhich a smile, as he regarded her, had struggled through the gloom and\nmelancholy that was natural to his face, 'of providing a companion for\nmy niece; for her life is a very lonely one. Would you like the office?\nYou are the oldest friend she has, and the best entitled to it.'\n\n'I don't know, sir,' answered Dolly, not sure but he was bantering her;\n'I can't say. I don't know what they might wish at home. I couldn't give\nan opinion, sir.'\n\n'If your friends had no objection, would you have any?' said Mr\nHaredale. 'Come. There's a plain question; and easy to answer.'\n\n'None at all that I know of sir,' replied Dolly. 'I should be very glad\nto be near Miss Emma of course, and always am.'\n\n'That's well,' said Mr Haredale. 'That is all I had to say. You are\nanxious to go. Don't let me detain you.'\n\nDolly didn't let him, nor did she wait for him to try, for the words\nhad no sooner passed his lips than she was out of the room, out of the\nhouse, and in the fields again.\n\nThe first thing to be done, of course, when she came to herself and\nconsidered what a flurry she had been in, was to cry afresh; and the\nnext thing, when she reflected how well she had got over it, was to\nlaugh heartily. The tears once banished gave place to the smiles, and at\nlast Dolly laughed so much that she was fain to lean against a tree,\nand give vent to her exultation. When she could laugh no longer, and was\nquite tired, she put her head-dress to rights, dried her eyes, looked\nback very merrily and triumphantly at the Warren chimneys, which were\njust visible, and resumed her walk.\n\nThe twilight had come on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the path\nwas so familiar to her from frequent traversing that she hardly thought\nof this, and certainly felt no uneasiness at being left alone. Moreover,\nthere was the bracelet to admire; and when she had given it a good\nrub, and held it out at arm's length, it sparkled and glittered so\nbeautifully on her wrist, that to look at it in every point of view and\nwith every possible turn of the arm, was quite an absorbing business.\nThere was the letter too, and it looked so mysterious and knowing, when\nshe took it out of her pocket, and it held, as she knew, so much inside,\nthat to turn it over and over, and think about it, and wonder how it\nbegan, and how it ended, and what it said all through, was another\nmatter of constant occupation. Between the bracelet and the letter,\nthere was quite enough to do without thinking of anything else; and\nadmiring each by turns, Dolly went on gaily.\n\nAs she passed through a wicket-gate to where the path was narrow, and\nlay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she heard\na rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop. She\nlistened. All was very quiet, and she went on again--not absolutely\nfrightened, but a little quicker than before perhaps, and possibly not\nquite so much at her ease, for a check of that kind is startling.\n\nShe had no sooner moved on again, than she was conscious of the same\nsound, which was like that of a person tramping stealthily among bushes\nand brushwood. Looking towards the spot whence it appeared to come, she\nalmost fancied she could make out a crouching figure. She stopped\nagain. All was quiet as before. On she went once more--decidedly faster\nnow--and tried to sing softly to herself. It must be the wind.\n\nBut how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when she\nstood still? She stopped involuntarily as she made the reflection, and\nthe rustling noise stopped likewise. She was really frightened now, and\nwas yet hesitating what to do, when the bushes crackled and snapped, and\na man came plunging through them, close before her.\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nIt was for the moment an inexpressible relief to Dolly, to recognise in\nthe person who forced himself into the path so abruptly, and now stood\ndirectly in her way, Hugh of the Maypole, whose name she uttered in a\ntone of delighted surprise that came from her heart.\n\n'Was it you?' she said, 'how glad I am to see you! and how could you\nterrify me so!'\n\nIn answer to which, he said nothing at all, but stood quite still,\nlooking at her.\n\n'Did you come to meet me?' asked Dolly.\n\nHugh nodded, and muttered something to the effect that he had been\nwaiting for her, and had expected her sooner.\n\n'I thought it likely they would send,' said Dolly, greatly reassured by\nthis.\n\n'Nobody sent me,' was his sullen answer. 'I came of my own accord.'\n\nThe rough bearing of this fellow, and his wild, uncouth appearance, had\noften filled the girl with a vague apprehension even when other people\nwere by, and had occasioned her to shrink from him involuntarily. The\nhaving him for an unbidden companion in so solitary a place, with the\ndarkness fast gathering about them, renewed and even increased the alarm\nshe had felt at first.\n\nIf his manner had been merely dogged and passively fierce, as usual,\nshe would have had no greater dislike to his company than she always\nfelt--perhaps, indeed, would have been rather glad to have had him at\nhand. But there was something of coarse bold admiration in his look,\nwhich terrified her very much. She glanced timidly towards him,\nuncertain whether to go forward or retreat, and he stood gazing at her\nlike a handsome satyr; and so they remained for some short time without\nstirring or breaking silence. At length Dolly took courage, shot past\nhim, and hurried on.\n\n'Why do you spend so much breath in avoiding me?' said Hugh,\naccommodating his pace to hers, and keeping close at her side.\n\n'I wish to get back as quickly as I can, and you walk too near me,\nanswered Dolly.'\n\n'Too near!' said Hugh, stooping over her so that she could feel his\nbreath upon her forehead. 'Why too near? You're always proud to ME,\nmistress.'\n\n'I am proud to no one. You mistake me,' answered Dolly. 'Fall back, if\nyou please, or go on.'\n\n'Nay, mistress,' he rejoined, endeavouring to draw her arm through his,\n'I'll walk with you.'\n\nShe released herself and clenching her little hand, struck him with\nright good will. At this, Maypole Hugh burst into a roar of laughter,\nand passing his arm about her waist, held her in his strong grasp as\neasily as if she had been a bird.\n\n'Ha ha ha! Well done, mistress! Strike again. You shall beat my face,\nand tear my hair, and pluck my beard up by the roots, and welcome, for\nthe sake of your bright eyes. Strike again, mistress. Do. Ha ha ha! I\nlike it.'\n\n'Let me go,' she cried, endeavouring with both her hands to push him\noff. 'Let me go this moment.'\n\n'You had as good be kinder to me, Sweetlips,' said Hugh. 'You had,\nindeed. Come. Tell me now. Why are you always so proud? I don't quarrel\nwith you for it. I love you when you're proud. Ha ha ha! You can't hide\nyour beauty from a poor fellow; that's a comfort!'\n\nShe gave him no answer, but as he had not yet checked her progress,\ncontinued to press forward as rapidly as she could. At length, between\nthe hurry she had made, her terror, and the tightness of his embrace,\nher strength failed her, and she could go no further.\n\n'Hugh,' cried the panting girl, 'good Hugh; if you will leave me I will\ngive you anything--everything I have--and never tell one word of this to\nany living creature.'\n\n'You had best not,' he answered. 'Harkye, little dove, you had best not.\nAll about here know me, and what I dare do if I have a mind. If ever you\nare going to tell, stop when the words are on your lips, and think of\nthe mischief you'll bring, if you do, upon some innocent heads that you\nwouldn't wish to hurt a hair of. Bring trouble on me, and I'll bring\ntrouble and something more on them in return. I care no more for them\nthan for so many dogs; not so much--why should I? I'd sooner kill a man\nthan a dog any day. I've never been sorry for a man's death in all my\nlife, and I have for a dog's.'\n\nThere was something so thoroughly savage in the manner of these\nexpressions, and the looks and gestures by which they were accompanied,\nthat her great fear of him gave her new strength, and enabled her by a\nsudden effort to extricate herself and run fleetly from him. But Hugh\nwas as nimble, strong, and swift of foot, as any man in broad England,\nand it was but a fruitless expenditure of energy, for he had her in his\nencircling arms again before she had gone a hundred yards.\n\n'Softly, darling--gently--would you fly from rough Hugh, that loves you\nas well as any drawing-room gallant?'\n\n'I would,' she answered, struggling to free herself again. 'I will.\nHelp!'\n\n'A fine for crying out,' said Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! A fine, pretty one, from\nyour lips. I pay myself! Ha ha ha!'\n\n'Help! help! help!' As she shrieked with the utmost violence she could\nexert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and another.\n\n'Thank Heaven!' cried the girl in an ecstasy. 'Joe, dear Joe, this way.\nHelp!'\n\nHer assailant paused, and stood irresolute for a moment, but the shouts\ndrawing nearer and coming quick upon them, forced him to a speedy\ndecision. He released her, whispered with a menacing look, 'Tell HIM:\nand see what follows!' and leaping the hedge, was gone in an instant.\nDolly darted off, and fairly ran into Joe Willet's open arms.\n\n'What is the matter? are you hurt? what was it? who was it? where is\nhe? what was he like?' with a great many encouraging expressions and\nassurances of safety, were the first words Joe poured forth. But poor\nlittle Dolly was so breathless and terrified that for some time she\nwas quite unable to answer him, and hung upon his shoulder, sobbing and\ncrying as if her heart would break.\n\nJoe had not the smallest objection to have her hanging on his shoulder;\nno, not the least, though it crushed the cherry-coloured ribbons sadly,\nand put the smart little hat out of all shape. But he couldn't bear to\nsee her cry; it went to his very heart. He tried to console her, bent\nover her, whispered to her--some say kissed her, but that's a fable. At\nany rate he said all the kind and tender things he could think of and\nDolly let him go on and didn't interrupt him once, and it was a good ten\nminutes before she was able to raise her head and thank him.\n\n'What was it that frightened you?' said Joe.\n\nA man whose person was unknown to her had followed her, she answered; he\nbegan by begging, and went on to threats of robbery, which he was on the\npoint of carrying into execution, and would have executed, but for Joe's\ntimely aid. The hesitation and confusion with which she said this, Joe\nattributed to the fright she had sustained, and no suspicion of the\ntruth occurred to him for a moment.\n\n'Stop when the words are on your lips.' A hundred times that night, and\nvery often afterwards, when the disclosure was rising to her tongue,\nDolly thought of that, and repressed it. A deeply rooted dread of the\nman; the conviction that his ferocious nature, once roused, would stop\nat nothing; and the strong assurance that if she impeached him, the\nfull measure of his wrath and vengeance would be wreaked on Joe, who\nhad preserved her; these were considerations she had not the courage to\novercome, and inducements to secrecy too powerful for her to surmount.\n\nJoe, for his part, was a great deal too happy to inquire very curiously\ninto the matter; and Dolly being yet too tremulous to walk without\nassistance, they went forward very slowly, and in his mind very\npleasantly, until the Maypole lights were near at hand, twinkling their\ncheerful welcome, when Dolly stopped suddenly and with a half scream\nexclaimed,\n\n'The letter!'\n\n'What letter?' cried Joe.\n\n'That I was carrying--I had it in my hand. My bracelet too,' she said,\nclasping her wrist. 'I have lost them both.'\n\n'Do you mean just now?' said Joe.\n\n'Either I dropped them then, or they were taken from me,' answered\nDolly, vainly searching her pocket and rustling her dress. 'They are\ngone, both gone. What an unhappy girl I am!' With these words poor\nDolly, who to do her justice was quite as sorry for the loss of the\nletter as for her bracelet, fell a-crying again, and bemoaned her fate\nmost movingly.\n\nJoe tried to comfort her with the assurance that directly he had housed\nher in the Maypole, he would return to the spot with a lantern (for it\nwas now quite dark) and make strict search for the missing articles,\nwhich there was great probability of his finding, as it was not likely\nthat anybody had passed that way since, and she was not conscious that\nthey had been forcibly taken from her. Dolly thanked him very heartily\nfor this offer, though with no great hope of his quest being successful;\nand so with many lamentations on her side, and many hopeful words on\nhis, and much weakness on the part of Dolly and much tender supporting\non the part of Joe, they reached the Maypole bar at last, where the\nlocksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival.\n\nMr Willet received the intelligence of Dolly's trouble with that\nsurprising presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he was so\neminently distinguished above all other men. Mrs Varden expressed her\nsympathy for her daughter's distress by scolding her roundly for being\nso late; and the honest locksmith divided himself between condoling with\nand kissing Dolly, and shaking hands heartily with Joe, whom he could\nnot sufficiently praise or thank.\n\nIn reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing with\nhis friend; for besides that he by no means approved of an adventurous\nspirit in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his son and heir had\nbeen seriously damaged in a scuffle, the consequences would assuredly\nhave been expensive and inconvenient, and might perhaps have proved\ndetrimental to the Maypole business. Wherefore, and because he looked\nwith no favourable eye upon young girls, but rather considered that they\nand the whole female sex were a kind of nonsensical mistake on the part\nof Nature, he took occasion to retire and shake his head in private at\nthe boiler; inspired by which silent oracle, he was moved to give Joe\nvarious stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental reproof and gentle\nadmonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of himself.\n\nJoe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it; and arming himself\nwith a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable.\n\n'He's lying asleep before the kitchen fire, sir,' said Mr Willet. 'What\ndo you want him for?'\n\n'I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and letter,'\nanswered Joe. 'Halloa there! Hugh!'\n\nDolly turned pale as death, and felt as if she must faint forthwith.\nAfter a few moments, Hugh came staggering in, stretching himself and\nyawning according to custom, and presenting every appearance of having\nbeen roused from a sound nap.\n\n'Here, sleepy-head,' said Joe, giving him the lantern. 'Carry this, and\nbring the dog, and that small cudgel of yours. And woe betide the fellow\nif we come upon him.'\n\n'What fellow?' growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself.\n\n'What fellow?' returned Joe, who was in a state of great valour and\nbustle; 'a fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about. It's\nwell for the like of you, lazy giant that you are, to be snoring your\ntime away in chimney-corners, when honest men's daughters can't cross\neven our quiet meadows at nightfall without being set upon by footpads,\nand frightened out of their precious lives.'\n\n'They never rob me,' cried Hugh with a laugh. 'I have got nothing to\nlose. But I'd as lief knock them at head as any other men. How many are\nthere?'\n\n'Only one,' said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her.\n\n'And what was he like, mistress?' said Hugh with a glance at young\nWillet, so slight and momentary that the scowl it conveyed was lost on\nall but her. 'About my height?'\n\n'Not--not so tall,' Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said.\n\n'His dress,' said Hugh, looking at her keenly, 'like--like any of ours\nnow? I know all the people hereabouts, and maybe could give a guess at\nthe man, if I had anything to guide me.'\n\nDolly faltered and turned paler yet; then answered that he was wrapped\nin a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief and that she\ncould give no other description of him.\n\n'You wouldn't know him if you saw him then, belike?' said Hugh with a\nmalicious grin.\n\n'I should not,' answered Dolly, bursting into tears again. 'I don't wish\nto see him. I can't bear to think of him. I can't talk about him any\nmore. Don't go to look for these things, Mr Joe, pray don't. I entreat\nyou not to go with that man.'\n\n'Not to go with me!' cried Hugh. 'I'm too rough for them all. They're\nall afraid of me. Why, bless you mistress, I've the tenderest heart\nalive. I love all the ladies, ma'am,' said Hugh, turning to the\nlocksmith's wife.\n\nMrs Varden opined that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of himself;\nsuch sentiments being more consistent (so she argued) with a benighted\nMussulman or wild Islander than with a stanch Protestant. Arguing from\nthis imperfect state of his morals, Mrs Varden further opined that he\nhad never studied the Manual. Hugh admitting that he never had, and\nmoreover that he couldn't read, Mrs Varden declared with much severity,\nthat he ought to be even more ashamed of himself than before, and\nstrongly recommended him to save up his pocket-money for the purchase\nof one, and further to teach himself the contents with all convenient\ndiligence. She was still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh,\nsomewhat unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master\nout, and left her to edify the rest of the company. This she proceeded\nto do, and finding that Mr Willet's eyes were fixed upon her with an\nappearance of deep attention, gradually addressed the whole of her\ndiscourse to him, whom she entertained with a moral and theological\nlecture of considerable length, in the conviction that great workings\nwere taking place in his spirit. The simple truth was, however, that Mr\nWillet, although his eyes were wide open and he saw a woman before\nhim whose head by long and steady looking at seemed to grow bigger\nand bigger until it filled the whole bar, was to all other intents and\npurposes fast asleep; and so sat leaning back in his chair with his\nhands in his pockets until his son's return caused him to wake up with\na deep sigh, and a faint impression that he had been dreaming about\npickled pork and greens--a vision of his slumbers which was no doubt\nreferable to the circumstance of Mrs Varden's having frequently\npronounced the word 'Grace' with much emphasis; which word, entering\nthe portals of Mr Willet's brain as they stood ajar, and coupling itself\nwith the words 'before meat,' which were there ranging about, did in\ntime suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description of\nvegetable which is usually its companion.\n\nThe search was wholly unsuccessful. Joe had groped along the path a\ndozen times, and among the grass, and in the dry ditch, and in the\nhedge, but all in vain. Dolly, who was quite inconsolable for her loss,\nwrote a note to Miss Haredale giving her the same account of it that she\nhad given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to deliver as soon as the\nfamily were stirring next day. That done, they sat down to tea in the\nbar, where there was an uncommon display of buttered toast, and--in\norder that they might not grow faint for want of sustenance, and\nmight have a decent halting-place or halfway house between dinner and\nsupper--a few savoury trifles in the shape of great rashers of broiled\nham, which being well cured, done to a turn, and smoking hot, sent forth\na tempting and delicious fragrance.\n\nMrs Varden was seldom very Protestant at meals, unless it happened that\nthey were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything occurred to\nput her out of humour. Her spirits rose considerably on beholding these\ngoodly preparations, and from the nothingness of good works, she passed\nto the somethingness of ham and toast with great cheerfulness. Nay,\nunder the influence of these wholesome stimulants, she sharply reproved\nher daughter for being low and despondent (which she considered an\nunacceptable frame of mind), and remarked, as she held her own plate for\na fresh supply, that it would be well for Dolly, who pined over the loss\nof a toy and a sheet of paper, if she would reflect upon the voluntary\nsacrifices of the missionaries in foreign parts who lived chiefly on\nsalads.\n\nThe proceedings of such a day occasion various fluctuations in the human\nthermometer, and especially in instruments so sensitively and delicately\nconstructed as Mrs Varden. Thus, at dinner Mrs V. stood at summer heat;\ngenial, smiling, and delightful. After dinner, in the sunshine of the\nwine, she went up at least half-a-dozen degrees, and was perfectly\nenchanting. As its effect subsided, she fell rapidly, went to sleep for\nan hour or so at temperate, and woke at something below freezing. Now\nshe was at summer heat again, in the shade; and when tea was over, and\nold John, producing a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases,\ninsisted on her sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she\nstood steadily at ninety for one hour and a quarter. Profiting by\nexperience, the locksmith took advantage of this genial weather to smoke\nhis pipe in the porch, and in consequence of this prudent management, he\nwas fully prepared, when the glass went down again, to start homewards\ndirectly.\n\nThe horse was accordingly put in, and the chaise brought round to the\ndoor. Joe, who would on no account be dissuaded from escorting them\nuntil they had passed the most dreary and solitary part of the road,\nled out the grey mare at the same time; and having helped Dolly into her\nseat (more happiness!) sprung gaily into the saddle. Then, after many\ngood nights, and admonitions to wrap up, and glancing of lights, and\nhanding in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise rolled away, and Joe trotted\nbeside it--on Dolly's side, no doubt, and pretty close to the wheel too.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nIt was a fine bright night, and for all her lowness of spirits Dolly\nkept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and SHE knew\nit!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly showed that if\never a man were--not to say over head and ears, but over the Monument\nand the top of Saint Paul's in love, that man was himself. The road was\na very good one; not at all a jolting road, or an uneven one; and yet\nDolly held the side of the chaise with one little hand, all the way. If\nthere had been an executioner behind him with an uplifted axe ready\nto chop off his head if he touched that hand, Joe couldn't have helped\ndoing it. From putting his own hand upon it as if by chance, and taking\nit away again after a minute or so, he got to riding along without\ntaking it off at all; as if he, the escort, were bound to do that as an\nimportant part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose. The most\ncurious circumstance about this little incident was, that Dolly didn't\nseem to know of it. She looked so innocent and unconscious when she\nturned her eyes on Joe, that it was quite provoking.\n\nShe talked though; talked about her fright, and about Joe's coming up to\nrescue her, and about her gratitude, and about her fear that she might\nnot have thanked him enough, and about their always being friends from\nthat time forth--and about all that sort of thing. And when Joe said,\nnot friends he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised, and said not enemies\nshe hoped; and when Joe said, couldn't they be something much better\nthan either, Dolly all of a sudden found out a star which was brighter\nthan all the other stars, and begged to call his attention to the same,\nand was ten thousand times more innocent and unconscious than ever.\n\nIn this manner they travelled along, talking very little above a\nwhisper, and wishing the road could be stretched out to some dozen times\nits natural length--at least that was Joe's desire--when, as they were\ngetting clear of the forest and emerging on the more frequented road,\nthey heard behind them the sound of a horse's feet at a round trot,\nwhich growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer, elicited a scream from\nMrs Varden, and the cry 'a friend!' from the rider, who now came panting\nup, and checked his horse beside them.\n\n'This man again!' cried Dolly, shuddering.\n\n'Hugh!' said Joe. 'What errand are you upon?'\n\n'I come to ride back with you,' he answered, glancing covertly at the\nlocksmith's daughter. 'HE sent me.'\n\n'My father!' said poor Joe; adding under his breath, with a very\nunfilial apostrophe, 'Will he never think me man enough to take care of\nmyself!'\n\n'Aye!' returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. 'The roads are\nnot safe just now, he says, and you'd better have a companion.'\n\n'Ride on then,' said Joe. 'I'm not going to turn yet.'\n\nHugh complied, and they went on again. It was his whim or humour to\nride immediately before the chaise, and from this position he constantly\nturned his head, and looked back. Dolly felt that he looked at her, but\nshe averted her eyes and feared to raise them once, so great was the\ndread with which he had inspired her.\n\nThis interruption, and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs Varden, who had\nbeen nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a minute or\ntwo at a time, when she roused herself to scold the locksmith for\naudaciously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding herself out of\nthe chaise, put a restraint upon the whispered conversation, and made\nit difficult of resumption. Indeed, before they had gone another mile,\nGabriel stopped at his wife's desire, and that good lady protested she\nwould not hear of Joe's going a step further on any account whatever. It\nwas in vain for Joe to protest on the other hand that he was by no means\ntired, and would turn back presently, and would see them safely past\nsuch a point, and so forth. Mrs Varden was obdurate, and being so was\nnot to be overcome by mortal agency.\n\n'Good night--if I must say it,' said Joe, sorrowfully.\n\n'Good night,' said Dolly. She would have added, 'Take care of that man,\nand pray don't trust him,' but he had turned his horse's head, and was\nstanding close to them. She had therefore nothing for it but to suffer\nJoe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the chaise had gone on\nfor some distance, to look back and wave it, as he still lingered on\nthe spot where they had parted, with the tall dark figure of Hugh beside\nhim.\n\nWhat she thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker held as\nfavourable a place in her meditations as he had occupied in the morning,\nis unknown. They reached home at last--at last, for it was a long way,\nmade none the shorter by Mrs Varden's grumbling. Miggs hearing the sound\nof wheels was at the door immediately.\n\n'Here they are, Simmun! Here they are!' cried Miggs, clapping her\nhands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. 'Bring a\nchair, Simmun. Now, an't you the better for it, mim? Don't you feel more\nyourself than you would have done if you'd have stopped at home? Oh,\ngracious! how cold you are! Goodness me, sir, she's a perfect heap of\nice.'\n\n'I can't help it, my good girl. You had better take her in to the fire,'\nsaid the locksmith.\n\n'Master sounds unfeeling, mim,' said Miggs, in a tone of commiseration,\n'but such is not his intentions, I'm sure. After what he has seen of you\nthis day, I never will believe but that he has a deal more affection\nin his heart than to speak unkind. Come in and sit yourself down by the\nfire; there's a good dear--do.'\n\nMrs Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his\npockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a neighbouring\nstable.\n\n'Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith, when they reached the parlour,\n'if you'll look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do it, perhaps it\nwill be only kind and reasonable. She has been frightened, you know, and\nis not at all well to-night.'\n\nIn fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite regardless of\nall the little finery of which she had been so proud in the morning, and\nwith her face buried in her hands was crying very much.\n\nAt first sight of this phenomenon (for Dolly was by no means accustomed\nto displays of this sort, rather learning from her mother's example to\navoid them as much as possible) Mrs Varden expressed her belief that\nnever was any woman so beset as she; that her life was a continued scene\nof trial; that whenever she was disposed to be well and cheerful, so\nsure were the people around her to throw, by some means or other, a damp\nupon her spirits; and that, as she had enjoyed herself that day, and\nHeaven knew it was very seldom she did enjoy herself so she was now to\npay the penalty. To all such propositions Miggs assented freely. Poor\nDolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but rather\nworse, indeed; and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs Varden and\nMiggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in earnest.\n\nBut even then, their very kindness shaped itself into their usual course\nof policy, and though Dolly was in a swoon, it was rendered clear to\nthe meanest capacity, that Mrs Varden was the sufferer. Thus when\nDolly began to get a little better, and passed into that stage in which\nmatrons hold that remonstrance and argument may be successfully applied,\nher mother represented to her, with tears in her eyes, that if she had\nbeen flurried and worried that day, she must remember it was the common\nlot of humanity, and in especial of womankind, who through the whole\nof their existence must expect no less, and were bound to make up their\nminds to meek endurance and patient resignation. Mrs Varden entreated\nher to remember that one of these days she would, in all probability,\nhave to do violence to her feelings so far as to be married; and that\nmarriage, as she might see every day of her life (and truly she did) was\na state requiring great fortitude and forbearance. She represented to\nher in lively colours, that if she (Mrs V.) had not, in steering her\ncourse through this vale of tears, been supported by a strong principle\nof duty which alone upheld and prevented her from drooping, she must\nhave been in her grave many years ago; in which case she desired to know\nwhat would have become of that errant spirit (meaning the locksmith), of\nwhose eye she was the very apple, and in whose path she was, as it were,\na shining light and guiding star?\n\nMiss Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that indeed\nand indeed Miss Dolly might take pattern by her blessed mother, who,\nshe always had said, and always would say, though she were to be hanged,\ndrawn, and quartered for it next minute, was the mildest, amiablest,\nforgivingest-spirited, longest-sufferingest female as ever she could\nhave believed; the mere narration of whose excellencies had worked such\na wholesome change in the mind of her own sister-in-law, that, whereas,\nbefore, she and her husband lived like cat and dog, and were in the\nhabit of exchanging brass candlesticks, pot-lids, flat-irons, and other\nsuch strong resentments, they were now the happiest and affectionatest\ncouple upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at Golden\nLion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand\ndoorpost. After glancing at herself as a comparatively worthless vessel,\nbut still as one of some desert, she besought her to bear in mind that\nher aforesaid dear and only mother was of a weakly constitution and\nexcitable temperament, who had constantly to sustain afflictions in\ndomestic life, compared with which thieves and robbers were as nothing,\nand yet never sunk down or gave way to despair or wrath, but, in\nprize-fighting phraseology, always came up to time with a cheerful\ncountenance, and went in to win as if nothing had happened. When Miggs\nfinished her solo, her mistress struck in again, and the two together\nperformed a duet to the same purpose; the burden being, that Mrs Varden\nwas persecuted perfection, and Mr Varden, as the representative of\nmankind in that apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal habits,\nutterly insensible to the blessings he enjoyed. Of so refined a\ncharacter, indeed, was their talent of assault under the mask of\nsympathy, that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly,\nas in vindication of his goodness, Mrs Varden expressed her solemn hope\nthat this would be a lesson to him for the remainder of his life,\nand that he would do some little justice to a woman's nature ever\nafterwards--in which aspiration Miss Miggs, by divers sniffs and\ncoughs, more significant than the longest oration, expressed her entire\nconcurrence.\n\nBut the great joy of Miggs's heart was, that she not only picked up\na full account of what had happened, but had the exquisite delight of\nconveying it to Mr Tappertit for his jealousy and torture. For that\ngentleman, on account of Dolly's indisposition, had been requested to\ntake his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed thither by Miss\nMiggs's own fair hands.\n\n'Oh Simmun!' said the young lady, 'such goings on to-day! Oh, gracious\nme, Simmun!'\n\nMr Tappertit, who was not in the best of humours, and who disliked Miss\nMiggs more when she laid her hand on her heart and panted for breath\nthan at any other time, as her deficiency of outline was most apparent\nunder such circumstances, eyed her over in his loftiest style, and\ndeigned to express no curiosity whatever.\n\n'I never heard the like, nor nobody else,' pursued Miggs. 'The idea of\ninterfering with HER. What people can see in her to make it worth their\nwhile to do so, that's the joke--he he he!'\n\nFinding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily requested\nhis fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know what she meant\nby 'her.'\n\n'Why, that Dolly,' said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on the\nname. 'But, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is a brave\none; and he do deserve her, that he do.'\n\n'Woman!' said Mr Tappertit, jumping off the counter on which he was\nseated; 'beware!'\n\n'My stars, Simmun!' cried Miggs, in affected astonishment. 'You frighten\nme to death! What's the matter?'\n\n'There are strings,' said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-cheese\nknife in the air, 'in the human heart that had better not be wibrated.\nThat's what's the matter.'\n\n'Oh, very well--if you're in a huff,' cried Miggs, turning away.\n\n'Huff or no huff,' said Mr Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist. 'What\ndo you mean, Jezebel? What were you going to say? Answer me!'\n\nNotwithstanding this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she was\nrequired; and told him how that their young mistress, being alone in\nthe meadows after dark, had been attacked by three or four tall men, who\nwould have certainly borne her away and perhaps murdered her, but for\nthe timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who with his own single hand put\nthem all to flight, and rescued her; to the lasting admiration of his\nfellow-creatures generally, and to the eternal love and gratitude of\nDolly Varden.\n\n'Very good,' said Mr Tappertit, fetching a long breath when the tale was\ntold, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and straight on end\nall over his head. 'His days are numbered.'\n\n'Oh, Simmun!'\n\n'I tell you,' said the 'prentice, 'his days are numbered. Leave me. Get\nalong with you.'\n\nMiggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than\nbecause she desired to chuckle in secret. When she had given vent to\nher satisfaction, she returned to the parlour; where the locksmith,\nstimulated by quietness and Toby, had become talkative, and was disposed\nto take a cheerful review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs\nVarden, whose practical religion (as is not uncommon) was usually of the\nretrospective order, cut him short by declaiming on the sinfulness of\nsuch junketings, and holding that it was high time to go to bed. To bed\ntherefore she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the\nMaypole's own state couch; and to bed the rest of the establishment soon\nafterwards repaired.\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nTwilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon\nin those quarters of the town in which 'the world' condescended to\ndwell--the world being then, as now, of very limited dimensions and\neasily lodged--when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in his dressing-room\nin the Temple, entertaining himself with a book.\n\nHe was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half\nthe journey was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs\nand feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of\nhis toilet to perform. The coat was stretched, like a refined scarecrow,\non its separate horse; the waistcoat was displayed to the best\nadvantage; the various ornamental articles of dress were severally set\nout in most alluring order; and yet he lay dangling his legs between the\nsofa and the ground, as intent upon his book as if there were nothing\nbut bed before him.\n\n'Upon my honour,' he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling\nwith the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what he had\nread; 'upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate\nthoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly\nsentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind\nby such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject\nthat could possibly arise between us!'\n\nThis apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty\nair: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone.\n\n'My Lord Chesterfield,' he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the\nbook as he laid it down, 'if I could but have profited by your genius\nsoon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left to all\nwise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was\nundoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Bacon\ndeep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his country's\npride, is my Lord Chesterfield.'\n\nHe became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition.\n\n'I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world,' he\ncontinued, 'I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all\nthose little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from\nboors and peasants, and separate their character from those intensely\nvulgar sentiments which are called the national character. Apart from\nany natural prepossession in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in\nevery page of this enlightened writer, I find some captivating hypocrisy\nwhich has never occurred to me before, or some superlative piece of\nselfishness to which I was utterly a stranger. I should quite blush for\nmyself before this stupendous creature, if remembering his precepts, one\nmight blush at anything. An amazing man! a nobleman indeed! any King or\nQueen may make a Lord, but only the Devil himself--and the Graces--can\nmake a Chesterfield.'\n\nMen who are thoroughly false and hollow, seldom try to hide those vices\nfrom themselves; and yet in the very act of avowing them, they lay claim\nto the virtues they feign most to despise. 'For,' say they, 'this is\nhonesty, this is truth. All mankind are like us, but they have not the\ncandour to avow it.' The more they affect to deny the existence of any\nsincerity in the world, the more they would be thought to possess it in\nits boldest shape; and this is an unconscious compliment to Truth on the\npart of these philosophers, which will turn the laugh against them to\nthe Day of Judgment.\n\nMr Chester, having extolled his favourite author, as above recited,\ntook up the book again in the excess of his admiration and was composing\nhimself for a further perusal of its sublime morality, when he was\ndisturbed by a noise at the outer door; occasioned as it seemed by the\nendeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance of some unwelcome\nvisitor.\n\n'A late hour for an importunate creditor,' he said, raising his eyebrows\nwith as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise were in the\nstreet, and one with which he had not the smallest possible concern.\n'Much after their accustomed time. The usual pretence I suppose. No\ndoubt a heavy payment to make up tomorrow. Poor fellow, he loses time,\nand time is money as the good proverb says--I never found it out though.\nWell. What now? You know I am not at home.'\n\n'A man, sir,' replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and\nnegligent in his way as his master, 'has brought home the riding-whip\nyou lost the other day. I told him you were out, but he said he was to\nwait while I brought it in, and wouldn't go till I did.'\n\n'He was quite right,' returned his master, 'and you're a blockhead,\npossessing no judgment or discretion whatever. Tell him to come in, and\nsee that he rubs his shoes for exactly five minutes first.'\n\nThe man laid the whip on a chair, and withdrew. The master, who had only\nheard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the trouble to turn\nround and look at him, shut his book, and pursued the train of ideas his\nentrance had disturbed.\n\n'If time were money,' he said, handling his snuff-box, 'I would compound\nwith my creditors, and give them--let me see--how much a day? There's\nmy nap after dinner--an hour--they're extremely welcome to that, and to\nmake the most of it. In the morning, between my breakfast and the\npaper, I could spare them another hour; in the evening before dinner\nsay another. Three hours a day. They might pay themselves in calls, with\ninterest, in twelve months. I think I shall propose it to them. Ah, my\ncentaur, are you there?'\n\n'Here I am,' replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog, as rough and\nsullen as himself; 'and trouble enough I've had to get here. What do you\nask me to come for, and keep me out when I DO come?'\n\n'My good fellow,' returned the other, raising his head a little from the\ncushion and carelessly surveying him from top to toe, 'I am delighted to\nsee you, and to have, in your being here, the very best proof that you\nare not kept out. How are you?'\n\n'I'm well enough,' said Hugh impatiently.\n\n'You look a perfect marvel of health. Sit down.'\n\n'I'd rather stand,' said Hugh.\n\n'Please yourself my good fellow,' returned Mr Chester rising, slowly\npulling off the loose robe he wore, and sitting down before the\ndressing-glass. 'Please yourself by all means.'\n\nHaving said this in the politest and blandest tone possible, he went on\ndressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who stood in the same\nspot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him sulkily from time to time.\n\n'Are you going to speak to me, master?' he said, after a long silence.\n\n'My worthy creature,' returned Mr Chester, 'you are a little ruffled and\nout of humour. I'll wait till you're quite yourself again. I am in no\nhurry.'\n\nThis behaviour had its intended effect. It humbled and abashed the man,\nand made him still more irresolute and uncertain. Hard words he could\nhave returned, violence he would have repaid with interest; but this\ncool, complacent, contemptuous, self-possessed reception, caused him to\nfeel his inferiority more completely than the most elaborate arguments.\nEverything contributed to this effect. His own rough speech, contrasted\nwith the soft persuasive accents of the other; his rude bearing, and\nMr Chester's polished manner; the disorder and negligence of his\nragged dress, and the elegant attire he saw before him; with all the\nunaccustomed luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that\ngave him leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they\nmade him; all these influences, which have too often some effect on\ntutored minds and become of almost resistless power when brought to bear\non such a mind as his, quelled Hugh completely. He moved by little and\nlittle nearer to Mr Chester's chair, and glancing over his shoulder\nat the reflection of his face in the glass, as if seeking for some\nencouragement in its expression, said at length, with a rough attempt at\nconciliation,\n\n'ARE you going to speak to me, master, or am I to go away?'\n\n'Speak you,' said Mr Chester, 'speak you, good fellow. I have spoken,\nhave I not? I am waiting for you.'\n\n'Why, look'ee, sir,' returned Hugh with increased embarrassment, 'am I\nthe man that you privately left your whip with before you rode away from\nthe Maypole, and told to bring it back whenever he might want to see you\non a certain subject?'\n\n'No doubt the same, or you have a twin brother,' said Mr Chester,\nglancing at the reflection of his anxious face; 'which is not probable,\nI should say.'\n\n'Then I have come, sir,' said Hugh, 'and I have brought it back, and\nsomething else along with it. A letter, sir, it is, that I took from\nthe person who had charge of it.' As he spoke, he laid upon the\ndressing-table, Dolly's lost epistle. The very letter that had cost her\nso much trouble.\n\n'Did you obtain this by force, my good fellow?' said Mr Chester, casting\nhis eye upon it without the least perceptible surprise or pleasure.\n\n'Not quite,' said Hugh. 'Partly.'\n\n'Who was the messenger from whom you took it?'\n\n'A woman. One Varden's daughter.'\n\n'Oh indeed!' said Mr Chester gaily. 'What else did you take from her?'\n\n'What else?'\n\n'Yes,' said the other, in a drawling manner, for he was fixing a very\nsmall patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near the corner\nof his mouth. 'What else?'\n\n'Well a kiss,' replied Hugh, after some hesitation.\n\n'And what else?'\n\n'Nothing.'\n\n'I think,' said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and smiling twice or\nthrice to try if the patch adhered--'I think there was something else.\nI have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of--a mere trifle--a thing\nof such little value, indeed, that you may have forgotten it. Do you\nremember anything of the kind--such as a bracelet now, for instance?'\n\nHugh with a muttered oath thrust his hand into his breast, and drawing\nthe bracelet forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to lay it on\nthe table likewise, when his patron stopped his hand and bade him put it\nup again.\n\n'You took that for yourself my excellent friend,' he said, 'and may keep\nit. I am neither a thief nor a receiver. Don't show it to me. You had\nbetter hide it again, and lose no time. Don't let me see where you put\nit either,' he added, turning away his head.\n\n'You're not a receiver!' said Hugh bluntly, despite the increasing awe\nin which he held him. 'What do you call THAT, master?' striking the\nletter with his heavy hand.\n\n'I call that quite another thing,' said Mr Chester coolly. 'I shall\nprove it presently, as you will see. You are thirsty, I suppose?'\n\nHugh drew his sleeve across his lips, and gruffly answered yes.\n\n'Step to that closet and bring me a bottle you will see there, and a\nglass.'\n\nHe obeyed. His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his back was\nturned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside the mirror.\nOn his return he filled the glass, and bade him drink. That dram\ndespatched, he poured him out another, and another.\n\n'How many can you bear?' he said, filling the glass again.\n\n'As many as you like to give me. Pour on. Fill high. A bumper with a\nbead in the middle! Give me enough of this,' he added, as he tossed it\ndown his hairy throat, 'and I'll do murder if you ask me!'\n\n'As I don't mean to ask you, and you might possibly do it without\nbeing invited if you went on much further,' said Mr Chester with great\ncomposure, 'we will stop, if agreeable to you, my good friend, at the\nnext glass. You were drinking before you came here.'\n\n'I always am when I can get it,' cried Hugh boisterously, waving the\nempty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude dancing\nattitude. 'I always am. Why not? Ha ha ha! What's so good to me as this?\nWhat ever has been? What else has kept away the cold on bitter nights,\nand driven hunger off in starving times? What else has given me the\nstrength and courage of a man, when men would have left me to die, a\npuny child? I should never have had a man's heart but for this. I\nshould have died in a ditch. Where's he who when I was a weak and sickly\nwretch, with trembling legs and fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this\ndid? I never knew him; not I. I drink to the drink, master. Ha ha ha!'\n\n'You are an exceedingly cheerful young man,' said Mr Chester, putting\non his cravat with great deliberation, and slightly moving his head\nfrom side to side to settle his chin in its proper place. 'Quite a boon\ncompanion.'\n\n'Do you see this hand, master,' said Hugh, 'and this arm?' baring the\nbrawny limb to the elbow. 'It was once mere skin and bone, and would\nhave been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but for the drink.'\n\n'You may cover it,' said Mr Chester, 'it's sufficiently real in your\nsleeve.'\n\n'I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud\nlittle beauty, master, but for the drink,' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! It was\na good one. As sweet as honeysuckle, I warrant you. I thank the drink\nfor it. I'll drink to the drink again, master. Fill me one more. Come.\nOne more!'\n\n'You are such a promising fellow,' said his patron, putting on his\nwaistcoat with great nicety, and taking no heed of this request, 'that\nI must caution you against having too many impulses from the drink, and\ngetting hung before your time. What's your age?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'At any rate,' said Mr Chester, 'you are young enough to escape what\nI may call a natural death for some years to come. How can you trust\nyourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance, with a halter round\nyour neck? What a confiding nature yours must be!'\n\nHugh fell back a pace or two and surveyed him with a look of mingled\nterror, indignation, and surprise. Regarding himself in the glass with\nthe same complacency as before, and speaking as smoothly as if he were\ndiscussing some pleasant chit-chat of the town, his patron went on:\n\n'Robbery on the king's highway, my young friend, is a very dangerous and\nticklish occupation. It is pleasant, I have no doubt, while it lasts;\nbut like many other pleasures in this transitory world, it seldom lasts\nlong. And really if in the ingenuousness of youth, you open your heart\nso readily on the subject, I am afraid your career will be an extremely\nshort one.'\n\n'How's this?' said Hugh. 'What do you talk of master? Who was it set me\non?'\n\n'Who?' said Mr Chester, wheeling sharply round, and looking full at him\nfor the first time. 'I didn't hear you. Who was it?'\n\nHugh faltered, and muttered something which was not audible.\n\n'Who was it? I am curious to know,' said Mr Chester, with surpassing\naffability. 'Some rustic beauty perhaps? But be cautious, my good\nfriend. They are not always to be trusted. Do take my advice now, and be\ncareful of yourself.' With these words he turned to the glass again, and\nwent on with his toilet.\n\nHugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself had set him\non, but the words stuck in his throat. The consummate art with which his\npatron had led him to this point, and managed the whole conversation,\nperfectly baffled him. He did not doubt that if he had made the retort\nwhich was on his lips when Mr Chester turned round and questioned him\nso keenly, he would straightway have given him into custody and had him\ndragged before a justice with the stolen property upon him; in which\ncase it was as certain he would have been hung as it was that he had\nbeen born. The ascendency which it was the purpose of the man of the\nworld to establish over this savage instrument, was gained from that\ntime. Hugh's submission was complete. He dreaded him beyond description;\nand felt that accident and artifice had spun a web about him, which at a\ntouch from such a master-hand as his, would bind him to the gallows.\n\nWith these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet wondering at the\nvery same time how he who came there rioting in the confidence of this\nman (as he thought), should be so soon and so thoroughly subdued, Hugh\nstood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily from time to time,\nwhile he finished dressing. When he had done so, he took up the\nletter, broke the seal, and throwing himself back in his chair, read it\nleisurely through.\n\n'Very neatly worded upon my life! Quite a woman's letter, full of what\npeople call tenderness, and disinterestedness, and heart, and all that\nsort of thing!'\n\nAs he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at Hugh as\nthough he would say 'You see this?' held it in the flame of the candle.\nWhen it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate, and there it\nsmouldered away.\n\n'It was directed to my son,' he said, turning to Hugh, 'and you did\nquite right to bring it here. I opened it on my own responsibility, and\nyou see what I have done with it. Take this, for your trouble.'\n\nHugh stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to him.\nAs he put it in his hand, he added:\n\n'If you should happen to find anything else of this sort, or to pick\nup any kind of information you may think I would like to have, bring it\nhere, will you, my good fellow?'\n\nThis was said with a smile which implied--or Hugh thought it did--'fail\nto do so at your peril!' He answered that he would.\n\n'And don't,' said his patron, with an air of the very kindest patronage,\n'don't be at all downcast or uneasy respecting that little rashness we\nhave been speaking of. Your neck is as safe in my hands, my good fellow,\nas though a baby's fingers clasped it, I assure you.--Take another\nglass. You are quieter now.'\n\nHugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his smiling\nface, drank the contents in silence.\n\n'Don't you--ha, ha!--don't you drink to the drink any more?' said Mr\nChester, in his most winning manner.\n\n'To you, sir,' was the sullen answer, with something approaching to a\nbow. 'I drink to you.'\n\n'Thank you. God bless you. By the bye, what is your name, my good soul?\nYou are called Hugh, I know, of course--your other name?'\n\n'I have no other name.'\n\n'A very strange fellow! Do you mean that you never knew one, or that you\ndon't choose to tell it? Which?'\n\n'I'd tell it if I could,' said Hugh, quickly. 'I can't. I have been\nalways called Hugh; nothing more. I never knew, nor saw, nor thought\nabout a father; and I was a boy of six--that's not very old--when they\nhung my mother up at Tyburn for a couple of thousand men to stare at.\nThey might have let her live. She was poor enough.'\n\n'How very sad!' exclaimed his patron, with a condescending smile. 'I\nhave no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman.'\n\n'You see that dog of mine?' said Hugh, abruptly.\n\n'Faithful, I dare say?' rejoined his patron, looking at him through his\nglass; 'and immensely clever? Virtuous and gifted animals, whether man\nor beast, always are so very hideous.'\n\n'Such a dog as that, and one of the same breed, was the only living\nthing except me that howled that day,' said Hugh. 'Out of the two\nthousand odd--there was a larger crowd for its being a woman--the dog\nand I alone had any pity. If he'd have been a man, he'd have been\nglad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him lean and\nhalf-starved; but being a dog, and not having a man's sense, he was\nsorry.'\n\n'It was dull of the brute, certainly,' said Mr Chester, 'and very like a\nbrute.'\n\nHugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at the\nsound and came jumping and sporting about him, bade his sympathising\nfriend good night.\n\n'Good night,' he returned. 'Remember; you're safe with me--quite safe. So\nlong as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you always will, you\nhave a friend in me, on whose silence you may rely. Now do be careful of\nyourself, pray do, and consider what jeopardy you might have stood in.\nGood night! bless you!'\n\nHugh truckled before the hidden meaning of these words as much as such\na being could, and crept out of the door so submissively and\nsubserviently--with an air, in short, so different from that with which\nhe had entered--that his patron on being left alone, smiled more than\never.\n\n'And yet,' he said, as he took a pinch of snuff, 'I do not like their\nhaving hanged his mother. The fellow has a fine eye, and I am sure she\nwas handsome. But very probably she was coarse--red-nosed perhaps, and\nhad clumsy feet. Aye, it was all for the best, no doubt.'\n\nWith this comforting reflection, he put on his coat, took a farewell\nglance at the glass, and summoned his man, who promptly attended,\nfollowed by a chair and its two bearers.\n\n'Foh!' said Mr Chester. 'The very atmosphere that centaur has breathed,\nseems tainted with the cart and ladder. Here, Peak. Bring some scent and\nsprinkle the floor; and take away the chair he sat upon, and air it; and\ndash a little of that mixture upon me. I am stifled!'\n\nThe man obeyed; and the room and its master being both purified, nothing\nremained for Mr Chester but to demand his hat, to fold it jauntily under\nhis arm, to take his seat in the chair and be carried off; humming a\nfashionable tune.\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nHow the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a\ndazzling and brilliant circle; how he enchanted all those with whom he\nmingled by the grace of his deportment, the politeness of his manner,\nthe vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of his voice; how\nit was observed in every corner, that Chester was a man of that happy\ndisposition that nothing ruffled him, that he was one on whom the\nworld's cares and errors sat lightly as his dress, and in whose smiling\nface a calm and tranquil mind was constantly reflected; how honest men,\nwho by instinct knew him better, bowed down before him nevertheless,\ndeferred to his every word, and courted his favourable notice; how\npeople, who really had good in them, went with the stream, and fawned\nand flattered, and approved, and despised themselves while they did\nso, and yet had not the courage to resist; how, in short, he was one of\nthose who are received and cherished in society (as the phrase is) by\nscores who individually would shrink from and be repelled by the\nobject of their lavish regard; are things of course, which will suggest\nthemselves. Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and there\nan end.\n\nThe despisers of mankind--apart from the mere fools and mimics, of that\ncreed--are of two sorts. They who believe their merit neglected and\nunappreciated, make up one class; they who receive adulation and\nflattery, knowing their own worthlessness, compose the other. Be sure\nthat the coldest-hearted misanthropes are ever of this last order.\n\nMr Chester sat up in bed next morning, sipping his coffee, and\nremembering with a kind of contemptuous satisfaction how he had shone\nlast night, and how he had been caressed and courted, when his servant\nbrought in a very small scrap of dirty paper, tightly sealed in two\nplaces, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty large text these\nwords: 'A friend. Desiring of a conference. Immediate. Private. Burn it\nwhen you've read it.'\n\n'Where in the name of the Gunpowder Plot did you pick up this?' said his\nmaster.\n\nIt was given him by a person then waiting at the door, the man replied.\n\n'With a cloak and dagger?' said Mr Chester.\n\nWith nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a leather\napron and a dirty face. 'Let him come in.' In he came--Mr Tappertit;\nwith his hair still on end, and a great lock in his hand, which he put\ndown on the floor in the middle of the chamber as if he were about to go\nthrough some performances in which it was a necessary agent.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr Tappertit with a low bow, 'I thank you for this\ncondescension, and am glad to see you. Pardon the menial office in which\nI am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to one, who, humble as his\nappearance is, has inn'ard workings far above his station.'\n\nMr Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him with a\nvague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only broken open\nthe door of his place of confinement, but had brought away the lock. Mr\nTappertit bowed again, and displayed his legs to the best advantage.\n\n'You have heard, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his\nbreast, 'of G. Varden Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly\nexecuted in town and country, Clerkenwell, London?'\n\n'What then?' asked Mr Chester.\n\n'I'm his 'prentice, sir.'\n\n'What THEN?'\n\n'Ahem!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Would you permit me to shut the door, sir,\nand will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that what passes\nbetween us is in the strictest confidence?'\n\nMr Chester laid himself calmly down in bed again, and turning a\nperfectly undisturbed face towards the strange apparition, which had\nby this time closed the door, begged him to speak out, and to be as\nrational as he could, without putting himself to any very great personal\ninconvenience.\n\n'In the first place, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, producing a small\npocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the folds, 'as I have not\na card about me (for the envy of masters debases us below that level)\nallow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances will admit of.\nIf you will take that in your own hand, sir, and cast your eye on the\nright-hand corner,' said Mr Tappertit, offering it with a graceful air,\n'you will meet with my credentials.'\n\n'Thank you,' answered Mr Chester, politely accepting it, and turning to\nsome blood-red characters at one end. '\"Four. Simon Tappertit. One.\" Is\nthat the--'\n\n'Without the numbers, sir, that is my name,' replied the 'prentice.\n'They are merely intended as directions to the washerwoman, and have no\nconnection with myself or family. YOUR name, sir,' said Mr Tappertit,\nlooking very hard at his nightcap, 'is Chester, I suppose? You needn't\npull it off, sir, thank you. I observe E. C. from here. We will take the\nrest for granted.'\n\n'Pray, Mr Tappertit,' said Mr Chester, 'has that complicated piece of\nironmongery which you have done me the favour to bring with you, any\nimmediate connection with the business we are to discuss?'\n\n'It has not, sir,' rejoined the 'prentice. 'It's going to be fitted on a\nware'us-door in Thames Street.'\n\n'Perhaps, as that is the case,' said Mr Chester, 'and as it has a\nstronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my bedroom with, you will\noblige me so far as to put it outside the door?'\n\n'By all means, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the word.\n\n'You'll excuse my mentioning it, I hope?'\n\n'Don't apologise, sir, I beg. And now, if you please, to business.'\n\nDuring the whole of this dialogue, Mr Chester had suffered nothing but\nhis smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear upon his face.\nSim Tappertit, who had far too good an opinion of himself to suspect\nthat anybody could be playing upon him, thought within himself that\nthis was something like the respect to which he was entitled, and drew\na comparison from this courteous demeanour of a stranger, by no means\nfavourable to the worthy locksmith.\n\n'From what passes in our house,' said Mr Tappertit, 'I am aware, sir,\nthat your son keeps company with a young lady against your inclinations.\nSir, your son has not used me well.'\n\n'Mr Tappertit,' said the other, 'you grieve me beyond description.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' replied the 'prentice. 'I'm glad to hear you say so.\nHe's very proud, sir, is your son; very haughty.'\n\n'I am afraid he IS haughty,' said Mr Chester. 'Do you know I was really\nafraid of that before; and you confirm me?'\n\n'To recount the menial offices I've had to do for your son, sir,' said\nMr Tappertit; 'the chairs I've had to hand him, the coaches I've had to\ncall for him, the numerous degrading duties, wholly unconnected with\nmy indenters, that I've had to do for him, would fill a family Bible.\nBesides which, sir, he is but a young man himself and I do not consider\n\"thank'ee Sim,\" a proper form of address on those occasions.'\n\n'Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Pray go on.'\n\n'I thank you for your good opinion, sir,' said Sim, much gratified,\n'and will endeavour so to do. Now sir, on this account (and perhaps for\nanother reason or two which I needn't go into) I am on your side. And\nwhat I tell you is this--that as long as our people go backwards and\nforwards, to and fro, up and down, to that there jolly old Maypole,\nlettering, and messaging, and fetching and carrying, you couldn't help\nyour son keeping company with that young lady by deputy,--not if he was\nminded night and day by all the Horse Guards, and every man of 'em in\nthe very fullest uniform.'\n\nMr Tappertit stopped to take breath after this, and then started fresh\nagain.\n\n'Now, sir, I am a coming to the point. You will inquire of me, \"how is\nthis to be prevented?\" I'll tell you how. If an honest, civil, smiling\ngentleman like you--'\n\n'Mr Tappertit--really--'\n\n'No, no, I'm serious,' rejoined the 'prentice, 'I am, upon my soul.\nIf an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, was to talk but ten\nminutes to our old woman--that's Mrs Varden--and flatter her up a bit,\nyou'd gain her over for ever. Then there's this point got--that her\ndaughter Dolly,'--here a flush came over Mr Tappertit's face--'wouldn't\nbe allowed to be a go-between from that time forward; and till that\npoint's got, there's nothing ever will prevent her. Mind that.'\n\n'Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature--'\n\n'Wait a minute,' said Sim, folding his arms with a dreadful calmness.\n'Now I come to THE point. Sir, there is a villain at that Maypole, a\nmonster in human shape, a vagabond of the deepest dye, that unless you\nget rid of and have kidnapped and carried off at the very least--nothing\nless will do--will marry your son to that young woman, as certainly and\nas surely as if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He will,\nsir, for the hatred and malice that he bears to you; let alone the\npleasure of doing a bad action, which to him is its own reward. If you\nknew how this chap, this Joseph Willet--that's his name--comes backwards\nand forwards to our house, libelling, and denouncing, and threatening\nyou, and how I shudder when I hear him, you'd hate him worse than I\ndo,--worse than I do, sir,' said Mr Tappertit wildly, putting his hair\nup straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; 'if sich a\nthing is possible.'\n\n'A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?'\n\n'Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined--destroy\nhim,' said Mr Tappertit. 'Miggs says so too. Miggs and me both say so.\nWe can't bear the plotting and undermining that takes place. Our souls\nrecoil from it. Barnaby Rudge and Mrs Rudge are in it likewise; but the\nvillain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader. Their plottings and schemes\nare known to me and Miggs. If you want information of 'em, apply to us.\nPut Joseph Willet down, sir. Destroy him. Crush him. And be happy.'\n\nWith these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect no reply, and to\nhold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his hearer\nshould be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, and overwhelmed, folded his\narms so that the palm of each hand rested on the opposite shoulder, and\ndisappeared after the manner of those mysterious warners of whom he had\nread in cheap story-books.\n\n'That fellow,' said Mr Chester, relaxing his face when he was fairly\ngone, 'is good practice. I HAVE some command of my features, beyond all\ndoubt. He fully confirms what I suspected, though; and blunt tools are\nsometimes found of use, where sharper instruments would fail. I fear\nI may be obliged to make great havoc among these worthy people. A\ntroublesome necessity! I quite feel for them.'\n\nWith that he fell into a quiet slumber:--subsided into such a gentle,\npleasant sleep, that it was quite infantine.\n\n\n\nChapter 25\n\n\nLeaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the world;\nhim of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by an\nungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to lie\nsmilingly asleep--for even sleep, working but little change in his\ndissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional\nhypocrisy--we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making\ntowards Chigwell.\n\nBarnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course.\n\nThe widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled\nwearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse,\nfluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering far\nbehind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path and leaving her\nto pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again and came upon\nher with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious nature\nprompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some high\ntree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come\nflying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising\nswiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport\nupon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his\ndelights; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked\ninto his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one\nsad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering in\nthe same degree as it was to him of pleasure.\n\nIt is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild and\nin the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is\nsomething to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such\na creature's breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightly\nmen may crush that faculty in their fellows, the Great Creator of\nmankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not\nrather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in\na darkened jail!\n\nYe men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite\nBenevolence with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book, wide\nopen to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in\nblack and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its music--save\nwhen ye drown it--is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerful\nsounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one\ndismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasure\nwhich every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kind\nwho have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from the\nwitless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the\nmirth and happiness it brings.\n\nThe widow's breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dread\nand sorrow; but her boy's gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled\nthe long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, and\nwould keep beside her steadily for a short distance; but it was more his\nnature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him free\nand happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better\nthan herself.\n\nShe had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly after\nthe event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twenty\nyears had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village.\nHow many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight!\n\nTwo-and-twenty years. Her boy's whole life and history. The last time\nshe looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her\narms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him night\nand day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came; how had she\nfeared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself\nupon her! The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the little\ntokens he had given in his childish way--not of dulness but of something\ninfinitely worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning--came back\nas vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which they\nused to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like\nin face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant\neye, and crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; every\ncircumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial,\nperhaps, the most distinctly.\n\nHis older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror of\ncertain senseless things--familiar objects he endowed with life; the\nslow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before his\nbirth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had\nfound some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had\ngone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until he\ngrew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting; one after\nanother, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their\nlong slumber and bitterer than ever.\n\nShe took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was\nthe same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore\nanother air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of\nthat, and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was.\n\nThe people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking\nround him--as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers\nround some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her;\nthey passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and\nstriking into the fields, were soon alone again.\n\nThe Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in the\ngarden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and\nbade them enter that way.\n\n'At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,' he said to\nthe widow. 'I am glad you have.'\n\n'For the first time, and the last, sir,' she replied.\n\n'The first for many years, but not the last?'\n\n'The very last.'\n\n'You mean,' said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, 'that\nhaving made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and are\ndetermined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you,\nyou should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I\nknow. As to Barnaby, it's quite his home.'\n\n'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven hopped\ngravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to Mr\nHaredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshment\nwould be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea!'\n\n'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to walk\nwith him towards the house. 'Your life has been an example of patience\nand fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given me\ngreat pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the\ncalamity which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father,\nwithout being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate\nus with the author of our joint misfortunes.'\n\n'Associate you with him, sir!' she cried.\n\n'Indeed,' said Mr Haredale, 'I think you do. I almost believe that\nbecause your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died\nin his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect us\nwith his murder.'\n\n'Alas!' she answered. 'You little know my heart, sir. You little know\nthe truth!'\n\n'It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, without\nbeing conscious of it,' said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself than\nher. 'We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed with the most lavish\nhand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinly\nscattered by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable\nmockery. I feel it so, God knows,' he added, hastily. 'Why should I\nwonder if she does!'\n\n'You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,' she rejoined with great\nearnestness; 'and yet when you come to hear what I desire your leave to\nsay--'\n\n'I shall find my doubts confirmed?' he said, observing that she faltered\nand became confused. 'Well!'\n\nHe quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side,\nand said:\n\n'And have you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?'\n\nShe answered, 'Yes.'\n\n'A curse,' he muttered, 'upon the wretched state of us proud beggars,\nfrom whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one being\nforced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other condescending\nto us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof, the nearer\nthey approach us.--Why, if it were pain to you (as it must have been)\nto break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged through\ntwo-and-twenty years, could you not let me know your wish, and beg me to\ncome to you?'\n\n'There was not time, sir,' she rejoined. 'I took my resolution but\nlast night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day--a day! an\nhour--in having speech with you.'\n\nThey had by this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for a\nmoment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner.\nObserving, however, that she took no heed of him, but glanced up,\nshuddering, at the old walls with which such horrors were connected in\nher mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma was\nseated in a window, reading.\n\nThe young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her\nbook, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm\nand earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace as though she\nfeared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.\n\n'It is the return to this place after so long an absence,' said Emma\ngently. 'Pray ring, dear uncle--or stay--Barnaby will run himself and\nask for wine--'\n\n'Not for the world,' she cried. 'It would have another taste--I could\nnot touch it. I want but a minute's rest. Nothing but that.'\n\nMiss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity.\nShe remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to Mr\nHaredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating her\nwith fixed attention.\n\nThe tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed, as has\nbeen already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known.\nThe room in which this group were now assembled--hard by the very\nchamber where the act was done--dull, dark, and sombre; heavy with\nworm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling every\nsound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever and\nanon a spectral knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others in\nthe house, a ghostly, gloomy air. Nor were the group assembled there,\nunfitting tenants of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startling\nface and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern and despondent ever; his niece\nbeside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture of her father, which\ngazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby,\nwith his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with the\nplace, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven, who had hopped\nupon the table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to be\nprofoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, was\nstrictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit of\nevil biding his time of mischief.\n\n'I scarcely know,' said the widow, breaking silence, 'how to begin. You\nwill think my mind disordered.'\n\n'The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were last\nhere,' returned Mr Haredale, mildly, 'shall bear witness for you. Why do\nyou fear to awaken such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. You\nhave not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Be\nmore yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance that I can give you,\nyou know is yours of right, and freely yours.'\n\n'What if I came, sir,' she rejoined, 'I who have but one other friend on\nearth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth\nI launch myself upon the world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim as\nHeaven may decree!'\n\n'You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,' said Mr Haredale\ncalmly, 'some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which--if\none may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange--would\nhave its weight, of course.'\n\n'That, sir,' she answered, 'is the misery of my distress. I can give\nno reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is\nmy duty, my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it,\nI should be a base and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips are\nsealed, and I can say no more.'\n\nAs though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved\nherself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with a\nfirmer voice and heightened courage.\n\n'Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is--and yours, dear young lady,\nwill speak for me, I know--that I have lived, since that time we all\nhave bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and gratitude to\nthis family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall preserve\nthose feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they alone\nimpel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall\nturn me, as I hope for mercy.'\n\n'These are strange riddles,' said Mr Haredale.\n\n'In this world, sir,' she replied, 'they may, perhaps, never be\nexplained. In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own good\ntime. And may that time,' she added in a low voice, 'be far distant!'\n\n'Let me be sure,' said Mr Haredale, 'that I understand you, for I am\ndoubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarily\nto deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from us\nso long--that you are determined to resign the annuity we settled on you\ntwenty years ago--to leave house, and home, and goods, and begin life\nanew--and this, for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which is\nincapable of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormant\nall this time? In the name of God, under what delusion are you\nlabouring?'\n\n'As I am deeply thankful,' she made answer, 'for the kindness of those,\nalive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would not have its\nroof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being\nspoken in their hearing; I never will again subsist upon their bounty,\nor let it help me to subsistence. You do not know,' she added, suddenly,\n'to what uses it may be applied; into what hands it may pass. I do, and\nI renounce it.'\n\n'Surely,' said Mr Haredale, 'its uses rest with you.'\n\n'They did. They rest with me no longer. It may be--it IS--devoted to\npurposes that mock the dead in their graves. It never can prosper with\nme. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son,\nwhose innocence will suffer for his mother's guilt.'\n\n'What words are these!' cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder.\n'Among what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you ever\nbeen betrayed?'\n\n'I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention,\nthough constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions,\nsir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned. I must\nleave my house to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. My\nfuture dwelling, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor\nboy should ever stray this way, do not tempt him to disclose it or have\nhim watched when he returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again.\nAnd now this load is off my mind, I beseech you--and you, dear Miss\nHaredale, too--to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you\nhave been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (for\nthat may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in that\nhour for this day's work; and on that day, and every day until it comes,\nI will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more.'\n\nWith that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and with\nmany soothing words and kind entreaties, besought her to consider what\nshe did, and above all to repose more freely upon them, and say what\nweighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deaf to their persuasions, Mr\nHaredale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide in Emma,\nof whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand in\nless dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiled\nwith the same indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met.\nThe utmost that could be wrung from her was, a promise that she would\nreceive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean time\nreconsider her determination and their dissuasions--though any change on\nher part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made at\nlast, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither\neat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip,\naccordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair and\ngarden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.\n\nIt was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he\nhad kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human\nrascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to\neverything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in\nhis mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for\nthe instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he\nwas thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of\nduty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is\ncommonly called good company.\n\nThey were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full two\nhours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment,\nBarnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had\nno wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and\nwho feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch\nsome messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed\nto wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy\nand carry thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfully\nassented, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal\ndinner.\n\nHere again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and\ndown when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was\nstrongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and\nappearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes,\nafter a long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the\ngrave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse tones, 'I'm a devil,\nI'm a devil, I'm a devil!' but whether he addressed his observations to\nany supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark,\nis matter of uncertainty.\n\nIt was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for Mr\nReuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested,\nwas a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription\nrecording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful\nand apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the\ncoach was coming.\n\nBarnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the\nsound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked\ninto his basket straightway, entreating society in general (as though\nhe intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with churchyards)\nnever to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and\nrolling along the road.\n\nIt went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from\nhome, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it called\nfor. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from\nthe coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John's\ncharacter. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach's time. He\ndespised gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought\nto be indicted; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless,\nbustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of\nmen, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and go\na-shopping. 'We know nothing about coaches here, sir,' John would say,\nif any unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles;\n'we don't book for 'em; we'd rather not; they're more trouble than\nthey're worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait for 'em\nyou can; but we don't know anything about 'em; they may call and they\nmay not--there's a carrier--he was looked upon as quite good enough for\nus, when I was a boy.'\n\nShe dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind, and\ntalked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other person\nspoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, an\nalien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had\nlived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife--where she had known\nall her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.\n\n\n\nChapter 26\n\n\n'And you're not surprised to hear this, Varden?' said Mr Haredale.\n'Well! You and she have always been the best friends, and you should\nunderstand her if anybody does.'\n\n'I ask your pardon, sir,' rejoined the locksmith. 'I didn't say I\nunderstood her. I wouldn't have the presumption to say that of any\nwoman. It's not so easily done. But I am not so much surprised, sir, as\nyou expected me to be, certainly.'\n\n'May I ask why not, my good friend?'\n\n'I have seen, sir,' returned the locksmith with evident reluctance,\n'I have seen in connection with her, something that has filled me with\ndistrust and uneasiness. She has made bad friends, how, or when, I don't\nknow; but that her house is a refuge for one robber and cut-throat at\nleast, I am certain. There, sir! Now it's out.'\n\n'Varden!'\n\n'My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would be\nwillingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of mistrusting\n'em. I have kept the secret till now, and it will go no further than\nyourself, I know; but I tell you that with my own eyes--broad awake--I\nsaw, in the passage of her house one evening after dark, the highwayman\nwho robbed and wounded Mr Edward Chester, and on the same night\nthreatened me.'\n\n'And you made no effort to detain him?' said Mr Haredale quickly.\n\n'Sir,' returned the locksmith, 'she herself prevented me--held me, with\nall her strength, and hung about me until he had got clear off.' And\nhaving gone so far, he related circumstantially all that had passed upon\nthe night in question.\n\nThis dialogue was held in a low tone in the locksmith's little parlour,\ninto which honest Gabriel had shown his visitor on his arrival. Mr\nHaredale had called upon him to entreat his company to the widow's, that\nhe might have the assistance of his persuasion and influence; and out of\nthis circumstance the conversation had arisen.\n\n'I forbore,' said Gabriel, 'from repeating one word of this to anybody,\nas it could do her no good and might do her great harm. I thought and\nhoped, to say the truth, that she would come to me, and talk to me about\nit, and tell me how it was; but though I have purposely put myself\nin her way more than once or twice, she has never touched upon the\nsubject--except by a look. And indeed,' said the good-natured locksmith,\n'there was a good deal in the look, more than could have been put into a\ngreat many words. It said among other matters \"Don't ask me anything\"\nso imploringly, that I didn't ask her anything. You'll think me an old\nfool, I know, sir. If it's any relief to call me one, pray do.'\n\n'I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,' said Mr Haredale, after a\nsilence. 'What meaning do you attach to it?'\n\nThe locksmith shook his head, and looked doubtfully out of window at the\nfailing light.\n\n'She cannot have married again,' said Mr Haredale.\n\n'Not without our knowledge surely, sir.'\n\n'She may have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to some\nobjection or estrangement. Suppose she married incautiously--it is not\nimprobable, for her existence has been a lonely and monotonous one for\nmany years--and the man turned out a ruffian, she would be anxious to\nscreen him, and yet would revolt from his crimes. This might be. It\nbears strongly on the whole drift of her discourse yesterday, and would\nquite explain her conduct. Do you suppose Barnaby is privy to these\ncircumstances?'\n\n'Quite impossible to say, sir,' returned the locksmith, shaking his head\nagain: 'and next to impossible to find out from him. If what you suppose\nis really the case, I tremble for the lad--a notable person, sir, to put\nto bad uses--'\n\n'It is not possible, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, in a still lower tone of\nvoice than he had spoken yet, 'that we have been blinded and deceived by\nthis woman from the beginning? It is not possible that this connection\nwas formed in her husband's lifetime, and led to his and my brother's--'\n\n'Good God, sir,' cried Gabriel, interrupting him, 'don't entertain such\ndark thoughts for a moment. Five-and-twenty years ago, where was there a\ngirl like her? A gay, handsome, laughing, bright-eyed damsel! Think what\nshe was, sir. It makes my heart ache now, even now, though I'm an old\nman, with a woman for a daughter, to think what she was and what she is.\nWe all change, but that's with Time; Time does his work honestly, and\nI don't mind him. A fig for Time, sir. Use him well, and he's a hearty\nfellow, and scorns to have you at a disadvantage. But care and suffering\n(and those have changed her) are devils, sir--secret, stealthy,\nundermining devils--who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do\nmore havoc in a month than Time does in a year. Picture to yourself for\none minute what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh\nheart and face--do her that justice--and say whether such a thing is\npossible.'\n\n'You're a good fellow, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, 'and are quite right.\nI have brooded on that subject so long, that every breath of suspicion\ncarries me back to it. You are quite right.'\n\n'It isn't, sir,' cried the locksmith with brightened eyes, and sturdy,\nhonest voice; 'it isn't because I courted her before Rudge, and failed,\nthat I say she was too good for him. She would have been as much too\ngood for me. But she WAS too good for him; he wasn't free and frank\nenough for her. I don't reproach his memory with it, poor fellow; I only\nwant to put her before you as she really was. For myself, I'll keep her\nold picture in my mind; and thinking of that, and what has altered her,\nI'll stand her friend, and try to win her back to peace. And damme,\nsir,' cried Gabriel, 'with your pardon for the word, I'd do the same if\nshe had married fifty highwaymen in a twelvemonth; and think it in the\nProtestant Manual too, though Martha said it wasn't, tooth and nail,\ntill doomsday!'\n\nIf the dark little parlour had been filled with a dense fog, which,\nclearing away in an instant, left it all radiance and brightness, it\ncould not have been more suddenly cheered than by this outbreak on the\npart of the hearty locksmith. In a voice nearly as full and round as his\nown, Mr Haredale cried 'Well said!' and bade him come away without more\nparley. The locksmith complied right willingly; and both getting into a\nhackney coach which was waiting at the door, drove off straightway.\n\nThey alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their conveyance,\nwalked to the house. To their first knock at the door there was no\nresponse. A second met with the like result. But in answer to the third,\nwhich was of a more vigorous kind, the parlour window-sash was gently\nraised, and a musical voice cried:\n\n'Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you. How very much\nyou have improved in your appearance since our last meeting! I never saw\nyou looking better. HOW do you do?'\n\nMr Haredale turned his eyes towards the casement whence the voice\nproceeded, though there was no need to do so, to recognise the speaker,\nand Mr Chester waved his hand, and smiled a courteous welcome.\n\n'The door will be opened immediately,' he said. 'There is nobody but\na very dilapidated female to perform such offices. You will excuse her\ninfirmities? If she were in a more elevated station of society, she\nwould be gouty. Being but a hewer of wood and drawer of water, she\nis rheumatic. My dear Haredale, these are natural class distinctions,\ndepend upon it.'\n\nMr Haredale, whose face resumed its lowering and distrustful look the\nmoment he heard the voice, inclined his head stiffly, and turned his\nback upon the speaker.\n\n'Not opened yet,' said Mr Chester. 'Dear me! I hope the aged soul has\nnot caught her foot in some unlucky cobweb by the way. She is there at\nlast! Come in, I beg!'\n\nMr Haredale entered, followed by the locksmith. Turning with a look of\ngreat astonishment to the old woman who had opened the door, he inquired\nfor Mrs Rudge--for Barnaby. They were both gone, she replied, wagging\nher ancient head, for good. There was a gentleman in the parlour, who\nperhaps could tell them more. That was all SHE knew.\n\n'Pray, sir,' said Mr Haredale, presenting himself before this new\ntenant, 'where is the person whom I came here to see?'\n\n'My dear friend,' he returned, 'I have not the least idea.'\n\n'Your trifling is ill-timed,' retorted the other in a suppressed tone\nand voice, 'and its subject ill-chosen. Reserve it for those who\nare your friends, and do not expend it on me. I lay no claim to the\ndistinction, and have the self-denial to reject it.'\n\n'My dear, good sir,' said Mr Chester, 'you are heated with walking. Sit\ndown, I beg. Our friend is--'\n\n'Is but a plain honest man,' returned Mr Haredale, 'and quite unworthy\nof your notice.'\n\n'Gabriel Varden by name, sir,' said the locksmith bluntly.\n\n'A worthy English yeoman!' said Mr Chester. 'A most worthy yeoman, of\nwhom I have frequently heard my son Ned--darling fellow--speak, and have\noften wished to see. Varden, my good friend, I am glad to know you. You\nwonder now,' he said, turning languidly to Mr Haredale, 'to see me here.\nNow, I am sure you do.'\n\nMr Haredale glanced at him--not fondly or admiringly--smiled, and held\nhis peace.\n\n'The mystery is solved in a moment,' said Mr Chester; 'in a moment. Will\nyou step aside with me one instant. You remember our little compact in\nreference to Ned, and your dear niece, Haredale? You remember the list\nof assistants in their innocent intrigue? You remember these two people\nbeing among them? My dear fellow, congratulate yourself, and me. I have\nbought them off.'\n\n'You have done what?' said Mr Haredale.\n\n'Bought them off,' returned his smiling friend. 'I have found it\nnecessary to take some active steps towards setting this boy and girl\nattachment quite at rest, and have begun by removing these two agents.\nYou are surprised? Who CAN withstand the influence of a little money!\nThey wanted it, and have been bought off. We have nothing more to fear\nfrom them. They are gone.'\n\n'Gone!' echoed Mr Haredale. 'Where?'\n\n'My dear fellow--and you must permit me to say again, that you never\nlooked so young; so positively boyish as you do to-night--the Lord knows\nwhere; I believe Columbus himself wouldn't find them. Between you and\nme they have their hidden reasons, but upon that point I have pledged\nmyself to secrecy. She appointed to see you here to-night, I know, but\nfound it inconvenient, and couldn't wait. Here is the key of the door.\nI am afraid you'll find it inconveniently large; but as the tenement is\nyours, your good-nature will excuse that, Haredale, I am certain!'\n\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n\nMr Haredale stood in the widow's parlour with the door-key in his hand,\ngazing by turns at Mr Chester and at Gabriel Varden, and occasionally\nglancing downward at the key as in the hope that of its own accord\nit would unlock the mystery; until Mr Chester, putting on his hat and\ngloves, and sweetly inquiring whether they were walking in the same\ndirection, recalled him to himself.\n\n'No,' he said. 'Our roads diverge--widely, as you know. For the present,\nI shall remain here.'\n\n'You will be hipped, Haredale; you will be miserable, melancholy,\nutterly wretched,' returned the other. 'It's a place of the very last\ndescription for a man of your temper. I know it will make you very\nmiserable.'\n\n'Let it,' said Mr Haredale, sitting down; 'and thrive upon the thought.\nGood night!'\n\nFeigning to be wholly unconscious of the abrupt wave of the hand which\nrendered this farewell tantamount to a dismissal, Mr Chester retorted\nwith a bland and heartfelt benediction, and inquired of Gabriel in what\ndirection HE was going.\n\n'Yours, sir, would be too much honour for the like of me,' replied the\nlocksmith, hesitating.\n\n'I wish you to remain here a little while, Varden,' said Mr Haredale,\nwithout looking towards them. 'I have a word or two to say to you.'\n\n'I will not intrude upon your conference another moment,' said Mr\nChester with inconceivable politeness. 'May it be satisfactory to you\nboth! God bless you!' So saying, and bestowing upon the locksmith a most\nrefulgent smile, he left them.\n\n'A deplorably constituted creature, that rugged person,' he said, as\nhe walked along the street; 'he is an atrocity that carries its own\npunishment along with it--a bear that gnaws himself. And here is one\nof the inestimable advantages of having a perfect command over one's\ninclinations. I have been tempted in these two short interviews, to draw\nupon that fellow, fifty times. Five men in six would have yielded to the\nimpulse. By suppressing mine, I wound him deeper and more keenly than if\nI were the best swordsman in all Europe, and he the worst. You are the\nwise man's very last resource,' he said, tapping the hilt of his weapon;\n'we can but appeal to you when all else is said and done. To come to you\nbefore, and thereby spare our adversaries so much, is a barbarian mode\nof warfare, quite unworthy of any man with the remotest pretensions to\ndelicacy of feeling, or refinement.'\n\nHe smiled so very pleasantly as he communed with himself after this\nmanner, that a beggar was emboldened to follow for alms, and to dog\nhis footsteps for some distance. He was gratified by the circumstance,\nfeeling it complimentary to his power of feature, and as a reward\nsuffered the man to follow him until he called a chair, when he\ngraciously dismissed him with a fervent blessing.\n\n'Which is as easy as cursing,' he wisely added, as he took his seat,\n'and more becoming to the face.--To Clerkenwell, my good creatures, if\nyou please!' The chairmen were rendered quite vivacious by having such a\ncourteous burden, and to Clerkenwell they went at a fair round trot.\n\nAlighting at a certain point he had indicated to them upon the road, and\npaying them something less than they expected from a fare of such gentle\nspeech, he turned into the street in which the locksmith dwelt, and\npresently stood beneath the shadow of the Golden Key. Mr Tappertit, who\nwas hard at work by lamplight, in a corner of the workshop, remained\nunconscious of his presence until a hand upon his shoulder made him\nstart and turn his head.\n\n'Industry,' said Mr Chester, 'is the soul of business, and the keystone\nof prosperity. Mr Tappertit, I shall expect you to invite me to dinner\nwhen you are Lord Mayor of London.'\n\n'Sir,' returned the 'prentice, laying down his hammer, and rubbing\nhis nose on the back of a very sooty hand, 'I scorn the Lord Mayor and\neverything that belongs to him. We must have another state of society,\nsir, before you catch me being Lord Mayor. How de do, sir?'\n\n'The better, Mr Tappertit, for looking into your ingenuous face once\nmore. I hope you are well.'\n\n'I am as well, sir,' said Sim, standing up to get nearer to his ear, and\nwhispering hoarsely, 'as any man can be under the aggrawations to which\nI am exposed. My life's a burden to me. If it wasn't for wengeance, I'd\nplay at pitch and toss with it on the losing hazard.'\n\n'Is Mrs Varden at home?' said Mr Chester.\n\n'Sir,' returned Sim, eyeing him over with a look of concentrated\nexpression,--'she is. Did you wish to see her?'\n\nMr Chester nodded.\n\n'Then come this way, sir,' said Sim, wiping his face upon his apron.\n'Follow me, sir.--Would you permit me to whisper in your ear, one half a\nsecond?'\n\n'By all means.'\n\nMr Tappertit raised himself on tiptoe, applied his lips to Mr Chester's\near, drew back his head without saying anything, looked hard at\nhim, applied them to his ear again, again drew back, and finally\nwhispered--'The name is Joseph Willet. Hush! I say no more.'\n\nHaving said that much, he beckoned the visitor with a mysterious aspect\nto follow him to the parlour-door, where he announced him in the voice\nof a gentleman-usher. 'Mr Chester.'\n\n'And not Mr Ed'dard, mind,' said Sim, looking into the door again, and\nadding this by way of postscript in his own person; 'it's his father.'\n\n'But do not let his father,' said Mr Chester, advancing hat in hand, as\nhe observed the effect of this last explanatory announcement, 'do not\nlet his father be any check or restraint on your domestic occupations,\nMiss Varden.'\n\n'Oh! Now! There! An't I always a-saying it!' exclaimed Miggs, clapping\nher hands. 'If he an't been and took Missis for her own daughter. Well,\nshe DO look like it, that she do. Only think of that, mim!'\n\n'Is it possible,' said Mr Chester in his softest tones, 'that this is\nMrs Varden! I am amazed. That is not your daughter, Mrs Varden? No, no.\nYour sister.'\n\n'My daughter, indeed, sir,' returned Mrs V., blushing with great\njuvenility.\n\n'Ah, Mrs Varden!' cried the visitor. 'Ah, ma'am--humanity is indeed a\nhappy lot, when we can repeat ourselves in others, and still be young\nas they. You must allow me to salute you--the custom of the country, my\ndear madam--your daughter too.'\n\nDolly showed some reluctance to perform this ceremony, but was sharply\nreproved by Mrs Varden, who insisted on her undergoing it that minute.\nFor pride, she said with great severity, was one of the seven deadly\nsins, and humility and lowliness of heart were virtues. Wherefore she\ndesired that Dolly would be kissed immediately, on pain of her just\ndispleasure; at the same time giving her to understand that whatever\nshe saw her mother do, she might safely do herself, without being at the\ntrouble of any reasoning or reflection on the subject--which, indeed,\nwas offensive and undutiful, and in direct contravention of the church\ncatechism.\n\nThus admonished, Dolly complied, though by no means willingly; for there\nwas a broad, bold look of admiration in Mr Chester's face, refined and\npolished though it sought to be, which distressed her very much. As she\nstood with downcast eyes, not liking to look up and meet his, he gazed\nupon her with an approving air, and then turned to her mother.\n\n'My friend Gabriel (whose acquaintance I only made this very evening)\nshould be a happy man, Mrs Varden.'\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mrs V., shaking her head.\n\n'Ah!' echoed Miggs.\n\n'Is that the case?' said Mr Chester, compassionately. 'Dear me!'\n\n'Master has no intentions, sir,' murmured Miggs as she sidled up to him,\n'but to be as grateful as his natur will let him, for everythink he owns\nwhich it is in his powers to appreciate. But we never, sir'--said Miggs,\nlooking sideways at Mrs Varden, and interlarding her discourse with a\nsigh--'we never know the full value of SOME wines and fig-trees till we\nlose 'em. So much the worse, sir, for them as has the slighting of 'em\non their consciences when they're gone to be in full blow elsewhere.'\nAnd Miss Miggs cast up her eyes to signify where that might be.\n\nAs Mrs Varden distinctly heard, and was intended to hear, all that Miggs\nsaid, and as these words appeared to convey in metaphorical terms a\npresage or foreboding that she would at some early period droop beneath\nher trials and take an easy flight towards the stars, she immediately\nbegan to languish, and taking a volume of the Manual from a neighbouring\ntable, leant her arm upon it as though she were Hope and that her\nAnchor. Mr Chester perceiving this, and seeing how the volume was\nlettered on the back, took it gently from her hand, and turned the\nfluttering leaves.\n\n'My favourite book, dear madam. How often, how very often in his early\nlife--before he can remember'--(this clause was strictly true) 'have I\ndeduced little easy moral lessons from its pages, for my dear son Ned!\nYou know Ned?'\n\nMrs Varden had that honour, and a fine affable young gentleman he was.\n\n'You're a mother, Mrs Varden,' said Mr Chester, taking a pinch of snuff,\n'and you know what I, as a father, feel, when he is praised. He gives me\nsome uneasiness--much uneasiness--he's of a roving nature, ma'am--from\nflower to flower--from sweet to sweet--but his is the butterfly time of\nlife, and we must not be hard upon such trifling.'\n\nHe glanced at Dolly. She was attending evidently to what he said. Just\nwhat he desired!\n\n'The only thing I object to in this little trait of Ned's, is,' said Mr\nChester, '--and the mention of his name reminds me, by the way, that I\nam about to beg the favour of a minute's talk with you alone--the only\nthing I object to in it, is, that it DOES partake of insincerity. Now,\nhowever I may attempt to disguise the fact from myself in my affection\nfor Ned, still I always revert to this--that if we are not sincere, we\nare nothing. Nothing upon earth. Let us be sincere, my dear madam--'\n\n'--and Protestant,' murmured Mrs Varden.\n\n'--and Protestant above all things. Let us be sincere and Protestant,\nstrictly moral, strictly just (though always with a leaning towards\nmercy), strictly honest, and strictly true, and we gain--it is a slight\npoint, certainly, but still it is something tangible; we throw up a\ngroundwork and foundation, so to speak, of goodness, on which we may\nafterwards erect some worthy superstructure.'\n\nNow, to be sure, Mrs Varden thought, here is a perfect character. Here\nis a meek, righteous, thoroughgoing Christian, who, having mastered all\nthese qualities, so difficult of attainment; who, having dropped a pinch\nof salt on the tails of all the cardinal virtues, and caught them every\none; makes light of their possession, and pants for more morality. For\nthe good woman never doubted (as many good men and women never do), that\nthis slighting kind of profession, this setting so little store by great\nmatters, this seeming to say, 'I am not proud, I am what you hear, but I\nconsider myself no better than other people; let us change the subject,\npray'--was perfectly genuine and true. He so contrived it, and said\nit in that way that it appeared to have been forced from him, and its\neffect was marvellous.\n\nAware of the impression he had made--few men were quicker than he at\nsuch discoveries--Mr Chester followed up the blow by propounding certain\nvirtuous maxims, somewhat vague and general in their nature, doubtless,\nand occasionally partaking of the character of truisms, worn a little\nout at elbow, but delivered in so charming a voice and with such\nuncommon serenity and peace of mind, that they answered as well as the\nbest. Nor is this to be wondered at; for as hollow vessels produce a far\nmore musical sound in falling than those which are substantial, so it\nwill oftentimes be found that sentiments which have nothing in them make\nthe loudest ringing in the world, and are the most relished.\n\nMr Chester, with the volume gently extended in one hand, and with\nthe other planted lightly on his breast, talked to them in the most\ndelicious manner possible; and quite enchanted all his hearers,\nnotwithstanding their conflicting interests and thoughts. Even Dolly,\nwho, between his keen regards and her eyeing over by Mr Tappertit, was\nput quite out of countenance, could not help owning within herself that\nhe was the sweetest-spoken gentleman she had ever seen. Even Miss Miggs,\nwho was divided between admiration of Mr Chester and a mortal jealousy\nof her young mistress, had sufficient leisure to be propitiated. Even\nMr Tappertit, though occupied as we have seen in gazing at his heart's\ndelight, could not wholly divert his thoughts from the voice of the\nother charmer. Mrs Varden, to her own private thinking, had never been\nso improved in all her life; and when Mr Chester, rising and craving\npermission to speak with her apart, took her by the hand and led her at\narm's length upstairs to the best sitting-room, she almost deemed him\nsomething more than human.\n\n'Dear madam,' he said, pressing her hand delicately to his lips; 'be\nseated.'\n\nMrs Varden called up quite a courtly air, and became seated.\n\n'You guess my object?' said Mr Chester, drawing a chair towards her.\n'You divine my purpose? I am an affectionate parent, my dear Mrs\nVarden.'\n\n'That I am sure you are, sir,' said Mrs V.\n\n'Thank you,' returned Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box lid. 'Heavy\nmoral responsibilities rest with parents, Mrs Varden.'\n\nMrs Varden slightly raised her hands, shook her head, and looked at the\nground as though she saw straight through the globe, out at the other\nend, and into the immensity of space beyond.\n\n'I may confide in you,' said Mr Chester, 'without reserve. I love\nmy son, ma'am, dearly; and loving him as I do, I would save him from\nworking certain misery. You know of his attachment to Miss Haredale.\nYou have abetted him in it, and very kind of you it was to do so. I am\ndeeply obliged to you--most deeply obliged to you--for your interest in\nhis behalf; but my dear ma'am, it is a mistaken one, I do assure you.'\n\nMrs Varden stammered that she was sorry--\n\n'Sorry, my dear ma'am,' he interposed. 'Never be sorry for what is so\nvery amiable, so very good in intention, so perfectly like yourself. But\nthere are grave and weighty reasons, pressing family considerations, and\napart even from these, points of religious difference, which interpose\nthemselves, and render their union impossible; utterly im-possible.\nI should have mentioned these circumstances to your husband; but he\nhas--you will excuse my saying this so freely--he has NOT your quickness\nof apprehension or depth of moral sense. What an extremely airy house\nthis is, and how beautifully kept! For one like myself--a widower so\nlong--these tokens of female care and superintendence have inexpressible\ncharms.'\n\nMrs Varden began to think (she scarcely knew why) that the young Mr\nChester must be in the wrong and the old Mr Chester must be in the\nright.\n\n'My son Ned,' resumed her tempter with his most winning air, 'has had, I\nam told, your lovely daughter's aid, and your open-hearted husband's.'\n\n'--Much more than mine, sir,' said Mrs Varden; 'a great deal more. I\nhave often had my doubts. It's a--'\n\n'A bad example,' suggested Mr Chester. 'It is. No doubt it is. Your\ndaughter is at that age when to set before her an encouragement for\nyoung persons to rebel against their parents on this most important\npoint, is particularly injudicious. You are quite right. I ought to have\nthought of that myself, but it escaped me, I confess--so far superior\nare your sex to ours, dear madam, in point of penetration and sagacity.'\n\nMrs Varden looked as wise as if she had really said something to deserve\nthis compliment--firmly believed she had, in short--and her faith in her\nown shrewdness increased considerably.\n\n'My dear ma'am,' said Mr Chester, 'you embolden me to be plain with\nyou. My son and I are at variance on this point. The young lady and her\nnatural guardian differ upon it, also. And the closing point is, that my\nson is bound by his duty to me, by his honour, by every solemn tie and\nobligation, to marry some one else.'\n\n'Engaged to marry another lady!' quoth Mrs Varden, holding up her hands.\n\n'My dear madam, brought up, educated, and trained, expressly for that\npurpose. Expressly for that purpose.--Miss Haredale, I am told, is a\nvery charming creature.'\n\n'I am her foster-mother, and should know--the best young lady in the\nworld,' said Mrs Varden.\n\n'I have not the smallest doubt of it. I am sure she is. And you, who\nhave stood in that tender relation towards her, are bound to consult her\nhappiness. Now, can I--as I have said to Haredale, who quite agrees--can\nI possibly stand by, and suffer her to throw herself away (although she\nIS of a Catholic family), upon a young fellow who, as yet, has no heart\nat all? It is no imputation upon him to say he has not, because young\nmen who have plunged deeply into the frivolities and conventionalities\nof society, very seldom have. Their hearts never grow, my dear ma'am,\ntill after thirty. I don't believe, no, I do NOT believe, that I had any\nheart myself when I was Ned's age.'\n\n'Oh sir,' said Mrs Varden, 'I think you must have had. It's impossible\nthat you, who have so much now, can ever have been without any.'\n\n'I hope,' he answered, shrugging his shoulders meekly, 'I have a little;\nI hope, a very little--Heaven knows! But to return to Ned; I have no\ndoubt you thought, and therefore interfered benevolently in his behalf,\nthat I objected to Miss Haredale. How very natural! My dear madam, I\nobject to him--to him--emphatically to Ned himself.'\n\nMrs Varden was perfectly aghast at the disclosure.\n\n'He has, if he honourably fulfils this solemn obligation of which I have\ntold you--and he must be honourable, dear Mrs Varden, or he is no son\nof mine--a fortune within his reach. He is of most expensive, ruinously\nexpensive habits; and if, in a moment of caprice and wilfulness, he\nwere to marry this young lady, and so deprive himself of the means\nof gratifying the tastes to which he has been so long accustomed, he\nwould--my dear madam, he would break the gentle creature's heart. Mrs\nVarden, my good lady, my dear soul, I put it to you--is such a sacrifice\nto be endured? Is the female heart a thing to be trifled with in this\nway? Ask your own, my dear madam. Ask your own, I beseech you.'\n\n'Truly,' thought Mrs Varden, 'this gentleman is a saint. But,' she added\naloud, and not unnaturally, 'if you take Miss Emma's lover away, sir,\nwhat becomes of the poor thing's heart then?'\n\n'The very point,' said Mr Chester, not at all abashed, 'to which I\nwished to lead you. A marriage with my son, whom I should be compelled\nto disown, would be followed by years of misery; they would be\nseparated, my dear madam, in a twelvemonth. To break off this\nattachment, which is more fancied than real, as you and I know very\nwell, will cost the dear girl but a few tears, and she is happy again.\nTake the case of your own daughter, the young lady downstairs, who is\nyour breathing image'--Mrs Varden coughed and simpered--'there is a\nyoung man (I am sorry to say, a dissolute fellow, of very\nindifferent character) of whom I have heard Ned speak--Bullet was\nit--Pullet--Mullet--'\n\n'There is a young man of the name of Joseph Willet, sir,' said Mrs\nVarden, folding her hands loftily.\n\n'That's he,' cried Mr Chester. 'Suppose this Joseph Willet now, were to\naspire to the affections of your charming daughter, and were to engage\nthem.'\n\n'It would be like his impudence,' interposed Mrs Varden, bridling, 'to\ndare to think of such a thing!'\n\n'My dear madam, that's the whole case. I know it would be like his\nimpudence. It is like Ned's impudence to do as he has done; but you\nwould not on that account, or because of a few tears from your beautiful\ndaughter, refrain from checking their inclinations in their birth. I\nmeant to have reasoned thus with your husband when I saw him at Mrs\nRudge's this evening--'\n\n'My husband,' said Mrs Varden, interposing with emotion, 'would be a\ngreat deal better at home than going to Mrs Rudge's so often. I don't\nknow what he does there. I don't see what occasion he has to busy\nhimself in her affairs at all, sir.'\n\n'If I don't appear to express my concurrence in those last sentiments of\nyours,' returned Mr Chester, 'quite so strongly as you might desire,\nit is because his being there, my dear madam, and not proving\nconversational, led me hither, and procured me the happiness of\nthis interview with one, in whom the whole management, conduct, and\nprosperity of her family are centred, I perceive.'\n\nWith that he took Mrs Varden's hand again, and having pressed it to his\nlips with the highflown gallantry of the day--a little burlesqued\nto render it the more striking in the good lady's unaccustomed\neyes--proceeded in the same strain of mingled sophistry, cajolery,\nand flattery, to entreat that her utmost influence might be exerted to\nrestrain her husband and daughter from any further promotion of Edward's\nsuit to Miss Haredale, and from aiding or abetting either party in any\nway. Mrs Varden was but a woman, and had her share of vanity, obstinacy,\nand love of power. She entered into a secret treaty of alliance,\noffensive and defensive, with her insinuating visitor; and really did\nbelieve, as many others would have done who saw and heard him, that in\nso doing she furthered the ends of truth, justice, and morality, in a\nvery uncommon degree.\n\nOverjoyed by the success of his negotiation, and mightily amused within\nhimself, Mr Chester conducted her downstairs in the same state as\nbefore; and having repeated the previous ceremony of salutation, which\nalso as before comprehended Dolly, took his leave; first completing the\nconquest of Miss Miggs's heart, by inquiring if 'this young lady' would\nlight him to the door.\n\n'Oh, mim,' said Miggs, returning with the candle. 'Oh gracious me, mim,\nthere's a gentleman! Was there ever such an angel to talk as he is--and\nsuch a sweet-looking man! So upright and noble, that he seems to despise\nthe very ground he walks on; and yet so mild and condescending, that\nhe seems to say \"but I will take notice on it too.\" And to think of\nhis taking you for Miss Dolly, and Miss Dolly for your sister--Oh, my\ngoodness me, if I was master wouldn't I be jealous of him!'\n\nMrs Varden reproved her handmaid for this vain-speaking; but very gently\nand mildly--quite smilingly indeed--remarking that she was a foolish,\ngiddy, light-headed girl, whose spirits carried her beyond all bounds,\nand who didn't mean half she said, or she would be quite angry with her.\n\n'For my part,' said Dolly, in a thoughtful manner, 'I half believe Mr\nChester is something like Miggs in that respect. For all his politeness\nand pleasant speaking, I am pretty sure he was making game of us, more\nthan once.'\n\n'If you venture to say such a thing again, and to speak ill of people\nbehind their backs in my presence, miss,' said Mrs Varden, 'I shall\ninsist upon your taking a candle and going to bed directly. How dare\nyou, Dolly? I'm astonished at you. The rudeness of your whole behaviour\nthis evening has been disgraceful. Did anybody ever hear,' cried the\nenraged matron, bursting into tears, 'of a daughter telling her own\nmother she has been made game of!'\n\nWhat a very uncertain temper Mrs Varden's was!\n\n\n\nChapter 28\n\n\nRepairing to a noted coffee-house in Covent Garden when he left the\nlocksmith's, Mr Chester sat long over a late dinner, entertaining\nhimself exceedingly with the whimsical recollection of his recent\nproceedings, and congratulating himself very much on his great\ncleverness. Influenced by these thoughts, his face wore an expression\nso benign and tranquil, that the waiter in immediate attendance upon him\nfelt he could almost have died in his defence, and settled in his own\nmind (until the receipt of the bill, and a very small fee for very great\ntrouble disabused it of the idea) that such an apostolic customer was\nworth half-a-dozen of the ordinary run of visitors, at least.\n\nA visit to the gaming-table--not as a heated, anxious venturer, but\none whom it was quite a treat to see staking his two or three pieces in\ndeference to the follies of society, and smiling with equal benevolence\non winners and losers--made it late before he reached home. It was his\ncustom to bid his servant go to bed at his own time unless he had orders\nto the contrary, and to leave a candle on the common stair. There was a\nlamp on the landing by which he could always light it when he came home\nlate, and having a key of the door about him he could enter and go to\nbed at his pleasure.\n\nHe opened the glass of the dull lamp, whose wick, burnt up and swollen\nlike a drunkard's nose, came flying off in little carbuncles at the\ncandle's touch, and scattering hot sparks about, rendered it matter\nof some difficulty to kindle the lazy taper; when a noise, as of a man\nsnoring deeply some steps higher up, caused him to pause and listen.\nIt was the heavy breathing of a sleeper, close at hand. Some fellow\nhad lain down on the open staircase, and was slumbering soundly.\nHaving lighted the candle at length and opened his own door, he softly\nascended, holding the taper high above his head, and peering cautiously\nabout; curious to see what kind of man had chosen so comfortless a\nshelter for his lodging.\n\nWith his head upon the landing and his great limbs flung over\nhalf-a-dozen stairs, as carelessly as though he were a dead man\nwhom drunken bearers had thrown down by chance, there lay Hugh, face\nuppermost, his long hair drooping like some wild weed upon his wooden\npillow, and his huge chest heaving with the sounds which so unwontedly\ndisturbed the place and hour.\n\nHe who came upon him so unexpectedly was about to break his rest by\nthrusting him with his foot, when, glancing at his upturned face, he\narrested himself in the very action, and stooping down and shading the\ncandle with his hand, examined his features closely. Close as his first\ninspection was, it did not suffice, for he passed the light, still\ncarefully shaded as before, across and across his face, and yet observed\nhim with a searching eye.\n\nWhile he was thus engaged, the sleeper, without any starting or turning\nround, awoke. There was a kind of fascination in meeting his steady gaze\nso suddenly, which took from the other the presence of mind to withdraw\nhis eyes, and forced him, as it were, to meet his look. So they remained\nstaring at each other, until Mr Chester at last broke silence, and asked\nhim in a low voice, why he lay sleeping there.\n\n'I thought,' said Hugh, struggling into a sitting posture and gazing at\nhim intently, still, 'that you were a part of my dream. It was a curious\none. I hope it may never come true, master.'\n\n'What makes you shiver?'\n\n'The--the cold, I suppose,' he growled, as he shook himself and rose. 'I\nhardly know where I am yet.'\n\n'Do you know me?' said Mr Chester.\n\n'Ay, I know you,' he answered. 'I was dreaming of you--we're not where I\nthought we were. That's a comfort.'\n\nHe looked round him as he spoke, and in particular looked above his\nhead, as though he half expected to be standing under some object\nwhich had had existence in his dream. Then he rubbed his eyes and shook\nhimself again, and followed his conductor into his own rooms.\n\nMr Chester lighted the candles which stood upon his dressing-table, and\nwheeling an easy-chair towards the fire, which was yet burning, stirred\nup a cheerful blaze, sat down before it, and bade his uncouth visitor\n'Come here,' and draw his boots off.\n\n'You have been drinking again, my fine fellow,' he said, as Hugh went\ndown on one knee, and did as he was told.\n\n'As I'm alive, master, I've walked the twelve long miles, and waited\nhere I don't know how long, and had no drink between my lips since\ndinner-time at noon.'\n\n'And can you do nothing better, my pleasant friend, than fall asleep,\nand shake the very building with your snores?' said Mr Chester. 'Can't\nyou dream in your straw at home, dull dog as you are, that you need come\nhere to do it?--Reach me those slippers, and tread softly.'\n\nHugh obeyed in silence.\n\n'And harkee, my dear young gentleman,' said Mr Chester, as he put them\non, 'the next time you dream, don't let it be of me, but of some dog or\nhorse with whom you are better acquainted. Fill the glass once--you'll\nfind it and the bottle in the same place--and empty it to keep yourself\nawake.'\n\nHugh obeyed again even more zealously--and having done so, presented\nhimself before his patron.\n\n'Now,' said Mr Chester, 'what do you want with me?'\n\n'There was news to-day,' returned Hugh. 'Your son was at our house--came\ndown on horseback. He tried to see the young woman, but couldn't get\nsight of her. He left some letter or some message which our Joe had\ncharge of, but he and the old one quarrelled about it when your son had\ngone, and the old one wouldn't let it be delivered. He says (that's the\nold one does) that none of his people shall interfere and get him into\ntrouble. He's a landlord, he says, and lives on everybody's custom.'\n\n'He's a jewel,' smiled Mr Chester, 'and the better for being a dull\none.--Well?'\n\n'Varden's daughter--that's the girl I kissed--'\n\n'--and stole the bracelet from upon the king's highway,' said Mr\nChester, composedly. 'Yes; what of her?'\n\n'She wrote a note at our house to the young woman, saying she lost the\nletter I brought to you, and you burnt. Our Joe was to carry it, but\nthe old one kept him at home all next day, on purpose that he shouldn't.\nNext morning he gave it to me to take; and here it is.'\n\n'You didn't deliver it then, my good friend?' said Mr Chester, twirling\nDolly's note between his finger and thumb, and feigning to be surprised.\n\n'I supposed you'd want to have it,' retorted Hugh. 'Burn one, burn all,\nI thought.'\n\n'My devil-may-care acquaintance,' said Mr Chester--'really if you do not\ndraw some nicer distinctions, your career will be cut short with most\nsurprising suddenness. Don't you know that the letter you brought to\nme, was directed to my son who resides in this very place? And can you\ndescry no difference between his letters and those addressed to other\npeople?'\n\n'If you don't want it,' said Hugh, disconcerted by this reproof, for he\nhad expected high praise, 'give it me back, and I'll deliver it. I don't\nknow how to please you, master.'\n\n'I shall deliver it,' returned his patron, putting it away after a\nmoment's consideration, 'myself. Does the young lady walk out, on fine\nmornings?'\n\n'Mostly--about noon is her usual time.'\n\n'Alone?'\n\n'Yes, alone.'\n\n'Where?'\n\n'In the grounds before the house.--Them that the footpath crosses.'\n\n'If the weather should be fine, I may throw myself in her way to-morrow,\nperhaps,' said Mr Chester, as coolly as if she were one of his ordinary\nacquaintance. 'Mr Hugh, if I should ride up to the Maypole door, you\nwill do me the favour only to have seen me once. You must suppress your\ngratitude, and endeavour to forget my forbearance in the matter of the\nbracelet. It is natural it should break out, and it does you honour; but\nwhen other folks are by, you must, for your own sake and safety, be as\nlike your usual self as though you owed me no obligation whatever, and\nhad never stood within these walls. You comprehend me?'\n\nHugh understood him perfectly. After a pause he muttered that he hoped\nhis patron would involve him in no trouble about this last letter;\nfor he had kept it back solely with the view of pleasing him. He was\ncontinuing in this strain, when Mr Chester with a most beneficent and\npatronising air cut him short by saying:\n\n'My good fellow, you have my promise, my word, my sealed bond (for a\nverbal pledge with me is quite as good), that I will always protect you\nso long as you deserve it. Now, do set your mind at rest. Keep it at\nease, I beg of you. When a man puts himself in my power so thoroughly as\nyou have done, I really feel as though he had a kind of claim upon me. I\nam more disposed to mercy and forbearance under such circumstances\nthan I can tell you, Hugh. Do look upon me as your protector, and rest\nassured, I entreat you, that on the subject of that indiscretion, you\nmay preserve, as long as you and I are friends, the lightest heart that\never beat within a human breast. Fill that glass once more to cheer you\non your road homewards--I am really quite ashamed to think how far you\nhave to go--and then God bless you for the night.'\n\n'They think,' said Hugh, when he had tossed the liquor down, 'that I am\nsleeping soundly in the stable. Ha ha ha! The stable door is shut, but\nthe steed's gone, master.'\n\n'You are a most convivial fellow,' returned his friend, 'and I love your\nhumour of all things. Good night! Take the greatest possible care of\nyourself, for my sake!'\n\nIt was remarkable that during the whole interview, each had endeavoured\nto catch stolen glances of the other's face, and had never looked full\nat it. They interchanged one brief and hasty glance as Hugh went out,\naverted their eyes directly, and so separated. Hugh closed the double\ndoors behind him, carefully and without noise; and Mr Chester remained\nin his easy-chair, with his gaze intently fixed upon the fire.\n\n'Well!' he said, after meditating for a long time--and said with a deep\nsigh and an uneasy shifting of his attitude, as though he dismissed some\nother subject from his thoughts, and returned to that which had held\npossession of them all the day--'the plot thickens; I have thrown the\nshell; it will explode, I think, in eight-and-forty hours, and should\nscatter these good folks amazingly. We shall see!'\n\nHe went to bed and fell asleep, but had not slept long when he started\nup and thought that Hugh was at the outer door, calling in a strange\nvoice, very different from his own, to be admitted. The delusion was so\nstrong upon him, and was so full of that vague terror of the night\nin which such visions have their being, that he rose, and taking his\nsheathed sword in his hand, opened the door, and looked out upon the\nstaircase, and towards the spot where Hugh had lain asleep; and even\nspoke to him by name. But all was dark and quiet, and creeping back\nto bed again, he fell, after an hour's uneasy watching, into a second\nsleep, and woke no more till morning.\n\n\n\nChapter 29\n\n\nThe thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of\ngravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The\nbright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal\nto their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon,\nor in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who,\nlearning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten\nsuch small heavenly constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal\nLove, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that\nthe blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky,\nsee nothing there but the reflection of their own great wisdom and\nbook-learning.\n\nIt is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought,\nturning their eyes towards the countless spheres that shine above us,\nand making them reflect the only images their minds contain. The man who\nlives but in the breath of princes, has nothing in his sight but stars for\ncourtiers' breasts. The envious man beholds his neighbours' honours\neven in the sky; to the money-hoarder, and the mass of worldly folk, the\nwhole great universe above glitters with sterling coin--fresh from the\nmint--stamped with the sovereign's head--coming always between them and\nheaven, turn where they may. So do the shadows of our own desires stand\nbetween us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.\n\nEverything was fresh and gay, as though the world were but that morning\nmade, when Mr Chester rode at a tranquil pace along the Forest road.\nThough early in the season, it was warm and genial weather; the trees\nwere budding into leaf, the hedges and the grass were green, the air was\nmusical with songs of birds, and high above them all the lark poured\nout her richest melody. In shady spots, the morning dew sparkled on\neach young leaf and blade of grass; and where the sun was shining, some\ndiamond drops yet glistened brightly, as in unwillingness to leave so\nfair a world, and have such brief existence. Even the light wind, whose\nrustling was as gentle to the ear as softly-falling water, had its hope\nand promise; and, leaving a pleasant fragrance in its track as it went\nfluttering by, whispered of its intercourse with Summer, and of his\nhappy coming.\n\nThe solitary rider went glancing on among the trees, from sunlight\ninto shade and back again, at the same even pace--looking about him,\ncertainly, from time to time, but with no greater thought of the day\nor the scene through which he moved, than that he was fortunate (being\nchoicely dressed) to have such favourable weather. He smiled very\ncomplacently at such times, but rather as if he were satisfied with\nhimself than with anything else: and so went riding on, upon his\nchestnut cob, as pleasant to look upon as his own horse, and probably\nfar less sensitive to the many cheerful influences by which he was\nsurrounded.\n\nIn the course of time, the Maypole's massive chimneys rose upon his\nview: but he quickened not his pace one jot, and with the same cool\ngravity rode up to the tavern porch. John Willet, who was toasting\nhis red face before a great fire in the bar, and who, with surpassing\nforesight and quickness of apprehension, had been thinking, as he looked\nat the blue sky, that if that state of things lasted much longer, it\nmight ultimately become necessary to leave off fires and throw the\nwindows open, issued forth to hold his stirrup; calling lustily for\nHugh.\n\n'Oh, you're here, are you, sir?' said John, rather surprised by the\nquickness with which he appeared. 'Take this here valuable animal into\nthe stable, and have more than particular care of him if you want to\nkeep your place. A mortal lazy fellow, sir; he needs a deal of looking\nafter.'\n\n'But you have a son,' returned Mr Chester, giving his bridle to Hugh as\nhe dismounted, and acknowledging his salute by a careless motion of his\nhand towards his hat. 'Why don't you make HIM useful?'\n\n'Why, the truth is, sir,' replied John with great importance, 'that my\nson--what, you're a-listening are you, villain?'\n\n'Who's listening?' returned Hugh angrily. 'A treat, indeed, to hear YOU\nspeak! Would you have me take him in till he's cool?'\n\n'Walk him up and down further off then, sir,' cried old John, 'and when\nyou see me and a noble gentleman entertaining ourselves with talk, keep\nyour distance. If you don't know your distance, sir,' added Mr Willet,\nafter an enormously long pause, during which he fixed his great dull\neyes on Hugh, and waited with exemplary patience for any little property\nin the way of ideas that might come to him, 'we'll find a way to teach\nyou, pretty soon.'\n\nHugh shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and in his reckless swaggering\nway, crossed to the other side of the little green, and there, with\nthe bridle slung loosely over his shoulder, led the horse to and fro,\nglancing at his master every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows,\nwith as sinister an aspect as one would desire to see.\n\nMr Chester, who, without appearing to do so, had eyed him attentively\nduring this brief dispute, stepped into the porch, and turning abruptly\nto Mr Willet, said,\n\n'You keep strange servants, John.'\n\n'Strange enough to look at, sir, certainly,' answered the host; 'but out\nof doors; for horses, dogs, and the likes of that; there an't a better\nman in England than is that Maypole Hugh yonder. He an't fit for\nindoors,' added Mr Willet, with the confidential air of a man who felt\nhis own superior nature. 'I do that; but if that chap had only a little\nimagination, sir--'\n\n'He's an active fellow now, I dare swear,' said Mr Chester, in a musing\ntone, which seemed to suggest that he would have said the same had there\nbeen nobody to hear him.\n\n'Active, sir!' retorted John, with quite an expression in his face;\n'that chap! Hallo there! You, sir! Bring that horse here, and go and\nhang my wig on the weathercock, to show this gentleman whether you're\none of the lively sort or not.'\n\nHugh made no answer, but throwing the bridle to his master, and\nsnatching his wig from his head, in a manner so unceremonious and hasty\nthat the action discomposed Mr Willet not a little, though performed at\nhis own special desire, climbed nimbly to the very summit of the maypole\nbefore the house, and hanging the wig upon the weathercock, sent it\ntwirling round like a roasting jack. Having achieved this performance,\nhe cast it on the ground, and sliding down the pole with inconceivable\nrapidity, alighted on his feet almost as soon as it had touched the\nearth.\n\n'There, sir,' said John, relapsing into his usual stolid state, 'you\nwon't see that at many houses, besides the Maypole, where there's good\naccommodation for man and beast--nor that neither, though that with him\nis nothing.'\n\nThis last remark bore reference to his vaulting on horseback, as upon Mr\nChester's first visit, and quickly disappearing by the stable gate.\n\n'That with him is nothing,' repeated Mr Willet, brushing his wig with\nhis wrist, and inwardly resolving to distribute a small charge for dust\nand damage to that article of dress, through the various items of his\nguest's bill; 'he'll get out of a'most any winder in the house. There\nnever was such a chap for flinging himself about and never hurting his\nbones. It's my opinion, sir, that it's pretty nearly allowing to his\nnot having any imagination; and that if imagination could be (which it\ncan't) knocked into him, he'd never be able to do it any more. But we\nwas a-talking, sir, about my son.'\n\n'True, Willet, true,' said his visitor, turning again towards the\nlandlord with his accustomed serenity of face. 'My good friend, what\nabout him?'\n\nIt has been reported that Mr Willet, previously to making answer,\nwinked. But as he was never known to be guilty of such lightness of\nconduct either before or afterwards, this may be looked upon as\na malicious invention of his enemies--founded, perhaps, upon the\nundisputed circumstance of his taking his guest by the third breast\nbutton of his coat, counting downwards from the chin, and pouring his\nreply into his ear:\n\n'Sir,' whispered John, with dignity, 'I know my duty. We want no\nlove-making here, sir, unbeknown to parents. I respect a certain young\ngentleman, taking him in the light of a young gentleman; I respect a\ncertain young lady, taking her in the light of a young lady; but of the\ntwo as a couple, I have no knowledge, sir, none whatever. My son, sir,\nis upon his patrole.'\n\n'I thought I saw him looking through the corner window but this moment,'\nsaid Mr Chester, who naturally thought that being on patrole, implied\nwalking about somewhere.\n\n'No doubt you did, sir,' returned John. 'He is upon his patrole of\nhonour, sir, not to leave the premises. Me and some friends of mine that\nuse the Maypole of an evening, sir, considered what was best to be done\nwith him, to prevent his doing anything unpleasant in opposing your\ndesires; and we've put him on his patrole. And what's more, sir, he\nwon't be off his patrole for a pretty long time to come, I can tell you\nthat.'\n\nWhen he had communicated this bright idea, which had its origin in the\nperusal by the village cronies of a newspaper, containing, among other\nmatters, an account of how some officer pending the sentence of some\ncourt-martial had been enlarged on parole, Mr Willet drew back from his\nguest's ear, and without any visible alteration of feature, chuckled\nthrice audibly. This nearest approach to a laugh in which he ever\nindulged (and that but seldom and only on extreme occasions), never even\ncurled his lip or effected the smallest change in--no, not so much as a\nslight wagging of--his great, fat, double chin, which at these times, as\nat all others, remained a perfect desert in the broad map of his face;\none changeless, dull, tremendous blank.\n\nLest it should be matter of surprise to any, that Mr Willet adopted this\nbold course in opposition to one whom he had often entertained, and who\nhad always paid his way at the Maypole gallantly, it may be remarked\nthat it was his very penetration and sagacity in this respect, which\noccasioned him to indulge in those unusual demonstrations of jocularity,\njust now recorded. For Mr Willet, after carefully balancing father and\nson in his mental scales, had arrived at the distinct conclusion that\nthe old gentleman was a better sort of a customer than the young one.\nThrowing his landlord into the same scale, which was already turned by\nthis consideration, and heaping upon him, again, his strong desires\nto run counter to the unfortunate Joe, and his opposition as a general\nprinciple to all matters of love and matrimony, it went down to the very\nground straightway, and sent the light cause of the younger gentleman\nflying upwards to the ceiling. Mr Chester was not the kind of man to be\nby any means dim-sighted to Mr Willet's motives, but he thanked him as\ngraciously as if he had been one of the most disinterested martyrs that\never shone on earth; and leaving him, with many complimentary reliances\non his great taste and judgment, to prepare whatever dinner he might\ndeem most fitting the occasion, bent his steps towards the Warren.\n\nDressed with more than his usual elegance; assuming a gracefulness of\nmanner, which, though it was the result of long study, sat easily upon\nhim and became him well; composing his features into their most serene\nand prepossessing expression; and setting in short that guard upon\nhimself, at every point, which denoted that he attached no slight\nimportance to the impression he was about to make; he entered the bounds\nof Miss Haredale's usual walk. He had not gone far, or looked about him\nlong, when he descried coming towards him, a female figure. A glimpse\nof the form and dress as she crossed a little wooden bridge which lay\nbetween them, satisfied him that he had found her whom he desired to\nsee. He threw himself in her way, and a very few paces brought them\nclose together.\n\nHe raised his hat from his head, and yielding the path, suffered her to\npass him. Then, as if the idea had but that moment occurred to him, he\nturned hastily back and said in an agitated voice:\n\n'I beg pardon--do I address Miss Haredale?'\n\nShe stopped in some confusion at being so unexpectedly accosted by a\nstranger; and answered 'Yes.'\n\n'Something told me,' he said, LOOKING a compliment to her beauty, 'that\nit could be no other. Miss Haredale, I bear a name which is not unknown\nto you--which it is a pride, and yet a pain to me to know, sounds\npleasantly in your ears. I am a man advanced in life, as you see. I am\nthe father of him whom you honour and distinguish above all other\nmen. May I for weighty reasons which fill me with distress, beg but a\nminute's conversation with you here?'\n\nWho that was inexperienced in deceit, and had a frank and youthful\nheart, could doubt the speaker's truth--could doubt it too, when the\nvoice that spoke, was like the faint echo of one she knew so well, and\nso much loved to hear? She inclined her head, and stopping, cast her\neyes upon the ground.\n\n'A little more apart--among these trees. It is an old man's hand, Miss\nHaredale; an honest one, believe me.'\n\nShe put hers in it as he said these words, and suffered him to lead her\nto a neighbouring seat.\n\n'You alarm me, sir,' she said in a low voice. 'You are not the bearer of\nany ill news, I hope?'\n\n'Of none that you anticipate,' he answered, sitting down beside her.\n'Edward is well--quite well. It is of him I wish to speak, certainly;\nbut I have no misfortune to communicate.'\n\nShe bowed her head again, and made as though she would have begged him\nto proceed; but said nothing.\n\n'I am sensible that I speak to you at a disadvantage, dear Miss\nHaredale. Believe me that I am not so forgetful of the feelings of my\nyounger days as not to know that you are little disposed to view me\nwith favour. You have heard me described as cold-hearted, calculating,\nselfish--'\n\n'I have never, sir,'--she interposed with an altered manner and a firmer\nvoice; 'I have never heard you spoken of in harsh or disrespectful\nterms. You do a great wrong to Edward's nature if you believe him\ncapable of any mean or base proceeding.'\n\n'Pardon me, my sweet young lady, but your uncle--'\n\n'Nor is it my uncle's nature either,' she replied, with a heightened\ncolour in her cheek. 'It is not his nature to stab in the dark, nor is\nit mine to love such deeds.'\n\nShe rose as she spoke, and would have left him; but he detained her with\na gentle hand, and besought her in such persuasive accents to hear him\nbut another minute, that she was easily prevailed upon to comply, and so\nsat down again.\n\n'And it is,' said Mr Chester, looking upward, and apostrophising the\nair; 'it is this frank, ingenuous, noble nature, Ned, that you can wound\nso lightly. Shame--shame upon you, boy!'\n\nShe turned towards him quickly, and with a scornful look and flashing\neyes. There were tears in Mr Chester's eyes, but he dashed them\nhurriedly away, as though unwilling that his weakness should be known,\nand regarded her with mingled admiration and compassion.\n\n'I never until now,' he said, 'believed, that the frivolous actions of a\nyoung man could move me like these of my own son. I never knew till now,\nthe worth of a woman's heart, which boys so lightly win, and lightly\nfling away. Trust me, dear young lady, that I never until now did\nknow your worth; and though an abhorrence of deceit and falsehood has\nimpelled me to seek you out, and would have done so had you been the\npoorest and least gifted of your sex, I should have lacked the fortitude\nto sustain this interview could I have pictured you to my imagination as\nyou really are.'\n\nOh! If Mrs Varden could have seen the virtuous gentleman as he said\nthese words, with indignation sparkling from his eyes--if she could have\nheard his broken, quavering voice--if she could have beheld him as he\nstood bareheaded in the sunlight, and with unwonted energy poured forth\nhis eloquence!\n\nWith a haughty face, but pale and trembling too, Emma regarded him in\nsilence. She neither spoke nor moved, but gazed upon him as though she\nwould look into his heart.\n\n'I throw off,' said Mr Chester, 'the restraint which natural affection\nwould impose on some men, and reject all bonds but those of truth and\nduty. Miss Haredale, you are deceived; you are deceived by your unworthy\nlover, and my unworthy son.'\n\nStill she looked at him steadily, and still said not one word.\n\n'I have ever opposed his professions of love for you; you will do me\nthe justice, dear Miss Haredale, to remember that. Your uncle and myself\nwere enemies in early life, and if I had sought retaliation, I might\nhave found it here. But as we grow older, we grow wiser--bitter, I would\nfain hope--and from the first, I have opposed him in this attempt. I\nforesaw the end, and would have spared you, if I could.'\n\n'Speak plainly, sir,' she faltered. 'You deceive me, or are deceived\nyourself. I do not believe you--I cannot--I should not.'\n\n'First,' said Mr Chester, soothingly, 'for there may be in your mind\nsome latent angry feeling to which I would not appeal, pray take this\nletter. It reached my hands by chance, and by mistake, and should have\naccounted to you (as I am told) for my son's not answering some other\nnote of yours. God forbid, Miss Haredale,' said the good gentleman, with\ngreat emotion, 'that there should be in your gentle breast one causeless\nground of quarrel with him. You should know, and you will see, that he\nwas in no fault here.'\n\nThere appeared something so very candid, so scrupulously honourable,\nso very truthful and just in this course something which rendered the\nupright person who resorted to it, so worthy of belief--that Emma's\nheart, for the first time, sunk within her. She turned away and burst\ninto tears.\n\n'I would,' said Mr Chester, leaning over her, and speaking in mild and\nquite venerable accents; 'I would, dear girl, it were my task to banish,\nnot increase, those tokens of your grief. My son, my erring son,--I will\nnot call him deliberately criminal in this, for men so young, who have\nbeen inconstant twice or thrice before, act without reflection, almost\nwithout a knowledge of the wrong they do,--will break his plighted faith\nto you; has broken it even now. Shall I stop here, and having given you\nthis warning, leave it to be fulfilled; or shall I go on?'\n\n'You will go on, sir,' she answered, 'and speak more plainly yet, in\njustice both to him and me.'\n\n'My dear girl,' said Mr Chester, bending over her more affectionately\nstill; 'whom I would call my daughter, but the Fates forbid, Edward\nseeks to break with you upon a false and most unwarrantable pretence. I\nhave it on his own showing; in his own hand. Forgive me, if I have had\na watch upon his conduct; I am his father; I had a regard for your peace\nand his honour, and no better resource was left me. There lies on his\ndesk at this present moment, ready for transmission to you, a letter,\nin which he tells you that our poverty--our poverty; his and mine, Miss\nHaredale--forbids him to pursue his claim upon your hand; in which he\noffers, voluntarily proposes, to free you from your pledge; and talks\nmagnanimously (men do so, very commonly, in such cases) of being in\ntime more worthy of your regard--and so forth. A letter, to be plain, in\nwhich he not only jilts you--pardon the word; I would summon to your\naid your pride and dignity--not only jilts you, I fear, in favour of the\nobject whose slighting treatment first inspired his brief passion for\nyourself and gave it birth in wounded vanity, but affects to make a\nmerit and a virtue of the act.'\n\nShe glanced proudly at him once more, as by an involuntary impulse, and\nwith a swelling breast rejoined, 'If what you say be true, he takes much\nneedless trouble, sir, to compass his design. He's very tender of my\npeace of mind. I quite thank him.'\n\n'The truth of what I tell you, dear young lady,' he replied, 'you will\ntest by the receipt or non-receipt of the letter of which I speak.\nHaredale, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, although we meet\nunder singular circumstances, and upon a melancholy occasion. I hope you\nare very well.'\n\nAt these words the young lady raised her eyes, which were filled with\ntears; and seeing that her uncle indeed stood before them, and being\nquite unequal to the trial of hearing or of speaking one word more,\nhurriedly withdrew, and left them. They stood looking at each other, and\nat her retreating figure, and for a long time neither of them spoke.\n\n'What does this mean? Explain it,' said Mr Haredale at length. 'Why are\nyou here, and why with her?'\n\n'My dear friend,' rejoined the other, resuming his accustomed manner\nwith infinite readiness, and throwing himself upon the bench with a\nweary air, 'you told me not very long ago, at that delightful old\ntavern of which you are the esteemed proprietor (and a most charming\nestablishment it is for persons of rural pursuits and in robust health,\nwho are not liable to take cold), that I had the head and heart of an\nevil spirit in all matters of deception. I thought at the time; I\nreally did think; you flattered me. But now I begin to wonder at your\ndiscernment, and vanity apart, do honestly believe you spoke the truth.\nDid you ever counterfeit extreme ingenuousness and honest indignation?\nMy dear fellow, you have no conception, if you never did, how faint the\neffort makes one.'\n\nMr Haredale surveyed him with a look of cold contempt. 'You may evade an\nexplanation, I know,' he said, folding his arms. 'But I must have it. I\ncan wait.'\n\n'Not at all. Not at all, my good fellow. You shall not wait a moment,'\nreturned his friend, as he lazily crossed his legs. 'The simplest thing\nin the world. It lies in a nutshell. Ned has written her a letter--a\nboyish, honest, sentimental composition, which remains as yet in\nhis desk, because he hasn't had the heart to send it. I have taken a\nliberty, for which my parental affection and anxiety are a sufficient\nexcuse, and possessed myself of the contents. I have described them\nto your niece (a most enchanting person, Haredale; quite an angelic\ncreature), with a little colouring and description adapted to our\npurpose. It's done. You may be quite easy. It's all over. Deprived of\ntheir adherents and mediators; her pride and jealousy roused to the\nutmost; with nobody to undeceive her, and you to confirm me; you will\nfind that their intercourse will close with her answer. If she receives\nNed's letter by to-morrow noon, you may date their parting from\nto-morrow night. No thanks, I beg; you owe me none. I have acted for\nmyself; and if I have forwarded our compact with all the ardour even you\ncould have desired, I have done so selfishly, indeed.'\n\n'I curse the compact, as you call it, with my whole heart and soul,'\nreturned the other. 'It was made in an evil hour. I have bound myself\nto a lie; I have leagued myself with you; and though I did so with a\nrighteous motive, and though it cost me such an effort as haply few men\nknow, I hate and despise myself for the deed.'\n\n'You are very warm,' said Mr Chester with a languid smile.\n\n'I AM warm. I am maddened by your coldness. 'Death, Chester, if your\nblood ran warmer in your veins, and there were no restraints upon me,\nsuch as those that hold and drag me back--well; it is done; you tell me\nso, and on such a point I may believe you. When I am most remorseful\nfor this treachery, I will think of you and your marriage, and try to\njustify myself in such remembrances, for having torn asunder Emma and\nyour son, at any cost. Our bond is cancelled now, and we may part.'\n\nMr Chester kissed his hand gracefully; and with the same tranquil face\nhe had preserved throughout--even when he had seen his companion\nso tortured and transported by his passion that his whole frame was\nshaken--lay in his lounging posture on the seat and watched him as he\nwalked away.\n\n'My scapegoat and my drudge at school,' he said, raising his head\nto look after him; 'my friend of later days, who could not keep his\nmistress when he had won her, and threw me in her way to carry off the\nprize; I triumph in the present and the past. Bark on, ill-favoured,\nill-conditioned cur; fortune has ever been with me--I like to hear you.'\n\nThe spot where they had met, was in an avenue of trees. Mr Haredale not\npassing out on either hand, had walked straight on. He chanced to turn\nhis head when at some considerable distance, and seeing that his late\ncompanion had by that time risen and was looking after him, stood still\nas though he half expected him to follow and waited for his coming up.\n\n'It MAY come to that one day, but not yet,' said Mr Chester, waving his\nhand, as though they were the best of friends, and turning away. 'Not\nyet, Haredale. Life is pleasant enough to me; dull and full of heaviness\nto you. No. To cross swords with such a man--to indulge his humour\nunless upon extremity--would be weak indeed.'\n\nFor all that, he drew his sword as he walked along, and in an\nabsent humour ran his eye from hilt to point full twenty times. But\nthoughtfulness begets wrinkles; remembering this, he soon put it up,\nsmoothed his contracted brow, hummed a gay tune with greater gaiety of\nmanner, and was his unruffled self again.\n\n\n\nChapter 30\n\n\nA homely proverb recognises the existence of a troublesome class of\npersons who, having an inch conceded them, will take an ell. Not to\nquote the illustrious examples of those heroic scourges of mankind,\nwhose amiable path in life has been from birth to death through blood,\nand fire, and ruin, and who would seem to have existed for no better\npurpose than to teach mankind that as the absence of pain is pleasure,\nso the earth, purged of their presence, may be deemed a blessed\nplace--not to quote such mighty instances, it will be sufficient to\nrefer to old John Willet.\n\nOld John having long encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on\nthe liberty of Joe, and having snipped off a Flemish ell in the matter\nof the parole, grew so despotic and so great, that his thirst for\nconquest knew no bounds. The more young Joe submitted, the more absolute\nold John became. The ell soon faded into nothing. Yards, furlongs, miles\narose; and on went old John in the pleasantest manner possible, trimming\noff an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty of speech\nor action in that, and conducting himself in his small way with as much\nhigh mightiness and majesty, as the most glorious tyrant that ever had\nhis statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times.\n\nAs great men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging,\nwhich is not often), by their flatterers and dependents, so old John was\nimpelled to these exercises of authority by the applause and admiration\nof his Maypole cronies, who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and\npots, would shake their heads and say that Mr Willet was a father of the\ngood old English sort; that there were no new-fangled notions or modern\nways in him; that he put them in mind of what their fathers were when\nthey were boys; that there was no mistake about him; that it would be\nwell for the country if there were more like him, and more was the pity\nthat there were not; with many other original remarks of that nature.\nThen they would condescendingly give Joe to understand that it was\nall for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in\nparticular, Mr Cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his\nfather thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the\nears, or a cuff on the head, or some little admonition of that sort,\nthan he did of any other ordinary duty of life; and he would further\nremark, with looks of great significance, that but for this judicious\nbringing up, he might have never been the man he was at that present\nspeaking; which was probable enough, as he was, beyond all question,\nthe dullest dog of the party. In short, between old John and old\nJohn's friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so bullied,\nbadgered, worried, fretted, and brow-beaten; so constantly beset, or\nmade so tired of his life, as poor Joe Willet.\n\nThis had come to be the recognised and established state of things; but\nas John was very anxious to flourish his supremacy before the eyes of Mr\nChester, he did that day exceed himself, and did so goad and chafe his\nson and heir, that but for Joe's having made a solemn vow to keep\nhis hands in his pockets when they were not otherwise engaged, it is\nimpossible to say what he might have done with them. But the longest day\nhas an end, and at length Mr Chester came downstairs to mount his horse,\nwhich was ready at the door.\n\nAs old John was not in the way at the moment, Joe, who was sitting in\nthe bar ruminating on his dismal fate and the manifold perfections of\nDolly Varden, ran out to hold the guest's stirrup and assist him to\nmount. Mr Chester was scarcely in the saddle, and Joe was in the very\nact of making him a graceful bow, when old John came diving out of the\nporch, and collared him.\n\n'None of that, sir,' said John, 'none of that, sir. No breaking of\npatroles. How dare you come out of the door, sir, without leave? You're\ntrying to get away, sir, are you, and to make a traitor of yourself\nagain? What do you mean, sir?'\n\n'Let me go, father,' said Joe, imploringly, as he marked the smile upon\ntheir visitor's face, and observed the pleasure his disgrace afforded\nhim. 'This is too bad. Who wants to get away?'\n\n'Who wants to get away!' cried John, shaking him. 'Why you do, sir,\nyou do. You're the boy, sir,' added John, collaring with one hand, and\naiding the effect of a farewell bow to the visitor with the other,\n'that wants to sneak into houses, and stir up differences between noble\ngentlemen and their sons, are you, eh? Hold your tongue, sir.'\n\nJoe made no effort to reply. It was the crowning circumstance of his\ndegradation. He extricated himself from his father's grasp, darted an\nangry look at the departing guest, and returned into the house.\n\n'But for her,' thought Joe, as he threw his arms upon a table in the\ncommon room, and laid his head upon them, 'but for Dolly, who I couldn't\nbear should think me the rascal they would make me out to be if I ran\naway, this house and I should part to-night.'\n\nIt being evening by this time, Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb, and Long Parkes,\nwere all in the common room too, and had from the window been witnesses\nof what had just occurred. Mr Willet joining them soon afterwards,\nreceived the compliments of the company with great composure, and\nlighting his pipe, sat down among them.\n\n'We'll see, gentlemen,' said John, after a long pause, 'who's the master\nof this house, and who isn't. We'll see whether boys are to govern men,\nor men are to govern boys.'\n\n'And quite right too,' assented Solomon Daisy with some approving nods;\n'quite right, Johnny. Very good, Johnny. Well said, Mr Willet. Brayvo,\nsir.'\n\nJohn slowly brought his eyes to bear upon him, looked at him for a long\ntime, and finally made answer, to the unspeakable consternation of his\nhearers, 'When I want encouragement from you, sir, I'll ask you for\nit. You let me alone, sir. I can get on without you, I hope. Don't you\ntackle me, sir, if you please.'\n\n'Don't take it ill, Johnny; I didn't mean any harm,' pleaded the little\nman.\n\n'Very good, sir,' said John, more than usually obstinate after his late\nsuccess. 'Never mind, sir. I can stand pretty firm of myself, sir, I\nbelieve, without being shored up by you.' And having given utterance to\nthis retort, Mr Willet fixed his eyes upon the boiler, and fell into a\nkind of tobacco-trance.\n\nThe spirits of the company being somewhat damped by this embarrassing\nline of conduct on the part of their host, nothing more was said for a\nlong time; but at length Mr Cobb took upon himself to remark, as he rose\nto knock the ashes out of his pipe, that he hoped Joe would thenceforth\nlearn to obey his father in all things; that he had found, that day, he\nwas not one of the sort of men who were to be trifled with; and that\nhe would recommend him, poetically speaking, to mind his eye for the\nfuture.\n\n'I'd recommend you, in return,' said Joe, looking up with a flushed\nface, 'not to talk to me.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir,' cried Mr Willet, suddenly rousing himself, and\nturning round.\n\n'I won't, father,' cried Joe, smiting the table with his fist, so that\nthe jugs and glasses rung again; 'these things are hard enough to bear\nfrom you; from anybody else I never will endure them any more. Therefore\nI say, Mr Cobb, don't talk to me.'\n\n'Why, who are you,' said Mr Cobb, sneeringly, 'that you're not to be\ntalked to, eh, Joe?'\n\nTo which Joe returned no answer, but with a very ominous shake of the\nhead, resumed his old position, which he would have peacefully preserved\nuntil the house shut up at night, but that Mr Cobb, stimulated by the\nwonder of the company at the young man's presumption, retorted with\nsundry taunts, which proved too much for flesh and blood to bear.\nCrowding into one moment the vexation and the wrath of years, Joe\nstarted up, overturned the table, fell upon his long enemy, pummelled\nhim with all his might and main, and finished by driving him with\nsurprising swiftness against a heap of spittoons in one corner; plunging\ninto which, head foremost, with a tremendous crash, he lay at full\nlength among the ruins, stunned and motionless. Then, without waiting to\nreceive the compliments of the bystanders on the victory he had won, he\nretreated to his own bedchamber, and considering himself in a state\nof siege, piled all the portable furniture against the door by way of\nbarricade.\n\n'I have done it now,' said Joe, as he sat down upon his bedstead and\nwiped his heated face. 'I knew it would come at last. The Maypole and\nI must part company. I'm a roving vagabond--she hates me for\nevermore--it's all over!'\n\n\n\nChapter 31\n\n\nPondering on his unhappy lot, Joe sat and listened for a long time,\nexpecting every moment to hear their creaking footsteps on the stairs,\nor to be greeted by his worthy father with a summons to capitulate\nunconditionally, and deliver himself up straightway. But neither voice\nnor footstep came; and though some distant echoes, as of closing doors\nand people hurrying in and out of rooms, resounding from time to time\nthrough the great passages, and penetrating to his remote seclusion,\ngave note of unusual commotion downstairs, no nearer sound disturbed his\nplace of retreat, which seemed the quieter for these far-off noises, and\nwas as dull and full of gloom as any hermit's cell.\n\nIt came on darker and darker. The old-fashioned furniture of the\nchamber, which was a kind of hospital for all the invalided movables in\nthe house, grew indistinct and shadowy in its many shapes; chairs and\ntables, which by day were as honest cripples as need be, assumed a\ndoubtful and mysterious character; and one old leprous screen of faded\nIndia leather and gold binding, which had kept out many a cold breath of\nair in days of yore and shut in many a jolly face, frowned on him with\na spectral aspect, and stood at full height in its allotted corner, like\nsome gaunt ghost who waited to be questioned. A portrait opposite the\nwindow--a queer, old grey-eyed general, in an oval frame--seemed to\nwink and doze as the light decayed, and at length, when the last faint\nglimmering speck of day went out, to shut its eyes in good earnest, and\nfall sound asleep. There was such a hush and mystery about everything,\nthat Joe could not help following its example; and so went off into\na slumber likewise, and dreamed of Dolly, till the clock of Chigwell\nchurch struck two.\n\nStill nobody came. The distant noises in the house had ceased, and\nout of doors all was quiet; save for the occasional barking of some\ndeep-mouthed dog, and the shaking of the branches by the night wind.\nHe gazed mournfully out of window at each well-known object as it lay\nsleeping in the dim light of the moon; and creeping back to his former\nseat, thought about the late uproar, until, with long thinking of, it\nseemed to have occurred a month ago. Thus, between dozing, and thinking,\nand walking to the window and looking out, the night wore away; the grim\nold screen, and the kindred chairs and tables, began slowly to reveal\nthemselves in their accustomed forms; the grey-eyed general seemed to\nwink and yawn and rouse himself; and at last he was broad awake again,\nand very uncomfortable and cold and haggard he looked, in the dull grey\nlight of morning.\n\nThe sun had begun to peep above the forest trees, and already flung\nacross the curling mist bright bars of gold, when Joe dropped from his\nwindow on the ground below, a little bundle and his trusty stick, and\nprepared to descend himself.\n\nIt was not a very difficult task; for there were so many projections and\ngable ends in the way, that they formed a series of clumsy steps, with\nno greater obstacle than a jump of some few feet at last. Joe, with his\nstick and bundle on his shoulder, quickly stood on the firm earth, and\nlooked up at the old Maypole, it might be for the last time.\n\nHe didn't apostrophise it, for he was no great scholar. He didn't curse\nit, for he had little ill-will to give to anything on earth. He felt\nmore affectionate and kind to it than ever he had done in all his life\nbefore, so said with all his heart, 'God bless you!' as a parting wish,\nand turned away.\n\nHe walked along at a brisk pace, big with great thoughts of going for\na soldier and dying in some foreign country where it was very hot and\nsandy, and leaving God knows what unheard-of wealth in prize-money to\nDolly, who would be very much affected when she came to know of it;\nand full of such youthful visions, which were sometimes sanguine and\nsometimes melancholy, but always had her for their main point and\ncentre, pushed on vigorously until the noise of London sounded in his\nears, and the Black Lion hove in sight.\n\nIt was only eight o'clock then, and very much astonished the Black Lion\nwas, to see him come walking in with dust upon his feet at that early\nhour, with no grey mare to bear him company. But as he ordered breakfast\nto be got ready with all speed, and on its being set before him gave\nindisputable tokens of a hearty appetite, the Lion received him, as\nusual, with a hospitable welcome; and treated him with those marks\nof distinction, which, as a regular customer, and one within the\nfreemasonry of the trade, he had a right to claim.\n\nThis Lion or landlord,--for he was called both man and beast, by reason\nof his having instructed the artist who painted his sign, to convey\ninto the features of the lordly brute whose effigy it bore, as near a\ncounterpart of his own face as his skill could compass and devise,--was\na gentleman almost as quick of apprehension, and of almost as subtle a\nwit, as the mighty John himself. But the difference between them lay in\nthis: that whereas Mr Willet's extreme sagacity and acuteness were\nthe efforts of unassisted nature, the Lion stood indebted, in no small\namount, to beer; of which he swigged such copious draughts, that most of\nhis faculties were utterly drowned and washed away, except the one\ngreat faculty of sleep, which he retained in surprising perfection.\nThe creaking Lion over the house-door was, therefore, to say the\ntruth, rather a drowsy, tame, and feeble lion; and as these social\nrepresentatives of a savage class are usually of a conventional\ncharacter (being depicted, for the most part, in impossible attitudes\nand of unearthly colours), he was frequently supposed by the more\nignorant and uninformed among the neighbours, to be the veritable\nportrait of the host as he appeared on the occasion of some great\nfuneral ceremony or public mourning.\n\n'What noisy fellow is that in the next room?' said Joe, when he had\ndisposed of his breakfast, and had washed and brushed himself.\n\n'A recruiting serjeant,' replied the Lion.\n\nJoe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming\nof, all the way along.\n\n'And I wish,' said the Lion, 'he was anywhere else but here. The party\nmake noise enough, but don't call for much. There's great cry there, Mr\nWillet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn't like 'em, I know.'\n\nPerhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have known\nwhat was passing at that moment in Joe's mind, he would have liked them\nstill less.\n\n'Is he recruiting for a--for a fine regiment?' said Joe, glancing at a\nlittle round mirror that hung in the bar.\n\n'I believe he is,' replied the host. 'It's much the same thing, whatever\nregiment he's recruiting for. I'm told there an't a deal of difference\nbetween a fine man and another one, when they're shot through and\nthrough.'\n\n'They're not all shot,' said Joe.\n\n'No,' the Lion answered, 'not all. Those that are--supposing it's done\neasy--are the best off in my opinion.'\n\n'Ah!' retorted Joe, 'but you don't care for glory.'\n\n'For what?' said the Lion.\n\n'Glory.'\n\n'No,' returned the Lion, with supreme indifference. 'I don't. You're\nright in that, Mr Willet. When Glory comes here, and calls for anything\nto drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I'll give it him for\nnothing. It's my belief, sir, that the Glory's arms wouldn't do a very\nstrong business.'\n\nThese remarks were not at all comforting. Joe walked out, stopped at\nthe door of the next room, and listened. The serjeant was describing\na military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that there were\nfrequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the finest\nthing in the world--when your side won it--and Englishmen always did\nthat. 'Supposing you should be killed, sir?' said a timid voice in one\ncorner. 'Well, sir, supposing you should be,' said the serjeant, 'what\nthen? Your country loves you, sir; his Majesty King George the Third\nloves you; your memory is honoured, revered, respected; everybody's fond\nof you, and grateful to you; your name's wrote down at full length in a\nbook in the War Office. Damme, gentlemen, we must all die some time, or\nanother, eh?'\n\nThe voice coughed, and said no more.\n\nJoe walked into the room. A group of half-a-dozen fellows had gathered\ntogether in the taproom, and were listening with greedy ears. One of\nthem, a carter in a smockfrock, seemed wavering and disposed to enlist.\nThe rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so\n(according to the custom of mankind), backed the serjeant's arguments,\nand grinned among themselves. 'I say nothing, boys,' said the serjeant,\nwho sat a little apart, drinking his liquor. 'For lads of spirit'--here\nhe cast an eye on Joe--'this is the time. I don't want to inveigle you.\nThe king's not come to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we\nwant; not milk and water. We won't take five men out of six. We want\ntop-sawyers, we do. I'm not a-going to tell tales out of school, but,\ndamme, if every gentleman's son that carries arms in our corps, through\nbeing under a cloud and having little differences with his relations,\nwas counted up'--here his eye fell on Joe again, and so good-naturedly,\nthat Joe beckoned him out. He came directly.\n\n'You're a gentleman, by G--!' was his first remark, as he slapped him\non the back. 'You're a gentleman in disguise. So am I. Let's swear a\nfriendship.'\n\nJoe didn't exactly do that, but he shook hands with him, and thanked him\nfor his good opinion.\n\n'You want to serve,' said his new friend. 'You shall. You were made for\nit. You're one of us by nature. What'll you take to drink?'\n\n'Nothing just now,' replied Joe, smiling faintly. 'I haven't quite made\nup my mind.'\n\n'A mettlesome fellow like you, and not made up his mind!' cried the\nserjeant. 'Here--let me give the bell a pull, and you'll make up your\nmind in half a minute, I know.'\n\n'You're right so far'--answered Joe, 'for if you pull the bell here,\nwhere I'm known, there'll be an end of my soldiering inclinations in no\ntime. Look in my face. You see me, do you?'\n\n'I do,' replied the serjeant with an oath, 'and a finer young fellow or\none better qualified to serve his king and country, I never set my--' he\nused an adjective in this place--'eyes on.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Joe, 'I didn't ask you for want of a compliment, but\nthank you all the same. Do I look like a sneaking fellow or a liar?'\n\nThe serjeant rejoined with many choice asseverations that he didn't; and\nthat if his (the serjeant's) own father were to say he did, he would\nrun the old gentleman through the body cheerfully, and consider it a\nmeritorious action.\n\nJoe expressed his obligations, and continued, 'You can trust me then,\nand credit what I say. I believe I shall enlist in your regiment\nto-night. The reason I don't do so now is, because I don't want until\nto-night, to do what I can't recall. Where shall I find you, this\nevening?'\n\nHis friend replied with some unwillingness, and after much ineffectual\nentreaty having for its object the immediate settlement of the business,\nthat his quarters would be at the Crooked Billet in Tower Street; where\nhe would be found waking until midnight, and sleeping until breakfast\ntime to-morrow.\n\n'And if I do come--which it's a million to one, I shall--when will you\ntake me out of London?' demanded Joe.\n\n'To-morrow morning, at half after eight o'clock,' replied the serjeant.\n'You'll go abroad--a country where it's all sunshine and plunder--the\nfinest climate in the world.'\n\n'To go abroad,' said Joe, shaking hands with him, 'is the very thing I\nwant. You may expect me.'\n\n'You're the kind of lad for us,' cried the serjeant, holding Joe's hand\nin his, in the excess of his admiration. 'You're the boy to push your\nfortune. I don't say it because I bear you any envy, or would take away\nfrom the credit of the rise you'll make, but if I had been bred and\ntaught like you, I'd have been a colonel by this time.'\n\n'Tush, man!' said Joe, 'I'm not so young as that. Needs must when the\ndevil drives; and the devil that drives me is an empty pocket and an\nunhappy home. For the present, good-bye.'\n\n'For king and country!' cried the serjeant, flourishing his cap.\n\n'For bread and meat!' cried Joe, snapping his fingers. And so they\nparted.\n\nHe had very little money in his pocket; so little indeed, that after\npaying for his breakfast (which he was too honest and perhaps too proud\nto score up to his father's charge) he had but a penny left. He had\ncourage, notwithstanding, to resist all the affectionate importunities\nof the serjeant, who waylaid him at the door with many protestations of\neternal friendship, and did in particular request that he would do him\nthe favour to accept of only one shilling as a temporary accommodation.\nRejecting his offers both of cash and credit, Joe walked away with\nstick and bundle as before, bent upon getting through the day as he best\ncould, and going down to the locksmith's in the dusk of the evening;\nfor it should go hard, he had resolved, but he would have a parting word\nwith charming Dolly Varden.\n\nHe went out by Islington and so on to Highgate, and sat on many stones\nand gates, but there were no voices in the bells to bid him turn. Since\nthe time of noble Whittington, fair flower of merchants, bells have come\nto have less sympathy with humankind. They only ring for money and on\nstate occasions. Wanderers have increased in number; ships leave the\nThames for distant regions, carrying from stem to stern no other cargo;\nthe bells are silent; they ring out no entreaties or regrets; they are\nused to it and have grown worldly.\n\nJoe bought a roll, and reduced his purse to the condition (with a\ndifference) of that celebrated purse of Fortunatus, which, whatever were\nits favoured owner's necessities, had one unvarying amount in it. In\nthese real times, when all the Fairies are dead and buried, there are\nstill a great many purses which possess that quality. The sum-total they\ncontain is expressed in arithmetic by a circle, and whether it be added\nto or multiplied by its own amount, the result of the problem is more\neasily stated than any known in figures.\n\nEvening drew on at last. With the desolate and solitary feeling of one\nwho had no home or shelter, and was alone utterly in the world for the\nfirst time, he bent his steps towards the locksmith's house. He had\ndelayed till now, knowing that Mrs Varden sometimes went out alone,\nor with Miggs for her sole attendant, to lectures in the evening; and\ndevoutly hoping that this might be one of her nights of moral culture.\n\nHe had walked up and down before the house, on the opposite side of the\nway, two or three times, when as he returned to it again, he caught a\nglimpse of a fluttering skirt at the door. It was Dolly's--to whom else\ncould it belong? no dress but hers had such a flow as that. He plucked\nup his spirits, and followed it into the workshop of the Golden Key.\n\nHis darkening the door caused her to look round. Oh that face! 'If it\nhadn't been for that,' thought Joe, 'I should never have walked into\npoor Tom Cobb. She's twenty times handsomer than ever. She might marry a\nLord!'\n\nHe didn't say this. He only thought it--perhaps looked it also. Dolly\nwas glad to see him, and was SO sorry her father and mother were away\nfrom home. Joe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account.\n\nDolly hesitated to lead the way into the parlour, for there it was\nnearly dark; at the same time she hesitated to stand talking in the\nworkshop, which was yet light and open to the street. They had got by\nsome means, too, before the little forge; and Joe having her hand in his\n(which he had no right to have, for Dolly only gave it him to shake), it\nwas so like standing before some homely altar being married, that it was\nthe most embarrassing state of things in the world.\n\n'I have come,' said Joe, 'to say good-bye--to say good-bye for I don't\nknow how many years; perhaps for ever. I am going abroad.'\n\nNow this was exactly what he should not have said. Here he was, talking\nlike a gentleman at large who was free to come and go and roam about the\nworld at pleasure, when that gallant coachmaker had vowed but the night\nbefore that Miss Varden held him bound in adamantine chains; and had\npositively stated in so many words that she was killing him by inches,\nand that in a fortnight more or thereabouts he expected to make a decent\nend and leave the business to his mother.\n\nDolly released her hand and said 'Indeed!' She remarked in the same\nbreath that it was a fine night, and in short, betrayed no more emotion\nthan the forge itself.\n\n'I couldn't go,' said Joe, 'without coming to see you. I hadn't the\nheart to.'\n\nDolly was more sorry than she could tell, that he should have taken so\nmuch trouble. It was such a long way, and he must have such a deal to\ndo. And how WAS Mr Willet--that dear old gentleman--\n\n'Is this all you say!' cried Joe.\n\nAll! Good gracious, what did the man expect! She was obliged to take her\napron in her hand and run her eyes along the hem from corner to corner,\nto keep herself from laughing in his face;--not because his gaze\nconfused her--not at all.\n\nJoe had small experience in love affairs, and had no notion how\ndifferent young ladies are at different times; he had expected to\ntake Dolly up again at the very point where he had left her after that\ndelicious evening ride, and was no more prepared for such an alteration\nthan to see the sun and moon change places. He had buoyed himself up all\nday with an indistinct idea that she would certainly say 'Don't go,' or\n'Don't leave us,' or 'Why do you go?' or 'Why do you leave us?' or would\ngive him some little encouragement of that sort; he had even entertained\nthe possibility of her bursting into tears, of her throwing herself into\nhis arms, of her falling down in a fainting fit without previous word\nor sign; but any approach to such a line of conduct as this, had been so\nfar from his thoughts that he could only look at her in silent wonder.\n\nDolly in the meanwhile, turned to the corners of her apron, and measured\nthe sides, and smoothed out the wrinkles, and was as silent as he. At\nlast after a long pause, Joe said good-bye. 'Good-bye'--said Dolly--with\nas pleasant a smile as if he were going into the next street, and were\ncoming back to supper; 'good-bye.'\n\n'Come,' said Joe, putting out both hands, 'Dolly, dear Dolly, don't let\nus part like this. I love you dearly, with all my heart and soul; with\nas much truth and earnestness as ever man loved woman in this world, I\ndo believe. I am a poor fellow, as you know--poorer now than ever, for\nI have fled from home, not being able to bear it any longer, and must\nfight my own way without help. You are beautiful, admired, are loved by\neverybody, are well off and happy; and may you ever be so! Heaven forbid\nI should ever make you otherwise; but give me a word of comfort. Say\nsomething kind to me. I have no right to expect it of you, I know, but\nI ask it because I love you, and shall treasure the slightest word from\nyou all through my life. Dolly, dearest, have you nothing to say to me?'\n\nNo. Nothing. Dolly was a coquette by nature, and a spoilt child. She had\nno notion of being carried by storm in this way. The coachmaker would\nhave been dissolved in tears, and would have knelt down, and called\nhimself names, and clasped his hands, and beat his breast, and tugged\nwildly at his cravat, and done all kinds of poetry. Joe had no business\nto be going abroad. He had no right to be able to do it. If he was in\nadamantine chains, he couldn't.\n\n'I have said good-bye,' said Dolly, 'twice. Take your arm away directly,\nMr Joseph, or I'll call Miggs.'\n\n'I'll not reproach you,' answered Joe, 'it's my fault, no doubt. I have\nthought sometimes that you didn't quite despise me, but I was a fool to\nthink so. Every one must, who has seen the life I have led--you most of\nall. God bless you!'\n\nHe was gone, actually gone. Dolly waited a little while, thinking he\nwould return, peeped out at the door, looked up the street and down as\nwell as the increasing darkness would allow, came in again, waited a\nlittle longer, went upstairs humming a tune, bolted herself in, laid\nher head down on her bed, and cried as if her heart would break. And yet\nsuch natures are made up of so many contradictions, that if Joe Willet\nhad come back that night, next day, next week, next month, the odds are\na hundred to one she would have treated him in the very same manner, and\nhave wept for it afterwards with the very same distress.\n\nShe had no sooner left the workshop than there cautiously peered out\nfrom behind the chimney of the forge, a face which had already emerged\nfrom the same concealment twice or thrice, unseen, and which, after\nsatisfying itself that it was now alone, was followed by a leg, a\nshoulder, and so on by degrees, until the form of Mr Tappertit stood\nconfessed, with a brown-paper cap stuck negligently on one side of its\nhead, and its arms very much a-kimbo.\n\n'Have my ears deceived me,' said the 'prentice, 'or do I dream! am I to\nthank thee, Fortun', or to cus thee--which?'\n\nHe gravely descended from his elevation, took down his piece of\nlooking-glass, planted it against the wall upon the usual bench, twisted\nhis head round, and looked closely at his legs.\n\n'If they're a dream,' said Sim, 'let sculptures have such wisions, and\nchisel 'em out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs\nas them. Tremble, Willet, and despair. She's mine! She's mine!'\n\nWith these triumphant expressions, he seized a hammer and dealt a heavy\nblow at a vice, which in his mind's eye represented the sconce or head\nof Joseph Willet. That done, he burst into a peal of laughter which\nstartled Miss Miggs even in her distant kitchen, and dipping his head\ninto a bowl of water, had recourse to a jack-towel inside the closet\ndoor, which served the double purpose of smothering his feelings and\ndrying his face.\n\nJoe, disconsolate and down-hearted, but full of courage too, on leaving\nthe locksmith's house made the best of his way to the Crooked Billet,\nand there inquired for his friend the serjeant, who, expecting no man\nless, received him with open arms. In the course of five minutes after\nhis arrival at that house of entertainment, he was enrolled among the\ngallant defenders of his native land; and within half an hour, was\nregaled with a steaming supper of boiled tripe and onions, prepared,\nas his friend assured him more than once, at the express command of his\nmost Sacred Majesty the King. To this meal, which tasted very savoury\nafter his long fasting, he did ample justice; and when he had followed\nit up, or down, with a variety of loyal and patriotic toasts, he was\nconducted to a straw mattress in a loft over the stable, and locked in\nthere for the night.\n\nThe next morning, he found that the obliging care of his martial friend\nhad decorated his hat with sundry particoloured streamers, which made\na very lively appearance; and in company with that officer, and three\nother military gentlemen newly enrolled, who were under a cloud so dense\nthat it only left three shoes, a boot, and a coat and a half visible\namong them, repaired to the riverside. Here they were joined by a\ncorporal and four more heroes, of whom two were drunk and daring, and\ntwo sober and penitent, but each of whom, like Joe, had his dusty stick\nand bundle. The party embarked in a passage-boat bound for Gravesend,\nwhence they were to proceed on foot to Chatham; the wind was in their\nfavour, and they soon left London behind them, a mere dark mist--a giant\nphantom in the air.\n\n\n\nChapter 32\n\n\nMisfortunes, saith the adage, never come singly. There is little doubt\nthat troubles are exceedingly gregarious in their nature, and flying\nin flocks, are apt to perch capriciously; crowding on the heads of some\npoor wights until there is not an inch of room left on their unlucky\ncrowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as good\nresting-places for the soles of their feet, than if they had no\nexistence. It may have happened that a flight of troubles brooding over\nLondon, and looking out for Joseph Willet, whom they couldn't find,\ndarted down haphazard on the first young man that caught their fancy,\nand settled on him instead. However this may be, certain it is that on\nthe very day of Joe's departure they swarmed about the ears of Edward\nChester, and did so buzz and flap their wings, and persecute him, that\nhe was most profoundly wretched.\n\nIt was evening, and just eight o'clock, when he and his father, having\nwine and dessert set before them, were left to themselves for the first\ntime that day. They had dined together, but a third person had been\npresent during the meal, and until they met at table they had not seen\neach other since the previous night.\n\nEdward was reserved and silent. Mr Chester was more than usually gay;\nbut not caring, as it seemed, to open a conversation with one whose\nhumour was so different, he vented the lightness of his spirit in smiles\nand sparkling looks, and made no effort to awaken his attention. So they\nremained for some time: the father lying on a sofa with his accustomed\nair of graceful negligence; the son seated opposite to him with downcast\neyes, busied, it was plain, with painful and uneasy thoughts.\n\n'My dear Edward,' said Mr Chester at length, with a most engaging laugh,\n'do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer THAT to\ncirculate, let your spirits be never so stagnant.'\n\nEdward begged his pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state.\n\n'You do wrong not to fill your glass,' said Mr Chester, holding up his\nown before the light. 'Wine in moderation--not in excess, for that makes\nmen ugly--has a thousand pleasant influences. It brightens the eye,\nimproves the voice, imparts a new vivacity to one's thoughts and\nconversation: you should try it, Ned.'\n\n'Ah father!' cried his son, 'if--'\n\n'My good fellow,' interposed the parent hastily, as he set down his\nglass, and raised his eyebrows with a startled and horrified expression,\n'for Heaven's sake don't call me by that obsolete and ancient name. Have\nsome regard for delicacy. Am I grey, or wrinkled, do I go on crutches,\nhave I lost my teeth, that you adopt such a mode of address? Good God,\nhow very coarse!'\n\n'I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir,' returned Edward, 'in\nthe confidence which should subsist between us; and you check me in the\noutset.'\n\n'Now DO, Ned, DO not,' said Mr Chester, raising his delicate hand\nimploringly, 'talk in that monstrous manner. About to speak from\nyour heart. Don't you know that the heart is an ingenious part of\nour formation--the centre of the blood-vessels and all that sort of\nthing--which has no more to do with what you say or think, than your\nknees have? How can you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomical\nallusions should be left to gentlemen of the medical profession. They\nare really not agreeable in society. You quite surprise me, Ned.'\n\n'Well! there are no such things to wound, or heal, or have regard for. I\nknow your creed, sir, and will say no more,' returned his son.\n\n'There again,' said Mr Chester, sipping his wine, 'you are wrong. I\ndistinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts of\nanimals--of bullocks, sheep, and so forth--are cooked and devoured, as\nI am told, by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men are\nsometimes stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart; but as to speaking\nfrom the heart, or to the heart, or being warm-hearted, or cold-hearted,\nor broken-hearted, or being all heart, or having no heart--pah! these\nthings are nonsense, Ned.'\n\n'No doubt, sir,' returned his son, seeing that he paused for him to\nspeak. 'No doubt.'\n\n'There's Haredale's niece, your late flame,' said Mr Chester, as a\ncareless illustration of his meaning. 'No doubt in your mind she was all\nheart once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned,\nexactly.'\n\n'She is a changed person, sir,' cried Edward, reddening; 'and changed by\nvile means, I believe.'\n\n'You have had a cool dismissal, have you?' said his father. 'Poor Ned!\nI told you last night what would happen.--May I ask you for the\nnutcrackers?'\n\n'She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived,' cried\nEdward, rising from his seat. 'I never will believe that the knowledge\nof my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I know\nshe is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, and\nbroken past all redemption; though I charge upon her want of firmness\nand want of truth, both to herself and me; I do not now, and never will\nbelieve, that any sordid motive, or her own unbiassed will, has led her\nto this course--never!'\n\n'You make me blush,' returned his father gaily, 'for the folly of your\nnature, in which--but we never know ourselves--I devoutly hope there is\nno reflection of my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she has\ndone what is very natural and proper, my dear fellow; what you yourself\nproposed, as I learn from Haredale; and what I predicted--with no great\nexercise of sagacity--she would do. She supposed you to be rich, or\nat least quite rich enough; and found you poor. Marriage is a civil\ncontract; people marry to better their worldly condition and improve\nappearances; it is an affair of house and furniture, of liveries,\nservants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor and you poor\nalso, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon these\nconsiderations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. I\ndrink her health in this glass, and respect and honour her for her\nextreme good sense. It is a lesson to you. Fill yours, Ned.'\n\n'It is a lesson,' returned his son, 'by which I hope I may never profit,\nand if years and experience impress it on--'\n\n'Don't say on the heart,' interposed his father.\n\n'On men whom the world and its hypocrisy have spoiled,' said Edward\nwarmly, 'Heaven keep me from its knowledge.'\n\n'Come, sir,' returned his father, raising himself a little on the sofa,\nand looking straight towards him; 'we have had enough of this. Remember,\nif you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, your\nfilial affections, and all that sort of thing, which it is so very\ndelightful and charming to reflect upon; or you will repent it.'\n\n'I shall never repent the preservation of my self-respect, sir,' said\nEdward. 'Forgive me if I say that I will not sacrifice it at your\nbidding, and that I will not pursue the track which you would have me\ntake, and to which the secret share you have had in this late separation\ntends.'\n\nHis father rose a little higher still, and looking at him as though\ncurious to know if he were quite resolved and earnest, dropped gently\ndown again, and said in the calmest voice--eating his nuts meanwhile,\n\n'Edward, my father had a son, who being a fool like you, and, like you,\nentertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and cursed\none morning after breakfast. The circumstance occurs to me with a\nsingular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eating\nmuffins at the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life (the son,\nI mean) and died early; it was a happy release on all accounts; he\ndegraded the family very much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when a\nfather finds it necessary to resort to such strong measures.\n\n'It is,' replied Edward, 'and it is sad when a son, proffering him his\nlove and duty in their best and truest sense, finds himself repelled\nat every turn, and forced to disobey. Dear father,' he added, more\nearnestly though in a gentler tone, 'I have reflected many times on what\noccurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there be\na confidence between us; not in terms, but truth. Hear what I have to\nsay.'\n\n'As I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward,' returned\nhis father coldly, 'I decline. I couldn't possibly. I am sure it would\nput me out of temper, which is a state of mind I can't endure. If\nyou intend to mar my plans for your establishment in life, and the\npreservation of that gentility and becoming pride, which our family\nhave so long sustained--if, in short, you are resolved to take your own\ncourse, you must take it, and my curse with it. I am very sorry, but\nthere's really no alternative.'\n\n'The curse may pass your lips,' said Edward, 'but it will be but empty\nbreath. I do not believe that any man on earth has greater power to call\none down upon his fellow--least of all, upon his own child--than he has\nto make one drop of rain or flake of snow fall from the clouds above us\nat his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you do.'\n\n'You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horribly\nprofane,' rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, and\ncracking another nut, 'that I positively must interrupt you here. It is\nquite impossible we can continue to go on, upon such terms as these. If\nyou will do me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show you\nto the door. Return to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, since\nyou have no moral sense remaining; and go to the Devil, at my express\ndesire. Good day.'\n\nEdward left the room without another word or look, and turned his back\nupon the house for ever.\n\nThe father's face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner was\nquite unchanged, as he rang the bell again, and addressed the servant on\nhis entrance.\n\n'Peak--if that gentleman who has just gone out--'\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir, Mr Edward?'\n\n'Were there more than one, dolt, that you ask the question?--If that\ngentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have it, do you\nhear? If he should call himself at any time, I'm not at home. You'll\ntell him so, and shut the door.'\n\n\nSo, it soon got whispered about, that Mr Chester was very unfortunate\nin his son, who had occasioned him great grief and sorrow. And the\ngood people who heard this and told it again, marvelled the more at his\nequanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature that man\nmust have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and so\ncalm. And when Edward's name was spoken, Society shook its head, and\nlaid its finger on its lip, and sighed, and looked very grave; and those\nwho had sons about his age, waxed wrathful and indignant, and hoped, for\nVirtue's sake, that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, as\nusual, for five years, concerning which this Narrative is silent.\n\n\n\nChapter 33\n\n\nOne wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand seven\nhundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night\ncame on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp,\ndense, and icy-cold, swept the wet streets, and rattled on the trembling\nwindows. Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames,\nfell crashing on the pavement; old tottering chimneys reeled and\nstaggered in the blast; and many a steeple rocked again that night, as\nthough the earth were troubled.\n\nIt was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth,\nto brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort,\nguests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each\nother with a secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute.\nEach humble tavern by the water-side, had its group of uncouth figures\nround the hearth, who talked of vessels foundering at sea, and all hands\nlost; related many a dismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and\nhoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt.\nIn private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze; listening with\ntimid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad\nin white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old\nchurches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the\ndead hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark\nrooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would\ncontinue bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to\nlisten, or one held up his finger and cried 'Hark!' and then, above the\nrumbling in the chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard\na wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant's hand\nwere on them; then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a\nwhirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened\nhowl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment's interval of rest.\n\nCheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole\nlight that evening. Blessings on the red--deep, ruby, glowing red--old\ncurtain of the window; blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire\nand candle, meat, drink, and company, and gleaming like a jovial\neye upon the bleak waste out of doors! Within, what carpet like its\ncrunching sand, what music merry as its crackling logs, what perfume\nlike its kitchen's dainty breath, what weather genial as its hearty\nwarmth! Blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood! How did the\nvexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant\nand strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their\nhospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its\nface; how, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous\nto extinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put down and seemed\nthe brighter for the conflict!\n\nThe profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It\nwas not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its spacious hearth;\nin the tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires\nburnt brightly also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the\nwild night out, and shed its cheerful influence on the room. In every\nsaucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass, or tin\nthat hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and\ngleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye\nwander where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The\nold oak wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in\na deep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes\nof the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they\nsmoked.\n\nMr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before,\nwith his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock\nstruck eight, giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud\nand constant snore (though he was wide awake), and from time to time\nputting his glass to his lips, or knocking the ashes out of his pipe,\nand filling it anew. It was now half-past ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil\nParkes were his companions, as of old, and for two mortal hours and a\nhalf, none of the company had pronounced one word.\n\nWhether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the\nsame relative positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great\nmany years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing\neach other which serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy\nto settle. But certain it is that old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr\nCobb, were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly\ncompanions--rather choice spirits than otherwise; that they looked at\neach other every now and then as if there were a perpetual interchange\nof ideas going on among them; that no man considered himself or his\nneighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded occasionally\nwhen he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, 'You have\nexpressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment,\nand I quite agree with you.'\n\nThe room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so\nvery soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had\nperfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his\nsleep, and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep,\nsaving that in the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight\ndifficulty in respiration (such as a carpenter meets with when he is\nplaning and comes to a knot), neither of his companions was aware of the\ncircumstance, until he met with one of these impediments and was obliged\nto try again.\n\n'Johnny's dropped off,' said Mr Parkes in a whisper.\n\n'Fast as a top,' said Mr Cobb.\n\nNeither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot--one\nof surpassing obduracy--which bade fair to throw him into convulsions,\nbut which he got over at last without waking, by an effort quite\nsuperhuman.\n\n'He sleeps uncommon hard,' said Mr Cobb.\n\nMr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself, replied with some\ndisdain, 'Not a bit on it;' and directed his eyes towards a handbill\npasted over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a\nwoodcut representing a youth of tender years running away very fast,\nwith a bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and--to carry\nout the idea--a finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr Cobb likewise\nturned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if\nthat were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document\nwhich Mr Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son\nJoseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general\nwith the circumstances of his having left his home; describing his dress\nand appearance; and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or\npersons who would pack him up and return him safely to the Maypole at\nChigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty's jails until such time as\nhis father should come and claim him. In this advertisement Mr Willet\nhad obstinately persisted, despite the advice and entreaties of his\nfriends, in describing his son as a 'young boy;' and furthermore as\nbeing from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really\nwas; two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its\nnever having been productive of any other effect than the transmission\nto Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense, of some\nfive-and-forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve.\n\nMr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each\nother, and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own\nhands, Mr Willet had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or\nencouraged any one else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his\nthoughts or opinions were, connected with it; whether he remembered it\nor forgot it; whether he had any idea that such an event had ever taken\nplace. Therefore, even while he slept, no one ventured to refer to it in\nhis presence; and for such sufficient reasons, these his chosen friends\nwere silent now.\n\nMr Willet had got by this time into such a complication of knots,\nthat it was perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former\nalternative, and opened his eyes.\n\n'If he don't come in five minutes,' said John, 'I shall have supper\nwithout him.'\n\nThe antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time\nat eight o'clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of\nconversation, replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was\nvery late, and they wondered what had happened to detain him.\n\n'He an't blown away, I suppose,' said Parkes. 'It's enough to carry a\nman of his figure off his legs, and easy too. Do you hear it? It blows\ngreat guns, indeed. There'll be many a crash in the Forest to-night, I\nreckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground to-morrow.'\n\n'It won't break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,' returned old\nJohn. 'Let it try. I give it leave--what's that?'\n\n'The wind,' cried Parkes. 'It's howling like a Christian, and has been\nall night long.'\n\n'Did you ever, sir,' asked John, after a minute's contemplation, 'hear\nthe wind say \"Maypole\"?'\n\n'Why, what man ever did?' said Parkes.\n\n'Nor \"ahoy,\" perhaps?' added John.\n\n'No. Nor that neither.'\n\n'Very good, sir,' said Mr Willet, perfectly unmoved; 'then if that\nwas the wind just now, and you'll wait a little time without speaking,\nyou'll hear it say both words very plain.'\n\nMr Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could\nclearly hear, above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout\nrepeated; and that with a shrillness and energy, which denoted that it\ncame from some person in great distress or terror. They looked at each\nother, turned pale, and held their breath. No man stirred.\n\nIt was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed something of that\nstrength of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which rendered him\nthe admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking at\nMessrs Parkes and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two\nhands to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance\nand rafters ring--a long-sustained, discordant bellow, that rolled\nonward with the wind, and startling every echo, made the night a hundred\ntimes more boisterous--a deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded like a\nhuman gong. Then, with every vein in his head and face swollen with the\ngreat exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he\ndrew a little nearer to the fire, and turning his back upon it, said\nwith dignity:\n\n'If that's any comfort to anybody, they're welcome to it. If it an't,\nI'm sorry for 'em. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and\nsee what's the matter, you can. I'm not curious, myself.'\n\nWhile he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps passed the\nwindow, the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut\nagain, and Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the\nrain streaming from his disordered dress, dashed into the room.\n\nA more complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it\nwould be difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his\nface, his knees knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power\nof articulation was quite gone; and there he stood, panting for breath,\ngazing on them with such livid ashy looks, that they were infected with\nhis fear, though ignorant of its occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed\nand horror-stricken visage, stared back again without venturing to\nquestion him; until old John Willet, in a fit of temporary insanity,\nmade a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that portion of his\ndress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in\nhis head.\n\n'Tell us what's the matter, sir,' said John, 'or I'll kill you. Tell us\nwhat's the matter, sir, or in another second I'll have your head under\nthe biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a-following of you?\nWhat do you mean? Say something, or I'll be the death of you, I will.'\n\nMr Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very\nletter (Solomon Daisy's eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming\nmanner, and certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from\nhis throat), that the two bystanders, recovering in some degree,\nplucked him off his victim by main force, and placed the little clerk\nof Chigwell in a chair. Directing a fearful gaze all round the room, he\nimplored them in a faint voice to give him some drink; and above all to\nlock the house-door and close and bar the shutters of the room, without\na moment's loss of time. The latter request did not tend to reassure\nhis hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations; they\ncomplied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and having\nhanded him a bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to\nhear what he might have to tell them.\n\n'Oh, Johnny,' said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. 'Oh, Parkes. Oh,\nTommy Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night! On the nineteenth of\nMarch--of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March!'\n\nThey all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door,\nstarted and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation,\ninquired what the devil he meant by that--and then said, 'God forgive\nme,' and glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer.\n\n'When I left here to-night,' said Solomon Daisy, 'I little thought what\nday of the month it was. I have never gone alone into the church after\ndark on this day, for seven-and-twenty years. I have heard it said\nthat as we keep our birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of\ndead people, who are not easy in their graves, keep the day they died\nupon.--How the wind roars!'\n\nNobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon.\n\n'I might have known,' he said, 'what night it was, by the foul weather.\nThere's no such night in the whole year round as this is, always. I\nnever sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.'\n\n'Go on,' said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. 'Nor I neither.'\n\nSolomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips; put it down upon the floor\nwith such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little\nbell; and continued thus:\n\n'Have I ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in\nsome strange way, when the nineteenth of this month comes round? Do\nyou suppose it was by accident, I forgot to wind up the church-clock? I\nnever forgot it at any other time, though it's such a clumsy thing that\nit has to be wound up every day. Why should it escape my memory on this\nday of all others?\n\n'I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but\nI had to go home first for the keys; and the wind and rain being dead\nagainst me all the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at\ntimes to keep my legs. I got there at last, opened the church-door, and\nwent in. I had not met a soul all the way, and you may judge whether it\nwas dull or not. Neither of you would bear me company. If you could have\nknown what was to come, you'd have been in the right.\n\n'The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the\nchurch-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was,\nit burst wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have\nsworn, if you had been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was\npushing on the other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the\nbelfry, and wound up the clock--which was very near run down, and would\nhave stood stock-still in half an hour.\n\n'As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon me all\nat once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a\nkind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead;\nat the very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower--rising from\namong the graves.'\n\nHere old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if\nMr Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over\nhis head) saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr\nParkes apologised, and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr\nWillet angrily retorted, that his listening with that kind of expression\nin his face was not agreeable, and that if he couldn't look like other\npeople, he had better put his pocket-handkerchief over his head.\nMr Parkes with great submission pledged himself to do so, if again\nrequired, and John Willet turning to Solomon desired him to proceed.\nAfter waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which seemed to\nshake even that sturdy house to its foundation, had passed away, the\nlittle man complied:\n\n'Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound\nwhich I mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through\nthe arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard\nthe rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I\nsaw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard that voice.'\n\n'What did it say?' asked Tom Cobb.\n\n'I don't know what; I don't know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry,\nas any one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream,\nand came upon us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite\nround the church.'\n\n'I don't see much in that,' said John, drawing a long breath, and\nlooking round him like a man who felt relieved.\n\n'Perhaps not,' returned his friend, 'but that's not all.'\n\n'What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?' asked John, pausing in\nthe act of wiping his face upon his apron. 'What are you a-going to tell\nus of next?'\n\n'What I saw.'\n\n'Saw!' echoed all three, bending forward.\n\n'When I opened the church-door to come out,' said the little man, with\nan expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of\nhis conviction, 'when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did\nsuddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind\ncame up, there crossed me--so close, that by stretching out my finger\nI could have touched it--something in the likeness of a man. It was\nbare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed\nits eyes on mine. It was a ghost--a spirit.'\n\n'Whose?' they all three cried together.\n\nIn the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair,\nand waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no further),\nhis answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be\nseated close beside him.\n\n'Who!' cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon\nDaisy and at Mr Willet. 'Who was it?'\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Mr Willet after a long pause, 'you needn't ask. The\nlikeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March.'\n\nA profound silence ensued.\n\n'If you'll take my advice,' said John, 'we had better, one and all, keep\nthis a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep\nit to ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into\ntrouble, and Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he\nsays, or whether it wasn't, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would\nbelieve him. As to the probabilities, I don't myself think,' said Mr\nWillet, eyeing the corners of the room in a manner which showed that,\nlike some other philosophers, he was not quite easy in his theory,\n'that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would be out\na-walking in such weather--I only know that I wouldn't, if I was one.'\n\nBut this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three,\nwho quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very\ntime for such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his\nfamily, by the mother's side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity\nand force of illustration, that John was only saved from having to\nretract his opinion by the opportune appearance of supper, to which they\napplied themselves with a dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself,\nby dint of the elevating influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good\ncompany, so far recovered as to handle his knife and fork in a highly\ncreditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and\ndrinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting\ninjury from his fright.\n\nSupper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on\nsuch occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated\nto surround the story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy,\nnotwithstanding these temptations, adhered so steadily to his original\naccount, and repeated it so often, with such slight variations, and with\nsuch solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that his hearers\nwere (with good reason) more astonished than at first. As he took John\nWillet's view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not bruiting\nthe tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which\ncase it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman,\nit was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet.\nAnd as most men like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own\nimportance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity.\n\nAs it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour\nof separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a\nfresh candle in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long\nPhil Parkes and Mr Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr\nWillet, after seeing them to the door, returned to collect his thoughts\nwith the assistance of the boiler, and to listen to the storm of wind\nand rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its fury.\n\n\n\nChapter 34\n\n\nBefore old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty minutes, he got\nhis ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon Daisy's\nstory. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with\na sense of his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr Haredale should be\nimpressed with it likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain\na principal and important character in the affair; and might have the\nstart of Solomon and his two friends, through whose means he knew the\nadventure, with a variety of exaggerations, would be known to at least\na score of people, and most likely to Mr Haredale himself, by\nbreakfast-time to-morrow; he determined to repair to the Warren before\ngoing to bed.\n\n'He's my landlord,' thought John, as he took a candle in his hand, and\nsetting it down in a corner out of the wind's way, opened a casement in\nthe rear of the house, looking towards the stables. 'We haven't met of\nlate years so often as we used to do--changes are taking place in the\nfamily--it's desirable that I should stand as well with them, in point\nof dignity, as possible--the whispering about of this here tale will\nanger him--it's good to have confidences with a gentleman of his natur',\nand set one's-self right besides. Halloa there! Hugh--Hugh. Hal-loa!'\n\nWhen he had repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon\nfrom its slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened,\nand a rough voice demanded what was amiss now, that a man couldn't even\nhave his sleep in quiet.\n\n'What! Haven't you sleep enough, growler, that you're not to be knocked\nup for once?' said John.\n\n'No,' replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook himself. 'Not\nhalf enough.'\n\n'I don't know how you CAN sleep, with the wind a bellowsing and roaring\nabout you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards,' said John; 'but\nno matter for that. Wrap yourself up in something or another, and come\nhere, for you must go as far as the Warren with me. And look sharp about\nit.'\n\nHugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his lair;\nand presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped\nfrom head to foot in an old, frowzy, slouching horse-cloth. Mr Willet\nreceived this figure at the back-door, and ushered him into the bar,\nwhile he wrapped himself in sundry greatcoats and capes, and so tied and\nknotted his face in shawls and handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a\nmystery.\n\n'You don't take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather,\nwithout putting some heart into him, do you, master?' said Hugh.\n\n'Yes I do, sir,' returned Mr Willet. 'I put the heart (as you call it)\ninto him when he has brought me safe home again, and his standing steady\non his legs an't of so much consequence. So hold that light up, if you\nplease, and go on a step or two before, to show the way.'\n\nHugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, and a longing glance at the\nbottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook to keep the\ndoors locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on pain\nof dismissal, followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors.\n\nThe way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr Willet\nhad been his own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horsepond\nwithin a few hundred yards of his own house, and would certainly have\nterminated his career in that ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who\nhad a sight as keen as any hawk's, and, apart from that endowment, could\nhave found his way blindfold to any place within a dozen miles, dragged\nold John along, quite deaf to his remonstrances, and took his own course\nwithout the slightest reference to, or notice of, his master. So they\nmade head against the wind as they best could; Hugh crushing the wet\ngrass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his ordinary savage\nfashion; John Willet following at arm's length, picking his steps, and\nlooking about him, now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray\nghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and\nuneasiness as his immovable face was capable of expressing.\n\nAt length they stood upon the broad gravel-walk before the Warren-house.\nThe building was profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save\nthemselves. From one solitary turret-chamber, however, there shone a\nray of light; and towards this speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless,\nsilent scene, Mr Willet bade his pilot lead him.\n\n'The old room,' said John, looking timidly upward; 'Mr Reuben's own\napartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit there, so\nlate at night--on this night too.'\n\n'Why, where else should he sit?' asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his\nbreast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his\nfingers. 'It's snug enough, an't it?'\n\n'Snug!' said John indignantly. 'You have a comfortable idea of snugness,\nyou have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?'\n\n'Why, what is it the worse for that!' cried Hugh, looking into John's\nfat face. 'Does it keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for\nthat? Is it less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha,\nha! Never believe it, master. One man's no such matter as that comes\nto.'\n\nMr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began--by a species\nof inspiration--to think it just barely possible that he was something\nof a dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid\nof him one of these days. He was too prudent to say anything, with the\njourney home before him; and therefore turned to the iron gate before\nwhich this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled the handle of the bell\nthat hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at\none corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of\nthe garden-walks, upon which this gate opened, Mr Haredale threw up the\nwindow directly, and demanded who was there.\n\n'Begging pardon, sir,' said John, 'I knew you sat up late, and made bold\nto come round, having a word to say to you.'\n\n'Willet--is it not?'\n\n'Of the Maypole--at your service, sir.'\n\nMr Haredale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at\na door in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden-walk,\nunlocked the gate and let them in.\n\n'You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?'\n\n'Nothing to speak of, sir,' said John; 'an idle tale, I thought you\nought to know of; nothing more.'\n\n'Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The\nstairs are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing\nit like a censer.'\n\nHugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and\nascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light\ndownward on the steps. Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering\nface with no great favour; and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his\nglances with interest, as they climbed the winding stairs.\n\nIt terminated in a little ante-room adjoining that from which they had\nseen the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led the way through it\ninto the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from\nwhich he had risen when they had rung the bell.\n\n'Come in,' he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the\ndoor. 'Not you, friend,' he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also.\n'Willet, why do you bring that fellow here?'\n\n'Why, sir,' returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his\nvoice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, 'he's a good\nguard, you see.'\n\n'Don't be too sure of that,' said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he\nspoke. 'I doubt it. He has an evil eye.'\n\n'There's no imagination in his eye,' returned Mr Willet, glancing over\nhis shoulder at the organ in question, 'certainly.'\n\n'There is no good there, be assured,' said Mr Haredale. 'Wait in that\nlittle room, friend, and close the door between us.'\n\nHugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed,\neither that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their\nwhispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned\nto John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak\ntoo loud, for there were quick ears yonder.\n\nThus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he\nhad heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own\nsagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude\nfor their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much\nmore than he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose\nand paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as\nhe could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other\nsigns of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was\nsurprised.\n\n'You did quite right,' he said, at the end of a long conversation, 'to\nbid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of\nthis weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss\nHaredale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it\nif it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a subject very\npainful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent,\nand have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.'\n\nThis was equal to John's most sanguine expectations; but he would have\npreferred Mr Haredale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really\ndid thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts,\noften stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on\nagain, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he\nsaid or did.\n\nThis, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that\nhe sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length\nhe rose. Mr Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite\nforgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the\ndoor. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber\nfloor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him,\ngrasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs.\n\n'Stay,' said Mr Haredale. 'Will this man drink?'\n\n'Drink! He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir,' replied\nJohn Willet. 'He'll have something when he gets home. He's better\nwithout it, now, sir.'\n\n'Nay. Half the distance is done,' said Hugh. 'What a hard master you\nare! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!'\n\nAs John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and\ngave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon\nthe floor.\n\n'What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman's house,\nsir?' said John.\n\n'I'm drinking a toast,' Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head,\nand fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale's face; 'a toast to this house and\nits master.' With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the\nrest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.\n\nJohn was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that\nMr Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his\nthoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in\nsilence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate.\nThey stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr\nHaredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he\noften afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face\nhad changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he\nalmost seemed another man.\n\nThey were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind\nhis escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what he had just\nnow seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same\ninstant three horsemen swept past--the nearest brushed his shoulder even\nthen--who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still,\nand waited for their coming up.\n\n\n\nChapter 35\n\n\nWhen John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew\nup three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join\nthem, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be\nhighwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his\nstout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a\nventure, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted\nhis own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of\ndisadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed\nit prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore\nwhispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and\ncourteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this\ninstruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the\nvery eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his\nfellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the\nking's highway at that late hour of night.\n\nThe man whom he addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same\nstrain, when he was checked by the horseman in the centre, who,\ninterposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but\nnot harsh or unpleasant voice:\n\n'Pray, is this the London road?'\n\n'If you follow it right, it is,' replied Hugh roughly.\n\n'Nay, brother,' said the same person, 'you're but a churlish Englishman,\nif Englishman you be--which I should much doubt but for your tongue.\nYour companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you,\nfriend?'\n\n'I say it IS the London road, sir,' answered John. 'And I wish,' he\nadded in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, 'that you was in any\nother road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go\na-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep\non running over us, back'ards and for'ards, till we was dead, and then\ntake our bodies up behind 'em, and drown us ten miles off?'\n\n'How far is it to London?' inquired the same speaker.\n\n'Why, from here, sir,' answered John, persuasively, 'it's thirteen very\neasy mile.'\n\nThe adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to\nride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it\nelicited from the same person, the remark, 'Thirteen miles! That's a\nlong distance!' which was followed by a short pause of indecision.\n\n'Pray,' said the gentleman, 'are there any inns hereabouts?' At the word\n'inns,' John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears\nrolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.\n\n'There are no inns,' rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the\nplural number; 'but there's a Inn--one Inn--the Maypole Inn. That's a\nInn indeed. You won't see the like of that Inn often.'\n\n'You keep it, perhaps?' said the horseman, smiling.\n\n'I do, sir,' replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.\n\n'And how far is the Maypole from here?'\n\n'About a mile'--John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in\nall the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in\nthe rear, suddenly interposed:\n\n'And have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can\nrecommend--a bed that you are sure is well aired--a bed that has been\nslept in by some perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?'\n\n'We don't take in no tagrag and bobtail at our house, sir,' answered\nJohn. 'And as to the bed itself--'\n\n'Say, as to three beds,' interposed the gentleman who had spoken before;\n'for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of\none.'\n\n'No, no, my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is\nof far too much importance to the nation in these portentous times, to\nbe placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great\ncause, my lord, a mighty cause, depends on you. You are its leader and\nits champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our\naltars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let ME sleep on a\nchair--the carpet--anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever.\nLet John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky--no one will\nrepine for HIM. But forty thousand men of this our island in the wave\n(exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord\nGeorge Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going\ndown of the same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,' said the\nspeaker, rising in his stirrups, 'it is a glorious cause, and must not\nbe forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered.\nMy lord, it is a holy cause, and must not be deserted.'\n\n'It IS a holy cause,' exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with\ngreat solemnity. 'Amen.'\n\n'John Grueby,' said the long-winded gentleman, in a tone of mild\nreproof, 'his lordship said Amen.'\n\n'I heard my lord, sir,' said the man, sitting like a statue on his\nhorse.\n\n'And do not YOU say Amen, likewise?'\n\nTo which John Grueby made no reply at all, but sat looking straight\nbefore him.\n\n'You surprise me, Grueby,' said the gentleman. 'At a crisis like the\npresent, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden monarch, weeps within\nher tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and shadow, stalks\ntriumphant--'\n\n'Oh, sir,' cied the man, gruffly, 'where's the use of talking of Bloody\nMary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord's wet\nthrough, and tired with hard riding? Let's either go on to London, sir,\nor put up at once; or that unfort'nate Bloody Mary will have more to\nanswer for--and she's done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever\ndid in her lifetime, I believe.'\n\nBy this time Mr Willet, who had never heard so many words spoken\ntogether at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as\nby the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable to\nsustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered\nso far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole\nfor all the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment\nfor man and beast; private rooms for large and small parties; dinners\ndressed upon the shortest notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up\ncoach-house; and, in short, to run over such recommendatory scraps of\nlanguage as were painted up on various portions of the building, and\nwhich in the course of some forty years he had learnt to repeat with\ntolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible\nto insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman\nwho had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, 'What\nsay you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press\nforward? You shall decide.'\n\n'I would submit, my lord, then,' returned the person he appealed to,\nin a silky tone, 'that your health and spirits--so important, under\nProvidence, to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause'--here his\nlordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard--'require\nrefreshment and repose.'\n\n'Go on before, landlord, and show the way,' said Lord George Gordon; 'we\nwill follow at a footpace.'\n\n'If you'll give me leave, my lord,' said John Grueby, in a low voice,\n'I'll change my proper place, and ride before you. The looks of the\nlandlord's friend are not over honest, and it may be as well to be\ncautious with him.'\n\n'John Grueby is quite right,' interposed Mr Gashford, falling back\nhastily. 'My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril.\nGo forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the\nfellow, blow his brains out.'\n\nJohn made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom\nseemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed\nclose behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle\nrein; and, last of all, his lordship's secretary--for that, it seemed,\nwas Gashford's office.\n\nHugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse\nwas close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his holster\ncase of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a\nsquare-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the true English\nbreed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh,\nregarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older\nthan the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-and-forty; but was\none of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if\nthey are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know\nit, and go on coolly till they win.\n\n'If I led you wrong now,' said Hugh, tauntingly, 'you'd--ha ha\nha!--you'd shoot me through the head, I suppose.'\n\nJohn Grueby took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf\nand Hugh dumb; but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed\non the horizon.\n\n'Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young, master?' said\nHugh. 'Can you make any play at single-stick?'\n\nJohn Grueby looked at him sideways with the same contented air, but\ndeigned not a word in answer.\n\n'--Like this?' said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful\nflourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. 'Whoop!'\n\n'--Or that,' returned John Grueby, beating down his guard with his whip,\nand striking him on the head with its butt end. 'Yes, I played a little\nonce. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your crown if\nit had been a little shorter.'\n\nIt was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, and evidently\nastonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed disposed to drag his new\nacquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening neither malice,\ntriumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence;\nhis eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as\ncareless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was\nso puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost\nsupernatural toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried 'Well done!'\nthen, sheering off a little, led the way in silence.\n\nBefore the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the Maypole door.\nLord George and his secretary quickly dismounting, gave their horses to\ntheir servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables.\nRight glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed\nMr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and drying\ntheir clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with\nsuch orders and preparations as his guest's high quality required.\n\nAs he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he\nhad an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he\nknew nothing but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the\nMaypole so much honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make,\nand sallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish\nbrown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly\npowdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired,\nunder his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any\nornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his\ndress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and stiffness of\ndeportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that\nof one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of\nthe fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which\nbetrayed a restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance\nwith the studied composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his\nquaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression;\nneither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of\nmelancholy; but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness; which\ninfected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity\nfor the man: though why it did so, they would have had some trouble to\nexplain.\n\nGashford, the secretary, was taller, angularly made, high-shouldered,\nbony, and ungraceful. His dress, in imitation of his superior, was\ndemure and staid in the extreme; his manner, formal and constrained.\nThis gentleman had an overhanging brow, great hands and feet and ears,\nand a pair of eyes that seemed to have made an unnatural retreat into\nhis head, and to have dug themselves a cave to hide in. His manner was\nsmooth and humble, but very sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a\nman who was always lying in wait for something that WOULDN'T come to\npass; but he looked patient--very patient--and fawned like a spaniel\ndog. Even now, while he warmed and rubbed his hands before the blaze,\nhe had the air of one who only presumed to enjoy it in his degree as a\ncommoner; and though he knew his lord was not regarding him, he looked\ninto his face from time to time, and with a meek and deferential manner,\nsmiled as if for practice.\n\nSuch were the guests whom old John Willet, with a fixed and leaden\neye, surveyed a hundred times, and to whom he now advanced with a state\ncandlestick in each hand, beseeching them to follow him into a worthier\nchamber. 'For my lord,' said John--it is odd enough, but certain people\nseem to have as great a pleasure in pronouncing titles as their owners\nhave in wearing them--'this room, my lord, isn't at all the sort of\nplace for your lordship, and I have to beg your lordship's pardon for\nkeeping you here, my lord, one minute.'\n\nWith this address, John ushered them upstairs into the state apartment,\nwhich, like many other things of state, was cold and comfortless. Their\nown footsteps, reverberating through the spacious room, struck upon\ntheir hearing with a hollow sound; and its damp and chilly atmosphere\nwas rendered doubly cheerless by contrast with the homely warmth they\nhad deserted.\n\nIt was of no use, however, to propose a return to the place they had\nquitted, for the preparations went on so briskly that there was no time\nto stop them. John, with the tall candlesticks in his hands, bowed them\nup to the fireplace; Hugh, striding in with a lighted brand and pile\nof firewood, cast it down upon the hearth, and set it in a blaze; John\nGrueby (who had a great blue cockade in his hat, which he appeared\nto despise mightily) brought in the portmanteau he had carried on his\nhorse, and placed it on the floor; and presently all three were busily\nengaged in drawing out the screen, laying the cloth, inspecting the\nbeds, lighting fires in the bedrooms, expediting the supper, and making\neverything as cosy and as snug as might be, on so short a notice. In\nless than an hour's time, supper had been served, and ate, and cleared\naway; and Lord George and his secretary, with slippered feet, and legs\nstretched out before the fire, sat over some hot mulled wine together.\n\n'So ends, my lord,' said Gashford, filling his glass with great\ncomplacency, 'the blessed work of a most blessed day.'\n\n'And of a blessed yesterday,' said his lordship, raising his head.\n\n'Ah!'--and here the secretary clasped his hands--'a blessed yesterday\nindeed! The Protestants of Suffolk are godly men and true. Though others\nof our countrymen have lost their way in darkness, even as we, my lord,\ndid lose our road to-night, theirs is the light and glory.'\n\n'Did I move them, Gashford?' said Lord George.\n\n'Move them, my lord! Move them! They cried to be led on against the\nPapists, they vowed a dreadful vengeance on their heads, they roared\nlike men possessed--'\n\n'But not by devils,' said his lord.\n\n'By devils! my lord! By angels.'\n\n'Yes--oh surely--by angels, no doubt,' said Lord George, thrusting his\nhands into his pockets, taking them out again to bite his nails, and\nlooking uncomfortably at the fire. 'Of course by angels--eh Gashford?'\n\n'You do not doubt it, my lord?' said the secretary.\n\n'No--No,' returned his lord. 'No. Why should I? I suppose it would be\ndecidedly irreligious to doubt it--wouldn't it, Gashford? Though there\ncertainly were,' he added, without waiting for an answer, 'some plaguy\nill-looking characters among them.'\n\n'When you warmed,' said the secretary, looking sharply at the other's\ndowncast eyes, which brightened slowly as he spoke; 'when you warmed\ninto that noble outbreak; when you told them that you were never of\nthe lukewarm or the timid tribe, and bade them take heed that they were\nprepared to follow one who would lead them on, though to the very death;\nwhen you spoke of a hundred and twenty thousand men across the Scottish\nborder who would take their own redress at any time, if it were not\nconceded; when you cried \"Perish the Pope and all his base adherents;\nthe penal laws against them shall never be repealed while Englishmen\nhave hearts and hands\"--and waved your own and touched your sword; and\nwhen they cried \"No Popery!\" and you cried \"No; not even if we wade in\nblood,\" and they threw up their hats and cried \"Hurrah! not even if we\nwade in blood; No Popery! Lord George! Down with the Papists--Vengeance\non their heads:\" when this was said and done, and a word from you, my\nlord, could raise or still the tumult--ah! then I felt what greatness\nwas indeed, and thought, When was there ever power like this of Lord\nGeorge Gordon's!'\n\n'It's a great power. You're right. It is a great power!' he cried with\nsparkling eyes. 'But--dear Gashford--did I really say all that?'\n\n'And how much more!' cried the secretary, looking upwards. 'Ah! how much\nmore!'\n\n'And I told them what you say, about the one hundred and forty thousand\nmen in Scotland, did I!' he asked with evident delight. 'That was bold.'\n\n'Our cause is boldness. Truth is always bold.'\n\n'Certainly. So is religion. She's bold, Gashford?'\n\n'The true religion is, my lord.'\n\n'And that's ours,' he rejoined, moving uneasily in his seat, and biting\nhis nails as though he would pare them to the quick. 'There can be no\ndoubt of ours being the true one. You feel as certain of that as I do,\nGashford, don't you?'\n\n'Does my lord ask ME,' whined Gashford, drawing his chair nearer with\nan injured air, and laying his broad flat hand upon the table; 'ME,'\nhe repeated, bending the dark hollows of his eyes upon him with an\nunwholesome smile, 'who, stricken by the magic of his eloquence in\nScotland but a year ago, abjured the errors of the Romish church, and\nclung to him as one whose timely hand had plucked me from a pit?'\n\n'True. No--No. I--I didn't mean it,' replied the other, shaking him by\nthe hand, rising from his seat, and pacing restlessly about the room.\n'It's a proud thing to lead the people, Gashford,' he added as he made a\nsudden halt.\n\n'By force of reason too,' returned the pliant secretary.\n\n'Ay, to be sure. They may cough and jeer, and groan in Parliament, and\ncall me fool and madman, but which of them can raise this human sea and\nmake it swell and roar at pleasure? Not one.'\n\n'Not one,' repeated Gashford.\n\n'Which of them can say for his honesty, what I can say for mine; which\nof them has refused a minister's bribe of one thousand pounds a year, to\nresign his seat in favour of another? Not one.'\n\n'Not one,' repeated Gashford again--taking the lion's share of the\nmulled wine between whiles.\n\n'And as we are honest, true, and in a sacred cause, Gashford,' said Lord\nGeorge with a heightened colour and in a louder voice, as he laid his\nfevered hand upon his shoulder, 'and are the only men who regard the\nmass of people out of doors, or are regarded by them, we will uphold\nthem to the last; and will raise a cry against these un-English Papists\nwhich shall re-echo through the country, and roll with a noise like\nthunder. I will be worthy of the motto on my coat of arms, \"Called and\nchosen and faithful.\"'\n\n'Called,' said the secretary, 'by Heaven.'\n\n'I am.'\n\n'Chosen by the people.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Faithful to both.'\n\n'To the block!'\n\nIt would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner\nin which he gave these answers to the secretary's promptings; of the\nrapidity of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture; in\nwhich, struggling through his Puritan's demeanour, was something wild\nand ungovernable which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he\nwalked rapidly up and down the room, then stopping suddenly, exclaimed,\n\n'Gashford--YOU moved them yesterday too. Oh yes! You did.'\n\n'I shone with a reflected light, my lord,' replied the humble secretary,\nlaying his hand upon his heart. 'I did my best.'\n\n'You did well,' said his master, 'and are a great and worthy instrument.\nIf you will ring for John Grueby to carry the portmanteau into my room,\nand will wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as\nusual, if you're not too tired.'\n\n'Too tired, my lord!--But this is his consideration! Christian from head\nto foot.' With which soliloquy, the secretary tilted the jug, and looked\nvery hard into the mulled wine, to see how much remained.\n\nJohn Willet and John Grueby appeared together. The one bearing the great\ncandlesticks, and the other the portmanteau, showed the deluded lord\ninto his chamber; and left the secretary alone, to yawn and shake\nhimself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire.\n\n'Now, Mr Gashford sir,' said John Grueby in his ear, after what appeared\nto him a moment of unconsciousness; 'my lord's abed.'\n\n'Oh. Very good, John,' was his mild reply. 'Thank you, John. Nobody need\nsit up. I know my room.'\n\n'I hope you're not a-going to trouble your head to-night, or my lord's\nhead neither, with anything more about Bloody Mary,' said John. 'I wish\nthe blessed old creetur had never been born.'\n\n'I said you might go to bed, John,' returned the secretary. 'You didn't\nhear me, I think.'\n\n'Between Bloody Marys, and blue cockades, and glorious Queen Besses,\nand no Poperys, and Protestant associations, and making of speeches,'\npursued John Grueby, looking, as usual, a long way off, and taking no\nnotice of this hint, 'my lord's half off his head. When we go out o'\ndoors, such a set of ragamuffins comes a-shouting after us, \"Gordon\nforever!\" that I'm ashamed of myself and don't know where to look. When\nwe're indoors, they come a-roaring and screaming about the house like so\nmany devils; and my lord instead of ordering them to be drove away, goes\nout into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to 'em, and\ncalls 'em \"Men of England,\" and \"Fellow-countrymen,\" as if he was fond\nof 'em and thanked 'em for coming. I can't make it out, but they're all\nmixed up somehow or another with that unfort'nate Bloody Mary, and call\nher name out till they're hoarse. They're all Protestants too--every man\nand boy among 'em: and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and\nsilver-plate in general, whenever area-gates is left open accidentally.\nI wish that was the worst of it, and that no more harm might be to come;\nbut if you don't stop these ugly customers in time, Mr Gashford (and I\nknow you; you're the man that blows the fire), you'll find 'em grow a\nlittle bit too strong for you. One of these evenings, when the weather\ngets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, they'll be pulling London\ndown,--and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as THAT.'\n\nGashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks had been bestowed on\nempty air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Grueby fixed\nhis hat on, wrongside foremost that he might be unconscious of the\nshadow of the obnoxious cockade, and withdrew to bed; shaking his head\nin a very gloomy and prophetic manner until he reached his chamber.\n\n\n\nChapter 36\n\n\nGashford, with a smiling face, but still with looks of profound\ndeference and humility, betook himself towards his master's room,\nsmoothing his hair down as he went, and humming a psalm tune. As he\napproached Lord George's door, he cleared his throat and hummed more\nvigorously.\n\nThere was a remarkable contrast between this man's occupation at the\nmoment, and the expression of his countenance, which was singularly\nrepulsive and malicious. His beetling brow almost obscured his eyes;\nhis lip was curled contemptuously; his very shoulders seemed to sneer in\nstealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears.\n\n'Hush!' he muttered softly, as he peeped in at the chamber-door. 'He\nseems to be asleep. Pray Heaven he is! Too much watching, too much care,\ntoo much thought--ah! Lord preserve him for a martyr! He is a saint, if\never saint drew breath on this bad earth.'\n\nPlacing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and\nsitting in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on\ncommuning with himself like one who thought aloud:\n\n'The saviour of his country and his country's religion, the friend of\nhis poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud and harsh; beloved of the\nrejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand bold and loyal English\nhearts--what happy slumbers his should be!' And here he sighed, and\nwarmed his hands, and shook his head as men do when their hearts are\nfull, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again.\n\n'Why, Gashford?' said Lord George, who was lying broad awake, upon his\nside, and had been staring at him from his entrance.\n\n'My--my lord,' said Gashford, starting and looking round as though in\ngreat surprise. 'I have disturbed you!'\n\n'I have not been sleeping.'\n\n'Not sleeping!' he repeated, with assumed confusion. 'What can I say\nfor having in your presence given utterance to thoughts--but they were\nsincere--they were sincere!' exclaimed the secretary, drawing his sleeve\nin a hasty way across his eyes; 'and why should I regret your having\nheard them?'\n\n'Gashford,' said the poor lord, stretching out his hand with manifest\nemotion. 'Do not regret it. You love me well, I know--too well. I don't\ndeserve such homage.'\n\nGashford made no reply, but grasped the hand and pressed it to his lips.\nThen rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he placed it on\na table near the fire, unlocked it with a key he carried in his pocket,\nsat down before it, took out a pen, and, before dipping it in the\ninkstand, sucked it--to compose the fashion of his mouth perhaps, on\nwhich a smile was hovering yet.\n\n'How do our numbers stand since last enrolling-night?' inquired Lord\nGeorge. 'Are we really forty thousand strong, or do we still speak in\nround numbers when we take the Association at that amount?'\n\n'Our total now exceeds that number by a score and three,' Gashford\nreplied, casting his eyes upon his papers.\n\n'The funds?'\n\n'Not VERY improving; but there is some manna in the wilderness, my lord.\nHem! On Friday night the widows' mites dropped in. \"Forty scavengers,\nthree and fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St Martin's parish, sixpence.\nA bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence. A Protestant infant,\nnewly born, one halfpenny. The United Link Boys, three shillings--one\nbad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgate, five and fourpence. A friend\nin Bedlam, half-a-crown. Dennis the hangman, one shilling.\"'\n\n'That Dennis,' said his lordship, 'is an earnest man. I marked him in\nthe crowd in Welbeck Street, last Friday.'\n\n'A good man,' rejoined the secretary, 'a staunch, sincere, and truly\nzealous man.'\n\n'He should be encouraged,' said Lord George. 'Make a note of Dennis.\nI'll talk with him.'\n\nGashford obeyed, and went on reading from his list:\n\n'\"The Friends of Reason, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Liberty,\nhalf-a-guinea. The Friends of Peace, half-a-guinea. The Friends of\nCharity, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Mercy, half-a-guinea. The\nAssociated Rememberers of Bloody Mary, half-a-guinea. The United\nBulldogs, half-a-guinea.\"'\n\n'The United Bulldogs,' said Lord George, biting his nails most horribly,\n'are a new society, are they not?'\n\n'Formerly the 'Prentice Knights, my lord. The indentures of the old\nmembers expiring by degrees, they changed their name, it seems, though\nthey still have 'prentices among them, as well as workmen.'\n\n'What is their president's name?' inquired Lord George.\n\n'President,' said Gashford, reading, 'Mr Simon Tappertit.'\n\n'I remember him. The little man, who sometimes brings an elderly sister\nto our meetings, and sometimes another female too, who is conscientious,\nI have no doubt, but not well-favoured?'\n\n'The very same, my lord.'\n\n'Tappertit is an earnest man,' said Lord George, thoughtfully. 'Eh,\nGashford?'\n\n'One of the foremost among them all, my lord. He snuffs the battle from\nafar, like the war-horse. He throws his hat up in the street as if he\nwere inspired, and makes most stirring speeches from the shoulders of\nhis friends.'\n\n'Make a note of Tappertit,' said Lord George Gordon. 'We may advance him\nto a place of trust.'\n\n'That,' rejoined the secretary, doing as he was told, 'is all--except\nMrs Varden's box (fourteenth time of opening), seven shillings and\nsixpence in silver and copper, and half-a-guinea in gold; and Miggs\n(being the saving of a quarter's wages), one-and-threepence.'\n\n'Miggs,' said Lord George. 'Is that a man?'\n\n'The name is entered on the list as a woman,' replied the secretary. 'I\nthink she is the tall spare female of whom you spoke just now, my\nlord, as not being well-favoured, who sometimes comes to hear the\nspeeches--along with Tappertit and Mrs Varden.'\n\n'Mrs Varden is the elderly lady then, is she?'\n\nThe secretary nodded, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the feather\nof his pen.\n\n'She is a zealous sister,' said Lord George. 'Her collection goes on\nprosperously, and is pursued with fervour. Has her husband joined?'\n\n'A malignant,' returned the secretary, folding up his papers. 'Unworthy\nsuch a wife. He remains in outer darkness and steadily refuses.'\n\n'The consequences be upon his own head!--Gashford!'\n\n'My lord!'\n\n'You don't think,' he turned restlessly in his bed as he spoke, 'these\npeople will desert me, when the hour arrives? I have spoken boldly for\nthem, ventured much, suppressed nothing. They'll not fall off, will\nthey?'\n\n'No fear of that, my lord,' said Gashford, with a meaning look, which\nwas rather the involuntary expression of his own thoughts than intended\nas any confirmation of his words, for the other's face was turned away.\n'Be sure there is no fear of that.'\n\n'Nor,' he said with a more restless motion than before, 'of their--but\nthey CAN sustain no harm from leaguing for this purpose. Right is on\nour side, though Might may be against us. You feel as sure of that as\nI--honestly, you do?'\n\nThe secretary was beginning with 'You do not doubt,' when the other\ninterrupted him, and impatiently rejoined:\n\n'Doubt. No. Who says I doubt? If I doubted, should I cast away\nrelatives, friends, everything, for this unhappy country's sake; this\nunhappy country,' he cried, springing up in bed, after repeating the\nphrase 'unhappy country's sake' to himself, at least a dozen times,\n'forsaken of God and man, delivered over to a dangerous confederacy of\nPopish powers; the prey of corruption, idolatry, and despotism! Who says\nI doubt? Am I called, and chosen, and faithful? Tell me. Am I, or am I\nnot?'\n\n'To God, the country, and yourself,' cried Gashford.\n\n'I am. I will be. I say again, I will be: to the block. Who says as\nmuch! Do you? Does any man alive?'\n\nThe secretary drooped his head with an expression of perfect\nacquiescence in anything that had been said or might be; and Lord George\ngradually sinking down upon his pillow, fell asleep.\n\nAlthough there was something very ludicrous in his vehement manner,\ntaken in conjunction with his meagre aspect and ungraceful presence, it\nwould scarcely have provoked a smile in any man of kindly feeling; or\neven if it had, he would have felt sorry and almost angry with himself\nnext moment, for yielding to the impulse. This lord was sincere in his\nviolence and in his wavering. A nature prone to false enthusiasm, and\nthe vanity of being a leader, were the worst qualities apparent in his\ncomposition. All the rest was weakness--sheer weakness; and it is\nthe unhappy lot of thoroughly weak men, that their very sympathies,\naffections, confidences--all the qualities which in better constituted\nminds are virtues--dwindle into foibles, or turn into downright vices.\n\nGashford, with many a sly look towards the bed, sat chuckling at his\nmaster's folly, until his deep and heavy breathing warned him that he\nmight retire. Locking his desk, and replacing it within the trunk (but\nnot before he had taken from a secret lining two printed handbills), he\ncautiously withdrew; looking back, as he went, at the pale face of\nthe slumbering man, above whose head the dusty plumes that crowned the\nMaypole couch, waved drearily and sadly as though it were a bier.\n\nStopping on the staircase to listen that all was quiet, and to take off\nhis shoes lest his footsteps should alarm any light sleeper who might\nbe near at hand, he descended to the ground floor, and thrust one of his\nbills beneath the great door of the house. That done, he crept softly\nback to his own chamber, and from the window let another fall--carefully\nwrapt round a stone to save it from the wind--into the yard below.\n\nThey were addressed on the back 'To every Protestant into whose hands\nthis shall come,' and bore within what follows:\n\n'Men and Brethren. Whoever shall find this letter, will take it as a\nwarning to join, without delay, the friends of Lord George Gordon. There\nare great events at hand; and the times are dangerous and troubled. Read\nthis carefully, keep it clean, and drop it somewhere else. For King and\nCountry. Union.'\n\n'More seed, more seed,' said Gashford as he closed the window. 'When\nwill the harvest come!'\n\n\n\nChapter 37\n\n\nTo surround anything, however monstrous or ridiculous, with an air of\nmystery, is to invest it with a secret charm, and power of attraction\nwhich to the crowd is irresistible. False priests, false prophets, false\ndoctors, false patriots, false prodigies of every kind, veiling their\nproceedings in mystery, have always addressed themselves at an immense\nadvantage to the popular credulity, and have been, perhaps, more\nindebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the upper\nhand of Truth and Common Sense, than to any half-dozen items in the\nwhole catalogue of imposture. Curiosity is, and has been from the\ncreation of the world, a master-passion. To awaken it, to gratify it\nby slight degrees, and yet leave something always in suspense, is to\nestablish the surest hold that can be had, in wrong, on the unthinking\nportion of mankind.\n\nIf a man had stood on London Bridge, calling till he was hoarse, upon\nthe passers-by, to join with Lord George Gordon, although for an object\nwhich no man understood, and which in that very incident had a charm of\nits own,--the probability is, that he might have influenced a score of\npeople in a month. If all zealous Protestants had been publicly urged\nto join an association for the avowed purpose of singing a hymn or two\noccasionally, and hearing some indifferent speeches made, and ultimately\nof petitioning Parliament not to pass an act for abolishing the\npenal laws against Roman Catholic priests, the penalty of perpetual\nimprisonment denounced against those who educated children in that\npersuasion, and the disqualification of all members of the Romish church\nto inherit real property in the United Kingdom by right of purchase or\ndescent,--matters so far removed from the business and bosoms of the\nmass, might perhaps have called together a hundred people. But when\nvague rumours got abroad, that in this Protestant association a secret\npower was mustering against the government for undefined and mighty\npurposes; when the air was filled with whispers of a confederacy\namong the Popish powers to degrade and enslave England, establish an\ninquisition in London, and turn the pens of Smithfield market into\nstakes and cauldrons; when terrors and alarms which no man understood\nwere perpetually broached, both in and out of Parliament, by one\nenthusiast who did not understand himself, and bygone bugbears which had\nlain quietly in their graves for centuries, were raised again to haunt\nthe ignorant and credulous; when all this was done, as it were, in the\ndark, and secret invitations to join the Great Protestant Association in\ndefence of religion, life, and liberty, were dropped in the public ways,\nthrust under the house-doors, tossed in at windows, and pressed into\nthe hands of those who trod the streets by night; when they glared\nfrom every wall, and shone on every post and pillar, so that stocks and\nstones appeared infected with the common fear, urging all men to join\ntogether blindfold in resistance of they knew not what, they knew not\nwhy;--then the mania spread indeed, and the body, still increasing every\nday, grew forty thousand strong.\n\nSo said, at least, in this month of March, 1780, Lord George Gordon, the\nAssociation's president. Whether it was the fact or otherwise, few men\nknew or cared to ascertain. It had never made any public demonstration;\nhad scarcely ever been heard of, save through him; had never been seen;\nand was supposed by many to be the mere creature of his disordered\nbrain. He was accustomed to talk largely about numbers of\nmen--stimulated, as it was inferred, by certain successful disturbances,\narising out of the same subject, which had occurred in Scotland in the\nprevious year; was looked upon as a cracked-brained member of the lower\nhouse, who attacked all parties and sided with none, and was very little\nregarded. It was known that there was discontent abroad--there always\nis; he had been accustomed to address the people by placard, speech,\nand pamphlet, upon other questions; nothing had come, in England, of his\npast exertions, and nothing was apprehended from his present. Just as\nhe has come upon the reader, he had come, from time to time, upon the\npublic, and been forgotten in a day; as suddenly as he appears in these\npages, after a blank of five long years, did he and his proceedings\nbegin to force themselves, about this period, upon the notice of\nthousands of people, who had mingled in active life during the whole\ninterval, and who, without being deaf or blind to passing events, had\nscarcely ever thought of him before.\n\n'My lord,' said Gashford in his ear, as he drew the curtains of his bed\nbetimes; 'my lord!'\n\n'Yes--who's that? What is it?'\n\n'The clock has struck nine,' returned the secretary, with meekly folded\nhands. 'You have slept well? I hope you have slept well? If my prayers\nare heard, you are refreshed indeed.'\n\n'To say the truth, I have slept so soundly,' said Lord George, rubbing\nhis eyes and looking round the room, 'that I don't remember quite--what\nplace is this?'\n\n'My lord!' cried Gashford, with a smile.\n\n'Oh!' returned his superior. 'Yes. You're not a Jew then?'\n\n'A Jew!' exclaimed the pious secretary, recoiling.\n\n'I dreamed that we were Jews, Gashford. You and I--both of us--Jews with\nlong beards.'\n\n'Heaven forbid, my lord! We might as well be Papists.'\n\n'I suppose we might,' returned the other, very quickly. 'Eh? You really\nthink so, Gashford?'\n\n'Surely I do,' the secretary cried, with looks of great surprise.\n\n'Humph!' he muttered. 'Yes, that seems reasonable.'\n\n'I hope my lord--' the secretary began.\n\n'Hope!' he echoed, interrupting him. 'Why do you say, you hope? There's\nno harm in thinking of such things.'\n\n'Not in dreams,' returned the Secretary.\n\n'In dreams! No, nor waking either.'\n\n--'\"Called, and chosen, and faithful,\"' said Gashford, taking up\nLord George's watch which lay upon a chair, and seeming to read the\ninscription on the seal, abstractedly.\n\nIt was the slightest action possible, not obtruded on his notice, and\napparently the result of a moment's absence of mind, not worth remark.\nBut as the words were uttered, Lord George, who had been going on\nimpetuously, stopped short, reddened, and was silent. Apparently quite\nunconscious of this change in his demeanour, the wily Secretary stepped\na little apart, under pretence of pulling up the window-blind, and\nreturning when the other had had time to recover, said:\n\n'The holy cause goes bravely on, my lord. I was not idle, even last\nnight. I dropped two of the handbills before I went to bed, and both are\ngone this morning. Nobody in the house has mentioned the circumstance\nof finding them, though I have been downstairs full half-an-hour. One or\ntwo recruits will be their first fruit, I predict; and who shall say how\nmany more, with Heaven's blessing on your inspired exertions!'\n\n'It was a famous device in the beginning,' replied Lord George; 'an\nexcellent device, and did good service in Scotland. It was quite worthy\nof you. You remind me not to be a sluggard, Gashford, when the vineyard\nis menaced with destruction, and may be trodden down by Papist feet. Let\nthe horses be saddled in half-an-hour. We must be up and doing!'\n\nHe said this with a heightened colour, and in a tone of such enthusiasm,\nthat the secretary deemed all further prompting needless, and withdrew.\n\n--'Dreamed he was a Jew,' he said thoughtfully, as he closed the bedroom\ndoor. 'He may come to that before he dies. It's like enough. Well! After\na time, and provided I lost nothing by it, I don't see why that religion\nshouldn't suit me as well as any other. There are rich men among the\nJews; shaving is very troublesome;--yes, it would suit me well enough.\nFor the present, though, we must be Christian to the core. Our prophetic\nmotto will suit all creeds in their turn, that's a comfort.' Reflecting\non this source of consolation, he reached the sitting-room, and rang the\nbell for breakfast.\n\nLord George was quickly dressed (for his plain toilet was easily made),\nand as he was no less frugal in his repasts than in his Puritan attire,\nhis share of the meal was soon dispatched. The secretary, however, more\ndevoted to the good things of this world, or more intent on sustaining\nhis strength and spirits for the sake of the Protestant cause, ate\nand drank to the last minute, and required indeed some three or four\nreminders from John Grueby, before he could resolve to tear himself away\nfrom Mr Willet's plentiful providing.\n\nAt length he came downstairs, wiping his greasy mouth, and having paid\nJohn Willet's bill, climbed into his saddle. Lord George, who had been\nwalking up and down before the house talking to himself with earnest\ngestures, mounted his horse; and returning old John Willet's stately\nbow, as well as the parting salutation of a dozen idlers whom the rumour\nof a live lord being about to leave the Maypole had gathered round the\nporch, they rode away, with stout John Grueby in the rear.\n\nIf Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr Willet, overnight,\na nobleman of somewhat quaint and odd exterior, the impression was\nconfirmed this morning, and increased a hundredfold. Sitting bolt\nupright upon his bony steed, with his long, straight hair, dangling\nabout his face and fluttering in the wind; his limbs all angular and\nrigid, his elbows stuck out on either side ungracefully, and his whole\nframe jogged and shaken at every motion of his horse's feet; a more\ngrotesque or more ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of\nwhip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane, as large as any\nfootman carries in these days, and his various modes of holding this\nunwieldy weapon--now upright before his face like the sabre of a\nhorse-soldier, now over his shoulder like a musket, now between\nhis finger and thumb, but always in some uncouth and awkward\nfashion--contributed in no small degree to the absurdity of his\nappearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in an unusual manner,\nand ostentatiously exhibiting--whether by design or accident--all his\npeculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities,\nnatural and artificial, in which he differed from other men; he might\nhave moved the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully provoked the\nsmiles and whispered jests which greeted his departure from the Maypole\ninn.\n\nQuite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on\nbeside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they\ncame within a mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger\nwent by who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to some one else, and\nperhaps stood looking after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might\nbe, 'Hurrah Geordie! No Popery!' At which he would gravely pull off his\nhat, and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the streets,\nthese notices became more frequent; some laughed, some hissed, some\nturned their heads and smiled, some wondered who he was, some ran along\nthe pavement by his side and cheered. When this happened in a crush of\ncarts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead stop, and pulling\noff his hat, cry, 'Gentlemen, No Popery!' to which the gentlemen would\nrespond with lusty voices, and with three times three; and then, on he\nwould go again with a score or so of the raggedest, following at his\nhorse's heels, and shouting till their throats were parched.\n\nThe old ladies too--there were a great many old ladies in the streets,\nand these all knew him. Some of them--not those of the highest rank,\nbut such as sold fruit from baskets and carried burdens--clapped their\nshrivelled hands, and raised a weazen, piping, shrill 'Hurrah, my\nlord.' Others waved their hands or handkerchiefs, or shook their fans\nor parasols, or threw up windows and called in haste to those within,\nto come and see. All these marks of popular esteem, he received with\nprofound gravity and respect; bowing very low, and so frequently that\nhis hat was more off his head than on; and looking up at the houses as\nhe passed along, with the air of one who was making a public entry, and\nyet was not puffed up or proud.\n\nSo they rode (to the deep and unspeakable disgust of John Grueby) the\nwhole length of Whitechapel, Leadenhall Street, and Cheapside, and into\nSt Paul's Churchyard. Arriving close to the cathedral, he halted; spoke\nto Gashford; and looking upward at its lofty dome, shook his head, as\nthough he said, 'The Church in Danger!' Then to be sure, the bystanders\nstretched their throats indeed; and he went on again with mighty\nacclamations from the mob, and lower bows than ever.\n\nSo along the Strand, up Swallow Street, into the Oxford Road, and thence\nto his house in Welbeck Street, near Cavendish Square, whither he was\nattended by a few dozen idlers; of whom he took leave on the steps with\nthis brief parting, 'Gentlemen, No Popery. Good day. God bless you.'\nThis being rather a shorter address than they expected, was received\nwith some displeasure, and cries of 'A speech! a speech!' which might\nhave been complied with, but that John Grueby, making a mad charge upon\nthem with all three horses, on his way to the stables, caused them to\ndisperse into the adjoining fields, where they presently fell to\npitch and toss, chuck-farthing, odd or even, dog-fighting, and other\nProtestant recreations.\n\nIn the afternoon Lord George came forth again, dressed in a black velvet\ncoat, and trousers and waistcoat of the Gordon plaid, all of the same\nQuaker cut; and in this costume, which made him look a dozen times more\nstrange and singular than before, went down on foot to Westminster.\nGashford, meanwhile, bestirred himself in business matters; with which\nhe was still engaged when, shortly after dusk, John Grueby entered and\nannounced a visitor.\n\n'Let him come in,' said Gashford.\n\n'Here! come in!' growled John to somebody without; 'You're a Protestant,\nan't you?'\n\n'I should think so,' replied a deep, gruff voice.\n\n'You've the looks of it,' said John Grueby. 'I'd have known you for one,\nanywhere.' With which remark he gave the visitor admission, retired, and\nshut the door.\n\nThe man who now confronted Gashford, was a squat, thickset personage,\nwith a low, retreating forehead, a coarse shock head of hair, and eyes\nso small and near together, that his broken nose alone seemed to\nprevent their meeting and fusing into one of the usual size. A dingy\nhandkerchief twisted like a cord about his neck, left its great veins\nexposed to view, and they were swollen and starting, as though with\ngulping down strong passions, malice, and ill-will. His dress was of\nthreadbare velveteen--a faded, rusty, whitened black, like the ashes\nof a pipe or a coal fire after a day's extinction; discoloured with the\nsoils of many a stale debauch, and reeking yet with pot-house odours. In\nlieu of buckles at his knees, he wore unequal loops of packthread; and\nin his grimy hands he held a knotted stick, the knob of which was carved\ninto a rough likeness of his own vile face. Such was the visitor who\ndoffed his three-cornered hat in Gashford's presence, and waited,\nleering, for his notice.\n\n'Ah! Dennis!' cried the secretary. 'Sit down.'\n\n'I see my lord down yonder--' cried the man, with a jerk of his thumb\ntowards the quarter that he spoke of, 'and he says to me, says my lord,\n\"If you've nothing to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Muster\nGashford.\" Of course I'd nothing to do, you know. These an't my working\nhours. Ha ha! I was a-taking the air when I see my lord, that's what\nI was doing. I takes the air by night, as the howls does, Muster\nGashford.'\n\nAnd sometimes in the day-time, eh?' said the secretary--'when you go out\nin state, you know.'\n\n'Ha ha!' roared the fellow, smiting his leg; 'for a gentleman as 'ull\nsay a pleasant thing in a pleasant way, give me Muster Gashford agin'\nall London and Westminster! My lord an't a bad 'un at that, but he's a\nfool to you. Ah to be sure,--when I go out in state.'\n\n'And have your carriage,' said the secretary; 'and your chaplain, eh?\nand all the rest of it?'\n\n'You'll be the death of me,' cried Dennis, with another roar, 'you will.\nBut what's in the wind now, Muster Gashford,' he asked hoarsely, 'Eh?\nAre we to be under orders to pull down one of them Popish chapels--or\nwhat?'\n\n'Hush!' said the secretary, suffering the faintest smile to play upon\nhis face. 'Hush! God bless me, Dennis! We associate, you know, for\nstrictly peaceable and lawful purposes.'\n\n'I know, bless you,' returned the man, thrusting his tongue into his\ncheek; 'I entered a' purpose, didn't I!'\n\n'No doubt,' said Gashford, smiling as before. And when he said so,\nDennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling into\nfits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neckerchief, and\ncried, 'Muster Gashford agin' all England hollow!'\n\n'Lord George and I were talking of you last night,' said Gashford, after\na pause. 'He says you are a very earnest fellow.'\n\n'So I am,' returned the hangman.\n\n'And that you truly hate the Papists.'\n\n'So I do,' and he confirmed it with a good round oath. 'Lookye here,\nMuster Gashford,' said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon the\nfloor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the\nother; 'Ob-serve. I'm a constitutional officer that works for my living,\nand does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not?'\n\n'Unquestionably.'\n\n'Very good. Stop a minute. My work, is sound, Protestant,\nconstitutional, English work. Is it, or is it not?'\n\n'No man alive can doubt it.'\n\n'Nor dead neither. Parliament says this here--says Parliament, \"If any\nman, woman, or child, does anything which goes again a certain number\nof our acts\"--how many hanging laws may there be at this present time,\nMuster Gashford? Fifty?'\n\n'I don't exactly know how many,' replied Gashford, leaning back in his\nchair and yawning; 'a great number though.'\n\n'Well, say fifty. Parliament says, \"If any man, woman, or child, does\nanything again any one of them fifty acts, that man, woman, or child,\nshall be worked off by Dennis.\" George the Third steps in when they\nnumber very strong at the end of a sessions, and says, \"These are too\nmany for Dennis. I'll have half for myself and Dennis shall have half\nfor himself;\" and sometimes he throws me in one over that I don't\nexpect, as he did three year ago, when I got Mary Jones, a young woman\nof nineteen who come up to Tyburn with a infant at her breast, and was\nworked off for taking a piece of cloth off the counter of a shop in\nLudgate Hill, and putting it down again when the shopman see her;\nand who had never done any harm before, and only tried to do that, in\nconsequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous, and\nshe being left to beg, with two young children--as was proved upon the\ntrial. Ha ha!--Well! That being the law and the practice of England, is\nthe glory of England, an't it, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'Certainly,' said the secretary.\n\n'And in times to come,' pursued the hangman, 'if our grandsons should\nthink of their grandfathers' times, and find these things altered,\nthey'll say, \"Those were days indeed, and we've been going down hill\never since.\" Won't they, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'I have no doubt they will,' said the secretary.\n\n'Well then, look here,' said the hangman. 'If these Papists gets into\npower, and begins to boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my\nwork! If they touch my work that's a part of so many laws, what becomes\nof the laws in general, what becomes of the religion, what becomes of\nthe country!--Did you ever go to church, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'Ever!' repeated the secretary with some indignation; 'of course.'\n\n'Well,' said the ruffian, 'I've been once--twice, counting the time I\nwas christened--and when I heard the Parliament prayed for, and thought\nhow many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I considered that I\nwas prayed for. Now mind, Muster Gashford,' said the fellow, taking\nup his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, 'I mustn't have\nmy Protestant work touched, nor this here Protestant state of things\naltered in no degree, if I can help it; I mustn't have no Papists\ninterfering with me, unless they come to be worked off in course of law;\nI mustn't have no biling, no roasting, no frying--nothing but hanging.\nMy lord may well call me an earnest fellow. In support of the great\nProtestant principle of having plenty of that, I'll,' and here he beat\nhis club upon the ground, 'burn, fight, kill--do anything you bid me, so\nthat it's bold and devilish--though the end of it was, that I got hung\nmyself.--There, Muster Gashford!'\n\nHe appropriately followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word\nto the vilest purposes, by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least\na score of most tremendous oaths; then wiped his heated face upon his\nneckerchief, and cried, 'No Popery! I'm a religious man, by G--!'\n\nGashford had leant back in his chair, regarding him with eyes so sunken,\nand so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for aught the hangman saw of\nthem, he might have been stone blind. He remained smiling in silence for\na short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly:\n\n'You are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis--a most valuable fellow--the\nstaunchest man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself;\nyou must be peaceful, lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be\nthough.'\n\n'Ay, ay, we shall see, Muster Gashford, we shall see. You won't have to\ncomplain of me,' returned the other, shaking his head.\n\n'I am sure I shall not,' said the secretary in the same mild tone, and\nwith the same emphasis. 'We shall have, we think, about next month, or\nMay, when this Papist relief bill comes before the house, to convene our\nwhole body for the first time. My lord has thoughts of our walking\nin procession through the streets--just as an innocent display of\nstrength--and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of\nCommons.'\n\n'The sooner the better,' said Dennis, with another oath.\n\n'We shall have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large; and,\nI believe I may venture to say,' resumed Gashford, affecting not to\nhear the interruption, 'though I have no direct instructions to that\neffect--that Lord George has thought of you as an excellent leader for\none of these parties. I have no doubt you would be an admirable one.'\n\n'Try me,' said the fellow, with an ugly wink.\n\n'You would be cool, I know,' pursued the secretary, still smiling, and\nstill managing his eyes so that he could watch him closely, and really\nnot be seen in turn, 'obedient to orders, and perfectly temperate. You\nwould lead your party into no danger, I am certain.'\n\n'I'd lead them, Muster Gashford,'--the hangman was beginning in a\nreckless way, when Gashford started forward, laid his finger on his\nlips, and feigned to write, just as the door was opened by John Grueby.\n\n'Oh!' said John, looking in; 'here's another Protestant.'\n\n'Some other room, John,' cried Gashford in his blandest voice. 'I am\nengaged just now.'\n\nBut John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked\nin unbidden, as the words were uttered; giving to view the form and\nfeatures, rough attire, and reckless air, of Hugh.\n\n\n\nChapter 38\n\n\nThe secretary put his hand before his eyes to shade them from the glare\nof the lamp, and for some moments looked at Hugh with a frowning brow,\nas if he remembered to have seen him lately, but could not call to mind\nwhere, or on what occasion. His uncertainty was very brief, for before\nHugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance cleared up:\n\n'Ay, ay, I recollect. It's quite right, John, you needn't wait. Don't\ngo, Dennis.'\n\n'Your servant, master,' said Hugh, as Grueby disappeared.\n\n'Yours, friend,' returned the secretary in his smoothest manner. 'What\nbrings YOU here? We left nothing behind us, I hope?'\n\nHugh gave a short laugh, and thrusting his hand into his breast,\nproduced one of the handbills, soiled and dirty from lying out of doors\nall night, which he laid upon the secretary's desk after flattening it\nupon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with his heavy palm.\n\n'Nothing but that, master. It fell into good hands, you see.'\n\n'What is this!' said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly\nnatural surprise. 'Where did you get it from, my good fellow; what does\nit mean? I don't understand this at all.'\n\nA little disconcerted by this reception, Hugh looked from the secretary\nto Dennis, who had risen and was standing at the table too, observing\nthe stranger by stealth, and seeming to derive the utmost satisfaction\nfrom his manners and appearance. Considering himself silently appealed\nto by this action, Mr Dennis shook his head thrice, as if to say of\nGashford, 'No. He don't know anything at all about it. I know he don't.\nI'll take my oath he don't;' and hiding his profile from Hugh with one\nlong end of his frowzy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this\nscreen in extreme approval of the secretary's proceedings.\n\n'It tells the man that finds it, to come here, don't it?' asked Hugh.\n'I'm no scholar, myself, but I showed it to a friend, and he said it\ndid.'\n\n'It certainly does,' said Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost\nwidth; 'really this is the most remarkable circumstance I have ever\nknown. How did you come by this piece of paper, my good friend?'\n\n'Muster Gashford,' wheezed the hangman under his breath, 'agin' all\nNewgate!'\n\nWhether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that he was being played\nupon, or perceived the secretary's drift of himself, he came in his\nblunt way to the point at once.\n\n'Here!' he said, stretching out his hand and taking it back; 'never mind\nthe bill, or what it says, or what it don't say. You don't know anything\nabout it, master,--no more do I,--no more does he,' glancing at Dennis.\n'None of us know what it means, or where it comes from: there's an end\nof that. Now I want to make one against the Catholics, I'm a No-Popery\nman, and ready to be sworn in. That's what I've come here for.'\n\n'Put him down on the roll, Muster Gashford,' said Dennis approvingly.\n'That's the way to go to work--right to the end at once, and no\npalaver.'\n\n'What's the use of shooting wide of the mark, eh, old boy!' cried Hugh.\n\n'My sentiments all over!' rejoined the hangman. 'This is the sort of\nchap for my division, Muster Gashford. Down with him, sir. Put him on\nthe roll. I'd stand godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a\nbonfire, made of the ruins of the Bank of England.'\n\nWith these and other expressions of confidence of the like flattering\nkind, Mr Dennis gave him a hearty slap on the back, which Hugh was not\nslow to return.\n\n'No Popery, brother!' cried the hangman.\n\n'No Property, brother!' responded Hugh.\n\n'Popery, Popery,' said the secretary with his usual mildness.\n\n'It's all the same!' cried Dennis. 'It's all right. Down with him,\nMuster Gashford. Down with everybody, down with everything! Hurrah for\nthe Protestant religion! That's the time of day, Muster Gashford!'\n\nThe secretary regarded them both with a very favourable expression of\ncountenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of\ntheir patriotic purpose; and was about to make some remark aloud, when\nDennis, stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said,\nin a hoarse whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow:\n\n'Don't split upon a constitutional officer's profession, Muster\nGashford. There are popular prejudices, you know, and he mightn't like\nit. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He's a fine-built\nchap, an't he?'\n\n'A powerful fellow indeed!'\n\n'Did you ever, Muster Gashford,' whispered Dennis, with a horrible\nkind of admiration, such as that with which a cannibal might regard his\nintimate friend, when hungry,--'did you ever--and here he drew still\ncloser to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both his open bands--'see\nsuch a throat as his? Do but cast your eye upon it. There's a neck for\nstretching, Muster Gashford!'\n\nThe secretary assented to this proposition with the best grace he could\nassume--it is difficult to feign a true professional relish: which is\neccentric sometimes--and after asking the candidate a few unimportant\nquestions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the Great Protestant\nAssociation of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr Dennis's joy\non the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the rapture\nwith which he received the announcement that the new member could\nneither read nor write: those two arts being (as Mr Dennis swore) the\ngreatest possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating\nmore against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great\nconstitutional office he had the honour to hold, than any adverse\ncircumstances that could present themselves to his imagination.\n\nThe enrolment being completed, and Hugh having been informed by\nGashford, in his peculiar manner, of the peaceful and strictly lawful\nobjects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged--during which\nrecital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made divers\nremarkable faces--the secretary gave them both to understand that he\ndesired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and\ncame out of the house together.\n\n'Are you walking, brother?' said Dennis.\n\n'Ay!' returned Hugh. 'Where you will.'\n\n'That's social,' said his new friend. 'Which way shall we take? Shall we\ngo and have a look at doors that we shall make a pretty good clattering\nat, before long--eh, brother?'\n\nHugh answering in the affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster,\nwhere both houses of Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd\nof carriages, horses, servants, chairmen, link-boys, porters, and idlers\nof all kinds, they lounged about; while Hugh's new friend pointed out to\nhim significantly the weak parts of the building, how easy it was to get\ninto the lobby, and so to the very door of the House of Commons; and how\nplainly, when they marched down there in grand array, their roars and\nshouts would be heard by the members inside; with a great deal more to\nthe same purpose, all of which Hugh received with manifest delight.\n\nHe told him, too, who some of the Lords and Commons were, by name,\nas they came in and out; whether they were friendly to the Papists or\notherwise; and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages,\nthat he might be sure of them, in case of need. Sometimes he drew\nhim close to the windows of a passing carriage, that he might see its\nmaster's face by the light of the lamps; and, both in respect of people\nand localities, he showed so much acquaintance with everything around,\nthat it was plain he had often studied there before; as indeed, when\nthey grew a little more confidential, he confessed he had.\n\nPerhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number of\npeople--never in groups of more than two or three together--who seemed\nto be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part\nof these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh's companion was sufficient\ngreeting; but, now and then, some man would come and stand beside him\nin the throng, and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate\nwith him, would say a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer\nin the same cautious manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some\nof these men often reappeared again unexpectedly in the crowd close to\nHugh, and, as they passed by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in\nthe face; but they never spoke to him, nor he to them; no, not a word.\n\nIt was remarkable, too, that whenever they happened to stand where there\nwas any press of people, and Hugh chanced to be looking downward, he\nwas sure to see an arm stretched out--under his own perhaps, or perhaps\nacross him--which thrust some paper into the hand or pocket of a\nbystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn that it was impossible to tell\nfrom whom it came; nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly\nround, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper\nlike the one he carried in his breast, but his companion whispered him\nnot to touch it or to take it up,--not even to look towards it,--so\nthere they let them lie, and passed on.\n\nWhen they had paraded the street and all the avenues of the building in\nthis manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend asked\nhim what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared\nfor a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. 'The hotter the\nbetter,' said Hugh, 'I'm prepared for anything.'--'So am I,' said his\nfriend, 'and so are many of us; and they shook hands upon it with a\ngreat oath, and with many terrible imprecations on the Papists.\n\nAs they were thirsty by this time, Dennis proposed that they should\nrepair together to The Boot, where there was good company and strong\nliquor. Hugh yielding a ready assent, they bent their steps that way\nwith no loss of time.\n\nThis Boot was a lone house of public entertainment, situated in the\nfields at the back of the Foundling Hospital; a very solitary spot at\nthat period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern stood at some\ndistance from any high road, and was approachable only by a dark and\nnarrow lane; so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people\ndrinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more\nsurprised to find among them almost every face that had caught his\nattention in the crowd; but his companion having whispered him outside\nthe door, that it was not considered good manners at The Boot to appear\nat all curious about the company, he kept his own counsel, and made no\nshow of recognition.\n\nBefore putting his lips to the liquor which was brought for them, Dennis\ndrank in a loud voice the health of Lord George Gordon, President of the\nGreat Protestant Association; which toast Hugh pledged likewise, with\ncorresponding enthusiasm. A fiddler who was present, and who appeared\nto act as the appointed minstrel of the company, forthwith struck up a\nScotch reel; and that in tones so invigorating, that Hugh and his friend\n(who had both been drinking before) rose from their seats as by previous\nconcert, and, to the great admiration of the assembled guests, performed\nan extemporaneous No-Popery Dance.\n\n\n\nChapter 39\n\n\nThe applause which the performance of Hugh and his new friend elicited\nfrom the company at The Boot, had not yet subsided, and the two dancers\nwere still panting from their exertions, which had been of a rather\nextreme and violent character, when the party was reinforced by the\narrival of some more guests, who, being a detachment of United Bulldogs,\nwere received with very flattering marks of distinction and respect.\n\nThe leader of this small party--for, including himself, they were but\nthree in number--was our old acquaintance, Mr Tappertit, who seemed,\nphysically speaking, to have grown smaller with years (particularly as\nto his legs, which were stupendously little), but who, in a moral point\nof view, in personal dignity and self-esteem, had swelled into a giant.\nNor was it by any means difficult for the most unobservant person to\ndetect this state of feeling in the quondam 'prentice, for it not only\nproclaimed itself impressively and beyond mistake in his majestic\nwalk and kindling eye, but found a striking means of revelation in his\nturned-up nose, which scouted all things of earth with deep disdain, and\nsought communion with its kindred skies.\n\nMr Tappertit, as chief or captain of the Bulldogs, was attended by his\ntwo lieutenants; one, the tall comrade of his younger life; the other, a\n'Prentice Knight in days of yore--Mark Gilbert, bound in the olden time\nto Thomas Curzon of the Golden Fleece. These gentlemen, like himself,\nwere now emancipated from their 'prentice thraldom, and served as\njourneymen; but they were, in humble emulation of his great example,\nbold and daring spirits, and aspired to a distinguished state in great\npolitical events. Hence their connection with the Protestant Association\nof England, sanctioned by the name of Lord George Gordon; and hence\ntheir present visit to The Boot.\n\n'Gentlemen!' said Mr Tappertit, taking off his hat as a great general\nmight in addressing his troops. 'Well met. My lord does me and you the\nhonour to send his compliments per self.'\n\n'You've seen my lord too, have you?' said Dennis. 'I see him this\nafternoon.'\n\n'My duty called me to the Lobby when our shop shut up; and I saw him\nthere, sir,' Mr Tappertit replied, as he and his lieutenants took their\nseats. 'How do YOU do?'\n\n'Lively, master, lively,' said the fellow. 'Here's a new brother,\nregularly put down in black and white by Muster Gashford; a credit to\nthe cause; one of the stick-at-nothing sort; one arter my own heart.\nD'ye see him? Has he got the looks of a man that'll do, do you think?'\nhe cried, as he slapped Hugh on the back.\n\n'Looks or no looks,' said Hugh, with a drunken flourish of his arm, 'I'm\nthe man you want. I hate the Papists, every one of 'em. They hate me and\nI hate them. They do me all the harm they can, and I'll do them all the\nharm I can. Hurrah!'\n\n'Was there ever,' said Dennis, looking round the room, when the echo\nof his boisterous voice bad died away; 'was there ever such a game boy!\nWhy, I mean to say, brothers, that if Muster Gashford had gone a hundred\nmile and got together fifty men of the common run, they wouldn't have\nbeen worth this one.'\n\nThe greater part of the company implicitly subscribed to this\nopinion, and testified their faith in Hugh by nods and looks of great\nsignificance. Mr Tappertit sat and contemplated him for a long time in\nsilence, as if he suspended his judgment; then drew a little nearer to\nhim, and eyed him over more carefully; then went close up to him, and\ntook him apart into a dark corner.\n\n'I say,' he began, with a thoughtful brow, 'haven't I seen you before?'\n\n'It's like you may,' said Hugh, in his careless way. 'I don't know;\nshouldn't wonder.'\n\n'No, but it's very easily settled,' returned Sim. 'Look at me. Did you\never see ME before? You wouldn't be likely to forget it, you know, if\nyou ever did. Look at me. Don't be afraid; I won't do you any harm. Take\na good look--steady now.'\n\nThe encouraging way in which Mr Tappertit made this request, and\ncoupled it with an assurance that he needn't be frightened, amused Hugh\nmightily--so much indeed, that he saw nothing at all of the small man\nbefore him, through closing his eyes in a fit of hearty laughter, which\nshook his great broad sides until they ached again.\n\n'Come!' said Mr Tappertit, growing a little impatient under this\ndisrespectful treatment. 'Do you know me, feller?'\n\n'Not I,' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! Not I! But I should like to.'\n\n'And yet I'd have wagered a seven-shilling piece,' said Mr Tappertit,\nfolding his arms, and confronting him with his legs wide apart and\nfirmly planted on the ground, 'that you once were hostler at the\nMaypole.'\n\nHugh opened his eyes on hearing this, and looked at him in great\nsurprise.\n\n'--And so you were, too,' said Mr Tappertit, pushing him away with a\ncondescending playfulness. 'When did MY eyes ever deceive--unless it was\na young woman! Don't you know me now?'\n\n'Why it an't--' Hugh faltered.\n\n'An't it?' said Mr Tappertit. 'Are you sure of that? You remember G.\nVarden, don't you?'\n\nCertainly Hugh did, and he remembered D. Varden too; but that he didn't\ntell him.\n\n'You remember coming down there, before I was out of my time, to ask\nafter a vagabond that had bolted off, and left his disconsolate father a\nprey to the bitterest emotions, and all the rest of it--don't you?' said\nMr Tappertit.\n\n'Of course I do!' cried Hugh. 'And I saw you there.'\n\n'Saw me there!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Yes, I should think you did see\nme there. The place would be troubled to go on without me. Don't you\nremember my thinking you liked the vagabond, and on that account going\nto quarrel with you; and then finding you detested him worse than\npoison, going to drink with you? Don't you remember that?'\n\n'To be sure!' cried Hugh.\n\n'Well! and are you in the same mind now?' said Mr Tappertit.\n\n'Yes!' roared Hugh.\n\n'You speak like a man,' said Mr Tappertit, 'and I'll shake hands with\nyou.' With these conciliatory expressions he suited the action to the\nword; and Hugh meeting his advances readily, they performed the ceremony\nwith a show of great heartiness.\n\n'I find,' said Mr Tappertit, looking round on the assembled guests,\n'that brother What's-his-name and I are old acquaintance.--You never\nheard anything more of that rascal, I suppose, eh?'\n\n'Not a syllable,' replied Hugh. 'I never want to. I don't believe I ever\nshall. He's dead long ago, I hope.'\n\n'It's to be hoped, for the sake of mankind in general and the happiness\nof society, that he is,' said Mr Tappertit, rubbing his palm upon his\nlegs, and looking at it between whiles. 'Is your other hand at all\ncleaner? Much the same. Well, I'll owe you another shake. We'll suppose\nit done, if you've no objection.'\n\nHugh laughed again, and with such thorough abandonment to his mad\nhumour, that his limbs seemed dislocated, and his whole frame in danger\nof tumbling to pieces; but Mr Tappertit, so far from receiving this\nextreme merriment with any irritation, was pleased to regard it with the\nutmost favour, and even to join in it, so far as one of his gravity and\nstation could, with any regard to that decency and decorum which men in\nhigh places are expected to maintain.\n\nMr Tappertit did not stop here, as many public characters might have\ndone, but calling up his brace of lieutenants, introduced Hugh to them\nwith high commendation; declaring him to be a man who, at such times as\nthose in which they lived, could not be too much cherished. Further, he\ndid him the honour to remark, that he would be an acquisition of which\neven the United Bulldogs might be proud; and finding, upon sounding him,\nthat he was quite ready and willing to enter the society (for he was\nnot at all particular, and would have leagued himself that night with\nanything, or anybody, for any purpose whatsoever), caused the necessary\npreliminaries to be gone into upon the spot. This tribute to his great\nmerit delighted no man more than Mr Dennis, as he himself proclaimed\nwith several rare and surprising oaths; and indeed it gave unmingled\nsatisfaction to the whole assembly.\n\n'Make anything you like of me!' cried Hugh, flourishing the can he had\nemptied more than once. 'Put me on any duty you please. I'm your man.\nI'll do it. Here's my captain--here's my leader. Ha ha ha! Let him\ngive me the word of command, and I'll fight the whole Parliament House\nsingle-handed, or set a lighted torch to the King's Throne itself!' With\nthat, he smote Mr Tappertit on the back, with such violence that his\nlittle body seemed to shrink into a mere nothing; and roared again until\nthe very foundlings near at hand were startled in their beds.\n\nIn fact, a sense of something whimsical in their companionship seemed to\nhave taken entire possession of his rude brain. The bare fact of being\npatronised by a great man whom he could have crushed with one hand,\nappeared in his eyes so eccentric and humorous, that a kind of ferocious\nmerriment gained the mastery over him, and quite subdued his brutal\nnature. He roared and roared again; toasted Mr Tappertit a hundred\ntimes; declared himself a Bulldog to the core; and vowed to be faithful\nto him to the last drop of blood in his veins.\n\nAll these compliments Mr Tappertit received as matters of\ncourse--flattering enough in their way, but entirely attributable to his\nvast superiority. His dignified self-possession only delighted Hugh the\nmore; and in a word, this giant and dwarf struck up a friendship which\nbade fair to be of long continuance, as the one held it to be his right\nto command, and the other considered it an exquisite pleasantry to\nobey. Nor was Hugh by any means a passive follower, who scrupled to act\nwithout precise and definite orders; for when Mr Tappertit mounted on an\nempty cask which stood by way of rostrum in the room, and volunteered a\nspeech upon the alarming crisis then at hand, he placed himself beside\nthe orator, and though he grinned from ear to ear at every word he said,\nthrew out such expressive hints to scoffers in the management of his\ncudgel, that those who were at first the most disposed to interrupt,\nbecame remarkably attentive, and were the loudest in their approbation.\n\nIt was not all noise and jest, however, at The Boot, nor were the whole\nparty listeners to the speech. There were some men at the other end of\nthe room (which was a long, low-roofed chamber) in earnest conversation\nall the time; and when any of this group went out, fresh people were\nsure to come in soon afterwards and sit down in their places, as though\nthe others had relieved them on some watch or duty; which it was pretty\nclear they did, for these changes took place by the clock, at intervals\nof half an hour. These persons whispered very much among themselves,\nand kept aloof, and often looked round, as jealous of their speech being\noverheard; some two or three among them entered in books what seemed\nto be reports from the others; when they were not thus employed one of\nthem would turn to the newspapers which were strewn upon the table,\nand from the St James's Chronicle, the Herald, Chronicle, or Public\nAdvertiser, would read to the rest in a low voice some passage having\nreference to the topic in which they were all so deeply interested. But\nthe great attraction was a pamphlet called The Thunderer, which espoused\ntheir own opinions, and was supposed at that time to emanate directly\nfrom the Association. This was always in request; and whether read\naloud, to an eager knot of listeners, or by some solitary man, was\ncertain to be followed by stormy talking and excited looks.\n\nIn the midst of all his merriment, and admiration of his captain, Hugh\nwas made sensible by these and other tokens, of the presence of an air\nof mystery, akin to that which had so much impressed him out of doors.\nIt was impossible to discard a sense that something serious was going\non, and that under the noisy revel of the public-house, there lurked\nunseen and dangerous matter. Little affected by this, however, he was\nperfectly satisfied with his quarters and would have remained there till\nmorning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight, to go home; Mr\nTappertit following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So they all\nthree left the house together: roaring a No-Popery song until the fields\nresounded with the dismal noise.\n\n'Cheer up, captain!' cried Hugh, when they had roared themselves out of\nbreath. 'Another stave!'\n\nMr Tappertit, nothing loath, began again; and so the three went\nstaggering on, arm-in-arm, shouting like madmen, and defying the watch\nwith great valour. Indeed this did not require any unusual bravery or\nboldness, as the watchmen of that time, being selected for the office\non account of excessive age and extraordinary infirmity, had a custom\nof shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the first symptoms\nof disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In these\nproceedings, Mr Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable\npower, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with\nhis two companions.\n\n'What a queer fellow you are!' said Mr Tappertit. 'You're so precious\nsly and close. Why don't you ever tell what trade you're of?'\n\n'Answer the captain instantly,' cried Hugh, beating his hat down on his\nhead; 'why don't you ever tell what trade you're of?'\n\n'I'm of as gen-teel a calling, brother, as any man in England--as light\na business as any gentleman could desire.'\n\n'Was you 'prenticed to it?' asked Mr Tappertit.\n\n'No. Natural genius,' said Mr Dennis. 'No 'prenticing. It come\nby natur'. Muster Gashford knows my calling. Look at that hand of\nmine--many and many a job that hand has done, with a neatness and\ndexterity, never known afore. When I look at that hand,' said Mr\nDennis, shaking it in the air, 'and remember the helegant bits of work\nit has turned off, I feel quite molloncholy to think it should ever grow\nold and feeble. But sich is life!'\n\nHe heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting\nhis fingers with an absent air on Hugh's throat, and particularly under\nhis left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that\npart of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually\nshed tears.\n\n'You're a kind of artist, I suppose--eh!' said Mr Tappertit.\n\n'Yes,' rejoined Dennis; 'yes--I may call myself a artist--a fancy\nworkman--art improves natur'--that's my motto.'\n\n'And what do you call this?' said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of\nhis hand.\n\n'That's my portrait atop,' Dennis replied; 'd'ye think it's like?'\n\n'Why--it's a little too handsome,' said Mr Tappertit. 'Who did it? You?'\n\n'I!' repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. 'I wish I had the\ntalent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more. The very\nday afore he died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from memory! \"I'll\ndie game,\" says my friend, \"and my last moments shall be dewoted to\nmaking Dennis's picter.\" That's it.'\n\n'That was a queer fancy, wasn't it?' said Mr Tappertit.\n\n'It WAS a queer fancy,' rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious\nnose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, 'but he was a queer\nsubject altogether--a kind of gipsy--one of the finest, stand-up men,\nyou ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you a bit,\ndid that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.'\n\n'You were with him at the time, were you?' said Mr Tappertit.\n\n'Yes,' he answered with a curious look, 'I was there. Oh! yes certainly,\nI was there. He wouldn't have gone off half as comfortable without me. I\nhad been with three or four of his family under the same circumstances.\nThey were all fine fellows.'\n\n'They must have been fond of you,' remarked Mr Tappertit, looking at him\nsideways.\n\n'I don't know that they was exactly fond of me,' said Dennis, with a\nlittle hesitation, 'but they all had me near 'em when they departed. I\ncome in for their wardrobes too. This very handkecher that you see round\nmy neck, belonged to him that I've been speaking of--him as did that\nlikeness.'\n\nMr Tappertit glanced at the article referred to, and appeared to think\nthat the deceased's ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an\nexpensive kind. He made no remark upon the point, however, and suffered\nhis mysterious companion to proceed without interruption.\n\n'These smalls,' said Dennis, rubbing his legs; 'these very smalls--they\nbelonged to a friend of mine that's left off sich incumbrances for ever:\nthis coat too--I've often walked behind this coat, in the street, and\nwondered whether it would ever come to me: this pair of shoes have\ndanced a hornpipe for another man, afore my eyes, full half-a-dozen\ntimes at least: and as to my hat,' he said, taking it off, and whirling\nit round upon his fist--'Lord! I've seen this hat go up Holborn on the\nbox of a hackney-coach--ah, many and many a day!'\n\n'You don't mean to say their old wearers are ALL dead, I hope?' said Mr\nTappertit, falling a little distance from him as he spoke.\n\n'Every one of 'em,' replied Dennis. 'Every man Jack!'\n\nThere was something so very ghastly in this circumstance, and it\nappeared to account, in such a very strange and dismal manner, for his\nfaded dress--which, in this new aspect, seemed discoloured by the earth\nfrom graves--that Mr Tappertit abruptly found he was going another way,\nand, stopping short, bade him good night with the utmost heartiness. As\nthey happened to be near the Old Bailey, and Mr Dennis knew there were\nturnkeys in the lodge with whom he could pass the night, and discuss\nprofessional subjects of common interest among them before a rousing\nfire, and over a social glass, he separated from his companions without\nany great regret, and warmly shaking hands with Hugh, and making an\nearly appointment for their meeting at The Boot, left them to pursue\ntheir road.\n\n'That's a strange sort of man,' said Mr Tappertit, watching the\nhackney-coachman's hat as it went bobbing down the street. 'I don't know\nwhat to make of him. Why can't he have his smalls made to order, or wear\nlive clothes at any rate?'\n\n'He's a lucky man, captain,' cried Hugh. 'I should like to have such\nfriends as his.'\n\n'I hope he don't get 'em to make their wills, and then knock 'em on the\nhead,' said Mr Tappertit, musing. 'But come. The United B.'s expect me.\nOn!--What's the matter?'\n\n'I quite forgot,' said Hugh, who had started at the striking of a\nneighbouring clock. 'I have somebody to see to-night--I must turn back\ndirectly. The drinking and singing put it out of my head. It's well I\nremembered it!'\n\nMr Tappertit looked at him as though he were about to give utterance to\nsome very majestic sentiments in reference to this act of desertion, but\nas it was clear, from Hugh's hasty manner, that the engagement was one\nof a pressing nature, he graciously forbore, and gave him his permission\nto depart immediately, which Hugh acknowledged with a roar of laughter.\n\n'Good night, captain!' he cried. 'I am yours to the death, remember!'\n\n'Farewell!' said Mr Tappertit, waving his hand. 'Be bold and vigilant!'\n\n'No Popery, captain!' roared Hugh.\n\n'England in blood first!' cried his desperate leader. Whereat Hugh\ncheered and laughed, and ran off like a greyhound.\n\n'That man will prove a credit to my corps,' said Simon, turning\nthoughtfully upon his heel. 'And let me see. In an altered state of\nsociety--which must ensue if we break out and are victorious--when the\nlocksmith's child is mine, Miggs must be got rid of somehow, or she'll\npoison the tea-kettle one evening when I'm out. He might marry Miggs, if\nhe was drunk enough. It shall be done. I'll make a note of it.'\n\n\n\nChapter 40\n\n\nLittle thinking of the plan for his happy settlement in life which had\nsuggested itself to the teeming brain of his provident commander, Hugh\nmade no pause until Saint Dunstan's giants struck the hour above him,\nwhen he worked the handle of a pump which stood hard by, with great\nvigour, and thrusting his head under the spout, let the water gush upon\nhim until a little stream ran down from every uncombed hair, and he was\nwet to the waist. Considerably refreshed by this ablution, both in mind\nand body, and almost sobered for the time, he dried himself as he best\ncould; then crossed the road, and plied the knocker of the Middle Temple\ngate.\n\nThe night-porter looked through a small grating in the portal with a\nsurly eye, and cried 'Halloa!' which greeting Hugh returned in kind, and\nbade him open quickly.\n\n'We don't sell beer here,' cried the man; 'what else do you want?'\n\n'To come in,' Hugh replied, with a kick at the door.\n\n'Where to go?'\n\n'Paper Buildings.'\n\n'Whose chambers?'\n\n'Sir John Chester's.' Each of which answers, he emphasised with another\nkick.\n\nAfter a little growling on the other side, the gate was opened, and he\npassed in: undergoing a close inspection from the porter as he did so.\n\n'YOU wanting Sir John, at this time of night!' said the man.\n\n'Ay!' said Hugh. 'I! What of that?'\n\n'Why, I must go with you and see that you do, for I don't believe it.'\n\n'Come along then.'\n\nEyeing him with suspicious looks, the man, with key and lantern, walked\non at his side, and attended him to Sir John Chester's door, at which\nHugh gave one knock, that echoed through the dark staircase like a\nghostly summons, and made the dull light tremble in the drowsy lamp.\n\n'Do you think he wants me now?' said Hugh.\n\nBefore the man had time to answer, a footstep was heard within, a light\nappeared, and Sir John, in his dressing-gown and slippers, opened the\ndoor.\n\n'I ask your pardon, Sir John,' said the porter, pulling off his hat.\n'Here's a young man says he wants to speak to you. It's late for\nstrangers. I thought it best to see that all was right.'\n\n'Aha!' cried Sir John, raising his eyebrows. 'It's you, messenger, is\nit? Go in. Quite right, friend. I commend your prudence highly. Thank\nyou. God bless you. Good night.'\n\nTo be commended, thanked, God-blessed, and bade good night by one who\ncarried 'Sir' before his name, and wrote himself M.P. to boot, was\nsomething for a porter. He withdrew with much humility and reverence.\nSir John followed his late visitor into the dressing-room, and sitting\nin his easy-chair before the fire, and moving it so that he could see\nhim as he stood, hat in hand, beside the door, looked at him from head\nto foot.\n\nThe old face, calm and pleasant as ever; the complexion, quite juvenile\nin its bloom and clearness; the same smile; the wonted precision and\nelegance of dress; the white, well-ordered teeth; the delicate hands;\nthe composed and quiet manner; everything as it used to be: no mark of\nage or passion, envy, hate, or discontent: all unruffled and serene, and\nquite delightful to behold.\n\nHe wrote himself M.P.--but how? Why, thus. It was a proud family--more\nproud, indeed, than wealthy. He had stood in danger of arrest; of\nbailiffs, and a jail--a vulgar jail, to which the common people with\nsmall incomes went. Gentlemen of ancient houses have no privilege of\nexemption from such cruel laws--unless they are of one great house, and\nthen they have. A proud man of his stock and kindred had the means of\nsending him there. He offered--not indeed to pay his debts, but to let\nhim sit for a close borough until his own son came of age, which, if he\nlived, would come to pass in twenty years. It was quite as good as an\nInsolvent Act, and infinitely more genteel. So Sir John Chester was a\nmember of Parliament.\n\nBut how Sir John? Nothing so simple, or so easy. One touch with a sword\nof state, and the transformation was effected. John Chester, Esquire,\nM.P., attended court--went up with an address--headed a deputation.\nSuch elegance of manner, so many graces of deportment, such powers of\nconversation, could never pass unnoticed. Mr was too common for\nsuch merit. A man so gentlemanly should have been--but Fortune is\ncapricious--born a Duke: just as some dukes should have been born\nlabourers. He caught the fancy of the king, knelt down a grub, and rose\na butterfly. John Chester, Esquire, was knighted and became Sir John.\n\n'I thought when you left me this evening, my esteemed acquaintance,'\nsaid Sir John after a pretty long silence, 'that you intended to return\nwith all despatch?'\n\n'So I did, master.'\n\n'And so you have?' he retorted, glancing at his watch. 'Is that what you\nwould say?'\n\nInstead of replying, Hugh changed the leg on which he leant, shuffled\nhis cap from one hand to the other, looked at the ground, the wall, the\nceiling, and finally at Sir John himself; before whose pleasant face he\nlowered his eyes again, and fixed them on the floor.\n\n'And how have you been employing yourself in the meanwhile?' quoth Sir\nJohn, lazily crossing his legs. 'Where have you been? what harm have you\nbeen doing?'\n\n'No harm at all, master,' growled Hugh, with humility. 'I have only done\nas you ordered.'\n\n'As I WHAT?' returned Sir John.\n\n'Well then,' said Hugh uneasily, 'as you advised, or said I ought, or\nsaid I might, or said that you would do, if you was me. Don't be so hard\nupon me, master.'\n\nSomething like an expression of triumph in the perfect control he had\nestablished over this rough instrument appeared in the knight's face for\nan instant; but it vanished directly, as he said--paring his nails while\nspeaking:\n\n'When you say I ordered you, my good fellow, you imply that I directed\nyou to do something for me--something I wanted done--something for my\nown ends and purposes--you see? Now I am sure I needn't enlarge upon the\nextreme absurdity of such an idea, however unintentional; so please--'\nand here he turned his eyes upon him--'to be more guarded. Will you?'\n\n'I meant to give you no offence,' said Hugh. 'I don't know what to say.\nYou catch me up so very short.'\n\n'You will be caught up much shorter, my good friend--infinitely\nshorter--one of these days, depend upon it,' replied his patron calmly.\n'By-the-bye, instead of wondering why you have been so long, my wonder\nshould be why you came at all. Why did you?'\n\n'You know, master,' said Hugh, 'that I couldn't read the bill I found,\nand that supposing it to be something particular from the way it was\nwrapped up, I brought it here.'\n\n'And could you ask no one else to read it, Bruin?' said Sir John.\n\n'No one that I could trust with secrets, master. Since Barnaby Rudge\nwas lost sight of for good and all--and that's five years ago--I haven't\ntalked with any one but you.'\n\n'You have done me honour, I am sure.'\n\n'I have come to and fro, master, all through that time, when there was\nanything to tell, because I knew that you'd be angry with me if I stayed\naway,' said Hugh, blurting the words out, after an embarrassed silence;\n'and because I wished to please you if I could, and not to have you go\nagainst me. There. That's the true reason why I came to-night. You know\nthat, master, I am sure.'\n\n'You are a specious fellow,' returned Sir John, fixing his eyes upon\nhim, 'and carry two faces under your hood, as well as the best. Didn't\nyou give me in this room, this evening, any other reason; no dislike\nof anybody who has slighted you lately, on all occasions, abused you,\ntreated you with rudeness; acted towards you, more as if you were a\nmongrel dog than a man like himself?'\n\n'To be sure I did!' cried Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant\nit should; 'and I say it all over now, again. I'd do anything to have\nsome revenge on him--anything. And when you told me that he and all\nthe Catholics would suffer from those who joined together under that\nhandbill, I said I'd make one of 'em, if their master was the devil\nhimself. I AM one of 'em. See whether I am as good as my word and turn\nout to be among the foremost, or no. I mayn't have much head, master,\nbut I've head enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see,\nand so shall he, and so shall hundreds more, how my spirit backs me\nwhen the time comes. My bark is nothing to my bite. Some that I know had\nbetter have a wild lion among 'em than me, when I am fairly loose--they\nhad!'\n\nThe knight looked at him with a smile of far deeper meaning than\nordinary; and pointing to the old cupboard, followed him with his eyes\nwhile he filled and drank a glass of liquor; and smiled when his back\nwas turned, with deeper meaning yet.\n\n'You are in a blustering mood, my friend,' he said, when Hugh confronted\nhim again.\n\n'Not I, master!' cried Hugh. 'I don't say half I mean. I can't. I\nhaven't got the gift. There are talkers enough among us; I'll be one of\nthe doers.'\n\n'Oh! you have joined those fellows then?' said Sir John, with an air of\nmost profound indifference.\n\n'Yes. I went up to the house you told me of; and got put down upon the\nmuster. There was another man there, named Dennis--'\n\n'Dennis, eh!' cried Sir John, laughing. 'Ay, ay! a pleasant fellow, I\nbelieve?'\n\n'A roaring dog, master--one after my own heart--hot upon the matter\ntoo--red hot.'\n\n'So I have heard,' replied Sir John, carelessly. 'You don't happen to\nknow his trade, do you?'\n\n'He wouldn't say,' cried Hugh. 'He keeps it secret.'\n\n'Ha ha!' laughed Sir John. 'A strange fancy--a weakness with some\npersons--you'll know it one day, I dare swear.'\n\n'We're intimate already,' said Hugh.\n\n'Quite natural! And have been drinking together, eh?' pursued Sir John.\n'Did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord\nGeorge's?'\n\nHugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him; and this\ninquiry being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that\nhad passed both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen,\ntheir numbers, state of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent\nexpectations and intentions. His questioning was so artfully contrived,\nthat he seemed even in his own eyes to volunteer all this information\nrather than to have it wrested from him; and he was brought to this\nstate of feeling so naturally, that when Mr Chester yawned at length and\ndeclared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of excuse for\nhaving talked so much.\n\n'There--get you gone,' said Sir John, holding the door open in his hand.\n'You have made a pretty evening's work. I told you not to do this. You\nmay get into trouble. You'll have an opportunity of revenging yourself\non your proud friend Haredale, though, and for that, you'd hazard\nanything, I suppose?'\n\n'I would,' retorted Hugh, stopping in his passage out and looking\nback; 'but what do I risk! What do I stand a chance of losing, master?\nFriends, home? A fig for 'em all; I have none; they are nothing to me.\nGive me a good scuffle; let me pay off old scores in a bold riot where\nthere are men to stand by me; and then use me as you like--it don't\nmatter much to me what the end is!'\n\n'What have you done with that paper?' said Sir John.\n\n'I have it here, master.'\n\n'Drop it again as you go along; it's as well not to keep such things\nabout you.'\n\nHugh nodded, and touching his cap with an air of as much respect as he\ncould summon up, departed.\n\nSir John, fastening the doors behind him, went back to his\ndressing-room, and sat down once again before the fire, at which he\ngazed for a long time, in earnest meditation.\n\n'This happens fortunately,' he said, breaking into a smile, 'and\npromises well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most\nProtestant fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman\nCatholic cause; and to Saville, who introduces their bill, I have a\npersonal objection besides; but as each of us has himself for the first\narticle in his creed, we cannot commit ourselves by joining with a very\nextravagant madman, such as this Gordon most undoubtedly is. Now really,\nto foment his disturbances in secret, through the medium of such a very\napt instrument as my savage friend here, may further our real ends;\nand to express at all becoming seasons, in moderate and polite terms,\na disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in\nprinciple, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and\nuprightness of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and\nto raise us into some importance. Good! So much for public grounds. As\nto private considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds WOULD make\nsome riotous demonstration (which does not appear impossible), and WOULD\ninflict some little chastisement on Haredale as a not inactive man among\nhis sect, it would be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would\namuse me beyond measure. Good again! Perhaps better!'\n\nWhen he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff; then beginning\nslowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a smile:\n\n'I fear, I DO fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the\nfootsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr Dennis is very ominous.\nBut I have no doubt he must have come to that end any way. If I lend\nhim a helping hand, the only difference is, that he may, upon the whole,\npossibly drink a few gallons, or puncheons, or hogsheads, less in this\nlife than he otherwise would. It's no business of mine. It's a matter of\nvery small importance!'\n\nSo he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed.\n\n\n\nChapter 41\n\n\nFrom the workshop of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinkling\nsound, so merry and good-humoured, that it suggested the idea of some\none working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered\non at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought such cheerful notes\nfrom steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted\nfellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards\neverybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a\ncoppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon,\nfull of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony\nout of it.\n\nTink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of\nthe streets' harsher noises, as though it said, 'I don't care; nothing\nputs me out; I am resolved to be happy.' Women scolded, children\nsqualled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from\nthe lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower,\nno louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the\nmore for having been outdone by louder sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink,\ntink.\n\nIt was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from\nall cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind;\nfoot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near\nit; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humour\nstealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite\nsprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same\nmagical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden\nKey.\n\nWho but the locksmith could have made such music! A gleam of sun shining\nthrough the unsashed window, and chequering the dark workshop with a\nbroad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his\nsunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil, his face all radiant\nwith exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off\nhis shining forehead--the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the\nworld. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and\nfalling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort.\nToby looked on from a tall bench hard by; one beaming smile, from his\nbroad nut-brown face down to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The\nvery locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and\nseemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their\ninfirmities. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene.\nIt seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a\nchurlish strong-box or a prison-door. Cellars of beer and wine, rooms\nwhere there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter--these\nwere their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust and cruelty, and\nrestraint, they would have left quadruple-locked for ever.\n\nTink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped his brow. The\nsilence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door,\nand watched with tiger eyes a bird-cage in an opposite window. Gabriel\nlifted Toby to his mouth, and took a hearty draught.\n\nThen, as he stood upright, with his head flung back, and his portly\nchest thrown out, you would have seen that Gabriel's lower man was\nclothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond, there might\nhave been espied, hanging on their several pegs, a cap and feather,\nbroadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet; which any man learned in such\nmatters would have known from their make and pattern to be the uniform\nof a serjeant in the Royal East London Volunteers.\n\nAs the locksmith put his mug down, empty, on the bench whence it had\nsmiled on him before, he glanced at these articles with a laughing eye,\nand looking at them with his head a little on one side, as though he\nwould get them all into a focus, said, leaning on his hammer:\n\n'Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad with the desire\nto wear a coat of that colour. If any one (except my father) had called\nme a fool for my pains, how I should have fired and fumed! But what a\nfool I must have been, sure-ly!'\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mrs Varden, who had entered unobserved. 'A fool indeed. A\nman at your time of life, Varden, should know better now.'\n\n'Why, what a ridiculous woman you are, Martha,' said the locksmith,\nturning round with a smile.\n\n'Certainly,' replied Mrs V. with great demureness. 'Of course I am. I\nknow that, Varden. Thank you.'\n\n'I mean--' began the locksmith.\n\n'Yes,' said his wife, 'I know what you mean. You speak quite plain\nenough to be understood, Varden. It's very kind of you to adapt yourself\nto my capacity, I am sure.'\n\n'Tut, tut, Martha,' rejoined the locksmith; 'don't take offence at\nnothing. I mean, how strange it is of you to run down volunteering, when\nit's done to defend you and all the other women, and our own fireside\nand everybody else's, in case of need.'\n\n'It's unchristian,' cried Mrs Varden, shaking her head.\n\n'Unchristian!' said the locksmith. 'Why, what the devil--'\n\nMrs Varden looked at the ceiling, as in expectation that the consequence\nof this profanity would be the immediate descent of the four-post\nbedstead on the second floor, together with the best sitting-room on the\nfirst; but no visible judgment occurring, she heaved a deep sigh, and\nbegged her husband, in a tone of resignation, to go on, and by all means\nto blaspheme as much as possible, because he knew she liked it.\n\nThe locksmith did for a moment seem disposed to gratify her, but he gave\na great gulp, and mildly rejoined:\n\n'I was going to say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for?\nWhich would be most unchristian, Martha--to sit quietly down and let our\nhouses be sacked by a foreign army, or to turn out like men and drive\n'em off? Shouldn't I be a nice sort of a Christian, if I crept into\na corner of my own chimney and looked on while a parcel of whiskered\nsavages bore off Dolly--or you?'\n\nWhen he said 'or you,' Mrs Varden, despite herself, relaxed into a\nsmile. There was something complimentary in the idea. 'In such a state\nof things as that, indeed--' she simpered.\n\n'As that!' repeated the locksmith. 'Well, that would be the state of\nthings directly. Even Miggs would go. Some black tambourine-player,\nwith a great turban on, would be bearing HER off, and, unless the\ntambourine-player was proof against kicking and scratching, it's\nmy belief he'd have the worst of it. Ha ha ha! I'd forgive the\ntambourine-player. I wouldn't have him interfered with on any account,\npoor fellow.' And here the locksmith laughed again so heartily, that\ntears came into his eyes--much to Mrs Varden's indignation, who thought\nthe capture of so sound a Protestant and estimable a private character\nas Miggs by a pagan negro, a circumstance too shocking and awful for\ncontemplation.\n\nThe picture Gabriel had drawn, indeed, threatened serious consequences,\nand would indubitably have led to them, but luckily at that moment a\nlight footstep crossed the threshold, and Dolly, running in, threw her\narms round her old father's neck and hugged him tight.\n\n'Here she is at last!' cried Gabriel. 'And how well you look, Doll, and\nhow late you are, my darling!'\n\nHow well she looked? Well? Why, if he had exhausted every laudatory\nadjective in the dictionary, it wouldn't have been praise enough. When\nand where was there ever such a plump, roguish, comely, bright-eyed,\nenticing, bewitching, captivating, maddening little puss in all this\nworld, as Dolly! What was the Dolly of five years ago, to the Dolly of\nthat day! How many coachmakers, saddlers, cabinet-makers, and professors\nof other useful arts, had deserted their fathers, mothers, sisters,\nbrothers, and, most of all, their cousins, for the love of her! How many\nunknown gentlemen--supposed to be of mighty fortunes, if not titles--had\nwaited round the corner after dark, and tempted Miggs the incorruptible,\nwith golden guineas, to deliver offers of marriage folded up in\nlove-letters! How many disconsolate fathers and substantial tradesmen\nhad waited on the locksmith for the same purpose, with dismal tales of\nhow their sons had lost their appetites, and taken to shut themselves up\nin dark bedrooms, and wandering in desolate suburbs with pale faces,\nand all because of Dolly Varden's loveliness and cruelty! How many\nyoung men, in all previous times of unprecedented steadiness, had turned\nsuddenly wild and wicked for the same reason, and, in an ecstasy of\nunrequited love, taken to wrench off door-knockers, and invert the boxes\nof rheumatic watchmen! How had she recruited the king's service, both\nby sea and land, through rendering desperate his loving subjects between\nthe ages of eighteen and twenty-five! How many young ladies had publicly\nprofessed, with tears in their eyes, that for their tastes she was much\ntoo short, too tall, too bold, too cold, too stout, too thin, too fair,\ntoo dark--too everything but handsome! How many old ladies, taking\ncounsel together, had thanked Heaven their daughters were not like her,\nand had hoped she might come to no harm, and had thought she would come\nto no good, and had wondered what people saw in her, and had arrived at\nthe conclusion that she was 'going off' in her looks, or had never\ncome on in them, and that she was a thorough imposition and a popular\nmistake!\n\nAnd yet here was this same Dolly Varden, so whimsical and hard to please\nthat she was Dolly Varden still, all smiles and dimples and pleasant\nlooks, and caring no more for the fifty or sixty young fellows who at\nthat very moment were breaking their hearts to marry her, than if so\nmany oysters had been crossed in love and opened afterwards.\n\nDolly hugged her father as has been already stated, and having hugged\nher mother also, accompanied both into the little parlour where the\ncloth was already laid for dinner, and where Miss Miggs--a trifle more\nrigid and bony than of yore--received her with a sort of hysterical\ngasp, intended for a smile. Into the hands of that young virgin, she\ndelivered her bonnet and walking dress (all of a dreadful, artful,\nand designing kind), and then said with a laugh, which rivalled the\nlocksmith's music, 'How glad I always am to be at home again!'\n\n'And how glad we always are, Doll,' said her father, putting back the\ndark hair from her sparkling eyes, 'to have you at home. Give me a\nkiss.'\n\nIf there had been anybody of the male kind there to see her do it--but\nthere was not--it was a mercy.\n\n'I don't like your being at the Warren,' said the locksmith, 'I can't\nbear to have you out of my sight. And what is the news over yonder,\nDoll?'\n\n'What news there is, I think you know already,' replied his daughter. 'I\nam sure you do though.'\n\n'Ay?' cried the locksmith. 'What's that?'\n\n'Come, come,' said Dolly, 'you know very well. I want you to tell me why\nMr Haredale--oh, how gruff he is again, to be sure!--has been away from\nhome for some days past, and why he is travelling about (we know he IS\ntravelling, because of his letters) without telling his own niece why or\nwherefore.'\n\n'Miss Emma doesn't want to know, I'll swear,' returned the locksmith.\n\n'I don't know that,' said Dolly; 'but I do, at any rate. Do tell me. Why\nis he so secret, and what is this ghost story, which nobody is to tell\nMiss Emma, and which seems to be mixed up with his going away? Now I see\nyou know by your colouring so.'\n\n'What the story means, or is, or has to do with it, I know no more than\nyou, my dear,' returned the locksmith, 'except that it's some foolish\nfear of little Solomon's--which has, indeed, no meaning in it, I\nsuppose. As to Mr Haredale's journey, he goes, as I believe--'\n\n'Yes,' said Dolly.\n\n'As I believe,' resumed the locksmith, pinching her cheek, 'on business,\nDoll. What it may be, is quite another matter. Read Blue Beard, and\ndon't be too curious, pet; it's no business of yours or mine, depend\nupon that; and here's dinner, which is much more to the purpose.'\n\nDolly might have remonstrated against this summary dismissal of the\nsubject, notwithstanding the appearance of dinner, but at the mention\nof Blue Beard Mrs Varden interposed, protesting she could not find it\nin her conscience to sit tamely by, and hear her child recommended to\nperuse the adventures of a Turk and Mussulman--far less of a fabulous\nTurk, which she considered that potentate to be. She held that, in such\nstirring and tremendous times as those in which they lived, it would\nbe much more to the purpose if Dolly became a regular subscriber to the\nThunderer, where she would have an opportunity of reading Lord George\nGordon's speeches word for word, which would be a greater comfort and\nsolace to her, than a hundred and fifty Blue Beards ever could impart.\nShe appealed in support of this proposition to Miss Miggs, then in\nwaiting, who said that indeed the peace of mind she had derived from the\nperusal of that paper generally, but especially of one article of the\nvery last week as ever was, entitled 'Great Britain drenched in gore,'\nexceeded all belief; the same composition, she added, had also wrought\nsuch a comforting effect on the mind of a married sister of hers, then\nresident at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle\non the right-hand door-post, that, being in a delicate state of health,\nand in fact expecting an addition to her family, she had been seized\nwith fits directly after its perusal, and had raved of the Inquisition\never since; to the great improvement of her husband and friends. Miss\nMiggs went on to say that she would recommend all those whose hearts\nwere hardened to hear Lord George themselves, whom she commended first,\nin respect of his steady Protestantism, then of his oratory, then of\nhis eyes, then of his nose, then of his legs, and lastly of his figure\ngenerally, which she looked upon as fit for any statue, prince, or\nangel, to which sentiment Mrs Varden fully subscribed.\n\nMrs Varden having cut in, looked at a box upon the mantelshelf, painted\nin imitation of a very red-brick dwelling-house, with a yellow roof;\nhaving at top a real chimney, down which voluntary subscribers dropped\ntheir silver, gold, or pence, into the parlour; and on the door the\ncounterfeit presentment of a brass plate, whereon was legibly inscribed\n'Protestant Association:'--and looking at it, said, that it was to her\na source of poignant misery to think that Varden never had, of all his\nsubstance, dropped anything into that temple, save once in secret--as\nshe afterwards discovered--two fragments of tobacco-pipe, which she\nhoped would not be put down to his last account. That Dolly, she was\ngrieved to say, was no less backward in her contributions, better\nloving, as it seemed, to purchase ribbons and such gauds, than to\nencourage the great cause, then in such heavy tribulation; and that she\ndid entreat her (her father she much feared could not be moved) not to\ndespise, but imitate, the bright example of Miss Miggs, who flung her\nwages, as it were, into the very countenance of the Pope, and bruised\nhis features with her quarter's money.\n\n'Oh, mim,' said Miggs, 'don't relude to that. I had no intentions, mim,\nthat nobody should know. Such sacrifices as I can make, are quite a\nwidder's mite. It's all I have,' cried Miggs with a great burst of\ntears--for with her they never came on by degrees--'but it's made up to\nme in other ways; it's well made up.'\n\nThis was quite true, though not perhaps in the sense that Miggs\nintended. As she never failed to keep her self-denial full in Mrs\nVarden's view, it drew forth so many gifts of caps and gowns and other\narticles of dress, that upon the whole the red-brick house was perhaps\nthe best investment for her small capital she could possibly have hit\nupon; returning her interest, at the rate of seven or eight per cent in\nmoney, and fifty at least in personal repute and credit.\n\n'You needn't cry, Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, herself in tears; 'you\nneedn't be ashamed of it, though your poor mistress IS on the same\nside.'\n\nMiggs howled at this remark, in a peculiarly dismal way, and said she\nknowed that master hated her. That it was a dreadful thing to live in\nfamilies and have dislikes, and not give satisfactions. That to make\ndivisions was a thing she could not abear to think of, neither could her\nfeelings let her do it. That if it was master's wishes as she and him\nshould part, it was best they should part, and she hoped he might be\nthe happier for it, and always wished him well, and that he might find\nsomebody as would meet his dispositions. It would be a hard trial, she\nsaid, to part from such a missis, but she could meet any suffering when\nher conscience told her she was in the rights, and therefore she was\nwilling even to go that lengths. She did not think, she added, that she\ncould long survive the separations, but, as she was hated and looked\nupon unpleasant, perhaps her dying as soon as possible would be the best\nendings for all parties. With this affecting conclusion, Miss Miggs shed\nmore tears, and sobbed abundantly.\n\n'Can you bear this, Varden?' said his wife in a solemn voice, laying\ndown her knife and fork.\n\n'Why, not very well, my dear,' rejoined the locksmith, 'but I try to\nkeep my temper.'\n\n'Don't let there be words on my account, mim,' sobbed Miggs. 'It's much\nthe best that we should part. I wouldn't stay--oh, gracious me!--and\nmake dissensions, not for a annual gold mine, and found in tea and\nsugar.'\n\nLest the reader should be at any loss to discover the cause of Miss\nMiggs's deep emotion, it may be whispered apart that, happening to\nbe listening, as her custom sometimes was, when Gabriel and his wife\nconversed together, she had heard the locksmith's joke relative to the\nforeign black who played the tambourine, and bursting with the spiteful\nfeelings which the taunt awoke in her fair breast, exploded in the\nmanner we have witnessed. Matters having now arrived at a crisis, the\nlocksmith, as usual, and for the sake of peace and quietness, gave in.\n\n'What are you crying for, girl?' he said. 'What's the matter with you?\nWhat are you talking about hatred for? I don't hate you; I don't hate\nanybody. Dry your eyes and make yourself agreeable, in Heaven's name,\nand let us all be happy while we can.'\n\nThe allied powers deeming it good generalship to consider this a\nsufficient apology on the part of the enemy, and confession of having\nbeen in the wrong, did dry their eyes and take it in good part. Miss\nMiggs observed that she bore no malice, no not to her greatest foe, whom\nshe rather loved the more indeed, the greater persecution she sustained.\nMrs Varden approved of this meek and forgiving spirit in high terms,\nand incidentally declared as a closing article of agreement, that Dolly\nshould accompany her to the Clerkenwell branch of the association, that\nvery night. This was an extraordinary instance of her great prudence and\npolicy; having had this end in view from the first, and entertaining\na secret misgiving that the locksmith (who was bold when Dolly was in\nquestion) would object, she had backed Miss Miggs up to this point, in\norder that she might have him at a disadvantage. The manoeuvre succeeded\nso well that Gabriel only made a wry face, and with the warning he had\njust had, fresh in his mind, did not dare to say one word.\n\nThe difference ended, therefore, in Miggs being presented with a gown\nby Mrs Varden and half-a-crown by Dolly, as if she had eminently\ndistinguished herself in the paths of morality and goodness. Mrs V.,\naccording to custom, expressed her hope that Varden would take a lesson\nfrom what had passed and learn more generous conduct for the time to\ncome; and the dinner being now cold and nobody's appetite very much\nimproved by what had passed, they went on with it, as Mrs Varden said,\n'like Christians.'\n\nAs there was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers\nthat afternoon, the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably\nwith his pipe in his mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter's\nwaist, looking lovingly on Mrs V., from time to time, and exhibiting\nfrom the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, one smiling surface\nof good humour. And to be sure, when it was time to dress him in his\nregimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all kinds of graceful\nwinning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up and get him\ninto one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal tailor, he\nwas the proudest father in all England.\n\n'What a handy jade it is!' said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood\nby with folded hands--rather proud of her husband too--while Miggs held\nhis cap and sword at arm's length, as if mistrusting that the latter\nmight run some one through the body of its own accord; 'but never marry\na soldier, Doll, my dear.'\n\nDolly didn't ask why not, or say a word, indeed, but stooped her head\ndown very low to tie his sash.\n\n'I never wear this dress,' said honest Gabriel, 'but I think of poor Joe\nWillet. I loved Joe; he was always a favourite of mine. Poor Joe!--Dear\nheart, my girl, don't tie me in so tight.'\n\nDolly laughed--not like herself at all--the strangest little laugh that\ncould be--and held her head down lower still.\n\n'Poor Joe!' resumed the locksmith, muttering to himself; 'I always wish\nhe had come to me. I might have made it up between them, if he had. Ah!\nold John made a great mistake in his way of acting by that lad--a great\nmistake.--Have you nearly tied that sash, my dear?'\n\nWhat an ill-made sash it was! There it was, loose again and trailing\non the ground. Dolly was obliged to kneel down, and recommence at the\nbeginning.\n\n'Never mind young Willet, Varden,' said his wife frowning; 'you might\nfind some one more deserving to talk about, I think.'\n\nMiss Miggs gave a great sniff to the same effect.\n\n'Nay, Martha,' cried the locksmith, 'don't let us bear too hard upon\nhim. If the lad is dead indeed, we'll deal kindly by his memory.'\n\n'A runaway and a vagabond!' said Mrs Varden.\n\nMiss Miggs expressed her concurrence as before.\n\n'A runaway, my dear, but not a vagabond,' returned the locksmith in\na gentle tone. 'He behaved himself well, did Joe--always--and was a\nhandsome, manly fellow. Don't call him a vagabond, Martha.'\n\nMrs Varden coughed--and so did Miggs.\n\n'He tried hard to gain your good opinion, Martha, I can tell you,' said\nthe locksmith smiling, and stroking his chin. 'Ah! that he did. It seems\nbut yesterday that he followed me out to the Maypole door one night, and\nbegged me not to say how like a boy they used him--say here, at home, he\nmeant, though at the time, I recollect, I didn't understand. \"And how's\nMiss Dolly, sir?\" says Joe,' pursued the locksmith, musing sorrowfully,\n'Ah! Poor Joe!'\n\n'Well, I declare,' cried Miggs. 'Oh! Goodness gracious me!'\n\n'What's the matter now?' said Gabriel, turning sharply to her, 'Why, if\nhere an't Miss Dolly,' said the handmaid, stooping down to look into her\nface, 'a-giving way to floods of tears. Oh mim! oh sir. Raly it's give\nme such a turn,' cried the susceptible damsel, pressing her hand upon\nher side to quell the palpitation of her heart, 'that you might knock me\ndown with a feather.'\n\nThe locksmith, after glancing at Miss Miggs as if he could have wished\nto have a feather brought straightway, looked on with a broad stare\nwhile Dolly hurried away, followed by that sympathising young woman:\nthen turning to his wife, stammered out, 'Is Dolly ill? Have I done\nanything? Is it my fault?'\n\n'Your fault!' cried Mrs V. reproachfully. 'There--you had better make\nhaste out.'\n\n'What have I done?' said poor Gabriel. 'It was agreed that Mr Edward's\nname was never to be mentioned, and I have not spoken of him, have I?'\n\nMrs Varden merely replied that she had no patience with him, and bounced\noff after the other two. The unfortunate locksmith wound his sash about\nhim, girded on his sword, put on his cap, and walked out.\n\n'I am not much of a dab at my exercise,' he said under his breath, 'but\nI shall get into fewer scrapes at that work than at this. Every man came\ninto the world for something; my department seems to be to make every\nwoman cry without meaning it. It's rather hard!'\n\nBut he forgot it before he reached the end of the street, and went on\nwith a shining face, nodding to the neighbours, and showering about his\nfriendly greetings like mild spring rain.\n\n\n\nChapter 42\n\n\nThe Royal East London Volunteers made a brilliant sight that day: formed\ninto lines, squares, circles, triangles, and what not, to the beating\nof drums, and the streaming of flags; and performed a vast number of\ncomplex evolutions, in all of which Serjeant Varden bore a conspicuous\nshare. Having displayed their military prowess to the utmost in these\nwarlike shows, they marched in glittering order to the Chelsea Bun\nHouse, and regaled in the adjacent taverns until dark. Then at sound\nof drum they fell in again, and returned amidst the shouting of His\nMajesty's lieges to the place from whence they came.\n\nThe homeward march being somewhat tardy,--owing to the un-soldierlike\nbehaviour of certain corporals, who, being gentlemen of sedentary\npursuits in private life and excitable out of doors, broke several\nwindows with their bayonets, and rendered it imperative on the\ncommanding officer to deliver them over to a strong guard, with whom\nthey fought at intervals as they came along,--it was nine o'clock when\nthe locksmith reached home. A hackney-coach was waiting near his door;\nand as he passed it, Mr Haredale looked from the window and called him\nby his name.\n\n'The sight of you is good for sore eyes, sir,' said the locksmith,\nstepping up to him. 'I wish you had walked in though, rather than waited\nhere.'\n\n'There is nobody at home, I find,' Mr Haredale answered; 'besides, I\ndesired to be as private as I could.'\n\n'Humph!' muttered the locksmith, looking round at his house. 'Gone with\nSimon Tappertit to that precious Branch, no doubt.'\n\nMr Haredale invited him to come into the coach, and, if he were not\ntired or anxious to go home, to ride with him a little way that they\nmight have some talk together. Gabriel cheerfully complied, and the\ncoachman mounting his box drove off.\n\n'Varden,' said Mr Haredale, after a minute's pause, 'you will be amazed\nto hear what errand I am on; it will seem a very strange one.'\n\n'I have no doubt it's a reasonable one, sir, and has a meaning in it,'\nreplied the locksmith; 'or it would not be yours at all. Have you just\ncome back to town, sir?'\n\n'But half an hour ago.'\n\n'Bringing no news of Barnaby, or his mother?' said the locksmith\ndubiously. 'Ah! you needn't shake your head, sir. It was a wild-goose\nchase. I feared that, from the first. You exhausted all reasonable means\nof discovery when they went away. To begin again after so long a time\nhas passed is hopeless, sir--quite hopeless.'\n\n'Why, where are they?' he returned impatiently. 'Where can they be?\nAbove ground?'\n\n'God knows,' rejoined the locksmith, 'many that I knew above it five\nyears ago, have their beds under the grass now. And the world is a\nwide place. It's a hopeless attempt, sir, believe me. We must leave the\ndiscovery of this mystery, like all others, to time, and accident, and\nHeaven's pleasure.'\n\n'Varden, my good fellow,' said Mr Haredale, 'I have a deeper meaning in\nmy present anxiety to find them out, than you can fathom. It is not a\nmere whim; it is not the casual revival of my old wishes and desires;\nbut an earnest, solemn purpose. My thoughts and dreams all tend to it,\nand fix it in my mind. I have no rest by day or night; I have no peace\nor quiet; I am haunted.'\n\nHis voice was so altered from its usual tones, and his manner bespoke\nso much emotion, that Gabriel, in his wonder, could only sit and look\ntowards him in the darkness, and fancy the expression of his face.\n\n'Do not ask me,' continued Mr Haredale, 'to explain myself. If I were to\ndo so, you would think me the victim of some hideous fancy. It is enough\nthat this is so, and that I cannot--no, I can not--lie quietly in my\nbed, without doing what will seem to you incomprehensible.'\n\n'Since when, sir,' said the locksmith after a pause, 'has this uneasy\nfeeling been upon you?'\n\nMr Haredale hesitated for some moments, and then replied: 'Since the\nnight of the storm. In short, since the last nineteenth of March.'\n\nAs though he feared that Varden might express surprise, or reason with\nhim, he hastily went on:\n\n'You will think, I know, I labour under some delusion. Perhaps I do. But\nit is not a morbid one; it is a wholesome action of the mind, reasoning\non actual occurrences. You know the furniture remains in Mrs Rudge's\nhouse, and that it has been shut up, by my orders, since she went away,\nsave once a-week or so, when an old neighbour visits it to scare away\nthe rats. I am on my way there now.'\n\n'For what purpose?' asked the locksmith.\n\n'To pass the night there,' he replied; 'and not to-night alone, but many\nnights. This is a secret which I trust to you in case of any unexpected\nemergency. You will not come, unless in case of strong necessity, to me;\nfrom dusk to broad day I shall be there. Emma, your daughter, and the\nrest, suppose me out of London, as I have been until within this hour.\nDo not undeceive them. This is the errand I am bound upon. I know I may\nconfide it to you, and I rely upon your questioning me no more at this\ntime.'\n\nWith that, as if to change the theme, he led the astounded locksmith\nback to the night of the Maypole highwayman, to the robbery of Edward\nChester, to the reappearance of the man at Mrs Rudge's house, and to all\nthe strange circumstances which afterwards occurred. He even asked him\ncarelessly about the man's height, his face, his figure, whether he was\nlike any one he had ever seen--like Hugh, for instance, or any man he\nhad known at any time--and put many questions of that sort, which the\nlocksmith, considering them as mere devices to engage his attention and\nprevent his expressing the astonishment he felt, answered pretty much at\nrandom.\n\nAt length, they arrived at the corner of the street in which the house\nstood, where Mr Haredale, alighting, dismissed the coach. 'If you desire\nto see me safely lodged,' he said, turning to the locksmith with a\ngloomy smile, 'you can.'\n\nGabriel, to whom all former marvels had been nothing in comparison\nwith this, followed him along the narrow pavement in silence. When they\nreached the door, Mr Haredale softly opened it with a key he had about\nhim, and closing it when Varden entered, they were left in thorough\ndarkness.\n\nThey groped their way into the ground-floor room. Here Mr Haredale\nstruck a light, and kindled a pocket taper he had brought with him for\nthe purpose. It was then, when the flame was full upon him, that the\nlocksmith saw for the first time how haggard, pale, and changed he\nlooked; how worn and thin he was; how perfectly his whole appearance\ncoincided with all that he had said so strangely as they rode along.\nIt was not an unnatural impulse in Gabriel, after what he had heard, to\nnote curiously the expression of his eyes. It was perfectly collected\nand rational;--so much so, indeed, that he felt ashamed of his momentary\nsuspicion, and drooped his own when Mr Haredale looked towards him, as\nif he feared they would betray his thoughts.\n\n'Will you walk through the house?' said Mr Haredale, with a glance\ntowards the window, the crazy shutters of which were closed and\nfastened. 'Speak low.'\n\nThere was a kind of awe about the place, which would have rendered it\ndifficult to speak in any other manner. Gabriel whispered 'Yes,' and\nfollowed him upstairs.\n\nEverything was just as they had seen it last. There was a sense of\ncloseness from the exclusion of fresh air, and a gloom and heaviness\naround, as though long imprisonment had made the very silence sad. The\nhomely hangings of the beds and windows had begun to droop; the dust lay\nthick upon their dwindling folds; and damps had made their way through\nceiling, wall, and floor. The boards creaked beneath their tread, as if\nresenting the unaccustomed intrusion; nimble spiders, paralysed by the\ntaper's glare, checked the motion of their hundred legs upon the wall,\nor dropped like lifeless things upon the ground; the death-watch ticked;\nand the scampering feet of rats and mice rattled behind the wainscot.\n\nAs they looked about them on the decaying furniture, it was strange to\nfind how vividly it presented those to whom it had belonged, and\nwith whom it was once familiar. Grip seemed to perch again upon his\nhigh-backed chair; Barnaby to crouch in his old favourite corner by the\nfire; the mother to resume her usual seat, and watch him as of old. Even\nwhen they could separate these objects from the phantoms of the mind\nwhich they invoked, the latter only glided out of sight, but lingered\nnear them still; for then they seemed to lurk in closets and behind the\ndoors, ready to start out and suddenly accost them in well-remembered\ntones.\n\nThey went downstairs, and again into the room they had just now left.\nMr Haredale unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, with a pair of\npocket pistols; then told the locksmith he would light him to the door.\n\n'But this is a dull place, sir,' said Gabriel lingering; 'may no one\nshare your watch?'\n\nHe shook his head, and so plainly evinced his wish to be alone, that\nGabriel could say no more. In another moment the locksmith was standing\nin the street, whence he could see that the light once more travelled\nupstairs, and soon returning to the room below, shone brightly through\nthe chinks of the shutters.\n\nIf ever man were sorely puzzled and perplexed, the locksmith was, that\nnight. Even when snugly seated by his own fireside, with Mrs Varden\nopposite in a nightcap and night-jacket, and Dolly beside him (in a\nmost distracting dishabille) curling her hair, and smiling as if she had\nnever cried in all her life and never could--even then, with Toby at\nhis elbow and his pipe in his mouth, and Miggs (but that perhaps was not\nmuch) falling asleep in the background, he could not quite discard his\nwonder and uneasiness. So in his dreams--still there was Mr Haredale,\nhaggard and careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound\nthat stirred, with the taper shining through the chinks until the day\nshould turn it pale and end his lonely watching.\n\n\n\nChapter 43\n\n\nNext morning brought no satisfaction to the locksmith's thoughts,\nnor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after nightfall he\nentered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known house;\nand as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still gleaming\nthrough the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was\nmotionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr\nHaredale's favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured\nto knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But\nwhenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot--which\nwas not seldom--the light was always there.\n\nIf he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have\nyielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight, Mr Haredale\nshut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night,\nalways came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the\nleast degree.\n\nThe manner of his watch was this. At dusk, he entered the house in the\nsame way as when the locksmith bore him company, kindled a light, went\nthrough the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done, he returned to\nthe chamber on the ground-floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the\ntable, sat by it until morning.\n\nHe usually had a book with him, and often tried to read, but never fixed\nhis eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes together. The slightest\nnoise without doors, caught his ear; a step upon the pavement seemed to\nmake his heart leap.\n\nHe was not without some refreshment during the long lonely hours;\ngenerally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of bread and meat, and a\nsmall flask of wine. The latter diluted with large quantities of water,\nhe drank in a heated, feverish way, as though his throat were dried; but\nhe scarcely ever broke his fast, by so much as a crumb of bread.\n\nIf this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the\nlocksmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious\nexpectation of the fulfilment of a dream or vision connected with the\nevent on which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for\nsome ghostly visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their\nbeds, he showed no trace of fear or wavering. His stern features\nexpressed inflexible resolution; his brows were puckered, and his lips\ncompressed, with deep and settled purpose; and when he started at a\nnoise and listened, it was not with the start of fear but hope, and\ncatching up his sword as though the hour had come at last, he would\nclutch it in his tight-clenched hand, and listen with sparkling eyes and\neager looks, until it died away.\n\nThese disappointments were numerous, for they ensued on almost every\nsound, but his constancy was not shaken. Still, every night he was at\nhis post, the same stern, sleepless, sentinel; and still night passed,\nand morning dawned, and he must watch again.\n\nThis went on for weeks; he had taken a lodging at Vauxhall in which\nto pass the day and rest himself; and from this place, when the tide\nserved, he usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water, in\norder that he might avoid the busy streets.\n\nOne evening, shortly before twilight, he came his accustomed road upon\nthe river's bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace\nYard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty\nlarge concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament,\nlooking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to\nrather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their\nknown opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or\ntwice the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the\nears of most men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing\nthat the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared\nabout it, but made his way along, with perfect indifference.\n\nThere were many little knots and groups of persons in Westminster Hall:\nsome few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening\nlight, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in aslant through\nits small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched in the\ngathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home from\nwork, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with\ntheir voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as\nthey passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on\npolitical or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that\nsought the ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly\nfrom head to foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in\nthe air; there, a solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and\ndown with hungry dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed\nan errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill\nwhistle riving the very timbers of the roof; while a more observant\nschoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant\nbeadle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you\nshut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears\nto have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with\nfootsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle\nand the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy\ndoor resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned\nall other noises in its rolling sound.\n\nMr Haredale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed nearest\nto, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere,\nhad nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons before him caught his\nattention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his\nhand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on; the\nother, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what\nhe said--at times throwing in a humble word himself--and, with his\nshoulders shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or\nanswered at intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a\nnod of acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect.\n\nIn the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for\nservility waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane--not to speak\nof gold and silver sticks, or wands of office--is common enough. But\nthere was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other\nlikewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant feeling. He\nhesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his\npath, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled\nupon him before he could avoid them.\n\nThe gentleman with the cane lifted his hat and had begun to tender an\napology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily to acknowledge and walk\naway, when he stopped short and cried, 'Haredale! Gad bless me, this is\nstrange indeed!'\n\n'It is,' he returned impatiently; 'yes--a--'\n\n'My dear friend,' cried the other, detaining him, 'why such great speed?\nOne minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.'\n\n'I am in haste,' he said. 'Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it\nbe a brief one. Good night!'\n\n'Fie, fie!' replied Sir John (for it was he), 'how very churlish! We\nwere speaking of you. Your name was on my lips--perhaps you heard me\nmention it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.--You know our\nfriend here, Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!'\n\nThe friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John's\narm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of\navoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John's purpose,\nhowever, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of\nthese silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he\nspoke, to call attention to him more particularly.\n\nThe friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the\npleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr\nHaredale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put\nout his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended\nby its contemptuous rejection.\n\n'Mr Gashford!' said Haredale, coldly. 'It is as I have heard then. You\nhave left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions\nyou formerly held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an\nhonour, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much\njoy of the acquisition it has made.'\n\nThe secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm\nhis adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again\nexclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, 'Now, really, this is a\nmost remarkable meeting!' and took a pinch of snuff with his usual\nself-possession.\n\n'Mr Haredale,' said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and\nletting them drop again when they met the other's steady gaze, 'is too\nconscientious, too honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy\nmotives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt\nof those he holds himself. Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too\nclear-sighted in his moral vision, to--'\n\n'Yes, sir?' he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary\nstopped. 'You were saying'--\n\nGashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again,\nwas silent.\n\n'No, but let us really,' interposed Sir John at this juncture, 'let us\nreally, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this\nmeeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not\nsufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no\nprevious appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in\nWestminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady\nseminary at Saint Omer's, where you, being Catholics and of necessity\neducated out of England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising\nyoung Protestant at that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from\na native of Paris!'\n\n'Add to the singularity, Sir John,' said Mr Haredale, 'that some of you\nProtestants of promise are at this moment leagued in yonder building, to\nprevent our having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching\nour children to read and write--here--in this land, where thousands of\nus enter your service every year, and to preserve the freedom of which,\nwe die in bloody battles abroad, in heaps: and that others of you, to\nthe number of some thousands as I learn, are led on to look on all men\nof my creed as wolves and beasts of prey, by this man Gashford. Add\nto it besides the bare fact that this man lives in society, walks the\nstreets in broad day--I was about to say, holds up his head, but that he\ndoes not--and it will be strange, and very strange, I grant you.'\n\n'Oh! you are hard upon our friend,' replied Sir John, with an engaging\nsmile. 'You are really very hard upon our friend!'\n\n'Let him go on, Sir John,' said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. 'Let\nhim go on. I can make allowances, Sir John. I am honoured with your\ngood opinion, and I can dispense with Mr Haredale's. Mr Haredale is a\nsufferer from the penal laws, and I can't expect his favour.'\n\n'You have so much of my favour, sir,' retorted Mr Haredale, with a\nbitter glance at the third party in their conversation, 'that I am\nglad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great\nAssociation, in yourselves.'\n\n'Now, there you mistake,' said Sir John, in his most benignant way.\n'There--which is a most remarkable circumstance for a man of your\npunctuality and exactness, Haredale--you fall into error. I don't belong\nto the body; I have an immense respect for its members, but I don't\nbelong to it; although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious\nopponent of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so; it is a\nmost unfortunate necessity; and cost me a bitter struggle.--Will you try\nthis box? If you don't object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste\nscent, you'll find its flavour exquisite.'\n\n'I ask your pardon, Sir John,' said Mr Haredale, declining the proffer\nwith a motion of his hand, 'for having ranked you among the humble\ninstruments who are obvious and in all men's sight. I should have done\nmore justice to your genius. Men of your capacity plot in secrecy and\nsafety, and leave exposed posts to the duller wits.'\n\n'Don't apologise, for the world,' replied Sir John sweetly; 'old friends\nlike you and I, may be allowed some freedoms, or the deuce is in it.'\n\nGashford, who had been very restless all this time, but had not once\nlooked up, now turned to Sir John, and ventured to mutter something to\nthe effect that he must go, or my lord would perhaps be waiting.\n\n'Don't distress yourself, good sir,' said Mr Haredale, 'I'll take my\nleave, and put you at your ease--' which he was about to do without\nceremony, when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of\nthe hall, and, looking in that direction, saw Lord George Gordon coming\nin, with a crowd of people round him.\n\nThere was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently expressed,\nin the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse\non Mr Haredale's part not to give way before this leader, but to stand\nthere while he passed. He drew himself up and, clasping his hands behind\nhim, looked on with a proud and scornful aspect, while Lord George\nslowly advanced (for the press was great about him) towards the spot\nwhere they were standing.\n\nHe had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight\ndown into the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence\nof what had been said that night in reference to the Papists, and what\npetitions had been presented in their favour, and who had supported\nthem, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be\nadvisable to present their own Great Protestant petition. All this he\ntold the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance\nof ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each\nother, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were outside the\ncrowd cried, 'Silence,' and 'Stand back,' or closed in upon the rest,\nendeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came\ndriving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner\nof a crowd to do.\n\nWhen they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr\nHaredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of\na sufficiently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual\nsentiment, and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in\nthe act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from\nthe press, and stepped up to Gashford's side. Both he and Sir John being\nwell known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the four\nstanding together.\n\n'Mr Haredale, Lord George,' said Sir John Chester, seeing that the\nnobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. 'A Catholic gentleman\nunfortunately--most unhappily a Catholic--but an esteemed acquaintance\nof mine, and once of Mr Gashford's. My dear Haredale, this is Lord\nGeorge Gordon.'\n\n'I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship's\nperson,' said Mr Haredale. 'I hope there is but one gentleman in England\nwho, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large\nbody of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this\nmoment. For shame, my lord, for shame!'\n\n'I cannot talk to you, sir,' replied Lord George in a loud voice, and\nwaving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; 'we have nothing in\ncommon.'\n\n'We have much in common--many things--all that the Almighty gave us,'\nsaid Mr Haredale; 'and common charity, not to say common sense and\ncommon decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If\nevery one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they\nhave them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling\nyou that you disgrace your station.'\n\n'I don't hear you, sir,' he replied in the same manner as before; 'I\ncan't hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don't retort,\nGashford,' for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; 'I can\nhold no communion with the worshippers of idols.'\n\nAs he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and\neyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and\nsmiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.\n\n'HE retort!' cried Haredale. 'Look you here, my lord. Do you know this\nman?'\n\nLord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing\nsecretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.\n\n'This man,' said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, 'who in his\nboyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile,\nfalse, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through\nlife, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon:\nthis sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who\nrobbed his benefactor's daughter of her virtue, and married her to break\nher heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has\nwhined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence\nat our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience\ncannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced--Do\nyou know this man?'\n\n'Oh, really--you are very, very hard upon our friend!' exclaimed Sir\nJohn.\n\n'Let Mr Haredale go on,' said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the\nperspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; 'I\ndon't mind him, Sir John; it's quite as indifferent to me what he says,\nas it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John,\nhow can I hope to escape?'\n\n'Is it not enough, my lord,' Mr Haredale continued, 'that I, as good a\ngentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at\nwhich the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not\nteach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but\nmust we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to\nhead your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!'\n\nThe infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester,\nas if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements\nconcerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a\nshrug or look, 'Oh dear me! no.' He now said, in the same loud key, and\nin the same strange manner as before:\n\n'I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything\nmore. I beg you won't obtrude your conversation, or these personal\nattacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my\ncountry and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed\nfrom emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!'\n\nThey had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the\nHall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any\nleave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand,\nand hailed the only boatman who remained there.\n\nBut the throng of people--the foremost of whom had heard every word\nthat Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been\nrapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him\nfor his advocacy of the popular cause--came pouring out pell-mell, and,\nforcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before\nthem, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of\nthe stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there\nstood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.\n\nThey were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct\nmutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and\nthese swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said,\n'Down with the Papists!' and there was a pretty general cheer, but\nnothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, 'Stone\nhim;' another, 'Duck him;' another, in a stentorian voice, 'No Popery!'\nThis favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have\nbeen two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.\n\nMr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made\nthis demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at\na slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford,\nas if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great\nstone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the\nhead, and made him stagger like a drunken man.\n\nThe blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He\nturned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion\nwhich made them all fall back, demanded:\n\n'Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.'\n\nNot a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping\nto the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.\n\n'Who did that?' he repeated. 'Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it\nyou? It was your deed, if not your hand--I know you.'\n\nHe threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the\nground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon\nhim, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.\n\n'My lord--Sir John,'--he cried, 'draw, one of you--you are responsible\nfor this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.' With\nthat he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon,\nand with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone,\nbefore them all.\n\nFor an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily\nconceive, there was a change in Sir John's smooth face, such as no man\never saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand\non Mr Haredale's arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the\ncrowd.\n\n'My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion--it's\nvery natural, extremely natural--but you don't know friends from foes.'\n\n'I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well--' he retorted, almost mad\nwith rage. 'Sir John, Lord George--do you hear me? Are you cowards?'\n\n'Never mind, sir,' said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him\ntowards the stairs with friendly violence, 'never mind asking that. For\nGod's sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are\nas many more in the next street, who'll be round directly,'--indeed they\nbegan to pour in as he said the words--'you'd be giddy from that cut, in\nthe first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it\nyou'll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a\nwoman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste--as quick as\nyou can.'\n\nMr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible\nthis advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend's\nassistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and\ngiving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade\nthe waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly\nas if he had just landed.\n\nThere was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent\nthis interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and\nwearing besides Lord George's livery, they thought better of it, and\ncontented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the\nboat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time\ncleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the\nstream.\n\nFrom this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the\ndoors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray\nconstables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had\nbeen sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left\nthe street quite clear.\n\n\n\nChapter 44\n\n\nWhen the concourse separated, and, dividing into chance clusters, drew\noff in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the\nlate disturbance, one man. This man was Gashford, who, bruised by his\nlate fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had\nundergone, and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up\nand down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance.\n\nIt was not the secretary's nature to waste his wrath in words. While he\nvented the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady\neye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was\nspread, had since returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no\ngreat distance, as they walked to and fro, and talked together.\n\nHe made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of\nthe street, until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards\nand walked away in company. Then he followed, but at some distance:\nkeeping them in view, without appearing to have that object, or being\nseen by them.\n\nThey went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin's church, and away by\nSaint Giles's to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon\nthe western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a\nretired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great\nheaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed;\nbroken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried\noff for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged\nand rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here\nand there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping\noff a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping\nwith the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so,\nsufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in\nthe crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who\ncarried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by\ndaylight.\n\nPoverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these\ncabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten\nwalls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high,\nwhich screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a\nrude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken\nglass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways\nof stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most\ndelicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams,\nand howling.\n\nInto this retreat, the secretary followed the two men whom he had held\nin sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the meanest\nhouses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited\nwithout, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song,\nassured him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by\nmeans of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at\nit with his hand.\n\n'Muster Gashford!' said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from\nhis mouth, in evident surprise. 'Why, who'd have thought of this here\nhonour! Walk in, Muster Gashford--walk in, sir.'\n\nGashford required no second invitation, and entered with a gracious air.\nThere was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty\nfar advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat\nsmoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in\nfront of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left\nwhen he rose to give the visitor admission.\n\n'What's in the wind now, Muster Gashford?' he said, as he resumed his\npipe, and looked at him askew. 'Any orders from head-quarters? Are we\ngoing to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing,' rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to\nHugh. 'We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day--eh,\nDennis?'\n\n'A very little one,' growled the hangman. 'Not half enough for me.'\n\n'Nor me neither!' cried Hugh. 'Give us something to do with life in\nit--with life in it, master. Ha, ha!'\n\n'Why, you wouldn't,' said the secretary, with his worst expression of\nface, and in his mildest tones, 'have anything to do, with--with death\nin it?'\n\n'I don't know that,' replied Hugh. 'I'm open to orders. I don't care;\nnot I.'\n\n'Nor I!' vociferated Dennis.\n\n'Brave fellows!' said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he\nwere commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. 'By\nthe bye'--and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked\nup--'who threw that stone to-day?'\n\nMr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, 'A mystery\nindeed!' Hugh sat and smoked in silence.\n\n'It was well done!' said the secretary, warming his hands again. 'I\nshould like to know that man.'\n\n'Would you?' said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself\nthat he was serious. 'Would you like to know that man, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'I should indeed,' replied the secretary.\n\n'Why then, Lord love you,' said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle,\nas he pointed with his pipe to Hugh, 'there he sits. That's the man. My\nstars and halters, Muster Gashford,' he added in a whisper, as he\ndrew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow, 'what a\ninteresting blade he is! He wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred\nbulldog. If it hadn't been for me to-day, he'd have had that 'ere Roman\ndown, and made a riot of it, in another minute.'\n\n'And why not?' cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last\nremark. 'Where's the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron's\nhot; that's what I say.'\n\n'Ah!' retorted Dennis, shaking his head, with a kind of pity for his\nfriend's ingenuous youth; 'but suppose the iron an't hot, brother! You\nmust get people's blood up afore you strike, and have 'em in the humour.\nThere wasn't quite enough to provoke 'em to-day, I tell you. If you'd\nhad your way, you'd have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.'\n\n'Dennis is quite right,' said Gashford, smoothly. 'He is perfectly\ncorrect. Dennis has great knowledge of the world.'\n\n'I ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what a many people I've helped\nout of it, eh?' grinned the hangman, whispering the words behind his\nhand.\n\nThe secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis could desire, and\nwhen he had done, said, turning to Hugh:\n\n'Dennis's policy was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for\ninstance, how I fell when I was set upon. I made no resistance. I did\nnothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh dear no!'\n\n'No, by the Lord Harry!' cried Dennis with a noisy laugh, 'you went down\nvery quiet, Muster Gashford--and very flat besides. I thinks to myself\nat the time \"it's all up with Muster Gashford!\" I never see a man lay\nflatter nor more still--with the life in him--than you did to-day. He's\na rough 'un to play with, is that 'ere Papist, and that's the fact.'\n\nThe secretary's face, as Dennis roared with laughter, and turned his\nwrinkled eyes on Hugh who did the like, might have furnished a study for\nthe devil's picture. He sat quite silent until they were serious again,\nand then said, looking round:\n\n'We are very pleasant here; so very pleasant, Dennis, that but for my\nlord's particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being\nvery near at hand, I should be inclined to stay, until it would be\nhardly safe to go homeward. I come upon a little business--yes, I do--as\nyou supposed. It's very flattering to you; being this. If we ever\nshould be obliged--and we can't tell, you know--this is a very uncertain\nworld'--\n\n'I believe you, Muster Gashford,' interposed the hangman with a grave\nnod. 'The uncertainties as I've seen in reference to this here state of\nexistence, the unexpected contingencies as have come about!--Oh my eye!'\nFeeling the subject much too vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe\nagain, and looked the rest.\n\n'I say,' resumed the secretary, in a slow, impressive way; 'we can't\ntell what may come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against our\nwills, to have recourse to violence, my lord (who has suffered terribly\nto-day, as far as words can go) consigns to you two--bearing in mind my\nrecommendation of you both, as good staunch men, beyond all doubt and\nsuspicion--the pleasant task of punishing this Haredale. You may do as\nyou please with him, or his, provided that you show no mercy, and no\nquarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder\nplaced them. You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but\nit must come down; it must be razed to the ground; and he, and all\nbelonging to him, left as shelterless as new-born infants whom their\nmothers have exposed. Do you understand me?' said Gashford, pausing, and\npressing his hands together gently.\n\n'Understand you, master!' cried Hugh. 'You speak plain now. Why, this is\nhearty!'\n\n'I knew you would like it,' said Gashford, shaking him by the hand; 'I\nthought you would. Good night! Don't rise, Dennis: I would rather find\nmy way alone. I may have to make other visits here, and it's pleasant\nto come and go without disturbing you. I can find my way perfectly well.\nGood night!'\n\nHe was gone, and had shut the door behind him. They looked at each\nother, and nodded approvingly: Dennis stirred up the fire.\n\n'This looks a little more like business!' he said.\n\n'Ay, indeed!' cried Hugh; 'this suits me!'\n\n'I've heerd it said of Muster Gashford,' said the hangman, 'that he'd\na surprising memory and wonderful firmness--that he never forgot, and\nnever forgave.--Let's drink his health!'\n\nHugh readily complied--pouring no liquor on the floor when he drank this\ntoast--and they pledged the secretary as a man after their own hearts,\nin a bumper.\n\n\n\nChapter 45\n\n\nWhile the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark,\nand the mantle of religion, assumed to cover the ugliest deformities,\nthreatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in\nsociety, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position of\ntwo persons from whom this history has long been separated, and to whom\nit must now return.\n\nIn a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported\nthemselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw\nfor those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from\nthat material,--concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet\npoverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that\nof struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,--dwelt\nBarnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger's foot\nsince they sought the shelter of its roof five years before; nor had\nthey in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old\nworld from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote her\nlabour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If\nhappiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret\nsorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her\nstrong love of him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of her\nquiet joys; and while that remained unbroken, she was contented.\n\nFor Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by, had passed him like\nthe wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason\non his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit\nsometimes--often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the\ncottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied),\nand listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lure\nto keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little\nnarratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but\nhe liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain\npatiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and\nworking cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.\n\nAt other times,--and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficient\nto furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort,--he would wander\nabroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Few\nin that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had no\ncompanions of his own kind. Indeed there were not many who could have\nkept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But there were\na score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbours, who served his\npurpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a\nfull half-dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on some\nlong expedition that consumed the day; and though, on their return at\nnightfall, the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almost\nspent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with\nsome new attendants of the same class, with whom he would return in like\nmanner. On all these travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master's\nback, was a constant member of the party, and when they set off in fine\nweather and in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven.\n\nTheir pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. A crust of bread\nand scrap of meat, with water from the brook or spring, sufficed for\ntheir repast. Barnaby's enjoyments were, to walk, and run, and leap,\ntill he was tired; then to lie down in the long grass, or by the growing\ncorn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking upward at the light\nclouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, and\nlistening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were\nwild-flowers to pluck--the bright red poppy, the gentle harebell, the\ncowslip, and the rose. There were birds to watch; fish; ants; worms;\nhares or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway in the wood\nand so were gone: millions of living things to have an interest in, and\nlie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in memory of, when they had\ndisappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was the\nmerry sunlight to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves and\nboughs of trees, and hid far down--deep, deep, in hollow places--like\na silver pool, where nodding branches seemed to bathe and sport; sweet\nscents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or clover; the\nperfume of wet leaves or moss; the life of waving trees, and shadows\nalways changing. When these or any of them tired, or in excess of\npleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst\nof all these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in\nhis ears, and everything around melting into one delicious dream.\n\nTheir hut--for it was little more--stood on the outskirts of the town,\nat a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, where\nfew chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot\nof garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working,\ntrimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother\nlaboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine, found\nno difference in her.\n\nThough so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with so\nlittle thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to have\na strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any old\nnewspaper, or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with\navidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, for\nher manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread; but it\nnever faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when\nthe wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face,\nand she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an\nague. But Barnaby noted little of this; and putting a great constraint\nupon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before the\nchange had caught his observation.\n\nGrip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humble\nhousehold. Partly by dint of Barnaby's tuition, and partly by pursuing a\nspecies of self-instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers\nof observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity\nwhich rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers and\nsurprising performances were the universal theme: and as many\npersons came to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertions\nunrewarded--when he condescended to exhibit, which was not always,\nfor genius is capricious--his earnings formed an important item in the\ncommon stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well;\nfor though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of\nBarnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity,\nand never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting\nthe ankles of vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted),\nkilling a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of\nvarious neighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held him in great awe and\ndread.\n\nTime had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturb or\nchange their mode of life, when, one summer's night in June, they were\nin their little garden, resting from the labours of the day. The widow's\nwork was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her; and\nBarnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the\nwest, and singing softly to himself.\n\n'A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a few\nspecks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be\nrich for life.'\n\n'We are better as we are,' returned the widow with a quiet smile. 'Let\nus be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though\nit lay shining at our feet.'\n\n'Ay!' said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking\nwistfully at the sunset, 'that's well enough, mother; but gold's a good\nthing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could do\nmuch with gold, be sure of that.'\n\n'What would you do?' she asked.\n\n'What! A world of things. We'd dress finely--you and I, I mean; not\nGrip--keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, do no more\nwork, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we'd find uses for it,\nmother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was\nburied. How hard I'd work to dig it up!'\n\n'You do not know,' said his mother, rising from her seat and laying her\nhand upon his shoulder, 'what men have done to win it, and how they have\nfound, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns\nquite dim and dull when handled.'\n\n'Ay, ay; so you say; so you think,' he answered, still looking eagerly\nin the same direction. 'For all that, mother, I should like to try.'\n\n'Do you not see,' she said, 'how red it is? Nothing bears so many stains\nof blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as\nwe have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such\nmisery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God\ngrant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid down\nin our graves, than you should ever come to love it.'\n\nFor a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder.\nThen, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist\nas if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her with\nearnestness, when a new object caught his wandering attention, and made\nhim quite forgetful of his purpose.\n\nThis was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bare-headed,\nbehind the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway,\nand leant meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with their\nconversation, and waited for his time to speak. His face was turned\ntowards the brightness, too, but the light that fell upon it showed that\nhe was blind, and saw it not.\n\n'A blessing on those voices!' said the wayfarer. 'I feel the beauty of\nthe night more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will\nthey speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?'\n\n'Have you no guide?' asked the widow, after a moment's pause.\n\n'None but that,' he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun;\n'and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.'\n\n'Have you travelled far?'\n\n'A weary way and long,' rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. 'A\nweary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your\nwell--be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.'\n\n'Why do you call me lady?' she returned. 'I am as poor as you.'\n\n'Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,' replied the man.\n'The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are--apart from the sense of\ntouch--alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.'\n\n'Come round this way,' said Barnaby, who had passed out at the\ngarden-gate and now stood close beside him. 'Put your hand in mine.\nYou're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark?\nDo you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?'\n\n'Alas!' returned the other, 'I see nothing. Waking or sleeping,\nnothing.'\n\nBarnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his\nfingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.\n\n'You have come a long distance,' said the widow, meeting him at the\ndoor. 'How have you found your way so far?'\n\n'Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard--the best of any,'\nsaid the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had\nled him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. 'May\nneither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.'\n\n'You have wandered from the road, too,' said the widow, in a tone of\npity.\n\n'Maybe, maybe,' returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with\nsomething of a smile upon his face, 'that's likely. Handposts and\nmilestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for this rest,\nand this refreshing drink!'\n\nAs he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, and\ncold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirst\nwas not very great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again.\n\nHe wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip or\nwallet, in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheese\nbefore him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness of\nthe charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was not\nhungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened his wallet, and took\nout a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.\n\n'Might I make bold to ask,' he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood\nlooking on, 'that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out for\nme in bread to keep me on my way? Heaven's blessing on the young feet\nthat will bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless\nman!'\n\nBarnaby looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment he\nwas gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an\nattentive face, until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps\nwas inaudible to the widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a very\naltered tone:\n\n'There are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the\nconnubial blindness, ma'am, which perhaps you may have observed in\nthe course of your own experience, and which is a kind of wilful and\nself-bandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma'am, and\npublic men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of a\nregiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence of\nyouth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes have not yet\nopened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma'am, of\nwhich I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example.\nAdded to these, ma'am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we\nhave a specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimes\nglimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a\ntotal darkness. Therefore, ma'am, I have taken the liberty to get him\nout of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together, and\nthis precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towards\nyourself, you will excuse me, ma'am, I know.'\n\nHaving delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of manner,\nhe drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the cork\nbetween his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion\nof the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her\nhealth, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with\ninfinite relish.\n\n'I am a citizen of the world, ma'am,' said the blind man, corking his\nbottle, 'and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore.\nYou wonder who I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Such\nexperience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion,\nwithout the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul\nas depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity\nimmediately, ma'am; immediately.' With that he slapped his bottle on its\nbroad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his\nlegs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to\nproceeding any further.\n\nThe change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness\nof his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition--for we are\naccustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in its\nplace almost divine--and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom\nhe addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as\nit seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor\nresumed:\n\n'Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of\nmeeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to\ncall upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's name in your\near.--Zounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be\nglad to whisper my friend's name in your ear?'\n\n'You need not repeat it,' said the widow, with a stifled groan; 'I see\ntoo well from whom you come.'\n\n'But as a man of honour, ma'am,' said the blind man, striking himself on\nthe breast, 'whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say\nthat I WILL mention that gentleman's name. Ay, ay,' he added, seeming\nto catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, 'but not aloud.\nWith your leave, ma'am, I desire the favour of a whisper.'\n\nShe moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her\near; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one\ndistracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle\nagain, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from\ntime to time, followed her with his face in silence.\n\n'You are slow in conversation, widow,' he said after a time, pausing in\nhis draught. 'We shall have to talk before your son.'\n\n'What would you have me do?' she answered. 'What do you want?'\n\n'We are poor, widow, we are poor,' he retorted, stretching out his right\nhand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.\n\n'Poor!' she cried. 'And what am I?'\n\n'Comparisons are odious,' said the blind man. 'I don't know, I don't\ncare. I say that we are poor. My friend's circumstances are indifferent,\nand so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought\noff. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?'\n\nShe still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before\nhim, she said:\n\n'Is he near here?'\n\n'He is. Close at hand.'\n\n'Then I am lost!'\n\n'Not lost, widow,' said the blind man, calmly; 'only found. Shall I call\nhim?'\n\n'Not for the world,' she answered, with a shudder.\n\n'Very good,' he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as\nthough he would rise and walk to the door. 'As you please, widow. His\npresence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live;\nto live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:--I\nsay no more.'\n\n'Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?' she retorted. 'I do not\nthink you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this\npoor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by\nyour own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.'\n\nThe blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:\n\n'--Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question. I have the softest\nheart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman lives\nwell upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very\ngreat drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which\nsympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish\nto arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the\ncase stands.--If you are very poor now, it's your own choice. You have\nfriends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is\nin a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and\nhe being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to\nassist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I\nsaid just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of his\nentertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; he\nhas always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you;\nhe has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are\nin the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.'\n\nShe was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.\n\n'The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and then\nfor my friend; and that's what I advise. He bears you no malice that I\nknow of, ma'am: so little, that although you have treated him harshly\nmore than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that\nregard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would\nconsent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.'\n\nHe laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find\nout what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.\n\n'He is a likely lad,' said the blind man, thoughtfully, 'for many\npurposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change\nand bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you\nto-night.--Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty\npounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It's\na pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, and\nit's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a\nmoderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it\nyou.--Twenty pounds!'\n\nShe was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.\n\n'Don't say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a\nlittle while. Twenty pounds--of other people's money--how easy! Turn it\nover in your mind. I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on, and if I don't\nsleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma'am,\nfor twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that's a fair allowance.\nI'll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in these\nparts.'\n\nWith these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with\nhim. Then seating himself, under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching\nhis legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out\nwithout his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel and\ntinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening, of that gentle\nkind, and at that time of year, when the twilight is most beautiful.\nPausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off, and to sniff the\ngrateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease--as though\nthe cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputed\npossession of it all his life--waiting for the widow's answer and for\nBarnaby's return.\n\n\n\nChapter 46\n\n\nWhen Barnaby returned with the bread, the sight of the pious old pilgrim\nsmoking his pipe and making himself so thoroughly at home, appeared\nto surprise even him; the more so, as that worthy person, instead of\nputting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious article,\ntossed it carelessly on the table, and producing his bottle, bade him\nsit down and drink.\n\n'For I carry some comfort, you see,' he said. 'Taste that. Is it good?'\n\nThe water stood in Barnaby's eyes as he coughed from the strength of the\ndraught, and answered in the affirmative.\n\n'Drink some more,' said the blind man; 'don't be afraid of it. You don't\ntaste anything like that, often, eh?'\n\n'Often!' cried Barnaby. 'Never!'\n\n'Too poor?' returned the blind man with a sigh. 'Ay. That's bad. Your\nmother, poor soul, would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby.'\n\n'Why, so I tell her--the very thing I told her just before you came\nto-night, when all that gold was in the sky,' said Barnaby, drawing his\nchair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. 'Tell me. Is there\nany way of being rich, that I could find out?'\n\n'Any way! A hundred ways.'\n\n'Ay, ay?' he returned. 'Do you say so? What are they?--Nay, mother, it's\nfor your sake I ask; not mine;--for yours, indeed. What are they?'\n\nThe blind man turned his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to\nwhere the widow stood in great distress; and answered,\n\n'Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend.'\n\n'By stay-at-homes!' cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve. 'But I am not\none. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the sun, and travel\nhome when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day\nhas reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon\nis peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that\nlives in the water. As I walk along, I try to find, among the grass and\nmoss, some of that small money for which she works so hard and used to\nshed so many tears. As I lie asleep in the shade, I dream of it--dream\nof digging it up in heaps; and spying it out, hidden under bushes; and\nseeing it sparkle, as the dew-drops do, among the leaves. But I never\nfind it. Tell me where it is. I'd go there, if the journey were a whole\nyear long, because I know she would be happier when I came home and\nbrought some with me. Speak again. I'll listen to you if you talk all\nnight.'\n\nThe blind man passed his hand lightly over the poor fellow's face, and\nfinding that his elbows were planted on the table, that his chin rested\non his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and that his whole\nmanner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a minute as\nthough he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made answer:\n\n'It's in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world; not in solitary\nplaces like those you pass your time in, but in crowds, and where\nthere's noise and rattle.'\n\n'Good! good!' cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. 'Yes! I love that. Grip\nloves it too. It suits us both. That's brave!'\n\n'--The kind of places,' said the blind man, 'that a young fellow likes,\nand in which a good son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot,\nin a month, than he could here in all his life--that is, if he had a\nfriend, you know, and some one to advise with.'\n\n'You hear this, mother?' cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight.\n'Never tell me we shouldn't heed it, if it lay shining at out feet. Why\ndo we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?'\n\n'Surely,' said the blind man, 'surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is\nyour mind,' he slowly added, 'not made up yet?'\n\n'Let me speak with you,' she answered, 'apart.'\n\n'Lay your hand upon my sleeve,' said Stagg, arising from the table; 'and\nlead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We'll talk more of this:\nI've a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.'\n\nShe led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they\nstopped.\n\n'You are a fit agent,' she said, in a half breathless manner, 'and well\nrepresent the man who sent you here.'\n\n'I'll tell him that you said so,' Stagg retorted. 'He has a regard for\nyou, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your praise. We must\nhave our rights, widow.'\n\n'Rights! Do you know,' she said, 'that a word from me--'\n\n'Why do you stop?' returned the blind man calmly, after a long pause.\n'Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in the last\nposition of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never be\nspoken, widow.'\n\n'You are sure of that?'\n\n'Quite--so sure, that I don't come here to discuss the question. I say\nwe must have our rights, or we must be bought off. Keep to that point,\nor let me return to my young friend, for I have an interest in the lad,\nand desire to put him in the way of making his fortune. Bah! you needn't\nspeak,' he added hastily; 'I know what you would say: you have hinted\nat it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I am blind? No, I\nhave not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be better than\nmen who have their sight--why should you? Is the hand of Heaven more\nmanifest in my having no eyes, than in your having two? It's the cant\nof you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals;\noh yes, it's far worse in him, who can barely live on the few halfpence\nthat are thrown to him in streets, than in you, who can see, and work,\nand are not dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you! You\nwho have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four,\nand want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction.\nThe true charity and justice of rich to poor, all the world over!'\n\nHe paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught the sound of\nmoney, jingling in her hand.\n\n'Well?' he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. 'That should lead\nto something. The point, widow?'\n\n'First answer me one question,' she replied. 'You say he is close at\nhand. Has he left London?'\n\n'Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has,' returned the blind\nman.\n\n'I mean, for good? You know that.'\n\n'Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there\nmight have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that\nreason.'\n\n'Listen,' said the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside\nthem. 'Count.'\n\n'Six,' said the blind man, listening attentively. 'Any more?'\n\n'They are the savings,' she answered, 'of five years. Six guineas.'\n\nHe put out his hand for one of the coins; felt it carefully, put it\nbetween his teeth, rung it on the bench; and nodded to her to proceed.\n\n'These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death\nshould separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of\nmuch hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them--do--on\ncondition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no more\ninto that room, where he sits now, expecting your return.'\n\n'Six guineas,' said the blind man, shaking his head, 'though of the\nfullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty\npounds, widow.'\n\n'For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the\ncountry. To do that, and receive an answer, I must have time.'\n\n'Two days?' said Stagg.\n\n'More.'\n\n'Four days?'\n\n'A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to the\nhouse. Wait at the corner of the lane.'\n\n'Of course,' said the blind man, with a crafty look, 'I shall find you\nthere?'\n\n'Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have made\na beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, so hardly\nearned, to preserve this home?'\n\n'Humph!' said the blind man, after some consideration. 'Set me with my\nface towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is\nthis the spot?'\n\n'It is.'\n\n'On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--For the\npresent, good night.'\n\nShe made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away,\nturning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen, as if he\nwere curious to know whether he was watched by any one. The shadows of\nnight were closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It\nwas not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end,\nand made sure that he was gone, that she re-entered the cottage, and\nhurriedly barred the door and window.\n\n'Mother!' said Barnaby. 'What is the matter? Where is the blind man?'\n\n'He is gone.'\n\n'Gone!' he cried, starting up. 'I must have more talk with him. Which\nway did he take?'\n\n'I don't know,' she answered, folding her arms about him. 'You must not\ngo out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad.'\n\n'Ay?' said Barnaby, in a frightened whisper.\n\n'It is not safe to stir. We must leave this place to-morrow.'\n\n'This place! This cottage--and the little garden, mother!'\n\n'Yes! To-morrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London; lose\nourselves in that wide place--there would be some trace of us in any\nother town--then travel on again, and find some new abode.'\n\nLittle persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that\npromised change. In another minute, he was wild with delight; in\nanother, full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the\ndogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful of what she had said\nto prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and\nstrange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all his\nother feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might\nbe ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf\nfire.\n\nHis mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching. Every\nbreath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the\ndoor, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night,\na night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made\nthe little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had\nprayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up\ngaily at her summons.\n\nHis clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As\nthe sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of\ntheir deserted home, and turned away. The sky was blue and bright.\nThe air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes. Barnaby looked\nupward, and laughed with all his heart.\n\nBut it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the\ndogs--the ugliest of them all--came bounding up, and jumping round him\nin the fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone,\nand his heart smote him while he did so. The dog retreated; turned\nwith a half-incredulous, half-imploring look; came a little back; and\nstopped.\n\nIt was the last appeal of an old companion and a faithful friend--cast\noff. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head and waved his\nplaymate home, he burst into tears.\n\n'Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches at the\ndoor, and finds it always shut!'\n\nThere was such a sense of home in the thought, that though her own eyes\noverflowed she would not have obliterated the recollection of it, either\nfrom her own mind or from his, for the wealth of the whole wide world.\n\n\n\nChapter 47\n\n\nIn the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven's mercies to mankind, the power\nwe have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must ever\noccupy the foremost place; not only because it supports and upholds\nus when we most require to be sustained, but because in this source of\nconsolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divine\nspirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own evil\ndoings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature,\nwe possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the old\ntime when they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity.\n\nHow often, on their journey, did the widow remember with a grateful\nheart, that out of his deprivation Barnaby's cheerfulness and affection\nsprung! How often did she call to mind that but for that, he might have\nbeen sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her--vicious, perhaps, and\ncruel! How often had she cause for comfort, in his strength, and hope,\nand in his simple nature! Those feeble powers of mind which rendered him\nso soon forgetful of the past, save in brief gleams and flashes,--even\nthey were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness; in\nevery tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast, and tiny\ninsect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he had\ndelight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would have\nmade her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with\nthankfulness and love.\n\nTheir stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into the\nblind man's hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the few\npence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits,\na goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when they\nmust otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibit\noutside an alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or\ngardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given\nnothing in charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from the\ntalking bird.\n\nOne day--for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides in\ncarts and waggons, were on the road a week--Barnaby, with Grip upon his\nshoulder and his mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge to\ngo up to the great house, at the other end of the avenue, and show his\nraven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance, and was\nindeed about to do so, when a stout gentleman with a long whip in his\nhand, and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had his\nmorning's draught, rode up to the gate, and called in a loud voice and\nwith more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it opened\ndirectly.\n\n'Who hast thou got here?' said the gentleman angrily, as the man threw\nthe gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, 'who are these? Eh? art a\nbeggar, woman?'\n\nThe widow answered with a curtsey, that they were poor travellers.\n\n'Vagrants,' said the gentleman, 'vagrants and vagabonds. Thee wish to be\nmade acquainted with the cage, dost thee--the cage, the stocks, and the\nwhipping-post? Where dost come from?'\n\nShe told him in a timid manner,--for he was very loud, hoarse, and\nred-faced,--and besought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm,\nand would go upon their way that moment.\n\n'Don't be too sure of that,' replied the gentleman, 'we don't allow\nvagrants to roam about this place. I know what thou want'st--stray\nlinen drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in that\nbasket, lazy hound?'\n\n'Grip, Grip, Grip--Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the\nknowing--Grip, Grip, Grip,' cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up\non the approach of this stern personage. 'I'm a devil I'm a devil I'm a\ndevil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we'll\nall have tea.'\n\n'Take the vermin out, scoundrel,' said the gentleman, 'and let me see\nhim.'\n\nBarnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not\nwithout much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which\nhe had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then\nbegan to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising\ninsolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he\nappeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot.\n\nThe cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman's\nmind, than the raven's power of speech, and was indeed particularly\nadapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again,\nbut despite his being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnaby\ncoaxed to the utmost, Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, and\npreserved a dead silence.\n\n'Bring him along,' said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip,\nwho had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before\nthem;--constantly flapping his wings, and screaming 'cook!' meanwhile,\nas a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation\nwould be acceptable.\n\nBarnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman on\nhorseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and\ncoarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone\nof which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, as\na matter of course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions,\nwhen the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, the\nwidow ventured to inform him in a low voice and with tears in her eyes,\nthat her son was of weak mind.\n\n'An idiot, eh?' said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. 'And\nhow long hast thou been an idiot?'\n\n'She knows,' was Barnaby's timid answer, pointing to his\nmother--'I--always, I believe.'\n\n'From his birth,' said the widow.\n\n'I don't believe it,' cried the gentleman, 'not a bit of it. It's an\nexcuse not to work. There's nothing like flogging to cure that disorder.\nI'd make a difference in him in ten minutes, I'll be bound.'\n\n'Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,' said the widow\nmildly.\n\n'Then why don't you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions,\ndamn 'em. But thou'd rather drag him about to excite charity--of course.\nAy, I know thee.'\n\nNow, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his\nintimate friends. By some he was called 'a country gentleman of the true\nschool,' by some 'a fine old country gentleman,' by some 'a sporting\ngentleman,' by some 'a thorough-bred Englishman,' by some 'a genuine\nJohn Bull;' but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it\nwas a pity there were not more like him, and that because there were\nnot, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in the\ncommission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly; but\nhis greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with poachers,\nwas a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs,\ncould eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night\nmore drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in the\ncounty. In knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, in\nstable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not\na pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliament\nhimself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his voters\nup to the poll with his own hands. He was warmly attached to church\nand state, and never appointed to the living in his gift any but a\nthree-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted the honesty\nof all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousy\nof his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his friends\ncalled 'the good old English reason,' that her father's property\nadjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greater\ndegree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip a\ncreature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this\ngentleman was.\n\nHe rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight\nof steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the way\ninto a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the\nfumes of last night's stale debauch. Greatcoats, riding-whips, bridles,\ntop-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, and\nformed, with some huge stags' antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and\nhorses, its principal embellishments.\n\nThrowing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often\nsnored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a\nfiner country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress\nto come down: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as it\nseemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who\nhad the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.\n\n'Here! Thou'st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwoman\nshould have,' said the gentleman. 'See to this here. That'll please thee\nperhaps.'\n\nThe lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced at\nBarnaby with a look of pity.\n\n'He's an idiot, the woman says,' observed the gentleman, shaking his\nhead; 'I don't believe it.'\n\n'Are you his mother?' asked the lady.\n\nShe answered yes.\n\n'What's the use of asking HER?' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands\ninto his breeches pockets. 'She'll tell thee so, of course. Most likely\nhe's hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.'\n\nGrip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at\nBarnaby's solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to\ngo through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The\ncorks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight\nthat he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until\nGrip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word,\ngood or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing\npoint of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a\nroar of laughter, and demanded his price.\n\nBarnaby looked as though he didn't understand his meaning. Probably he\ndid not.\n\n'His price,' said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets,\n'what dost want for him? How much?'\n\n'He's not to be sold,' replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a\ngreat hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. 'Mother, come\naway.'\n\n'Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,' said the\ngentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. 'He can make a bargain. What\ndost want for him, old woman?'\n\n'He is my son's constant companion,' said the widow. 'He is not to be\nsold, sir, indeed.'\n\n'Not to be sold!' cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder,\nhoarser, and louder than before. 'Not to be sold!'\n\n'Indeed no,' she answered. 'We have never thought of parting with him,\nsir, I do assure you.'\n\nHe was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few\nmurmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned\nsharply round, and said, 'Eh? What?'\n\n'We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,'\nshe faltered. 'If they prefer to keep him--'\n\n'Prefer to keep him!' he echoed. 'These people, who go tramping about\nthe country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep\na bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old\nwoman's been to school. I know she has. Don't tell me no,' he roared to\nthe widow, 'I say, yes.'\n\nBarnaby's mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was\nno harm in it.\n\n'No harm!' said the gentleman. 'No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not\na bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I'd set ye in the stocks, I would,\nor lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty\nlarcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out,\nshove 'em into the road, out with 'em! Ye don't want to sell the bird,\nye that come here to beg, don't ye? If they an't out in double-quick,\nset the dogs upon 'em!'\n\nThey waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving\nthe gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already\nretreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who,\nexcited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried\ndown the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on\nhaving been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached\nthe lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to\nbe very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the\nwidow's hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently\nfrom the gate.\n\nThis incident only suggested to the widow's mind, when they halted at\nan alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice's character\nas given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of\nstomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form\neither a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or\na genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes\nmisappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a\ncircumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but\ntime and experience enlightened her in this respect.\n\n'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which\nwas to take them within ten miles of the capital, 'we're going to London\nfirst, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?'\n\nShe was about to answer 'Heaven forbid!' but checked herself, and told\nhim No, she thought not; why did he ask?\n\n'He's a wise man,' said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. 'I wish\nthat we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds?\nThat gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the\ntrees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a\ncrowded place; I think we shall meet him there.'\n\n'But why do you desire to see him, love?' she asked.\n\n'Because,' said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, 'he talked to me\nabout gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing\nyou would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so\nstrangely--just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed's foot\nin the night, and say what I can't remember when the bright day returns.\nHe told me he'd come back. I wonder why he broke his word!'\n\n'But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You\nhave always been contented.'\n\nHe laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, 'Ay ay--oh yes,' and\nlaughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and\nthe topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as\nfleeting.\n\nBut it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the\npoint more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man's\nvisit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind.\nWhether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time\non looking at the golden clouds that evening--and images were often\npresented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and\ndistant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it,\nby contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of\nthe blind man's pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at\nthe moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the\nman being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked\nbefore; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover,\nbut in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in\nthe dark.\n\nIt filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but\nall that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject,\nand to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor,\nto show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she\nfeared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and\nto strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging\ninto the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by\njourneying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were\npossible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.\n\nThey reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of\nLondon, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on\nfor a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was\nto start at five o'clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the\nroad good--save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry--and at\nseven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven\nhundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge,\nbade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the\nscorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such\nbusy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with\nuncommon lustre.\n\n\n\nChapter 48\n\n\nUncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of people who\nwere already astir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the bridge,\nto rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all pouring\none way, and that a vast throng of persons were crossing the river\nfrom the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident\nexcitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or\nsometimes half-a-dozen; they spoke little together--many of them were\nquite silent; and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in\nview, which was common to them all.\n\nThey were surprised to see that nearly every man in this great\nconcourse, which still came pouring past, without slackening in the\nleast, wore in his hat a blue cockade; and that the chance passengers\nwho were not so decorated, appeared timidly anxious to escape\nobservation or attack, and gave them the wall as if they would\nconciliate them. This, however, was natural enough, considering their\ninferiority in point of numbers; for the proportion of those who wore\nblue cockades, to those who were dressed as usual, was at least forty or\nfifty to one. There was no quarrelling, however: the blue cockades went\nswarming on, passing each other when they could, and making all the\nspeed that was possible in such a multitude; and exchanged nothing more\nthan looks, and very often not even those, with such of the passers-by\nas were not of their number.\n\nAt first, the current of people had been confined to the two pathways,\nand but a few more eager stragglers kept the road. But after half an\nhour or so, the passage was completely blocked up by the great press,\nwhich, being now closely wedged together, and impeded by the carts and\ncoaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a stand\nfor five or ten minutes together.\n\nAfter the lapse of nearly two hours, the numbers began to diminish\nvisibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little and little, left the\nbridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and dusty man,\nwith the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, went\npanting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way\nhis friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one\nrefreshed. In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange\nand novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an\nopportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them,\nwhat was the meaning of that great assemblage.\n\n'Why, where have you come from,' he returned, 'that you haven't heard of\nLord George Gordon's great association? This is the day that he presents\nthe petition against the Catholics, God bless him!'\n\n'What have all these men to do with that?' she said.\n\n'What have they to do with it!' the old man replied. 'Why, how you talk!\nDon't you know his lordship has declared he won't present it to the\nhouse at all, unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good\nand true men at least? There's a crowd for you!'\n\n'A crowd indeed!' said Barnaby. 'Do you hear that, mother!'\n\n'And they're mustering yonder, as I am told,' resumed the old man, 'nigh\nupon a hundred thousand strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows\nhis power. There'll be a good many faces inside them three windows over\nthere,' and he pointed to where the House of Commons overlooked the\nriver, 'that'll turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon,\nand with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let him alone.\nHE knows!' And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his\nforefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.\n\n'Mother!' said Barnaby, 'that's a brave crowd he talks of. Come!'\n\n'Not to join it!' cried his mother.\n\n'Yes, yes,' he answered, plucking at her sleeve. 'Why not? Come!'\n\n'You don't know,' she urged, 'what mischief they may do, where they may\nlead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake--'\n\n'For your sake!' he cried, patting her hand. 'Well! It IS for your sake,\nmother. You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here's a\nbrave crowd! Come! Or wait till I come back--yes, yes, wait here.'\n\nShe tried with all the earnestness her fears engendered, to turn him\nfrom his purpose, but in vain. He was stooping down to buckle on his\nshoe, when a hackney-coach passed them rather quickly, and a voice\ninside called to the driver to stop.\n\n'Young man,' said a voice within.\n\n'Who's that?' cried Barnaby, looking up.\n\n'Do you wear this ornament?' returned the stranger, holding out a blue\ncockade.\n\n'In Heaven's name, no. Pray do not give it him!' exclaimed the widow.\n\n'Speak for yourself, woman,' said the man within the coach, coldly.\n'Leave the young man to his choice; he's old enough to make it, and\nto snap your apron-strings. He knows, without your telling, whether he\nwears the sign of a loyal Englishman or not.'\n\nBarnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, 'Yes! yes, yes, I do,' as\nhe had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade, and\ncrying, 'Make haste to St George's Fields,' ordered the coachman to\ndrive on fast; and left them.\n\nWith hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bauble in his\nhat, Barnaby was adjusting it as he best could, and hurriedly replying\nto the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on\nthe opposite side of the way. Observing them, and seeing how Barnaby was\noccupied, they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back,\nand came over to them.\n\n'Why are you sitting here?' said one of them, who was dressed in a plain\nsuit of black, wore long lank hair, and carried a great cane. 'Why have\nyou not gone with the rest?'\n\n'I am going, sir,' replied Barnaby, finishing his task, and putting his\nhat on with an air of pride. 'I shall be there directly.'\n\n'Say \"my lord,\" young man, when his lordship does you the honour of\nspeaking to you,' said the second gentleman mildly. 'If you don't know\nLord George Gordon when you see him, it's high time you should.'\n\n'Nay, Gashford,' said Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again\nand made him a low bow, 'it's no great matter on a day like this, which\nevery Englishman will remember with delight and pride. Put on your hat,\nfriend, and follow us, for you lag behind and are late. It's past ten\nnow. Didn't you know that the hour for assembling was ten o'clock?'\n\nBarnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from one to the other.\n\n'You might have known it, friend,' said Gashford, 'it was perfectly\nunderstood. How came you to be so ill informed?'\n\n'He cannot tell you, sir,' the widow interposed. 'It's of no use to ask\nhim. We are but this morning come from a long distance in the country,\nand know nothing of these matters.'\n\n'The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far and\nwide,' said Lord George to his secretary. 'This is a pleasant hearing. I\nthank Heaven for it!'\n\n'Amen!' cried Gashford with a solemn face.\n\n'You do not understand me, my lord,' said the widow. 'Pardon me, but you\ncruelly mistake my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no\ndesire or right to join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my\npoor afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. In mercy's name, my\nlord, go your way alone, and do not tempt him into danger!'\n\n'My good woman,' said Gashford, 'how can you!--Dear me!--What do you\nmean by tempting, and by danger? Do you think his lordship is a roaring\nlion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God bless me!'\n\n'No, no, my lord, forgive me,' implored the widow, laying both her hands\nupon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did, or said, in the\nearnestness of her supplication, 'but there are reasons why you should\nhear my earnest, mother's prayer, and leave my son with me. Oh do! He is\nnot in his right senses, he is not, indeed!'\n\n'It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these times,' said Lord George,\nevading her touch, and colouring deeply, 'that those who cling to the\ntruth and support the right cause, are set down as mad. Have you the\nheart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother!'\n\n'I am astonished at you!' said Gashford, with a kind of meek severity.\n'This is a very sad picture of female depravity.'\n\n'He has surely no appearance,' said Lord George, glancing at Barnaby,\nand whispering in his secretary's ear, 'of being deranged? And even\nif he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness.\nWhich of us'--and here he turned red again--'would be safe, if that were\nmade the law!'\n\n'Not one,' replied the secretary; 'in that case, the greater the zeal,\nthe truth, and talent; the more direct the call from above; the clearer\nwould be the madness. With regard to this young man, my lord,' he added,\nwith a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood\ntwirling his hat, and stealthily beckoning them to come away, 'he is as\nsensible and self-possessed as any one I ever saw.'\n\n'And you desire to make one of this great body?' said Lord George,\naddressing him; 'and intended to make one, did you?'\n\n'Yes--yes,' said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. 'To be sure I did! I told\nher so myself.'\n\n'I see,' replied Lord George, with a reproachful glance at the unhappy\nmother. 'I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and you shall have\nyour wish.'\n\nBarnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek, and bidding her be\nof good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did as he was\ndesired. She, poor woman, followed too--with how much fear and grief it\nwould be hard to tell.\n\nThey passed quickly through the Bridge Road, where the shops were all\nshut up (for the passage of the great crowd and the expectation of\ntheir return had alarmed the tradesmen for their goods and windows),\nand where, in the upper stories, all the inhabitants were congregated,\nlooking down into the street below, with faces variously expressive\nof alarm, of interest, expectancy, and indignation. Some of these\napplauded, and some hissed; but regardless of these interruptions--for\nthe noise of a vast congregation of people at a little distance, sounded\nin his ears like the roaring of the sea--Lord George Gordon quickened\nhis pace, and presently arrived before St George's Fields.\n\nThey were really fields at that time, and of considerable extent. Here\nan immense multitude was collected, bearing flags of various kinds\nand sizes, but all of the same colour--blue, like the cockades--some\nsections marching to and fro in military array, and others drawn up in\ncircles, squares, and lines. A large portion, both of the bodies\nwhich paraded the ground, and of those which remained stationary, were\noccupied in singing hymns or psalms. With whomsoever this originated, it\nwas well done; for the sound of so many thousand voices in the air must\nhave stirred the heart of any man within him, and could not fail to have\na wonderful effect upon enthusiasts, however mistaken.\n\nScouts had been posted in advance of the great body, to give notice of\ntheir leader's coming. These falling back, the word was quickly passed\nthrough the whole host, and for a short interval there ensued a profound\nand deathlike silence, during which the mass was so still and\nquiet, that the fluttering of a banner caught the eye, and became a\ncircumstance of note. Then they burst into a tremendous shout, into\nanother, and another; and the air seemed rent and shaken, as if by the\ndischarge of cannon.\n\n'Gashford!' cried Lord George, pressing his secretary's arm tight within\nhis own, and speaking with as much emotion in his voice, as in his\naltered face, 'I am called indeed, now. I feel and know it. I am the\nleader of a host. If they summoned me at this moment with one voice to\nlead them on to death, I'd do it--Yes, and fall first myself!'\n\n'It is a proud sight,' said the secretary. 'It is a noble day for\nEngland, and for the great cause throughout the world. Such homage, my\nlord, as I, an humble but devoted man, can render--'\n\n'What are you doing?' cried his master, catching him by both hands;\nfor he had made a show of kneeling at his feet. 'Do not unfit me, dear\nGashford, for the solemn duty of this glorious day--' the tears stood in\nthe eyes of the poor gentleman as he said the words.--'Let us go\namong them; we have to find a place in some division for this new\nrecruit--give me your hand.'\n\nGashford slid his cold insidious palm into his master's grasp, and so,\nhand in hand, and followed still by Barnaby and by his mother too, they\nmingled with the concourse.\n\nThey had by this time taken to their singing again, and as their leader\npassed between their ranks, they raised their voices to their utmost.\nMany of those who were banded together to support the religion of their\ncountry, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or psalm in all their\nlives. But these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and\nbeing naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribaldry or nonsense that\noccurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected\nin the general chorus, and not caring much if it were. Many of these\nvoluntaries were sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who,\nquite unconscious of their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and\nsolemn deportment, very much edified and delighted by the pious conduct\nof his followers.\n\nSo they went on and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of\nthis circle, and on every side of that hollow square; and still there\nwere lines, and squares, and circles out of number to review. The day\nbeing now intensely hot, and the sun striking down his fiercest rays\nupon the field, those who carried heavy banners began to grow faint\nand weary; most of the number assembled were fain to pull off their\nneckcloths, and throw their coats and waistcoats open; and some, towards\nthe centre, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was of course\nrendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down upon\nthe grass, and offered all they had about them for a drink of water.\nStill, no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed;\nstill Lord George, streaming from every pore, went on with Gashford; and\nstill Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them.\n\nThey had arrived at the top of a long line of some eight hundred men in\nsingle file, and Lord George had turned his head to look back, when a\nloud cry of recognition--in that peculiar and half-stifled tone which a\nvoice has, when it is raised in the open air and in the midst of a\ngreat concourse of persons--was heard, and a man stepped with a shout\nof laughter from the rank, and smote Barnaby on the shoulders with his\nheavy hand.\n\n'How now!' he cried. 'Barnaby Rudge! Why, where have you been hiding for\nthese hundred years?'\n\nBarnaby had been thinking within himself that the smell of the trodden\ngrass brought back his old days at cricket, when he was a young boy\nand played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and boisterous\naddress, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could scarcely\nsay 'What! Hugh!'\n\n'Hugh!' echoed the other; 'ay, Hugh--Maypole Hugh! You remember my dog?\nHe's alive now, and will know you, I warrant. What, you wear the colour,\ndo you? Well done! Ha ha ha!'\n\n'You know this young man, I see,' said Lord George.\n\n'Know him, my lord! as well as I know my own right hand. My captain\nknows him. We all know him.'\n\n'Will you take him into your division?'\n\n'It hasn't in it a better, nor a nimbler, nor a more active man, than\nBarnaby Rudge,' said Hugh. 'Show me the man who says it has! Fall in,\nBarnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis; and he shall\ncarry,' he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who\ntendered it, 'the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army.'\n\n'In the name of God, no!' shrieked the widow, darting forward.\n'Barnaby--my lord--see--he'll come back--Barnaby--Barnaby!'\n\n'Women in the field!' cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding her\noff. 'Holloa! My captain there!'\n\n'What's the matter here?' cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great\nheat. 'Do you call this order?'\n\n'Nothing like it, captain,' answered Hugh, still holding her back with\nhis outstretched hand. 'It's against all orders. Ladies are carrying\noff our gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain!\nThey're filing off the ground. Quick!'\n\n'Close!' cried Simon, with the whole power of his lungs. 'Form! March!'\n\nShe was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; Barnaby was\nwhirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and she saw him no\nmore.\n\n\n\nChapter 49\n\n\nThe mob had been divided from its first assemblage into four divisions;\nthe London, the Westminster, the Southwark, and the Scotch. Each of\nthese divisions being subdivided into various bodies, and these bodies\nbeing drawn up in various forms and figures, the general arrangement\nwas, except to the few chiefs and leaders, as unintelligible as the\nplan of a great battle to the meanest soldier in the field. It was not\nwithout its method, however; for, in a very short space of time after\nbeing put in motion, the crowd had resolved itself into three great\nparties, and were prepared, as had been arranged, to cross the river\nby different bridges, and make for the House of Commons in separate\ndetachments.\n\nAt the head of that division which had Westminster Bridge for its\napproach to the scene of action, Lord George Gordon took his post; with\nGashford at his right hand, and sundry ruffians, of most unpromising\nappearance, forming a kind of staff about him. The conduct of a second\nparty, whose route lay by Blackfriars, was entrusted to a committee of\nmanagement, including perhaps a dozen men: while the third, which was to\ngo by London Bridge, and through the main streets, in order that their\nnumbers and their serious intentions might be the better known and\nappreciated by the citizens, were led by Simon Tappertit (assisted by\na few subalterns, selected from the Brotherhood of United Bulldogs),\nDennis the hangman, Hugh, and some others.\n\nThe word of command being given, each of these great bodies took the\nroad assigned to it, and departed on its way, in perfect order and\nprofound silence. That which went through the City greatly exceeded the\nothers in number, and was of such prodigious extent that when the\nrear began to move, the front was nearly four miles in advance,\nnotwithstanding that the men marched three abreast and followed very\nclose upon each other.\n\nAt the head of this party, in the place where Hugh, in the madness\nof his humour, had stationed him, and walking between that dangerous\ncompanion and the hangman, went Barnaby; as many a man among the\nthousands who looked on that day afterwards remembered well. Forgetful\nof all other things in the ecstasy of the moment, his face flushed and\nhis eyes sparkling with delight, heedless of the weight of the great\nbanner he carried, and mindful only of its flashing in the sun and\nrustling in the summer breeze, on he went, proud, happy, elated past\nall telling:--the only light-hearted, undesigning creature, in the whole\nassembly.\n\n'What do you think of this?' asked Hugh, as they passed through the\ncrowded streets, and looked up at the windows which were thronged with\nspectators. 'They have all turned out to see our flags and streamers?\nEh, Barnaby? Why, Barnaby's the greatest man of all the pack! His flag's\nthe largest of the lot, the brightest too. There's nothing in the show,\nlike Barnaby. All eyes are turned on him. Ha ha ha!'\n\n'Don't make that din, brother,' growled the hangman, glancing with\nno very approving eyes at Barnaby as he spoke: 'I hope he don't think\nthere's nothing to be done, but carrying that there piece of blue rag,\nlike a boy at a breaking up. You're ready for action I hope, eh? You, I\nmean,' he added, nudging Barnaby roughly with his elbow. 'What are you\nstaring at? Why don't you speak?'\n\nBarnaby had been gazing at his flag, and looked vacantly from his\nquestioner to Hugh.\n\n'He don't understand your way,' said the latter. 'Here, I'll explain it\nto him. Barnaby old boy, attend to me.'\n\n'I'll attend,' said Barnaby, looking anxiously round; 'but I wish I\ncould see her somewhere.'\n\n'See who?' demanded Dennis in a gruff tone. 'You an't in love I hope,\nbrother? That an't the sort of thing for us, you know. We mustn't have\nno love here.'\n\n'She would be proud indeed to see me now, eh Hugh?' said Barnaby.\n'Wouldn't it make her glad to see me at the head of this large show?\nShe'd cry for joy, I know she would. Where CAN she be? She never sees me\nat my best, and what do I care to be gay and fine if SHE'S not by?'\n\n'Why, what palaver's this?' asked Mr Dennis with supreme disdain. 'We\nan't got no sentimental members among us, I hope.'\n\n'Don't be uneasy, brother,' cried Hugh, 'he's only talking of his\nmother.'\n\n'Of his what?' said Mr Dennis with a strong oath.\n\n'His mother.'\n\n'And have I combined myself with this here section, and turned out on\nthis here memorable day, to hear men talk about their mothers!' growled\nMr Dennis with extreme disgust. 'The notion of a man's sweetheart's bad\nenough, but a man's mother!'--and here his disgust was so extreme that\nhe spat upon the ground, and could say no more.\n\n'Barnaby's right,' cried Hugh with a grin, 'and I say it. Lookee, bold\nlad. If she's not here to see, it's because I've provided for her, and\nsent half-a-dozen gentlemen, every one of 'em with a blue flag (but not\nhalf as fine as yours), to take her, in state, to a grand house all\nhung round with gold and silver banners, and everything else you please,\nwhere she'll wait till you come, and want for nothing.'\n\n'Ay!' said Barnaby, his face beaming with delight: 'have you indeed?\nThat's a good hearing. That's fine! Kind Hugh!'\n\n'But nothing to what will come, bless you,' retorted Hugh, with a\nwink at Dennis, who regarded his new companion in arms with great\nastonishment.\n\n'No, indeed?' cried Barnaby.\n\n'Nothing at all,' said Hugh. 'Money, cocked hats and feathers, red coats\nand gold lace; all the fine things there are, ever were, or will be;\nwill belong to us if we are true to that noble gentleman--the best man\nin the world--carry our flags for a few days, and keep 'em safe. That's\nall we've got to do.'\n\n'Is that all?' cried Barnaby with glistening eyes, as he clutched his\npole the tighter; 'I warrant you I keep this one safe, then. You have\nput it in good hands. You know me, Hugh. Nobody shall wrest this flag\naway.'\n\n'Well said!' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha! Nobly said! That's the old stout\nBarnaby, that I have climbed and leaped with, many and many a day--I\nknew I was not mistaken in Barnaby.--Don't you see, man,' he added in\na whisper, as he slipped to the other side of Dennis, 'that the lad's a\nnatural, and can be got to do anything, if you take him the right way?\nLetting alone the fun he is, he's worth a dozen men, in earnest, as\nyou'd find if you tried a fall with him. Leave him to me. You shall soon\nsee whether he's of use or not.'\n\nMr Dennis received these explanatory remarks with many nods and winks,\nand softened his behaviour towards Barnaby from that moment. Hugh,\nlaying his finger on his nose, stepped back into his former place, and\nthey proceeded in silence.\n\nIt was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when the three\ngreat parties met at Westminster, and, uniting into one huge mass,\nraised a tremendous shout. This was not only done in token of their\npresence, but as a signal to those on whom the task devolved, that it\nwas time to take possession of the lobbies of both Houses, and of\nthe various avenues of approach, and of the gallery stairs. To the\nlast-named place, Hugh and Dennis, still with their pupil between them,\nrushed straightway; Barnaby having given his flag into the hands of one\nof their own party, who kept them at the outer door. Their followers\npressing on behind, they were borne as on a great wave to the very doors\nof the gallery, whence it was impossible to retreat, even if they had\nbeen so inclined, by reason of the throng which choked up the passages.\nIt is a familiar expression in describing a great crowd, that a person\nmight have walked upon the people's heads. In this case it was actually\ndone; for a boy who had by some means got among the concourse, and was\nin imminent danger of suffocation, climbed to the shoulders of a man\nbeside him and walked upon the people's hats and heads into the open\nstreet; traversing in his passage the whole length of two staircases and\na long gallery. Nor was the swarm without less dense; for a basket\nwhich had been tossed into the crowd, was jerked from head to head,\nand shoulder to shoulder, and went spinning and whirling on above them,\nuntil it was lost to view, without ever once falling in among them or\ncoming near the ground.\n\nThrough this vast throng, sprinkled doubtless here and there with honest\nzealots, but composed for the most part of the very scum and refuse\nof London, whose growth was fostered by bad criminal laws, bad prison\nregulations, and the worst conceivable police, such of the members of\nboth Houses of Parliament as had not taken the precaution to be already\nat their posts, were compelled to fight and force their way. Their\ncarriages were stopped and broken; the wheels wrenched off; the glasses\nshivered to atoms; the panels beaten in; drivers, footmen, and masters,\npulled from their seats and rolled in the mud. Lords, commoners, and\nreverend bishops, with little distinction of person or party, were\nkicked and pinched and hustled; passed from hand to hand through various\nstages of ill-usage; and sent to their fellow-senators at last with\ntheir clothes hanging in ribands about them, their bagwigs torn off,\nthemselves speechless and breathless, and their persons covered with the\npowder which had been cuffed and beaten out of their hair. One lord was\nso long in the hands of the populace, that the Peers as a body resolved\nto sally forth and rescue him, and were in the act of doing so, when he\nhappily appeared among them covered with dirt and bruises, and hardly to\nbe recognised by those who knew him best. The noise and uproar were on\nthe increase every moment. The air was filled with execrations, hoots,\nand howlings. The mob raged and roared, like a mad monster as it was,\nunceasingly, and each new outrage served to swell its fury.\n\nWithin doors, matters were even yet more threatening. Lord\nGeorge--preceded by a man who carried the immense petition on a porter's\nknot through the lobby to the door of the House of Commons, where it\nwas received by two officers of the house who rolled it up to the table\nready for presentation--had taken his seat at an early hour, before the\nSpeaker went to prayers. His followers pouring in at the same time, the\nlobby and all the avenues were immediately filled, as we have seen. Thus\nthe members were not only attacked in their passage through the streets,\nbut were set upon within the very walls of Parliament; while the tumult,\nboth within and without, was so great, that those who attempted to speak\ncould scarcely hear their own voices: far less, consult upon the course\nit would be wise to take in such extremity, or animate each other to\ndignified and firm resistance. So sure as any member, just arrived, with\ndress disordered and dishevelled hair, came struggling through the crowd\nin the lobby, it yelled and screamed in triumph; and when the door\nof the House, partially and cautiously opened by those within for his\nadmission, gave them a momentary glimpse of the interior, they grew\nmore wild and savage, like beasts at the sight of prey, and made a rush\nagainst the portal which strained its locks and bolts in their staples,\nand shook the very beams.\n\nThe strangers' gallery, which was immediately above the door of the\nHouse, had been ordered to be closed on the first rumour of disturbance,\nand was empty; save that now and then Lord George took his seat there,\nfor the convenience of coming to the head of the stairs which led to\nit, and repeating to the people what had passed within. It was on\nthese stairs that Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis were posted. There were two\nflights, short, steep, and narrow, running parallel to each other,\nand leading to two little doors communicating with a low passage which\nopened on the gallery. Between them was a kind of well, or unglazed\nskylight, for the admission of light and air into the lobby, which might\nbe some eighteen or twenty feet below.\n\nUpon one of these little staircases--not that at the head of which Lord\nGeorge appeared from time to time, but the other--Gashford stood with\nhis elbow on the bannister, and his cheek resting on his hand, with his\nusual crafty aspect. Whenever he varied this attitude in the slightest\ndegree--so much as by the gentlest motion of his arm--the uproar was\ncertain to increase, not merely there, but in the lobby below; from\nwhich place no doubt, some man who acted as fugleman to the rest, was\nconstantly looking up and watching him.\n\n'Order!' cried Hugh, in a voice which made itself heard even above the\nroar and tumult, as Lord George appeared at the top of the staircase.\n'News! News from my lord!'\n\nThe noise continued, notwithstanding his appearance, until Gashford\nlooked round. There was silence immediately--even among the people in\nthe passages without, and on the other staircases, who could neither\nsee nor hear, but to whom, notwithstanding, the signal was conveyed with\nmarvellous rapidity.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Lord George, who was very pale and agitated, 'we must\nbe firm. They talk of delays, but we must have no delays. They talk of\ntaking your petition into consideration next Tuesday, but we must have\nit considered now. Present appearances look bad for our success, but we\nmust succeed and will!'\n\n'We must succeed and will!' echoed the crowd. And so among their shouts\nand cheers and other cries, he bowed to them and retired, and presently\ncame back again. There was another gesture from Gashford, and a dead\nsilence directly.\n\n'I am afraid,' he said, this time, 'that we have little reason,\ngentlemen, to hope for any redress from the proceedings of Parliament.\nBut we must redress our own grievances, we must meet again, we must put\nour trust in Providence, and it will bless our endeavours.'\n\nThis speech being a little more temperate than the last, was not so\nfavourably received. When the noise and exasperation were at their\nheight, he came back once more, and told them that the alarm had gone\nforth for many miles round; that when the King heard of their assembling\ntogether in that great body, he had no doubt, His Majesty would send\ndown private orders to have their wishes complied with; and--with the\nmanner of his speech as childish, irresolute, and uncertain as his\nmatter--was proceeding in this strain, when two gentlemen suddenly\nappeared at the door where he stood, and pressing past him and coming a\nstep or two lower down upon the stairs, confronted the people.\n\nThe boldness of this action quite took them by surprise. They were\nnot the less disconcerted, when one of the gentlemen, turning to Lord\nGeorge, spoke thus--in a loud voice that they might hear him well, but\nquite coolly and collectedly:\n\n'You may tell these people, if you please, my lord, that I am General\nConway of whom they have heard; and that I oppose this petition, and all\ntheir proceedings, and yours. I am a soldier, you may tell them, and I\nwill protect the freedom of this place with my sword. You see, my lord,\nthat the members of this House are all in arms to-day; you know that the\nentrance to it is a narrow one; you cannot be ignorant that there are\nmen within these walls who are determined to defend that pass to the\nlast, and before whom many lives must fall if your adherents persevere.\nHave a care what you do.'\n\n'And my Lord George,' said the other gentleman, addressing him in like\nmanner, 'I desire them to hear this, from me--Colonel Gordon--your\nnear relation. If a man among this crowd, whose uproar strikes us deaf,\ncrosses the threshold of the House of Commons, I swear to run my sword\nthat moment--not into his, but into your body!'\n\nWith that, they stepped back again, keeping their faces towards the\ncrowd; took each an arm of the misguided nobleman; drew him into the\npassage, and shut the door; which they directly locked and fastened on\nthe inside.\n\nThis was so quickly done, and the demeanour of both gentlemen--who\nwere not young men either--was so gallant and resolute, that the crowd\nfaltered and stared at each other with irresolute and timid looks. Many\ntried to turn towards the door; some of the faintest-hearted cried they\nhad best go back, and called to those behind to give way; and the panic\nand confusion were increasing rapidly, when Gashford whispered Hugh.\n\n'What now!' Hugh roared aloud, turning towards them. 'Why go back? Where\ncan you do better than here, boys! One good rush against these doors and\none below at the same time, will do the business. Rush on, then! As to\nthe door below, let those stand back who are afraid. Let those who are\nnot afraid, try who shall be the first to pass it. Here goes! Look out\ndown there!'\n\nWithout the delay of an instant, he threw himself headlong over the\nbannisters into the lobby below. He had hardly touched the ground when\nBarnaby was at his side. The chaplain's assistant, and some members who\nwere imploring the people to retire, immediately withdrew; and then,\nwith a great shout, both crowds threw themselves against the doors\npell-mell, and besieged the House in earnest.\n\nAt that moment, when a second onset must have brought them into\ncollision with those who stood on the defensive within, in which case\ngreat loss of life and bloodshed would inevitably have ensued,--the\nhindmost portion of the crowd gave way, and the rumour spread from mouth\nto mouth that a messenger had been despatched by water for the military,\nwho were forming in the street. Fearful of sustaining a charge in the\nnarrow passages in which they were so closely wedged together, the\nthrong poured out as impetuously as they had flocked in. As the whole\nstream turned at once, Barnaby and Hugh went with it: and so, fighting\nand struggling and trampling on fallen men and being trampled on in turn\nthemselves, they and the whole mass floated by degrees into the open\nstreet, where a large detachment of the Guards, both horse and foot,\ncame hurrying up; clearing the ground before them so rapidly that the\npeople seemed to melt away as they advanced.\n\nThe word of command to halt being given, the soldiers formed across the\nstreet; the rioters, breathless and exhausted with their late exertions,\nformed likewise, though in a very irregular and disorderly manner. The\ncommanding officer rode hastily into the open space between the two\nbodies, accompanied by a magistrate and an officer of the House of\nCommons, for whose accommodation a couple of troopers had hastily\ndismounted. The Riot Act was read, but not a man stirred.\n\nIn the first rank of the insurgents, Barnaby and Hugh stood side by\nside. Somebody had thrust into Barnaby's hands when he came out into the\nstreet, his precious flag; which, being now rolled up and tied round\nthe pole, looked like a giant quarter-staff as he grasped it firmly and\nstood upon his guard. If ever man believed with his whole heart and soul\nthat he was engaged in a just cause, and that he was bound to stand by\nhis leader to the last, poor Barnaby believed it of himself and Lord\nGeorge Gordon.\n\nAfter an ineffectual attempt to make himself heard, the magistrate gave\nthe word and the Horse Guards came riding in among the crowd. But, even\nthen, he galloped here and there, exhorting the people to disperse; and,\nalthough heavy stones were thrown at the men, and some were desperately\ncut and bruised, they had no orders but to make prisoners of such of the\nrioters as were the most active, and to drive the people back with the\nflat of their sabres. As the horses came in among them, the throng gave\nway at many points, and the Guards, following up their advantage, were\nrapidly clearing the ground, when two or three of the foremost, who were\nin a manner cut off from the rest by the people closing round them, made\nstraight towards Barnaby and Hugh, who had no doubt been pointed out as\nthe two men who dropped into the lobby: laying about them now with some\neffect, and inflicting on the more turbulent of their opponents, a few\nslight flesh wounds, under the influence of which a man dropped,\nhere and there, into the arms of his fellows, amid much groaning and\nconfusion.\n\nAt the sight of gashed and bloody faces, seen for a moment in the crowd,\nthen hidden by the press around them, Barnaby turned pale and sick. But\nhe stood his ground, and grasping his pole more firmly yet, kept his\neye fixed upon the nearest soldier--nodding his head meanwhile, as Hugh,\nwith a scowling visage, whispered in his ear.\n\nThe soldier came spurring on, making his horse rear as the people\npressed about him, cutting at the hands of those who would have grasped\nhis rein and forced his charger back, and waving to his comrades to\nfollow--and still Barnaby, without retreating an inch, waited for his\ncoming. Some called to him to fly, and some were in the very act of\nclosing round him, to prevent his being taken, when the pole swept into\nthe air above the people's heads, and the man's saddle was empty in an\ninstant.\n\nThen, he and Hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening to let them pass,\nand closing up again so quickly that there was no clue to the course\nthey had taken. Panting for breath, hot, dusty, and exhausted with\nfatigue, they reached the riverside in safety, and getting into a boat\nwith all despatch were soon out of any immediate danger.\n\nAs they glided down the river, they plainly heard the people cheering;\nand supposing they might have forced the soldiers to retreat, lay upon\ntheir oars for a few minutes, uncertain whether to return or not. But\nthe crowd passing along Westminster Bridge, soon assured them that the\npopulace were dispersing; and Hugh rightly guessed from this, that\nthey had cheered the magistrate for offering to dismiss the military on\ncondition of their immediate departure to their several homes, and that\nhe and Barnaby were better where they were. He advised, therefore, that\nthey should proceed to Blackfriars, and, going ashore at the bridge,\nmake the best of their way to The Boot; where there was not only good\nentertainment and safe lodging, but where they would certainly be joined\nby many of their late companions. Barnaby assenting, they decided on\nthis course of action, and pulled for Blackfriars accordingly.\n\nThey landed at a critical time, and fortunately for themselves at the\nright moment. For, coming into Fleet Street, they found it in an unusual\nstir; and inquiring the cause, were told that a body of Horse Guards had\njust galloped past, and that they were escorting some rioters whom they\nhad made prisoners, to Newgate for safety. Not at all ill-pleased to\nhave so narrowly escaped the cavalcade, they lost no more time in asking\nquestions, but hurried to The Boot with as much speed as Hugh considered\nit prudent to make, without appearing singular or attracting an\ninconvenient share of public notice.\n\n\nChapter 50\n\n\nThey were among the first to reach the tavern, but they had not been\nthere many minutes, when several groups of men who had formed part of\nthe crowd, came straggling in. Among them were Simon Tappertit and Mr\nDennis; both of whom, but especially the latter, greeted Barnaby with\nthe utmost warmth, and paid him many compliments on the prowess he had\nshown.\n\n'Which,' said Dennis, with an oath, as he rested his bludgeon in a\ncorner with his hat upon it, and took his seat at the same table with\nthem, 'it does me good to think of. There was a opportunity! But it\nled to nothing. For my part, I don't know what would. There's no spirit\namong the people in these here times. Bring something to eat and drink\nhere. I'm disgusted with humanity.'\n\n'On what account?' asked Mr Tappertit, who had been quenching his fiery\nface in a half-gallon can. 'Don't you consider this a good beginning,\nmister?'\n\n'Give me security that it an't a ending,' rejoined the hangman. 'When\nthat soldier went down, we might have made London ours; but no;--we\nstand, and gape, and look on--the justice (I wish he had had a bullet in\neach eye, as he would have had, if we'd gone to work my way) says,\n\"My lads, if you'll give me your word to disperse, I'll order off the\nmilitary,\" our people sets up a hurrah, throws up the game with the\nwinning cards in their hands, and skulks away like a pack of tame curs\nas they are. Ah,' said the hangman, in a tone of deep disgust, 'it makes\nme blush for my feller creeturs. I wish I had been born a ox, I do!'\n\n'You'd have been quite as agreeable a character if you had been, I\nthink,' returned Simon Tappertit, going out in a lofty manner.\n\n'Don't be too sure of that,' rejoined the hangman, calling after him;\n'if I was a horned animal at the present moment, with the smallest\ngrain of sense, I'd toss every man in this company, excepting them two,'\nmeaning Hugh and Barnaby, 'for his manner of conducting himself this\nday.'\n\nWith which mournful review of their proceedings, Mr Dennis sought\nconsolation in cold boiled beef and beer; but without at all relaxing\nthe grim and dissatisfied expression of his face, the gloom of which was\nrather deepened than dissipated by their grateful influence.\n\nThe company who were thus libelled might have retaliated by strong\nwords, if not by blows, but they were dispirited and worn out. The\ngreater part of them had fasted since morning; all had suffered\nextremely from the excessive heat; and between the day's shouting,\nexertion, and excitement, many had quite lost their voices, and so much\nof their strength that they could hardly stand. Then they were uncertain\nwhat to do next, fearful of the consequences of what they had done\nalready, and sensible that after all they had carried no point, but had\nindeed left matters worse than they had found them. Of those who had\ncome to The Boot, many dropped off within an hour; such of them as were\nreally honest and sincere, never, after the morning's experience, to\nreturn, or to hold any communication with their late companions. Others\nremained but to refresh themselves, and then went home desponding;\nothers who had theretofore been regular in their attendance, avoided the\nplace altogether. The half-dozen prisoners whom the Guards had taken,\nwere magnified by report into half-a-hundred at least; and their\nfriends, being faint and sober, so slackened in their energy, and so\ndrooped beneath these dispiriting influences, that by eight o'clock in\nthe evening, Dennis, Hugh, and Barnaby, were left alone. Even they were\nfast asleep upon the benches, when Gashford's entrance roused them.\n\n'Oh! you ARE here then?' said the Secretary. 'Dear me!'\n\n'Why, where should we be, Muster Gashford!' Dennis rejoined as he rose\ninto a sitting posture.\n\n'Oh nowhere, nowhere,' he returned with excessive mildness. 'The streets\nare filled with blue cockades. I rather thought you might have been\namong them. I am glad you are not.'\n\n'You have orders for us, master, then?' said Hugh.\n\n'Oh dear, no. Not I. No orders, my good fellow. What orders should I\nhave? You are not in my service.'\n\n'Muster Gashford,' remonstrated Dennis, 'we belong to the cause, don't\nwe?'\n\n'The cause!' repeated the secretary, looking at him in a sort of\nabstraction. 'There is no cause. The cause is lost.'\n\n'Lost!'\n\n'Oh yes. You have heard, I suppose? The petition is rejected by a\nhundred and ninety-two, to six. It's quite final. We might have spared\nourselves some trouble. That, and my lord's vexation, are the only\ncircumstances I regret. I am quite satisfied in all other respects.'\n\nAs he said this, he took a penknife from his pocket, and putting his\nhat upon his knee, began to busy himself in ripping off the blue cockade\nwhich he had worn all day; at the same time humming a psalm tune which\nhad been very popular in the morning, and dwelling on it with a gentle\nregret.\n\nHis two adherents looked at each other, and at him, as if they were at a\nloss how to pursue the subject. At length Hugh, after some elbowing and\nwinking between himself and Mr Dennis, ventured to stay his hand, and to\nask him why he meddled with that riband in his hat.\n\n'Because,' said the secretary, looking up with something between a snarl\nand a smile; 'because to sit still and wear it, or to fall asleep and\nwear it, is a mockery. That's all, friend.'\n\n'What would you have us do, master!' cried Hugh.\n\n'Nothing,' returned Gashford, shrugging his shoulders, 'nothing. When my\nlord was reproached and threatened for standing by you, I, as a prudent\nman, would have had you do nothing. When the soldiers were trampling you\nunder their horses' feet, I would have had you do nothing. When one of\nthem was struck down by a daring hand, and I saw confusion and dismay in\nall their faces, I would have had you do nothing--just what you did,\nin short. This is the young man who had so little prudence and so much\nboldness. Ah! I am sorry for him.'\n\n'Sorry, master!' cried Hugh.\n\n'Sorry, Muster Gashford!' echoed Dennis.\n\n'In case there should be a proclamation out to-morrow, offering five\nhundred pounds, or some such trifle, for his apprehension; and in case\nit should include another man who dropped into the lobby from the stairs\nabove,' said Gashford, coldly; 'still, do nothing.'\n\n'Fire and fury, master!' cried Hugh, starting up. 'What have we done,\nthat you should talk to us like this!'\n\n'Nothing,' returned Gashford with a sneer. 'If you are cast into prison;\nif the young man--' here he looked hard at Barnaby's attentive face--'is\ndragged from us and from his friends; perhaps from people whom he loves,\nand whom his death would kill; is thrown into jail, brought out and\nhanged before their eyes; still, do nothing. You'll find it your best\npolicy, I have no doubt.'\n\n'Come on!' cried Hugh, striding towards the door. 'Dennis--Barnaby--come\non!'\n\n'Where? To do what?' said Gashford, slipping past him, and standing with\nhis back against it.\n\n'Anywhere! Anything!' cried Hugh. 'Stand aside, master, or the window\nwill serve our turn as well. Let us out!'\n\n'Ha ha ha! You are of such--of such an impetuous nature,' said Gashford,\nchanging his manner for one of the utmost good fellowship and the\npleasantest raillery; 'you are such an excitable creature--but you'll\ndrink with me before you go?'\n\n'Oh, yes--certainly,' growled Dennis, drawing his sleeve across his\nthirsty lips. 'No malice, brother. Drink with Muster Gashford!'\n\nHugh wiped his heated brow, and relaxed into a smile. The artful\nsecretary laughed outright.\n\n'Some liquor here! Be quick, or he'll not stop, even for that. He is a\nman of such desperate ardour!' said the smooth secretary, whom Mr Dennis\ncorroborated with sundry nods and muttered oaths--'Once roused, he is a\nfellow of such fierce determination!'\n\nHugh poised his sturdy arm aloft, and clapping Barnaby on the back,\nbade him fear nothing. They shook hands together--poor Barnaby evidently\npossessed with the idea that he was among the most virtuous and\ndisinterested heroes in the world--and Gashford laughed again.\n\n'I hear,' he said smoothly, as he stood among them with a great measure\nof liquor in his hand, and filled their glasses as quickly and as\noften as they chose, 'I hear--but I cannot say whether it be true or\nfalse--that the men who are loitering in the streets to-night are half\ndisposed to pull down a Romish chapel or two, and that they only want\nleaders. I even heard mention of those in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn\nFields, and in Warwick Street, Golden Square; but common report, you\nknow--You are not going?'\n\n--'To do nothing, master, eh?' cried Hugh. 'No jails and halter for\nBarnaby and me. They must be frightened out of that. Leaders are wanted,\nare they? Now boys!'\n\n'A most impetuous fellow!' cried the secretary. 'Ha ha! A courageous,\nboisterous, most vehement fellow! A man who--'\n\nThere was no need to finish the sentence, for they had rushed out of the\nhouse, and were far beyond hearing. He stopped in the middle of a laugh,\nlistened, drew on his gloves, and, clasping his hands behind him, paced\nthe deserted room for a long time, then bent his steps towards the busy\ntown, and walked into the streets.\n\nThey were filled with people, for the rumour of that day's proceedings\nhad made a great noise. Those persons who did not care to leave home,\nwere at their doors or windows, and one topic of discourse prevailed\non every side. Some reported that the riots were effectually put down;\nothers that they had broken out again: some said that Lord George Gordon\nhad been sent under a strong guard to the Tower; others that an attempt\nhad been made upon the King's life, that the soldiers had been again\ncalled out, and that the noise of musketry in a distant part of the town\nhad been plainly heard within an hour. As it grew darker, these stories\nbecame more direful and mysterious; and often, when some frightened\npassenger ran past with tidings that the rioters were not far off,\nand were coming up, the doors were shut and barred, lower windows\nmade secure, and as much consternation engendered, as if the city were\ninvaded by a foreign army.\n\nGashford walked stealthily about, listening to all he heard, and\ndiffusing or confirming, whenever he had an opportunity, such false\nintelligence as suited his own purpose; and, busily occupied in this\nway, turned into Holborn for the twentieth time, when a great many women\nand children came flying along the street--often panting and looking\nback--and the confused murmur of numerous voices struck upon his ear.\nAssured by these tokens, and by the red light which began to flash\nupon the houses on either side, that some of his friends were indeed\napproaching, he begged a moment's shelter at a door which opened as he\npassed, and running with some other persons to an upper window, looked\nout upon the crowd.\n\nThey had torches among them, and the chief faces were distinctly\nvisible. That they had been engaged in the destruction of some building\nwas sufficiently apparent, and that it was a Catholic place of worship\nwas evident from the spoils they bore as trophies, which were easily\nrecognisable for the vestments of priests, and rich fragments of altar\nfurniture. Covered with soot, and dirt, and dust, and lime; their\ngarments torn to rags; their hair hanging wildly about them; their hands\nand faces jagged and bleeding with the wounds of rusty nails; Barnaby,\nHugh, and Dennis hurried on before them all, like hideous madmen. After\nthem, the dense throng came fighting on: some singing; some shouting in\ntriumph; some quarrelling among themselves; some menacing the spectators\nas they passed; some with great wooden fragments, on which they spent\ntheir rage as if they had been alive, rending them limb from limb,\nand hurling the scattered morsels high into the air; some in a drunken\nstate, unconscious of the hurts they had received from falling bricks,\nand stones, and beams; one borne upon a shutter, in the very midst,\ncovered with a dingy cloth, a senseless, ghastly heap. Thus--a vision\nof coarse faces, with here and there a blot of flaring, smoky light; a\ndream of demon heads and savage eyes, and sticks and iron bars uplifted\nin the air, and whirled about; a bewildering horror, in which so much\nwas seen, and yet so little, which seemed so long, and yet so short, in\nwhich there were so many phantoms, not to be forgotten all through life,\nand yet so many things that could not be observed in one distracting\nglimpse--it flitted onward, and was gone.\n\nAs it passed away upon its work of wrath and ruin, a piercing scream was\nheard. A knot of persons ran towards the spot; Gashford, who just then\nemerged into the street, among them. He was on the outskirts of the\nlittle concourse, and could not see or hear what passed within; but one\nwho had a better place, informed him that a widow woman had descried her\nson among the rioters.\n\n'Is that all?' said the secretary, turning his face homewards. 'Well! I\nthink this looks a little more like business!'\n\n\n\nChapter 51\n\n\nPromising as these outrages were to Gashford's view, and much like\nbusiness as they looked, they extended that night no farther. The\nsoldiers were again called out, again they took half-a-dozen prisoners,\nand again the crowd dispersed after a short and bloodless scuffle. Hot\nand drunken though they were, they had not yet broken all bounds and\nset all law and government at defiance. Something of their habitual\ndeference to the authority erected by society for its own preservation\nyet remained among them, and had its majesty been vindicated in time,\nthe secretary would have had to digest a bitter disappointment.\n\nBy midnight, the streets were clear and quiet, and, save that there\nstood in two parts of the town a heap of nodding walls and pile of\nrubbish, where there had been at sunset a rich and handsome building,\neverything wore its usual aspect. Even the Catholic gentry and\ntradesmen, of whom there were many resident in different parts of the\nCity and its suburbs, had no fear for their lives or property, and\nbut little indignation for the wrong they had already sustained in\nthe plunder and destruction of their temples of worship. An honest\nconfidence in the government under whose protection they had lived for\nmany years, and a well-founded reliance on the good feeling and right\nthinking of the great mass of the community, with whom, notwithstanding\ntheir religious differences, they were every day in habits of\nconfidential, affectionate, and friendly intercourse, reassured them,\neven under the excesses that had been committed; and convinced them that\nthey who were Protestants in anything but the name, were no more to\nbe considered as abettors of these disgraceful occurrences, than they\nthemselves were chargeable with the uses of the block, the rack, the\ngibbet, and the stake in cruel Mary's reign.\n\nThe clock was on the stroke of one, when Gabriel Varden, with his\nlady and Miss Miggs, sat waiting in the little parlour. This fact; the\ntoppling wicks of the dull, wasted candles; the silence that prevailed;\nand, above all, the nightcaps of both maid and matron, were sufficient\nevidence that they had been prepared for bed some time ago, and had some\nreason for sitting up so far beyond their usual hour.\n\nIf any other corroborative testimony had been required, it would have\nbeen abundantly furnished in the actions of Miss Miggs, who, having\narrived at that restless state and sensitive condition of the nervous\nsystem which are the result of long watching, did, by a constant rubbing\nand tweaking of her nose, a perpetual change of position (arising from\nthe sudden growth of imaginary knots and knobs in her chair), a frequent\nfriction of her eyebrows, the incessant recurrence of a small cough, a\nsmall groan, a gasp, a sigh, a sniff, a spasmodic start, and by other\ndemonstrations of that nature, so file down and rasp, as it were, the\npatience of the locksmith, that after looking at her in silence for some\ntime, he at last broke out into this apostrophe:--\n\n'Miggs, my good girl, go to bed--do go to bed. You're really worse\nthan the dripping of a hundred water-butts outside the window, or the\nscratching of as many mice behind the wainscot. I can't bear it. Do go\nto bed, Miggs. To oblige me--do.'\n\n'You haven't got nothing to untie, sir,' returned Miss Miggs, 'and\ntherefore your requests does not surprise me. But missis has--and\nwhile you sit up, mim'--she added, turning to the locksmith's wife,\n'I couldn't, no, not if twenty times the quantity of cold water was\naperiently running down my back at this moment, go to bed with a quiet\nspirit.'\n\nHaving spoken these words, Miss Miggs made divers efforts to rub her\nshoulders in an impossible place, and shivered from head to foot;\nthereby giving the beholders to understand that the imaginary cascade\nwas still in full flow, but that a sense of duty upheld her under that\nand all other sufferings, and nerved her to endurance.\n\nMrs Varden being too sleepy to speak, and Miss Miggs having, as the\nphrase is, said her say, the locksmith had nothing for it but to sigh\nand be as quiet as he could.\n\nBut to be quiet with such a basilisk before him was impossible. If he\nlooked another way, it was worse to feel that she was rubbing her\ncheek, or twitching her ear, or winking her eye, or making all kinds of\nextraordinary shapes with her nose, than to see her do it. If she was\nfor a moment free from any of these complaints, it was only because of\nher foot being asleep, or of her arm having got the fidgets, or of her\nleg being doubled up with the cramp, or of some other horrible disorder\nwhich racked her whole frame. If she did enjoy a moment's ease, then\nwith her eyes shut and her mouth wide open, she would be seen to sit\nvery stiff and upright in her chair; then to nod a little way forward,\nand stop with a jerk; then to nod a little farther forward, and stop\nwith another jerk; then to recover herself; then to come forward\nagain--lower--lower--lower--by very slow degrees, until, just as it\nseemed impossible that she could preserve her balance for another\ninstant, and the locksmith was about to call out in an agony, to save\nher from dashing down upon her forehead and fracturing her skull, then\nall of a sudden and without the smallest notice, she would come upright\nand rigid again with her eyes open, and in her countenance an expression\nof defiance, sleepy but yet most obstinate, which plainly said, 'I've\nnever once closed 'em since I looked at you last, and I'll take my oath\nof it!'\n\nAt length, after the clock had struck two, there was a sound at the\nstreet door, as if somebody had fallen against the knocker by accident.\nMiss Miggs immediately jumping up and clapping her hands, cried with a\ndrowsy mingling of the sacred and profane, 'Ally Looyer, mim! there's\nSimmuns's knock!'\n\n'Who's there?' said Gabriel.\n\n'Me!' cried the well-known voice of Mr Tappertit. Gabriel opened the\ndoor, and gave him admission.\n\nHe did not cut a very insinuating figure, for a man of his stature\nsuffers in a crowd; and having been active in yesterday morning's work,\nhis dress was literally crushed from head to foot: his hat being beaten\nout of all shape, and his shoes trodden down at heel like slippers. His\ncoat fluttered in strips about him, the buckles were torn away both from\nhis knees and feet, half his neckerchief was gone, and the bosom of\nhis shirt was rent to tatters. Yet notwithstanding all these personal\ndisadvantages; despite his being very weak from heat and fatigue; and\nso begrimed with mud and dust that he might have been in a case, for\nanything of the real texture (either of his skin or apparel) that the\neye could discern; he stalked haughtily into the parlour, and throwing\nhimself into a chair, and endeavouring to thrust his hands into the\npockets of his small-clothes, which were turned inside out and displayed\nupon his legs, like tassels, surveyed the household with a gloomy\ndignity.\n\n'Simon,' said the locksmith gravely, 'how comes it that you return home\nat this time of night, and in this condition? Give me an assurance that\nyou have not been among the rioters, and I am satisfied.'\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr Tappertit, with a contemptuous look, 'I wonder at YOUR\nassurance in making such demands.'\n\n'You have been drinking,' said the locksmith.\n\n'As a general principle, and in the most offensive sense of the words,\nsir,' returned his journeyman with great self-possession,\n'I consider you a liar. In that last observation you have\nunintentionally--unintentionally, sir,--struck upon the truth.'\n\n'Martha,' said the locksmith, turning to his wife, and shaking his head\nsorrowfully, while a smile at the absurd figure beside him still played\nupon his open face, 'I trust it may turn out that this poor lad is not\nthe victim of the knaves and fools we have so often had words about, and\nwho have done so much harm to-day. If he has been at Warwick Street or\nDuke Street to-night--'\n\n'He has been at neither, sir,' cried Mr Tappertit in a loud voice, which\nhe suddenly dropped into a whisper as he repeated, with eyes fixed upon\nthe locksmith, 'he has been at neither.'\n\n'I am glad of it, with all my heart,' said the locksmith in a serious\ntone; 'for if he had been, and it could be proved against him, Martha,\nyour Great Association would have been to him the cart that draws men\nto the gallows and leaves them hanging in the air. It would, as sure as\nwe're alive!'\n\nMrs Varden was too much scared by Simon's altered manner and appearance,\nand by the accounts of the rioters which had reached her ears that\nnight, to offer any retort, or to have recourse to her usual matrimonial\npolicy. Miss Miggs wrung her hands, and wept.\n\n'He was not at Duke Street, or at Warwick Street, G. Varden,' said\nSimon, sternly; 'but he WAS at Westminster. Perhaps, sir, he kicked a\ncounty member, perhaps, sir, he tapped a lord--you may stare, sir, I\nrepeat it--blood flowed from noses, and perhaps he tapped a lord. Who\nknows? This,' he added, putting his hand into his waistcoat-pocket,\nand taking out a large tooth, at the sight of which both Miggs and Mrs\nVarden screamed, 'this was a bishop's. Beware, G. Varden!'\n\n'Now, I would rather,' said the locksmith hastily, 'have paid five\nhundred pounds, than had this come to pass. You idiot, do you know what\nperil you stand in?'\n\n'I know it, sir,' replied his journeyman, 'and it is my glory. I was\nthere, everybody saw me there. I was conspicuous, and prominent. I will\nabide the consequences.'\n\nThe locksmith, really disturbed and agitated, paced to and fro in\nsilence--glancing at his former 'prentice every now and then--and at\nlength stopping before him, said:\n\n'Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that you may wake penitent,\nand with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for what you have\ndone, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five o'clock,' said\nVarden, turning hurriedly to his wife, and he washes himself clean\nand changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the\nGravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he\ncan easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him\nwork till this storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in\nscreening him from the punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this\nhouse, man and boy, for a dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this\none day's work he made a miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and\nshow no light towards the street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get\nto bed!'\n\n'And do you suppose, sir,' retorted Mr Tappertit, with a thickness\nand slowness of speech which contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and\nearnestness of his kind-hearted master--'and do you suppose, sir, that I\nam base and mean enough to accept your servile proposition?--Miscreant!'\n\n'Whatever you please, Sim, but get to bed. Every minute is of\nconsequence. The light here, Miggs!'\n\n'Yes yes, oh do! Go to bed directly,' cried the two women together.\n\nMr Tappertit stood upon his feet, and pushing his chair away to show\nthat he needed no assistance, answered, swaying himself to and fro, and\nmanaging his head as if it had no connection whatever with his body:\n\n'You spoke of Miggs, sir--Miggs may be smothered!'\n\n'Oh Simmun!' ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. 'Oh mim! Oh\nsir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!'\n\n'This family may ALL be smothered, sir,' returned Mr Tappertit, after\nglancing at her with a smile of ineffable disdain, 'excepting Mrs V.\nI have come here, sir, for her sake, this night. Mrs Varden, take this\npiece of paper. It's a protection, ma'am. You may need it.'\n\nWith these words he held out at arm's length, a dirty, crumpled scrap of\nwriting. The locksmith took it from him, opened it, and read as follows:\n\n\n'All good friends to our cause, I hope will be particular, and do no\ninjury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well assured that\nthe proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to the\ncause.\n\nGEORGE GORDON.'\n\n\n'What's this!' said the locksmith, with an altered face.\n\n'Something that'll do you good service, young feller,' replied his\njourneyman, 'as you'll find. Keep that safe, and where you can lay your\nhand upon it in an instant. And chalk \"No Popery\" on your door to-morrow\nnight, and for a week to come--that's all.'\n\n'This is a genuine document,' said the locksmith, 'I know, for I have\nseen the hand before. What threat does it imply? What devil is abroad?'\n\n'A fiery devil,' retorted Sim; 'a flaming, furious devil. Don't you put\nyourself in its way, or you're done for, my buck. Be warned in time, G.\nVarden. Farewell!'\n\nBut here the two women threw themselves in his way--especially Miss\nMiggs, who fell upon him with such fervour that she pinned him against\nthe wall--and conjured him in moving words not to go forth till he was\nsober; to listen to reason; to think of it; to take some rest, and then\ndetermine.\n\n'I tell you,' said Mr Tappertit, 'that my mind is made up. My bleeding\ncountry calls me and I go! Miggs, if you don't get out of the way, I'll\npinch you.'\n\nMiss Miggs, still clinging to the rebel, screamed once vociferously--but\nwhether in the distraction of her mind, or because of his having\nexecuted his threat, is uncertain.\n\n'Release me,' said Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste,\nbut spider-like embrace. 'Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in\nan altered state of society, and mean to provide for you comfortably in\nlife--there! Will that satisfy you?'\n\n'Oh Simmun!' cried Miss Miggs. 'Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are\nmy feelings at this conflicting moment!'\n\nOf a rather turbulent description, it would seem; for her nightcap\nhad been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was on her knees upon\nthe floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow curl-papers,\nstraggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it's\nimpossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning\nher eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various\nother symptoms of the acutest mental suffering.\n\n'I leave,' said Simon, turning to his master, with an utter disregard of\nMiggs's maidenly affliction, 'a box of things upstairs. Do what you\nlike with 'em. I don't want 'em. I'm never coming back here, any more.\nProvide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I'm my country's journeyman;\nhenceforward that's MY line of business.'\n\n'Be what you like in two hours' time, but now go up to bed,' returned\nthe locksmith, planting himself in the doorway. 'Do you hear me? Go to\nbed!'\n\n'I hear you, and defy you, Varden,' rejoined Simon Tappertit. 'This\nnight, sir, I have been in the country, planning an expedition which\nshall fill your bell-hanging soul with wonder and dismay. The plot\ndemands my utmost energy. Let me pass!'\n\n'I'll knock you down if you come near the door,' replied the locksmith.\n'You had better go to bed!'\n\nSimon made no answer, but gathering himself up as straight as he could,\nplunged head foremost at his old master, and the two went driving out\ninto the workshop together, plying their hands and feet so briskly that\nthey looked like half-a-dozen, while Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed for\ntwelve.\n\nIt would have been easy for Varden to knock his old 'prentice down,\nand bind him hand and foot; but as he was loth to hurt him in his then\ndefenceless state, he contented himself with parrying his blows when he\ncould, taking them in perfect good part when he could not, and keeping\nbetween him and the door, until a favourable opportunity should present\nitself for forcing him to retreat up-stairs, and shutting him up in his\nown room. But, in the goodness of his heart, he calculated too much upon\nhis adversary's weakness, and forgot that drunken men who have lost\nthe power of walking steadily, can often run. Watching his time, Simon\nTappertit made a cunning show of falling back, staggered unexpectedly\nforward, brushed past him, opened the door (he knew the trick of that\nlock well), and darted down the street like a mad dog. The locksmith\npaused for a moment in the excess of his astonishment, and then gave\nchase.\n\nIt was an excellent season for a run, for at that silent hour the\nstreets were deserted, the air was cool, and the flying figure before\nhim distinctly visible at a great distance, as it sped away, with a long\ngaunt shadow following at its heels. But the short-winded locksmith had\nno chance against a man of Sim's youth and spare figure, though the day\nhad been when he could have run him down in no time. The space between\nthem rapidly increased, and as the rays of the rising sun streamed upon\nSimon in the act of turning a distant corner, Gabriel Varden was fain\nto give up, and sit down on a doorstep to fetch his breath. Simon\nmeanwhile, without once stopping, fled at the same degree of swiftness\nto The Boot, where, as he well knew, some of his company were lying,\nand at which respectable hostelry--for he had already acquired the\ndistinction of being in great peril of the law--a friendly watch had\nbeen expecting him all night, and was even now on the look-out for his\ncoming.\n\n'Go thy ways, Sim, go thy ways,' said the locksmith, as soon as he could\nspeak. 'I have done my best for thee, poor lad, and would have saved\nthee, but the rope is round thy neck, I fear.'\n\nSo saying, and shaking his head in a very sorrowful and disconsolate\nmanner, he turned back, and soon re-entered his own house, where Mrs\nVarden and the faithful Miggs had been anxiously expecting his return.\n\nNow Mrs Varden (and by consequence Miss Miggs likewise) was impressed\nwith a secret misgiving that she had done wrong; that she had, to the\nutmost of her small means, aided and abetted the growth of disturbances,\nthe end of which it was impossible to foresee; that she had led remotely\nto the scene which had just passed; and that the locksmith's time for\ntriumph and reproach had now arrived indeed. And so strongly did Mrs\nVarden feel this, and so crestfallen was she in consequence, that while\nher husband was pursuing their lost journeyman, she secreted under her\nchair the little red-brick dwelling-house with the yellow roof, lest it\nshould furnish new occasion for reference to the painful theme; and now\nhid the same still more, with the skirts of her dress.\n\nBut it happened that the locksmith had been thinking of this very\narticle on his way home, and that, coming into the room and not seeing\nit, he at once demanded where it was.\n\nMrs Varden had no resource but to produce it, which she did with many\ntears, and broken protestations that if she could have known--\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Varden, 'of course--I know that. I don't mean to\nreproach you, my dear. But recollect from this time that all good things\nperverted to evil purposes, are worse than those which are naturally\nbad. A thoroughly wicked woman, is wicked indeed. When religion goes\nwrong, she is very wrong, for the same reason. Let us say no more about\nit, my dear.'\n\nSo he dropped the red-brick dwelling-house on the floor, and setting his\nheel upon it, crushed it into pieces. The halfpence, and sixpences,\nand other voluntary contributions, rolled about in all directions, but\nnobody offered to touch them, or to take them up.\n\n'That,' said the locksmith, 'is easily disposed of, and I would to\nHeaven that everything growing out of the same society could be settled\nas easily.'\n\n'It happens very fortunately, Varden,' said his wife, with her\nhandkerchief to her eyes, 'that in case any more disturbances should\nhappen--which I hope not; I sincerely hope not--'\n\n'I hope so too, my dear.'\n\n'--That in case any should occur, we have the piece of paper which that\npoor misguided young man brought.'\n\n'Ay, to be sure,' said the locksmith, turning quickly round. 'Where is\nthat piece of paper?'\n\nMrs Varden stood aghast as he took it from her outstretched band, tore\nit into fragments, and threw them under the grate.\n\n'Not use it?' she said.\n\n'Use it!' cried the locksmith. No! Let them come and pull the roof about\nour ears; let them burn us out of house and home; I'd neither have the\nprotection of their leader, nor chalk their howl upon my door, though,\nfor not doing it, they shot me on my own threshold. Use it! Let them\ncome and do their worst. The first man who crosses my doorstep on such\nan errand as theirs, had better be a hundred miles away. Let him look to\nit. The others may have their will. I wouldn't beg or buy them off, if,\ninstead of every pound of iron in the place, there was a hundred weight\nof gold. Get you to bed, Martha. I shall take down the shutters and go\nto work.'\n\n'So early!' said his wife.\n\n'Ay,' replied the locksmith cheerily, 'so early. Come when they may,\nthey shall not find us skulking and hiding, as if we feared to take our\nportion of the light of day, and left it all to them. So pleasant dreams\nto you, my dear, and cheerful sleep!'\n\nWith that he gave his wife a hearty kiss, and bade her delay no longer,\nor it would be time to rise before she lay down to rest. Mrs Varden\nquite amiably and meekly walked upstairs, followed by Miggs, who,\nalthough a good deal subdued, could not refrain from sundry stimulative\ncoughs and sniffs by the way, or from holding up her hands in\nastonishment at the daring conduct of master.\n\n\n\nChapter 52\n\n\nA mob is usually a creature of very mysterious existence, particularly\nin a large city. Where it comes from or whither it goes, few men\ncan tell. Assembling and dispersing with equal suddenness, it is as\ndifficult to follow to its various sources as the sea itself; nor does\nthe parallel stop here, for the ocean is not more fickle and uncertain,\nmore terrible when roused, more unreasonable, or more cruel.\n\nThe people who were boisterous at Westminster upon the Friday morning,\nand were eagerly bent upon the work of devastation in Duke Street and\nWarwick Street at night, were, in the mass, the same. Allowing for the\nchance accessions of which any crowd is morally sure in a town where\nthere must always be a large number of idle and profligate persons,\none and the same mob was at both places. Yet they spread themselves\nin various directions when they dispersed in the afternoon, made no\nappointment for reassembling, had no definite purpose or design, and\nindeed, for anything they knew, were scattered beyond the hope of future\nunion.\n\nAt The Boot, which, as has been shown, was in a manner the head-quarters\nof the rioters, there were not, upon this Friday night, a dozen people.\nSome slept in the stable and outhouses, some in the common room, some\ntwo or three in beds. The rest were in their usual homes or haunts.\nPerhaps not a score in all lay in the adjacent fields and lanes, and\nunder haystacks, or near the warmth of brick-kilns, who had not their\naccustomed place of rest beneath the open sky. As to the public ways\nwithin the town, they had their ordinary nightly occupants, and no\nothers; the usual amount of vice and wretchedness, but no more.\n\nThe experience of one evening, however, had taught the reckless leaders\nof disturbance, that they had but to show themselves in the streets, to\nbe immediately surrounded by materials which they could only have kept\ntogether when their aid was not required, at great risk, expense, and\ntrouble. Once possessed of this secret, they were as confident as if\ntwenty thousand men, devoted to their will, had been encamped about\nthem, and assumed a confidence which could not have been surpassed,\nthough that had really been the case. All day, Saturday, they remained\nquiet. On Sunday, they rather studied how to keep their men within call,\nand in full hope, than to follow out, by any fierce measure, their first\nday's proceedings.\n\n'I hope,' said Dennis, as, with a loud yawn, he raised his body from\na heap of straw on which he had been sleeping, and supporting his head\nupon his hand, appealed to Hugh on Sunday morning, 'that Muster Gashford\nallows some rest? Perhaps he'd have us at work again already, eh?'\n\n'It's not his way to let matters drop, you may be sure of that,' growled\nHugh in answer. 'I'm in no humour to stir yet, though. I'm as stiff as\na dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all\nday yesterday with wild cats.'\n\n'You've so much enthusiasm, that's it,' said Dennis, looking with great\nadmiration at the uncombed head, matted beard, and torn hands and face\nof the wild figure before him; 'you're such a devil of a fellow. You\nhurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will be\nforemost in everything, and will do more than the rest.'\n\n'For the matter of that,' returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged hair\nand glancing towards the door of the stable in which they lay; 'there's\none yonder as good as me. What did I tell you about him? Did I say he\nwas worth a dozen, when you doubted him?'\n\nMr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon\nhis hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too\nlooked towards the door:\n\n'Ay, ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But who'd suppose to look\nat that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isn't it a thousand\ncruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nat'ral rest and\nqualifying himself for further exertions in this here honourable cause,\nhe should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!'\nsaid Mr Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow\nfeeling with anybody who was particular on that score; 'what weaknesses\nhe's guilty of; with respect to his cleanliness! At five o'clock this\nmorning, there he was at the pump, though any one would think he had\ngone through enough, the day before yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep\nat that time. But no--when I woke for a minute or two, there he was at\nthe pump, and if you'd seen him sticking them peacock's feathers into\nhis hat when he'd done washing--ah! I'm sorry he's such a imperfect\ncharacter, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint of view or\nanother.'\n\nThe subject of this dialogue and of these concluding remarks, which were\nuttered in a tone of philosophical meditation, was, as the reader will\nhave divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand, stood\nsentry in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked\nto and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the\nmusic of some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with\nboth hands on the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced\nslowly up and down, the careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his\nerect and lofty bearing, showed how high a sense he had of the great\nimportance of his trust, and how happy and how proud it made him. To\nHugh and his companion, who lay in a dark corner of the gloomy shed,\nhe, and the sunlight, and the peaceful Sabbath sound to which he made\nresponse, seemed like a bright picture framed by the door, and set\noff by the stable's blackness. The whole formed such a contrast to\nthemselves, as they lay wallowing, like some obscene animals, in their\nsqualor and wickedness on the two heaps of straw, that for a few moments\nthey looked on without speaking, and felt almost ashamed.\n\n'Ah!'said Hugh at length, carrying it off with a laugh: 'He's a rare\nfellow is Barnaby, and can do more, with less rest, or meat, or drink,\nthan any of us. As to his soldiering, I put him on duty there.'\n\n'Then there was a object in it, and a proper good one too, I'll be\nsworn,' retorted Dennis with a broad grin, and an oath of the same\nquality. 'What was it, brother?'\n\n'Why, you see,' said Hugh, crawling a little nearer to him, 'that our\nnoble captain yonder, came in yesterday morning rather the worse for\nliquor, and was--like you and me--ditto last night.'\n\nDennis looked to where Simon Tappertit lay coiled upon a truss of hay,\nsnoring profoundly, and nodded.\n\n'And our noble captain,' continued Hugh with another laugh, 'our noble\ncaptain and I, have planned for to-morrow a roaring expedition, with\ngood profit in it.'\n\n'Again the Papists?' asked Dennis, rubbing his hands.\n\n'Ay, against the Papists--against one of 'em at least, that some of us,\nand I for one, owe a good heavy grudge to.'\n\n'Not Muster Gashford's friend that he spoke to us about in my house,\neh?' said Dennis, brimfull of pleasant expectation.\n\n'The same man,' said Hugh.\n\n'That's your sort,' cried Mr Dennis, gaily shaking hands with him,\n'that's the kind of game. Let's have revenges and injuries, and all\nthat, and we shall get on twice as fast. Now you talk, indeed!'\n\n'Ha ha ha! The captain,' added Hugh, 'has thoughts of carrying off a\nwoman in the bustle, and--ha ha ha!--and so have I!'\n\nMr Dennis received this part of the scheme with a wry face, observing\nthat as a general principle he objected to women altogether, as being\nunsafe and slippery persons on whom there was no calculating with any\ncertainty, and who were never in the same mind for four-and-twenty hours\nat a stretch. He might have expatiated on this suggestive theme at\nmuch greater length, but that it occurred to him to ask what connection\nexisted between the proposed expedition and Barnaby's being posted at\nthe stable-door as sentry; to which Hugh cautiously replied in these\nwords:\n\n'Why, the people we mean to visit, were friends of his, once upon a\ntime, and I know that much of him to feel pretty sure that if he thought\nwe were going to do them any harm, he'd be no friend to our side, but\nwould lend a ready hand to the other. So I've persuaded him (for I know\nhim of old) that Lord George has picked him out to guard this place\nto-morrow while we're away, and that it's a great honour--and so he's on\nduty now, and as proud of it as if he was a general. Ha ha! What do you\nsay to me for a careful man as well as a devil of a one?'\n\nMr Dennis exhausted himself in compliments, and then added,\n\n'But about the expedition itself--'\n\n'About that,' said Hugh, 'you shall hear all particulars from me and\nthe great captain conjointly and both together--for see, he's waking up.\nRouse yourself, lion-heart. Ha ha! Put a good face upon it, and drink\nagain. Another hair of the dog that bit you, captain! Call for\ndrink! There's enough of gold and silver cups and candlesticks buried\nunderneath my bed,' he added, rolling back the straw, and pointing to\nwhere the ground was newly turned, 'to pay for it, if it was a score of\ncasks full. Drink, captain!'\n\nMr Tappertit received these jovial promptings with a very bad grace,\nbeing much the worse, both in mind and body, for his two nights of\ndebauch, and but indifferently able to stand upon his legs. With Hugh's\nassistance, however, he contrived to stagger to the pump; and having\nrefreshed himself with an abundant draught of cold water, and a copious\nshower of the same refreshing liquid on his head and face, he ordered\nsome rum and milk to be served; and upon that innocent beverage and some\nbiscuits and cheese made a pretty hearty meal. That done, he disposed\nhimself in an easy attitude on the ground beside his two companions (who\nwere carousing after their own tastes), and proceeded to enlighten Mr\nDennis in reference to to-morrow's project.\n\nThat their conversation was an interesting one, was rendered manifest by\nits length, and by the close attention of all three. That it was not\nof an oppressively grave character, but was enlivened by various\npleasantries arising out of the subject, was clear from their loud and\nfrequent roars of laughter, which startled Barnaby on his post, and made\nhim wonder at their levity. But he was not summoned to join them, until\nthey had eaten, and drunk, and slept, and talked together for some\nhours; not, indeed, until the twilight; when they informed him that they\nwere about to make a slight demonstration in the streets--just to keep\nthe people's hands in, as it was Sunday night, and the public might\notherwise be disappointed--and that he was free to accompany them if he\nwould.\n\nWithout the slightest preparation, saving that they carried clubs and\nwore the blue cockade, they sallied out into the streets; and, with no\nmore settled design than that of doing as much mischief as they could,\nparaded them at random. Their numbers rapidly increasing, they soon\ndivided into parties; and agreeing to meet by-and-by, in the fields\nnear Welbeck Street, scoured the town in various directions. The largest\nbody, and that which augmented with the greatest rapidity, was the\none to which Hugh and Barnaby belonged. This took its way towards\nMoorfields, where there was a rich chapel, and in which neighbourhood\nseveral Catholic families were known to reside.\n\nBeginning with the private houses so occupied, they broke open the doors\nand windows; and while they destroyed the furniture and left but the\nbare walls, made a sharp search for tools and engines of destruction,\nsuch as hammers, pokers, axes, saws, and such like instruments. Many of\nthe rioters made belts of cord, of handkerchiefs, or any material they\nfound at hand, and wore these weapons as openly as pioneers upon a\nfield-day. There was not the least disguise or concealment--indeed, on\nthis night, very little excitement or hurry. From the chapels, they\ntore down and took away the very altars, benches, pulpits, pews, and\nflooring; from the dwelling-houses, the very wainscoting and stairs.\nThis Sunday evening's recreation they pursued like mere workmen who had\na certain task to do, and did it. Fifty resolute men might have turned\nthem at any moment; a single company of soldiers could have scattered\nthem like dust; but no man interposed, no authority restrained them,\nand, except by the terrified persons who fled from their approach, they\nwere as little heeded as if they were pursuing their lawful occupations\nwith the utmost sobriety and good conduct.\n\nIn the same manner, they marched to the place of rendezvous agreed upon,\nmade great fires in the fields, and reserving the most valuable of their\nspoils, burnt the rest. Priestly garments, images of saints, rich stuffs\nand ornaments, altar-furniture and household goods, were cast into the\nflames, and shed a glare on the whole country round; but they danced\nand howled, and roared about these fires till they were tired, and were\nnever for an instant checked.\n\nAs the main body filed off from this scene of action, and passed down\nWelbeck Street, they came upon Gashford, who had been a witness of their\nproceedings, and was walking stealthily along the pavement. Keeping up\nwith him, and yet not seeming to speak, Hugh muttered in his ear:\n\n'Is this better, master?'\n\n'No,' said Gashford. 'It is not.'\n\n'What would you have?' said Hugh. 'Fevers are never at their height at\nonce. They must get on by degrees.'\n\n'I would have you,' said Gashford, pinching his arm with such\nmalevolence that his nails seemed to meet in the skin; 'I would have you\nput some meaning into your work. Fools! Can you make no better bonfires\nthan of rags and scraps? Can you burn nothing whole?'\n\n'A little patience, master,' said Hugh. 'Wait but a few hours, and you\nshall see. Look for a redness in the sky, to-morrow night.'\n\nWith that, he fell back into his place beside Barnaby; and when the\nsecretary looked after him, both were lost in the crowd.\n\n\n\nChapter 53\n\n\nThe next day was ushered in by merry peals of bells, and by the firing\nof the Tower guns; flags were hoisted on many of the church-steeples;\nthe usual demonstrations were made in honour of the anniversary of the\nKing's birthday; and every man went about his pleasure or business as\nif the city were in perfect order, and there were no half-smouldering\nembers in its secret places, which, on the approach of night, would\nkindle up again and scatter ruin and dismay abroad. The leaders of the\nriot, rendered still more daring by the success of last night and by\nthe booty they had acquired, kept steadily together, and only thought of\nimplicating the mass of their followers so deeply that no hope of pardon\nor reward might tempt them to betray their more notorious confederates\ninto the hands of justice.\n\nIndeed, the sense of having gone too far to be forgiven, held the timid\ntogether no less than the bold. Many who would readily have pointed out\nthe foremost rioters and given evidence against them, felt that escape\nby that means was hopeless, when their every act had been observed by\nscores of people who had taken no part in the disturbances; who had\nsuffered in their persons, peace, or property, by the outrages of the\nmob; who would be most willing witnesses; and whom the government would,\nno doubt, prefer to any King's evidence that might be offered. Many of\nthis class had deserted their usual occupations on the Saturday morning;\nsome had been seen by their employers active in the tumult; others\nknew they must be suspected, and that they would be discharged if they\nreturned; others had been desperate from the beginning, and comforted\nthemselves with the homely proverb, that, being hanged at all, they\nmight as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. They all hoped and\nbelieved, in a greater or less degree, that the government they seemed\nto have paralysed, would, in its terror, come to terms with them in the\nend, and suffer them to make their own conditions. The least sanguine\namong them reasoned with himself that, at the worst, they were too many\nto be all punished, and that he had as good a chance of escape as any\nother man. The great mass never reasoned or thought at all, but were\nstimulated by their own headlong passions, by poverty, by ignorance, by\nthe love of mischief, and the hope of plunder.\n\nOne other circumstance is worthy of remark; and that is, that from the\nmoment of their first outbreak at Westminster, every symptom of order\nor preconcerted arrangement among them vanished. When they divided\ninto parties and ran to different quarters of the town, it was on the\nspontaneous suggestion of the moment. Each party swelled as it went\nalong, like rivers as they roll towards the sea; new leaders sprang\nup as they were wanted, disappeared when the necessity was over, and\nreappeared at the next crisis. Each tumult took shape and form from the\ncircumstances of the moment; sober workmen, going home from their day's\nlabour, were seen to cast down their baskets of tools and become rioters\nin an instant; mere boys on errands did the like. In a word, a moral\nplague ran through the city. The noise, and hurry, and excitement, had\nfor hundreds and hundreds an attraction they had no firmness to resist.\nThe contagion spread like a dread fever: an infectious madness, as yet\nnot near its height, seized on new victims every hour, and society began\nto tremble at their ravings.\n\nIt was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when Gashford\nlooked into the lair described in the last chapter, and seeing only\nBarnaby and Dennis there, inquired for Hugh.\n\nHe was out, Barnaby told him; had gone out more than an hour ago; and\nhad not yet returned.\n\n'Dennis!' said the smiling secretary, in his smoothest voice, as he sat\ndown cross-legged on a barrel, 'Dennis!'\n\nThe hangman struggled into a sitting posture directly, and with his eyes\nwide open, looked towards him.\n\n'How do you do, Dennis?' said Gashford, nodding. 'I hope you have\nsuffered no inconvenience from your late exertions, Dennis?'\n\n'I always will say of you, Muster Gashford,' returned the hangman,\nstaring at him, 'that that 'ere quiet way of yours might almost wake a\ndead man. It is,' he added, with a muttered oath--still staring at him\nin a thoughtful manner--'so awful sly!'\n\n'So distinct, eh Dennis?'\n\n'Distinct!' he answered, scratching his head, and keeping his eyes upon\nthe secretary's face; 'I seem to hear it, Muster Gashford, in my wery\nbones.'\n\n'I am very glad your sense of hearing is so sharp, and that I succeed\nin making myself so intelligible,' said Gashford, in his unvarying, even\ntone. 'Where is your friend?'\n\nMr Dennis looked round as in expectation of beholding him asleep upon\nhis bed of straw; then remembering he had seen him go out, replied:\n\n'I can't say where he is, Muster Gashford, I expected him back afore\nnow. I hope it isn't time that we was busy, Muster Gashford?'\n\n'Nay,' said the secretary, 'who should know that as well as you? How\ncan I tell you, Dennis? You are perfect master of your own actions, you\nknow, and accountable to nobody--except sometimes to the law, eh?'\n\nDennis, who was very much baffled by the cool matter-of-course manner of\nthis reply, recovered his self-possession on his professional pursuits\nbeing referred to, and pointing towards Barnaby, shook his head and\nfrowned.\n\n'Hush!' cried Barnaby.\n\n'Ah! Do hush about that, Muster Gashford,' said the hangman in a low\nvoice, 'pop'lar prejudices--you always forget--well, Barnaby, my lad,\nwhat's the matter?'\n\n'I hear him coming,' he answered: 'Hark! Do you mark that? That's his\nfoot! Bless you, I know his step, and his dog's too. Tramp, tramp,\npit-pat, on they come together, and, ha ha ha!--and here they are!' he\ncried, joyfully welcoming Hugh with both hands, and then patting him\nfondly on the back, as if instead of being the rough companion he was,\nhe had been one of the most prepossessing of men. 'Here he is, and safe\ntoo! I am glad to see him back again, old Hugh!'\n\n'I'm a Turk if he don't give me a warmer welcome always than any man\nof sense,' said Hugh, shaking hands with him with a kind of ferocious\nfriendship, strange enough to see. 'How are you, boy?'\n\n'Hearty!' cried Barnaby, waving his hat. 'Ha ha ha! And merry too,\nHugh! And ready to do anything for the good cause, and the right, and\nto help the kind, mild, pale-faced gentleman--the lord they used so\nill--eh, Hugh?'\n\n'Ay!' returned his friend, dropping his hand, and looking at Gashford\nfor an instant with a changed expression before he spoke to him. 'Good\nday, master!'\n\n'And good day to you,' replied the secretary, nursing his leg.\n\n'And many good days--whole years of them, I hope. You are heated.'\n\n'So would you have been, master,' said Hugh, wiping his face, 'if you'd\nbeen running here as fast as I have.'\n\n'You know the news, then? Yes, I supposed you would have heard it.'\n\n'News! what news?'\n\n'You don't?' cried Gashford, raising his eyebrows with an exclamation\nof surprise. 'Dear me! Come; then I AM the first to make you acquainted\nwith your distinguished position, after all. Do you see the King's Arms\na-top?' he smilingly asked, as he took a large paper from his pocket,\nunfolded it, and held it out for Hugh's inspection.\n\n'Well!' said Hugh. 'What's that to me?'\n\n'Much. A great deal,' replied the secretary. 'Read it.'\n\n'I told you, the first time I saw you, that I couldn't read,' said Hugh,\nimpatiently. 'What in the Devil's name's inside of it?'\n\n'It is a proclamation from the King in Council,' said Gashford, 'dated\nto-day, and offering a reward of five hundred pounds--five hundred\npounds is a great deal of money, and a large temptation to some\npeople--to any one who will discover the person or persons most active\nin demolishing those chapels on Saturday night.'\n\n'Is that all?' cried Hugh, with an indifferent air. 'I knew of that.'\n\n'Truly I might have known you did,' said Gashford, smiling, and folding\nup the document again. 'Your friend, I might have guessed--indeed I did\nguess--was sure to tell you.'\n\n'My friend!' stammered Hugh, with an unsuccessful effort to appear\nsurprised. 'What friend?'\n\n'Tut tut--do you suppose I don't know where you have been?' retorted\nGashford, rubbing his hands, and beating the back of one on the palm of\nthe other, and looking at him with a cunning eye. 'How dull you think\nme! Shall I say his name?'\n\n'No,' said Hugh, with a hasty glance towards Dennis.\n\n'You have also heard from him, no doubt,' resumed the secretary, after a\nmoment's pause, 'that the rioters who have been taken (poor fellows) are\ncommitted for trial, and that some very active witnesses have had the\ntemerity to appear against them. Among others--' and here he clenched\nhis teeth, as if he would suppress by force some violent words that rose\nupon his tongue; and spoke very slowly. 'Among others, a gentleman\nwho saw the work going on in Warwick Street; a Catholic gentleman; one\nHaredale.'\n\nHugh would have prevented his uttering the word, but it was out already.\nHearing the name, Barnaby turned swiftly round.\n\n'Duty, duty, bold Barnaby!' cried Hugh, assuming his wildest and most\nrapid manner, and thrusting into his hand his staff and flag which leant\nagainst the wall. 'Mount guard without loss of time, for we are off upon\nour expedition. Up, Dennis, and get ready! Take care that no one turns\nthe straw upon my bed, brave Barnaby; we know what's underneath it--eh?\nNow, master, quick! What you have to say, say speedily, for the little\ncaptain and a cluster of 'em are in the fields, and only waiting for us.\nSharp's the word, and strike's the action. Quick!'\n\nBarnaby was not proof against this bustle and despatch. The look of\nmingled astonishment and anger which had appeared in his face when he\nturned towards them, faded from it as the words passed from his memory,\nlike breath from a polished mirror; and grasping the weapon which Hugh\nforced upon him, he proudly took his station at the door, beyond their\nhearing.\n\n'You might have spoiled our plans, master,' said Hugh. 'YOU, too, of all\nmen!'\n\n'Who would have supposed that HE would be so quick?' urged Gashford.\n\n'He's as quick sometimes--I don't mean with his hands, for that you\nknow, but with his head--as you or any man,' said Hugh. 'Dennis, it's\ntime we were going; they're waiting for us; I came to tell you. Reach\nme my stick and belt. Here! Lend a hand, master. Fling this over my\nshoulder, and buckle it behind, will you?'\n\n'Brisk as ever!' said the secretary, adjusting it for him as he desired.\n\n'A man need be brisk to-day; there's brisk work a-foot.'\n\n'There is, is there?' said Gashford. He said it with such a provoking\nassumption of ignorance, that Hugh, looking over his shoulder and\nangrily down upon him, replied:\n\n'Is there! You know there is! Who knows better than you, master, that\nthe first great step to be taken is to make examples of these witnesses,\nand frighten all men from appearing against us or any of our body, any\nmore?'\n\n'There's one we know of,' returned Gashford, with an expressive smile,\n'who is at least as well informed upon that subject as you or I.'\n\n'If we mean the same gentleman, as I suppose we do,' Hugh rejoined\nsoftly, 'I tell you this--he's as good and quick information about\neverything as--' here he paused and looked round, as if to make sure\nthat the person in question was not within hearing, 'as Old Nick\nhimself. Have you done that, master? How slow you are!'\n\n'It's quite fast now,' said Gashford, rising. 'I say--you didn't find\nthat your friend disapproved of to-day's little expedition? Ha ha ha!\nIt is fortunate it jumps so well with the witness policy; for, once\nplanned, it must have been carried out. And now you are going, eh?'\n\n'Now we are going, master!' Hugh replied. 'Any parting words?'\n\n'Oh dear, no,' said Gashford sweetly. 'None!'\n\n'You're sure?' cried Hugh, nudging the grinning Dennis.\n\n'Quite sure, eh, Muster Gashford?' chuckled the hangman.\n\nGashford paused a moment, struggling with his caution and his malice;\nthen putting himself between the two men, and laying a hand upon the arm\nof each, said, in a cramped whisper:\n\n'Do not, my good friends--I am sure you will not--forget our talk one\nnight--in your house, Dennis--about this person. No mercy, no quarter,\nno two beams of his house to be left standing where the builder placed\nthem! Fire, the saying goes, is a good servant, but a bad master. Make\nit _his_ master; he deserves no better. But I am sure you will be firm, I\nam sure you will be very resolute, I am sure you will remember that he\nthirsts for your lives, and those of all your brave companions. If\nyou ever acted like staunch fellows, you will do so to-day. Won't you,\nDennis--won't you, Hugh?'\n\nThe two looked at him, and at each other; then bursting into a roar of\nlaughter, brandished their staves above their heads, shook hands, and\nhurried out.\n\nWhen they had been gone a little time, Gashford followed. They were yet\nin sight, and hastening to that part of the adjacent fields in\nwhich their fellows had already mustered; Hugh was looking back, and\nflourishing his hat to Barnaby, who, delighted with his trust, replied\nin the same way, and then resumed his pacing up and down before the\nstable-door, where his feet had worn a path already. And when Gashford\nhimself was far distant, and looked back for the last time, he was still\nwalking to and fro, with the same measured tread; the most devoted and\nthe blithest champion that ever maintained a post, and felt his heart\nlifted up with a brave sense of duty, and determination to defend it to\nthe last.\n\nSmiling at the simplicity of the poor idiot, Gashford betook himself to\nWelbeck Street by a different path from that which he knew the rioters\nwould take, and sitting down behind a curtain in one of the upper\nwindows of Lord George Gordon's house, waited impatiently for their\ncoming. They were so long, that although he knew it had been settled\nthey should come that way, he had a misgiving they must have changed\ntheir plans and taken some other route. But at length the roar of voices\nwas heard in the neighbouring fields, and soon afterwards they came\nthronging past, in a great body.\n\nHowever, they were not all, nor nearly all, in one body, but were, as he\nsoon found, divided into four parties, each of which stopped before the\nhouse to give three cheers, and then went on; the leaders crying out in\nwhat direction they were going, and calling on the spectators to join\nthem. The first detachment, carrying, by way of banners, some relics\nof the havoc they had made in Moorfields, proclaimed that they were on\ntheir way to Chelsea, whence they would return in the same order, to\nmake of the spoil they bore, a great bonfire, near at hand. The second\ngave out that they were bound for Wapping, to destroy a chapel; the\nthird, that their place of destination was East Smithfield, and their\nobject the same. All this was done in broad, bright, summer day. Gay\ncarriages and chairs stopped to let them pass, or turned back to avoid\nthem; people on foot stood aside in doorways, or perhaps knocked and\nbegged permission to stand at a window, or in the hall, until the\nrioters had passed: but nobody interfered with them; and when they had\ngone by, everything went on as usual.\n\nThere still remained the fourth body, and for that the secretary looked\nwith a most intense eagerness. At last it came up. It was numerous, and\ncomposed of picked men; for as he gazed down among them, he recognised\nmany upturned faces which he knew well--those of Simon Tappertit, Hugh,\nand Dennis in the front, of course. They halted and cheered, as the\nothers had done; but when they moved again, they did not, like them,\nproclaim what design they had. Hugh merely raised his hat upon the\nbludgeon he carried, and glancing at a spectator on the opposite side of\nthe way, was gone.\n\nGashford followed the direction of his glance instinctively, and\nsaw, standing on the pavement, and wearing the blue cockade, Sir John\nChester. He held his hat an inch or two above his head, to propitiate\nthe mob; and, resting gracefully on his cane, smiling pleasantly, and\ndisplaying his dress and person to the very best advantage, looked on\nin the most tranquil state imaginable. For all that, and quick and\ndexterous as he was, Gashford had seen him recognise Hugh with the air\nof a patron. He had no longer any eyes for the crowd, but fixed his keen\nregards upon Sir John.\n\nHe stood in the same place and posture until the last man in the\nconcourse had turned the corner of the street; then very deliberately\ntook the blue cockade out of his hat; put it carefully in his pocket,\nready for the next emergency; refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff;\nput up his box; and was walking slowly off, when a passing carriage\nstopped, and a lady's hand let down the glass. Sir John's hat was off\nagain immediately. After a minute's conversation at the carriage-window,\nin which it was apparent that he was vastly entertaining on the subject\nof the mob, he stepped lightly in, and was driven away.\n\nThe secretary smiled, but he had other thoughts to dwell upon, and\nsoon dismissed the topic. Dinner was brought him, but he sent it down\nuntasted; and, in restless pacings up and down the room, and constant\nglances at the clock, and many futile efforts to sit down and read, or\ngo to sleep, or look out of the window, consumed four weary hours. When\nthe dial told him thus much time had crept away, he stole upstairs to\nthe top of the house, and coming out upon the roof sat down, with his\nface towards the east.\n\nHeedless of the fresh air that blew upon his heated brow, of the\npleasant meadows from which he turned, of the piles of roofs and\nchimneys upon which he looked, of the smoke and rising mist he vainly\nsought to pierce, of the shrill cries of children at their evening\nsports, the distant hum and turmoil of the town, the cheerful country\nbreath that rustled past to meet it, and to droop, and die; he watched,\nand watched, till it was dark save for the specks of light that twinkled\nin the streets below and far away--and, as the darkness deepened,\nstrained his gaze and grew more eager yet.\n\n'Nothing but gloom in that direction, still!' he muttered restlessly.\n'Dog! where is the redness in the sky, you promised me!'\n\n\n\nChapter 54\n\n\nRumours of the prevailing disturbances had, by this time, begun to be\npretty generally circulated through the towns and villages round London,\nand the tidings were everywhere received with that appetite for the\nmarvellous and love of the terrible which have probably been among the\nnatural characteristics of mankind since the creation of the world.\nThese accounts, however, appeared, to many persons at that day--as\nthey would to us at the present, but that we know them to be matter of\nhistory--so monstrous and improbable, that a great number of those who\nwere resident at a distance, and who were credulous enough on other\npoints, were really unable to bring their minds to believe that such\nthings could be; and rejected the intelligence they received on all\nhands, as wholly fabulous and absurd.\n\nMr Willet--not so much, perhaps, on account of his having argued and\nsettled the matter with himself, as by reason of his constitutional\nobstinacy--was one of those who positively refused to entertain the\ncurrent topic for a moment. On this very evening, and perhaps at the\nvery time when Gashford kept his solitary watch, old John was so red in\nthe face with perpetually shaking his head in contradiction of his three\nancient cronies and pot companions, that he was quite a phenomenon to\nbehold, and lighted up the Maypole Porch wherein they sat together, like\na monstrous carbuncle in a fairy tale.\n\n'Do you think, sir,' said Mr Willet, looking hard at Solomon Daisy--for\nit was his custom in cases of personal altercation to fasten upon the\nsmallest man in the party--'do you think, sir, that I'm a born fool?'\n\n'No, no, Johnny,' returned Solomon, looking round upon the little circle\nof which he formed a part: 'We all know better than that. You're no\nfool, Johnny. No, no!'\n\nMr Cobb and Mr Parkes shook their heads in unison, muttering, 'No, no,\nJohnny, not you!' But as such compliments had usually the effect of\nmaking Mr Willet rather more dogged than before, he surveyed them with a\nlook of deep disdain, and returned for answer:\n\n'Then what do you mean by coming here, and telling me that this evening\nyou're a-going to walk up to London together--you three--you--and have\nthe evidence of your own senses? An't,' said Mr Willet, putting his pipe\nin his mouth with an air of solemn disgust, 'an't the evidence of MY\nsenses enough for you?'\n\n'But we haven't got it, Johnny,' pleaded Parkes, humbly.\n\n'You haven't got it, sir?' repeated Mr Willet, eyeing him from top to\ntoe. 'You haven't got it, sir? You HAVE got it, sir. Don't I tell you\nthat His blessed Majesty King George the Third would no more stand a\nrioting and rollicking in his streets, than he'd stand being crowed over\nby his own Parliament?'\n\n'Yes, Johnny, but that's your sense--not your senses,' said the\nadventurous Mr Parkes.\n\n'How do you know?' retorted John with great dignity. 'You're a\ncontradicting pretty free, you are, sir. How do YOU know which it is?\nI'm not aware I ever told you, sir.'\n\nMr Parkes, finding himself in the position of having got into\nmetaphysics without exactly seeing his way out of them, stammered forth\nan apology and retreated from the argument. There then ensued a silence\nof some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, at the expiration of which\nperiod Mr Willet was observed to rumble and shake with laughter, and\npresently remarked, in reference to his late adversary, 'that he hoped\nhe had tackled him enough.' Thereupon Messrs Cobb and Daisy laughed,\nand nodded, and Parkes was looked upon as thoroughly and effectually put\ndown.\n\n'Do you suppose if all this was true, that Mr Haredale would be\nconstantly away from home, as he is?' said John, after another silence.\n'Do you think he wouldn't be afraid to leave his house with them two\nyoung women in it, and only a couple of men, or so?'\n\n'Ay, but then you know,' returned Solomon Daisy, 'his house is a goodish\nway out of London, and they do say that the rioters won't go more than\ntwo miles, or three at the farthest, off the stones. Besides, you\nknow, some of the Catholic gentlefolks have actually sent trinkets and\nsuchlike down here for safety--at least, so the story goes.'\n\n'The story goes!' said Mr Willet testily. 'Yes, sir. The story goes that\nyou saw a ghost last March. But nobody believes it.'\n\n'Well!' said Solomon, rising, to divert the attention of his two\nfriends, who tittered at this retort: 'believed or disbelieved, it's\ntrue; and true or not, if we mean to go to London, we must be going at\nonce. So shake hands, Johnny, and good night.'\n\n'I shall shake hands,' returned the landlord, putting his into his\npockets, 'with no man as goes to London on such nonsensical errands.'\n\nThe three cronies were therefore reduced to the necessity of shaking his\nelbows; having performed that ceremony, and brought from the house their\nhats, and sticks, and greatcoats, they bade him good night and departed;\npromising to bring him on the morrow full and true accounts of the real\nstate of the city, and if it were quiet, to give him the full merit of\nhis victory.\n\nJohn Willet looked after them, as they plodded along the road in the\nrich glow of a summer evening; and knocking the ashes out of his pipe,\nlaughed inwardly at their folly, until his sides were sore. When he had\nquite exhausted himself--which took some time, for he laughed as slowly\nas he thought and spoke--he sat himself comfortably with his back to the\nhouse, put his legs upon the bench, then his apron over his face, and\nfell sound asleep.\n\nHow long he slept, matters not; but it was for no brief space, for\nwhen he awoke, the rich light had faded, the sombre hues of night were\nfalling fast upon the landscape, and a few bright stars were already\ntwinkling overhead. The birds were all at roost, the daisies on the\ngreen had closed their fairy hoods, the honeysuckle twining round the\nporch exhaled its perfume in a twofold degree, as though it lost its\ncoyness at that silent time and loved to shed its fragrance on the\nnight; the ivy scarcely stirred its deep green leaves. How tranquil, and\nhow beautiful it was!\n\nWas there no sound in the air, besides the gentle rustling of the\ntrees and the grasshopper's merry chirp? Hark! Something very faint and\ndistant, not unlike the murmuring in a sea-shell. Now it grew louder,\nfainter now, and now it altogether died away. Presently, it came again,\nsubsided, came once more, grew louder, fainter--swelled into a roar. It\nwas on the road, and varied with its windings. All at once it burst into\na distinct sound--the voices, and the tramping feet of many men.\n\nIt is questionable whether old John Willet, even then, would have\nthought of the rioters but for the cries of his cook and housemaid,\nwho ran screaming upstairs and locked themselves into one of the old\ngarrets,--shrieking dismally when they had done so, by way of rendering\ntheir place of refuge perfectly secret and secure. These two females did\nafterwards depone that Mr Willet in his consternation uttered but one\nword, and called that up the stairs in a stentorian voice, six distinct\ntimes. But as this word was a monosyllable, which, however inoffensive\nwhen applied to the quadruped it denotes, is highly reprehensible when\nused in connection with females of unimpeachable character, many persons\nwere inclined to believe that the young women laboured under some\nhallucination caused by excessive fear; and that their ears deceived\nthem.\n\nBe this as it may, John Willet, in whom the very uttermost extent of\ndull-headed perplexity supplied the place of courage, stationed himself\nin the porch, and waited for their coming up. Once, it dimly occurred\nto him that there was a kind of door to the house, which had a lock and\nbolts; and at the same time some shadowy ideas of shutters to the lower\nwindows, flitted through his brain. But he stood stock still, looking\ndown the road in the direction in which the noise was rapidly advancing,\nand did not so much as take his hands out of his pockets.\n\nHe had not to wait long. A dark mass, looming through a cloud of dust,\nsoon became visible; the mob quickened their pace; shouting and whooping\nlike savages, they came rushing on pell mell; and in a few seconds he\nwas bandied from hand to hand, in the heart of a crowd of men.\n\n'Halloa!' cried a voice he knew, as the man who spoke came cleaving\nthrough the throng. 'Where is he? Give him to me. Don't hurt him. How\nnow, old Jack! Ha ha ha!'\n\nMr Willet looked at him, and saw it was Hugh; but he said nothing, and\nthought nothing.\n\n'These lads are thirsty and must drink!' cried Hugh, thrusting him back\ntowards the house. 'Bustle, Jack, bustle. Show us the best--the very\nbest--the over-proof that you keep for your own drinking, Jack!'\n\nJohn faintly articulated the words, 'Who's to pay?'\n\n'He says \"Who's to pay?\"' cried Hugh, with a roar of laughter which was\nloudly echoed by the crowd. Then turning to John, he added, 'Pay! Why,\nnobody.'\n\nJohn stared round at the mass of faces--some grinning, some fierce, some\nlighted up by torches, some indistinct, some dusky and shadowy: some\nlooking at him, some at his house, some at each other--and while he was,\nas he thought, in the very act of doing so, found himself, without any\nconsciousness of having moved, in the bar; sitting down in an arm-chair,\nand watching the destruction of his property, as if it were some queer\nplay or entertainment, of an astonishing and stupefying nature, but\nhaving no reference to himself--that he could make out--at all.\n\nYes. Here was the bar--the bar that the boldest never entered without\nspecial invitation--the sanctuary, the mystery, the hallowed ground:\nhere it was, crammed with men, clubs, sticks, torches, pistols; filled\nwith a deafening noise, oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at\nonce into a bear-garden, a madhouse, an infernal temple: men darting\nin and out, by door and window, smashing the glass, turning the taps,\ndrinking liquor out of China punchbowls, sitting astride of casks,\nsmoking private and personal pipes, cutting down the sacred grove of\nlemons, hacking and hewing at the celebrated cheese, breaking open\ninviolable drawers, putting things in their pockets which didn't belong\nto them, dividing his own money before his own eyes, wantonly wasting,\nbreaking, pulling down and tearing up: nothing quiet, nothing private:\nmen everywhere--above, below, overhead, in the bedrooms, in the kitchen,\nin the yard, in the stables--clambering in at windows when there were\ndoors wide open; dropping out of windows when the stairs were handy;\nleaping over the bannisters into chasms of passages: new faces and\nfigures presenting themselves every instant--some yelling, some singing,\nsome fighting, some breaking glass and crockery, some laying the dust\nwith the liquor they couldn't drink, some ringing the bells till they\npulled them down, others beating them with pokers till they beat them\ninto fragments: more men still--more, more, more--swarming on like\ninsects: noise, smoke, light, darkness, frolic, anger, laughter, groans,\nplunder, fear, and ruin!\n\nNearly all the time while John looked on at this bewildering scene, Hugh\nkept near him; and though he was the loudest, wildest, most destructive\nvillain there, he saved his old master's bones a score of times. Nay,\neven when Mr Tappertit, excited by liquor, came up, and in assertion of\nhis prerogative politely kicked John Willet on the shins, Hugh bade him\nreturn the compliment; and if old John had had sufficient presence of\nmind to understand this whispered direction, and to profit by it, he\nmight no doubt, under Hugh's protection, have done so with impunity.\n\nAt length the band began to reassemble outside the house, and to call\nto those within, to join them, for they were losing time. These murmurs\nincreasing, and attaining a high pitch, Hugh, and some of those who yet\nlingered in the bar, and who plainly were the leaders of the troop, took\ncounsel together, apart, as to what was to be done with John, to keep\nhim quiet until their Chigwell work was over. Some proposed to set the\nhouse on fire and leave him in it; others, that he should be reduced\nto a state of temporary insensibility, by knocking on the head; others,\nthat he should be sworn to sit where he was until to-morrow at the same\nhour; others again, that he should be gagged and taken off with them,\nunder a sufficient guard. All these propositions being overruled, it was\nconcluded, at last, to bind him in his chair, and the word was passed\nfor Dennis.\n\n'Look'ee here, Jack!' said Hugh, striding up to him: 'We are going to\ntie you, hand and foot, but otherwise you won't be hurt. D'ye hear?'\n\nJohn Willet looked at another man, as if he didn't know which was the\nspeaker, and muttered something about an ordinary every Sunday at two\no'clock.\n\n'You won't be hurt I tell you, Jack--do you hear me?' roared Hugh,\nimpressing the assurance upon him by means of a heavy blow on the back.\n'He's so dead scared, he's woolgathering, I think. Give him a drop of\nsomething to drink here. Hand over, one of you.'\n\nA glass of liquor being passed forward, Hugh poured the contents down\nold John's throat. Mr Willet feebly smacked his lips, thrust his hand\ninto his pocket, and inquired what was to pay; adding, as he looked\nvacantly round, that he believed there was a trifle of broken glass--\n\n'He's out of his senses for the time, it's my belief,' said Hugh, after\nshaking him, without any visible effect upon his system, until his keys\nrattled in his pocket. 'Where's that Dennis?'\n\nThe word was again passed, and presently Mr Dennis, with a long cord\nbound about his middle, something after the manner of a friar, came\nhurrying in, attended by a body-guard of half-a-dozen of his men.\n\n'Come! Be alive here!' cried Hugh, stamping his foot upon the ground.\n'Make haste!'\n\nDennis, with a wink and a nod, unwound the cord from about his person,\nand raising his eyes to the ceiling, looked all over it, and round the\nwalls and cornice, with a curious eye; then shook his head.\n\n'Move, man, can't you!' cried Hugh, with another impatient stamp of his\nfoot. 'Are we to wait here, till the cry has gone for ten miles round,\nand our work's interrupted?'\n\n'It's all very fine talking, brother,' answered Dennis, stepping towards\nhim; 'but unless--' and here he whispered in his ear--'unless we do it\nover the door, it can't be done at all in this here room.'\n\n'What can't?' Hugh demanded.\n\n'What can't!' retorted Dennis. 'Why, the old man can't.'\n\n'Why, you weren't going to hang him!' cried Hugh.\n\n'No, brother?' returned the hangman with a stare. 'What else?'\n\nHugh made no answer, but snatching the rope from his companion's hand,\nproceeded to bind old John himself; but his very first move was so\nbungling and unskilful, that Mr Dennis entreated, almost with tears\nin his eyes, that he might be permitted to perform the duty. Hugh\nconsenting, he achieved it in a twinkling.\n\n'There,' he said, looking mournfully at John Willet, who displayed no\nmore emotion in his bonds than he had shown out of them. 'That's what I\ncall pretty and workmanlike. He's quite a picter now. But, brother, just\na word with you--now that he's ready trussed, as one may say, wouldn't\nit be better for all parties if we was to work him off? It would read\nuncommon well in the newspapers, it would indeed. The public would think\na great deal more on us!'\n\nHugh, inferring what his companion meant, rather from his gestures than\nhis technical mode of expressing himself (to which, as he was ignorant\nof his calling, he wanted the clue), rejected this proposition for the\nsecond time, and gave the word 'Forward!' which was echoed by a hundred\nvoices from without.\n\n'To the Warren!' shouted Dennis as he ran out, followed by the rest. 'A\nwitness's house, my lads!'\n\nA loud yell followed, and the whole throng hurried off, mad for pillage\nand destruction. Hugh lingered behind for a few moments to stimulate\nhimself with more drink, and to set all the taps running, a few of which\nhad accidentally been spared; then, glancing round the despoiled and\nplundered room, through whose shattered window the rioters had thrust\nthe Maypole itself,--for even that had been sawn down,--lighted a torch,\nclapped the mute and motionless John Willet on the back, and waving his\nlight above his head, and uttering a fierce shout, hastened after his\ncompanions.\n\n\n\nChapter 55\n\n\nJohn Willet, left alone in his dismantled bar, continued to sit staring\nabout him; awake as to his eyes, certainly, but with all his powers of\nreason and reflection in a sound and dreamless sleep. He looked round\nupon the room which had been for years, and was within an hour ago, the\npride of his heart; and not a muscle of his face was moved. The night,\nwithout, looked black and cold through the dreary gaps in the casement;\nthe precious liquids, now nearly leaked away, dripped with a hollow\nsound upon the floor; the Maypole peered ruefully in through the broken\nwindow, like the bowsprit of a wrecked ship; the ground might have\nbeen the bottom of the sea, it was so strewn with precious fragments.\nCurrents of air rushed in, as the old doors jarred and creaked upon\ntheir hinges; the candles flickered and guttered down, and made long\nwinding-sheets; the cheery deep-red curtains flapped and fluttered idly\nin the wind; even the stout Dutch kegs, overthrown and lying empty in\ndark corners, seemed the mere husks of good fellows whose jollity had\ndeparted, and who could kindle with a friendly glow no more. John saw\nthis desolation, and yet saw it not. He was perfectly contented to sit\nthere, staring at it, and felt no more indignation or discomfort in his\nbonds than if they had been robes of honour. So far as he was personally\nconcerned, old Time lay snoring, and the world stood still.\n\nSave for the dripping from the barrels, the rustling of such light\nfragments of destruction as the wind affected, and the dull creaking of\nthe open doors, all was profoundly quiet: indeed, these sounds, like\nthe ticking of the death-watch in the night, only made the silence they\ninvaded deeper and more apparent. But quiet or noisy, it was all one\nto John. If a train of heavy artillery could have come up and commenced\nball practice outside the window, it would have been all the same to\nhim. He was a long way beyond surprise. A ghost couldn't have overtaken\nhim.\n\nBy and by he heard a footstep--a hurried, and yet cautious\nfootstep--coming on towards the house. It stopped, advanced again,\nthen seemed to go quite round it. Having done that, it came beneath the\nwindow, and a head looked in.\n\nIt was strongly relieved against the darkness outside by the glare of\nthe guttering candles. A pale, worn, withered face; the eyes--but that\nwas owing to its gaunt condition--unnaturally large and bright; the\nhair, a grizzled black. It gave a searching glance all round the room,\nand a deep voice said:\n\n'Are you alone in this house?'\n\nJohn made no sign, though the question was repeated twice, and he heard\nit distinctly. After a moment's pause, the man got in at the window.\nJohn was not at all surprised at this, either. There had been so much\ngetting in and out of window in the course of the last hour or so, that\nhe had quite forgotten the door, and seemed to have lived among such\nexercises from infancy.\n\nThe man wore a large, dark, faded cloak, and a slouched hat; he walked\nup close to John, and looked at him. John returned the compliment with\ninterest.\n\n'How long have you been sitting thus?' said the man.\n\nJohn considered, but nothing came of it.\n\n'Which way have the party gone?'\n\nSome wandering speculations relative to the fashion of the stranger's\nboots, got into Mr Willet's mind by some accident or other, but they got\nout again in a hurry, and left him in his former state.\n\n'You would do well to speak,' said the man; 'you may keep a whole skin,\nthough you have nothing else left that can be hurt. Which way have the\nparty gone?'\n\n'That!' said John, finding his voice all at once, and nodding with\nperfect good faith--he couldn't point; he was so tightly bound--in\nexactly the opposite direction to the right one.\n\n'You lie!' said the man angrily, and with a threatening gesture. 'I came\nthat way. You would betray me.'\n\nIt was so evident that John's imperturbability was not assumed, but was\nthe result of the late proceedings under his roof, that the man stayed\nhis hand in the very act of striking him, and turned away.\n\nJohn looked after him without so much as a twitch in a single nerve\nof his face. He seized a glass, and holding it under one of the little\ncasks until a few drops were collected, drank them greedily off; then\nthrowing it down upon the floor impatiently, he took the vessel in his\nhands and drained it into his throat. Some scraps of bread and meat were\nscattered about, and on these he fell next; eating them with voracity,\nand pausing every now and then to listen for some fancied noise outside.\nWhen he had refreshed himself in this manner with violent haste, and\nraised another barrel to his lips, he pulled his hat upon his brow as\nthough he were about to leave the house, and turned to John.\n\n'Where are your servants?'\n\nMr Willet indistinctly remembered to have heard the rioters calling to\nthem to throw the key of the room in which they were, out of window, for\ntheir keeping. He therefore replied, 'Locked up.'\n\n'Well for them if they remain quiet, and well for you if you do the\nlike,' said the man. 'Now show me the way the party went.'\n\nThis time Mr Willet indicated it correctly. The man was hurrying to the\ndoor, when suddenly there came towards them on the wind, the loud\nand rapid tolling of an alarm-bell, and then a bright and vivid glare\nstreamed up, which illumined, not only the whole chamber, but all the\ncountry.\n\nIt was not the sudden change from darkness to this dreadful light, it\nwas not the sound of distant shrieks and shouts of triumph, it was not\nthis dread invasion of the serenity and peace of night, that drove the\nman back as though a thunderbolt had struck him. It was the Bell. If the\nghastliest shape the human mind has ever pictured in its wildest dreams\nhad risen up before him, he could not have staggered backward from its\ntouch, as he did from the first sound of that loud iron voice. With eyes\nthat started from his head, his limbs convulsed, his face most horrible\nto see, he raised one arm high up into the air, and holding something\nvisionary back and down, with his other hand, drove at it as though\nhe held a knife and stabbed it to the heart. He clutched his hair,\nand stopped his ears, and travelled madly round and round; then gave a\nfrightful cry, and with it rushed away: still, still, the Bell tolled on\nand seemed to follow him--louder and louder, hotter and hotter yet.\nThe glare grew brighter, the roar of voices deeper; the crash of heavy\nbodies falling, shook the air; bright streams of sparks rose up into the\nsky; but louder than them all--rising faster far, to Heaven--a million\ntimes more fierce and furious--pouring forth dreadful secrets after its\nlong silence--speaking the language of the dead--the Bell--the Bell!\n\nWhat hunt of spectres could surpass that dread pursuit and flight! Had\nthere been a legion of them on his track, he could have better borne it.\nThey would have had a beginning and an end, but here all space was full.\nThe one pursuing voice was everywhere: it sounded in the earth, the air;\nshook the long grass, and howled among the trembling trees. The\nechoes caught it up, the owls hooted as it flew upon the breeze, the\nnightingale was silent and hid herself among the thickest boughs:\nit seemed to goad and urge the angry fire, and lash it into madness;\neverything was steeped in one prevailing red; the glow was everywhere;\nnature was drenched in blood: still the remorseless crying of that awful\nvoice--the Bell, the Bell!\n\nIt ceased; but not in his ears. The knell was at his heart. No work of\nman had ever voice like that which sounded there, and warned him that it\ncried unceasingly to Heaven. Who could hear that bell, and not know what\nit said! There was murder in its every note--cruel, relentless, savage\nmurder--the murder of a confiding man, by one who held his every trust.\nIts ringing summoned phantoms from their graves. What face was that,\nin which a friendly smile changed to a look of half incredulous horror,\nwhich stiffened for a moment into one of pain, then changed again into\nan imploring glance at Heaven, and so fell idly down with upturned\neyes, like the dead stags' he had often peeped at when a little child:\nshrinking and shuddering--there was a dreadful thing to think of\nnow!--and clinging to an apron as he looked! He sank upon the ground,\nand grovelling down as if he would dig himself a place to hide in,\ncovered his face and ears: but no, no, no,--a hundred walls and roofs of\nbrass would not shut out that bell, for in it spoke the wrathful voice\nof God, and from that voice, the whole wide universe could not afford a\nrefuge!\n\nWhile he rushed up and down, not knowing where to turn, and while he\nlay crouching there, the work went briskly on indeed. When they left the\nMaypole, the rioters formed into a solid body, and advanced at a quick\npace towards the Warren. Rumour of their approach having gone before,\nthey found the garden-doors fast closed, the windows made secure, and\nthe house profoundly dark: not a light being visible in any portion of\nthe building. After some fruitless ringing at the bells, and beating\nat the iron gates, they drew off a few paces to reconnoitre, and confer\nupon the course it would be best to take.\n\nVery little conference was needed, when all were bent upon one desperate\npurpose, infuriated with liquor, and flushed with successful riot.\nThe word being given to surround the house, some climbed the gates, or\ndropped into the shallow trench and scaled the garden wall, while others\npulled down the solid iron fence, and while they made a breach to\nenter by, made deadly weapons of the bars. The house being completely\nencircled, a small number of men were despatched to break open a\ntool-shed in the garden; and during their absence on this errand, the\nremainder contented themselves with knocking violently at the doors, and\ncalling to those within, to come down and open them on peril of their\nlives.\n\nNo answer being returned to this repeated summons, and the detachment\nwho had been sent away, coming back with an accession of pickaxes,\nspades, and hoes, they,--together with those who had such arms already,\nor carried (as many did) axes, poles, and crowbars,--struggled into the\nforemost rank, ready to beset the doors and windows. They had not at\nthis time more than a dozen lighted torches among them; but when these\npreparations were completed, flaming links were distributed and passed\nfrom hand to hand with such rapidity, that, in a minute's time, at\nleast two-thirds of the whole roaring mass bore, each man in his hand,\na blazing brand. Whirling these about their heads they raised a loud\nshout, and fell to work upon the doors and windows.\n\nAmidst the clattering of heavy blows, the rattling of broken glass, the\ncries and execrations of the mob, and all the din and turmoil of the\nscene, Hugh and his friends kept together at the turret-door where Mr\nHaredale had last admitted him and old John Willet; and spent their\nunited force on that. It was a strong old oaken door, guarded by good\nbolts and a heavy bar, but it soon went crashing in upon the narrow\nstairs behind, and made, as it were, a platform to facilitate their\ntearing up into the rooms above. Almost at the same moment, a dozen\nother points were forced, and at every one the crowd poured in like\nwater.\n\nA few armed servant-men were posted in the hall, and when the rioters\nforced an entrance there, they fired some half-a-dozen shots. But these\ntaking no effect, and the concourse coming on like an army of devils,\nthey only thought of consulting their own safety, and retreated, echoing\ntheir assailants' cries, and hoping in the confusion to be taken\nfor rioters themselves; in which stratagem they succeeded, with the\nexception of one old man who was never heard of again, and was said\nto have had his brains beaten out with an iron bar (one of his fellows\nreported that he had seen the old man fall), and to have been afterwards\nburnt in the flames.\n\nThe besiegers being now in complete possession of the house, spread\nthemselves over it from garret to cellar, and plied their demon labours\nfiercely. While some small parties kindled bonfires underneath the\nwindows, others broke up the furniture and cast the fragments down\nto feed the flames below; where the apertures in the wall (windows no\nlonger) were large enough, they threw out tables, chests of drawers,\nbeds, mirrors, pictures, and flung them whole into the fire; while\nevery fresh addition to the blazing masses was received with shouts,\nand howls, and yells, which added new and dismal terrors to the\nconflagration. Those who had axes and had spent their fury on the\nmovables, chopped and tore down the doors and window frames, broke up\nthe flooring, hewed away the rafters, and buried men who lingered in the\nupper rooms, in heaps of ruins. Some searched the drawers, the chests,\nthe boxes, writing-desks, and closets, for jewels, plate, and money;\nwhile others, less mindful of gain and more mad for destruction, cast\ntheir whole contents into the courtyard without examination, and called\nto those below, to heap them on the blaze. Men who had been into the\ncellars, and had staved the casks, rushed to and fro stark mad, setting\nfire to all they saw--often to the dresses of their own friends--and\nkindling the building in so many parts that some had no time for\nescape, and were seen, with drooping hands and blackened faces, hanging\nsenseless on the window-sills to which they had crawled, until they were\nsucked and drawn into the burning gulf. The more the fire crackled and\nraged, the wilder and more cruel the men grew; as though moving in that\nelement they became fiends, and changed their earthly nature for the\nqualities that give delight in hell.\n\nThe burning pile, revealing rooms and passages red hot, through gaps\nmade in the crumbling walls; the tributary fires that licked the outer\nbricks and stones, with their long forked tongues, and ran up to meet\nthe glowing mass within; the shining of the flames upon the villains who\nlooked on and fed them; the roaring of the angry blaze, so bright and\nhigh that it seemed in its rapacity to have swallowed up the very smoke;\nthe living flakes the wind bore rapidly away and hurried on with, like\na storm of fiery snow; the noiseless breaking of great beams of wood,\nwhich fell like feathers on the heap of ashes, and crumbled in the very\nact to sparks and powder; the lurid tinge that overspread the sky,\nand the darkness, very deep by contrast, which prevailed around; the\nexposure to the coarse, common gaze, of every little nook which usages\nof home had made a sacred place, and the destruction by rude hands of\nevery little household favourite which old associations made a dear\nand precious thing: all this taking place--not among pitying looks and\nfriendly murmurs of compassion, but brutal shouts and exultations,\nwhich seemed to make the very rats who stood by the old house too long,\ncreatures with some claim upon the pity and regard of those its roof had\nsheltered:--combined to form a scene never to be forgotten by those who\nsaw it and were not actors in the work, so long as life endured.\n\nAnd who were they? The alarm-bell rang--and it was pulled by no faint or\nhesitating hands--for a long time; but not a soul was seen. Some of the\ninsurgents said that when it ceased, they heard the shrieks of women,\nand saw some garments fluttering in the air, as a party of men bore away\nno unresisting burdens. No one could say that this was true or false, in\nsuch an uproar; but where was Hugh? Who among them had seen him, since\nthe forcing of the doors? The cry spread through the body. Where was\nHugh!\n\n'Here!' he hoarsely cried, appearing from the darkness; out of breath,\nand blackened with the smoke. 'We have done all we can; the fire is\nburning itself out; and even the corners where it hasn't spread, are\nnothing but heaps of ruins. Disperse, my lads, while the coast's\nclear; get back by different ways; and meet as usual!' With that, he\ndisappeared again,--contrary to his wont, for he was always first to\nadvance, and last to go away,--leaving them to follow homewards as they\nwould.\n\nIt was not an easy task to draw off such a throng. If Bedlam gates had\nbeen flung wide open, there would not have issued forth such maniacs as\nthe frenzy of that night had made. There were men there, who danced and\ntrampled on the beds of flowers as though they trod down human enemies,\nand wrenched them from the stalks, like savages who twisted human necks.\nThere were men who cast their lighted torches in the air, and suffered\nthem to fall upon their heads and faces, blistering the skin with deep\nunseemly burns. There were men who rushed up to the fire, and paddled\nin it with their hands as if in water; and others who were restrained by\nforce from plunging in, to gratify their deadly longing. On the skull of\none drunken lad--not twenty, by his looks--who lay upon the ground with\na bottle to his mouth, the lead from the roof came streaming down in a\nshower of liquid fire, white hot; melting his head like wax. When the\nscattered parties were collected, men--living yet, but singed as with\nhot irons--were plucked out of the cellars, and carried off upon the\nshoulders of others, who strove to wake them as they went along, with\nribald jokes, and left them, dead, in the passages of hospitals. But of\nall the howling throng not one learnt mercy from, or sickened at, these\nsights; nor was the fierce, besotted, senseless rage of one man glutted.\n\nSlowly, and in small clusters, with hoarse hurrahs and repetitions\nof their usual cry, the assembly dropped away. The last few red-eyed\nstragglers reeled after those who had gone before; the distant noise of\nmen calling to each other, and whistling for others whom they missed,\ngrew fainter and fainter; at length even these sounds died away, and\nsilence reigned alone.\n\nSilence indeed! The glare of the flames had sunk into a fitful, flashing\nlight; and the gentle stars, invisible till now, looked down upon the\nblackening heap. A dull smoke hung upon the ruin, as though to hide it\nfrom those eyes of Heaven; and the wind forbore to move it. Bare walls,\nroof open to the sky--chambers, where the beloved dead had, many and\nmany a fair day, risen to new life and energy; where so many dear ones\nhad been sad and merry; which were connected with so many thoughts and\nhopes, regrets and changes--all gone. Nothing left but a dull and dreary\nblank--a smouldering heap of dust and ashes--the silence and solitude of\nutter desolation.\n\n\n\nChapter 56\n\n\nThe Maypole cronies, little dreaming of the change so soon to come upon\ntheir favourite haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way to\nLondon; and avoiding the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to the\nby-paths and the fields. As they drew nearer to their destination, they\nbegan to make inquiries of the people whom they passed, concerning the\nriots, and the truth or falsehood of the stories they had heard. The\nanswers went far beyond any intelligence that had spread to quiet\nChigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the Guards, conveying to\nNewgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been set upon by the\nmob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two witnesses\nnear Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away;\nanother, that Sir George Saville's house in Leicester Fields was to be\nburned that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fell\ninto the people's hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholic\nbill. All accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbers\nand more numerous parties than had yet appeared; that the streets were\nunsafe; that no man's house or life was worth an hour's purchase; that\nthe public consternation was increasing every moment; and that many\nfamilies had already fled the city. One fellow who wore the popular\ncolour, damned them for not having cockades in their hats, and bade them\nset a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison doors, for the locks\nwould have a straining; another asked if they were fire-proof, that\nthey walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and true\nmen;--and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, ordered\nthem to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support of\nthe rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with this\ndemand, and were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having come\nso far, to go forward, and see the real state of things with their own\neyes. So they pushed on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentous\nnews; and ruminating on what they had heard, spoke little to each other.\n\nIt was now night, and as they came nearer to the city they had dismal\nconfirmation of this intelligence in three great fires, all close\ntogether, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily reflected in the sky.\nArriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that almost every house\nhad chalked upon its door in large characters 'No Popery,' that the\nshops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every face\nthey passed.\n\nNoting these things with a degree of apprehension which neither of the\nthree cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions, they\ncame to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through the\nturnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hard\ngallop, and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, to\nopen quickly in the name of God.\n\nThe adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man, with a lantern\nin his hand, came running out--toll-keeper though he was--and was about\nto throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he exclaimed,\n'Good Heaven, what's that! Another fire!'\n\nAt this, the three turned their heads, and saw in the distance--straight\nin the direction whence they had come--a broad sheet of flame, casting\na threatening light upon the clouds, which glimmered as though the\nconflagration were behind them, and showed like a wrathful sunset.\n\n'My mind misgives me,' said the horseman, 'or I know from what far\nbuilding those flames come. Don't stand aghast, my good fellow. Open the\ngate!'\n\n'Sir,' cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse's bridle as he let\nhim through: 'I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I saw\nthem pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.'\n\n'So be it!' said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, and\nnot at him who spoke.\n\n'But sir--sir,' cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet,\n'if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,' he added, taking one\nfrom his own hat, 'it's necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it;\nit's love of life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; only\nfor this one night.'\n\n'Do!' cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. 'Mr\nHaredale--worthy sir--good gentleman--pray be persuaded.'\n\n'Who's that?' cried Mr Haredale, stooping down to look. 'Did I hear\nDaisy's voice?'\n\n'You did, sir,' cried the little man. 'Do be persuaded, sir. This\ngentleman says very true. Your life may hang upon it.'\n\n'Are you,' said Mr Haredale abruptly, 'afraid to come with me?'\n\n'I, sir?--N-n-no.'\n\n'Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters, swear that I took\nyou prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own lips; for\nas I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them, nor\nshall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night.\nUp here--behind me--quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fear\nnothing.'\n\nIn an instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud of\ndust, and speeding on, like hunters in a dream.\n\nIt was well the good horse knew the road he traversed, for never\nonce--no, never once in all the journey--did Mr Haredale cast his eyes\nupon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the light towards\nwhich they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, 'It is my house,'\nbut that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and doubtful\nplaces, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold him\nmore securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixed\non the fire, then, and always.\n\nThe road was dangerous enough, for they went the nearest\nway--headlong--far from the highway--by lonely lanes and paths, where\nwaggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed in\nthe narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made it\nprofoundly dark. But on, on, on, with neither stop nor stumble, till\nthey reached the Maypole door, and could plainly see that the fire began\nto fade, as if for want of fuel.\n\n'Down--for one moment--for but one moment,' said Mr Haredale, helping\nDaisy to the ground, and following himself. 'Willet--Willet--where are\nmy niece and servants--Willet!'\n\nCrying to him distractedly, he rushed into the bar.--The landlord bound\nand fastened to his chair; the place dismantled, stripped, and pulled\nabout his ears;--nobody could have taken shelter here.\n\nHe was a strong man, accustomed to restrain himself, and suppress his\nstrong emotions; but this preparation for what was to follow--though he\nhad seen that fire burning, and knew that his house must be razed to the\nground--was more than he could bear. He covered his face with his hands\nfor a moment, and turned away his head.\n\n'Johnny, Johnny,' said Solomon--and the simple-hearted fellow cried\noutright, and wrung his hands--'Oh dear old Johnny, here's a change!\nThat the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to see\nit! The old Warren too, Johnny--Mr Haredale--oh, Johnny, what a piteous\nsight this is!'\n\nPointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy put\nhis elbows on the back of Mr Willet's chair, and fairly blubbered on his\nshoulder.\n\nWhile Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring\nat him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible\nsymptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was\nsilent again, John followed with his great round eyes the direction\nof his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that\nsomebody had come to see him.\n\n'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping himself\non the breast. 'Daisy, you know--Chigwell Church--bell-ringer--little\ndesk on Sundays--eh, Johnny?'\n\nMr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were\nmechanically: 'Let us sing to the praise and glory of--'\n\n'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man, hastily; 'that's it--that's me,\nJohnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.'\n\n'All right?' pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely\nbetween himself and his conscience. 'All right? Ah!'\n\n'They haven't been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other\nblunt instruments--have they, Johnny?' asked Solomon, with a very\nanxious glance at Mr Willet's head. 'They didn't beat you, did they?'\n\nJohn knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged\nin some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would\nnot come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his\nshoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round,\nleaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of\neach eye, and he said, as he shook his head:\n\n'If they'd only had the goodness to murder me, I'd have thanked 'em\nkindly.'\n\n'No, no, no, don't say that, Johnny,' whimpered his little friend. 'It's\nvery, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!'\n\n'Look'ee here, sir!' cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale,\nwho had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie\nhis bonds. 'Look'ee here, sir! The very Maypole--the old dumb\nMaypole--stares in at the winder, as if it said, \"John Willet, John\nWillet, let's go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is\ndeep enough to hold us; for our day is over!\"'\n\n'Don't, Johnny, don't,' cried his friend: no less affected with this\nmournful effort of Mr Willet's imagination, than by the sepulchral tone\nin which he had spoken of the Maypole. 'Please don't, Johnny!'\n\n'Your loss is great, and your misfortune a heavy one,' said Mr Haredale,\nlooking restlessly towards the door: 'and this is not a time to comfort\nyou. If it were, I am in no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tell\nme one thing, and try to tell me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen,\nor heard of Emma?'\n\n'No!' said Mr Willet.\n\n'Nor any one but these bloodhounds?'\n\n'No!'\n\n'They rode away, I trust in Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,'\nsaid Mr Haredale, who, between his agitation, his eagerness to mount\nhis horse again, and the dexterity with which the cords were tied, had\nscarcely yet undone one knot. 'A knife, Daisy!'\n\n'You didn't,' said John, looking about, as though he had lost his\npocket-handkerchief, or some such slight article--'either of you\ngentlemen--see a--a coffin anywheres, did you?'\n\n'Willet!' cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the knife, and instantly\nbecoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed 'Good gracious!'\n\n'--Because,' said John, not at all regarding them, 'a dead man called a\nlittle time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name was\non the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind.\nIf he didn't, it don't signify.'\n\nHis landlord, who had listened to these words with breathless attention,\nstarted that moment to his feet; and, without a word, drew Solomon\nDaisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind again, and flew\nrather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that day's sun\nhad shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them, listened,\nlooked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still unbound,\nand, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, or\nsurprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had so\nimperfectly recovered.\n\nMr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping his\ncompanion's arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what had\nbeen the garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon its\nsmoking walls, and at the stars that shone through roof and floor upon\nthe heap of crumbling ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, but\nhis lips were tightly pressed together, a resolute and stern expression\nsat upon his brow, and not a tear, a look, or gesture indicating grief,\nescaped him.\n\nHe drew his sword; felt for a moment in his breast, as though he carried\nother arms about him; then grasping Solomon by the wrist again, went\nwith a cautious step all round the house. He looked into every doorway\nand gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every rustling of the air\namong the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with outstretched\nhands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they returned\nto the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any human\nbeing, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler.\n\nAfter a short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then cried\naloud, 'Is there any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There is\nnothing to fear now. If any of my people are near, I entreat them\nto answer!' He called them all by name; his voice was echoed in many\nmournful tones; then all was silent as before.\n\nThey were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarm-bell\nhung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn,\nand beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of the\nstaircase still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust and\ncinders. Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecure\nand giddy footing here and there, and then were lost again, behind\nprotruding angles of the wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it by\nother portions of the ruin; for by this time the moon had risen, and\nshone brightly.\n\nAs they stood here, listening to the echoes as they died away, and\nhoping in vain to hear a voice they knew, some of the ashes in this\nturret slipped and rolled down. Startled by the least noise in that\nmelancholy place, Solomon looked up in his companion's face, and saw\nthat he had turned towards the spot, and that he watched and listened\nkeenly.\n\nHe covered the little man's mouth with his hand, and looked again.\nInstantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep still, and\nneither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down,\nhe stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, and\ndisappeared.\n\nTerrified to be left there by himself, under such desolate\ncircumstances, and after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomon\nwould have followed, but there had been something in Mr Haredale's\nmanner and his look, the recollection of which held him spellbound. He\nstood rooted to the spot; and scarcely venturing to breathe, looked up\nwith mingled fear and wonder.\n\nAgain the ashes slipped and rolled--very, very softly--again--and then\nagain, as though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot.\nAnd now a figure was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and often\nstopping to look down; now it pursued its difficult way; and now it was\nhidden from the view again.\n\nIt emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light--higher now,\nbut not much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress very\nslow. What phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look down\nso constantly? He knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected by\nthat night's loss and agony. He was not about to throw himself headlong\nfrom the summit of the tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and clasped\nhis hands. His limbs trembled beneath him, and a cold sweat broke out\nupon his pallid face.\n\nIf he complied with Mr Haredale's last injunction now, it was because he\nhad not the power to speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed it\non a patch of moonlight, into which, if he continued to ascend, he must\nsoon emerge. When he appeared there, he would try to call to him.\n\nAgain the ashes slipped and crumbled; some stones rolled down, and fell\nwith a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below. He kept his eyes upon\nthe piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for its shadow was\nalready thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared--and now looked round at\nhim--and now--\n\nThe horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that pierced the air, and\ncried, 'The ghost! The ghost!'\n\nLong before the echo of his cry had died away, another form rushed out\ninto the light, flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its\nbreast, and clutched its throat with both hands.\n\n'Villain!' cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice--for it was he. 'Dead\nand buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but reserved\nby Heaven for this--at last--at last I have you. You, whose hands are\nred with my brother's blood, and that of his faithful servant, shed\nto conceal your own atrocious guilt--You, Rudge, double murderer and\nmonster, I arrest you in the name of God, who has delivered you into my\nhands. No. Though you had the strength of twenty men,' he added, as the\nmurderer writhed and struggled, 'you could not escape me or loosen my\ngrasp to-night!'\n\n\n\nChapter 57\n\n\nBarnaby, armed as we have seen, continued to pace up and down before\nthe stable-door; glad to be alone again, and heartily rejoicing in the\nunaccustomed silence and tranquillity. After the whirl of noise and riot\nin which the last two days had been passed, the pleasures of solitude\nand peace were enhanced a thousandfold. He felt quite happy; and as he\nleaned upon his staff and mused, a bright smile overspread his face, and\nnone but cheerful visions floated into his brain.\n\nHad he no thoughts of her, whose sole delight he was, and whom he had\nunconsciously plunged in such bitter sorrow and such deep affliction?\nOh, yes. She was at the heart of all his cheerful hopes and proud\nreflections. It was she whom all this honour and distinction were to\ngladden; the joy and profit were for her. What delight it gave her\nto hear of the bravery of her poor boy! Ah! He would have known that,\nwithout Hugh's telling him. And what a precious thing it was to know she\nlived so happily, and heard with so much pride (he pictured to himself\nher look when they told her) that he was in such high esteem: bold among\nthe boldest, and trusted before them all! And when these frays were\nover, and the good lord had conquered his enemies, and they were all at\npeace again, and he and she were rich, what happiness they would have\nin talking of these troubled times when he was a great soldier: and when\nthey sat alone together in the tranquil twilight, and she had no longer\nreason to be anxious for the morrow, what pleasure would he have in the\nreflection that this was his doing--his--poor foolish Barnaby's; and\nin patting her on the cheek, and saying with a merry laugh, 'Am I silly\nnow, mother--am I silly now?'\n\nWith a lighter heart and step, and eyes the brighter for the happy tear\nthat dimmed them for a moment, Barnaby resumed his walk; and singing\ngaily to himself, kept guard upon his quiet post.\n\nHis comrade Grip, the partner of his watch, though fond of basking in\nthe sunshine, preferred to-day to walk about the stable; having a great\ndeal to do in the way of scattering the straw, hiding under it such\nsmall articles as had been casually left about, and haunting Hugh's\nbed, to which he seemed to have taken a particular attachment. Sometimes\nBarnaby looked in and called him, and then he came hopping out; but\nhe merely did this as a concession to his master's weakness, and soon\nreturned again to his own grave pursuits: peering into the straw with\nhis bill, and rapidly covering up the place, as if, Midas-like, he were\nwhispering secrets to the earth and burying them; constantly busying\nhimself upon the sly; and affecting, whenever Barnaby came past, to\nlook up in the clouds and have nothing whatever on his mind: in short,\nconducting himself, in many respects, in a more than usually thoughtful,\ndeep, and mysterious manner.\n\nAs the day crept on, Barnaby, who had no directions forbidding him to\neat and drink upon his post, but had been, on the contrary, supplied\nwith a bottle of beer and a basket of provisions, determined to break\nhis fast, which he had not done since morning. To this end, he sat down\non the ground before the door, and putting his staff across his knees in\ncase of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner.\n\nThis call, the bird obeyed with great alacrity; crying, as he sidled\nup to his master, 'I'm a devil, I'm a Polly, I'm a kettle, I'm a\nProtestant, No Popery!' Having learnt this latter sentiment from the\ngentry among whom he had lived of late, he delivered it with uncommon\nemphasis.\n\n'Well said, Grip!' cried his master, as he fed him with the daintiest\nbits. 'Well said, old boy!'\n\n'Never say die, bow wow wow, keep up your spirits, Grip Grip Grip,\nHolloa! We'll all have tea, I'm a Protestant kettle, No Popery!' cried\nthe raven.\n\n'Gordon for ever, Grip!' cried Barnaby.\n\nThe raven, placing his head upon the ground, looked at his master\nsideways, as though he would have said, 'Say that again!' Perfectly\nunderstanding his desire, Barnaby repeated the phrase a great many\ntimes. The bird listened with profound attention; sometimes repeating\nthe popular cry in a low voice, as if to compare the two, and try if it\nwould at all help him to this new accomplishment; sometimes flapping\nhis wings, or barking; and sometimes in a kind of desperation drawing a\nmultitude of corks, with extraordinary viciousness.\n\nBarnaby was so intent upon his favourite, that he was not at first\naware of the approach of two persons on horseback, who were riding at a\nfoot-pace, and coming straight towards his post. When he perceived them,\nhowever, which he did when they were within some fifty yards of him, he\njumped hastily up, and ordering Grip within doors, stood with both hands\non his staff, waiting until he should know whether they were friends or\nfoes.\n\nHe had hardly done so, when he observed that those who advanced were a\ngentleman and his servant; almost at the same moment he recognised Lord\nGeorge Gordon, before whom he stood uncovered, with his eyes turned\ntowards the ground.\n\n'Good day!' said Lord George, not reining in his horse until he was\nclose beside him. 'Well!'\n\n'All quiet, sir, all safe!' cried Barnaby. 'The rest are away--they went\nby that path--that one. A grand party!'\n\n'Ay?' said Lord George, looking thoughtfully at him. 'And you?'\n\n'Oh! They left me here to watch--to mount guard--to keep everything\nsecure till they come back. I'll do it, sir, for your sake. You're a\ngood gentleman; a kind gentleman--ay, you are. There are many against\nyou, but we'll be a match for them, never fear!'\n\n'What's that?' said Lord George--pointing to the raven who was peeping\nout of the stable-door--but still looking thoughtfully, and in some\nperplexity, it seemed, at Barnaby.\n\n'Why, don't you know!' retorted Barnaby, with a wondering laugh. 'Not\nknow what HE is! A bird, to be sure. My bird--my friend--Grip.'\n\n'A devil, a kettle, a Grip, a Polly, a Protestant, no Popery!' cried the\nraven.\n\n'Though, indeed,' added Barnaby, laying his hand upon the neck of Lord\nGeorge's horse, and speaking softly: 'you had good reason to ask me what\nhe is, for sometimes it puzzles me--and I am used to him--to think\nhe's only a bird. He's my brother, Grip is--always with me--always\ntalking--always merry--eh, Grip?'\n\nThe raven answered by an affectionate croak, and hopping on his master's\narm, which he held downward for that purpose, submitted with an air of\nperfect indifference to be fondled, and turned his restless, curious\neye, now upon Lord George, and now upon his man.\n\nLord George, biting his nails in a discomfited manner, regarded Barnaby\nfor some time in silence; then beckoning to his servant, said:\n\n'Come hither, John.'\n\nJohn Grueby touched his hat, and came.\n\n'Have you ever seen this young man before?' his master asked in a low\nvoice.\n\n'Twice, my lord,' said John. 'I saw him in the crowd last night and\nSaturday.'\n\n'Did--did it seem to you that his manner was at all wild or strange?'\nLord George demanded, faltering.\n\n'Mad,' said John, with emphatic brevity.\n\n'And why do you think him mad, sir?' said his master, speaking in a\npeevish tone. 'Don't use that word too freely. Why do you think him\nmad?'\n\n'My lord,' John Grueby answered, 'look at his dress, look at his eyes,\nlook at his restless way, hear him cry \"No Popery!\" Mad, my lord.'\n\n'So because one man dresses unlike another,' returned his angry master,\nglancing at himself; 'and happens to differ from other men in his\ncarriage and manner, and to advocate a great cause which the corrupt and\nirreligious desert, he is to be accounted mad, is he?'\n\n'Stark, staring, raving, roaring mad, my lord,' returned the unmoved\nJohn.\n\n'Do you say this to my face?' cried his master, turning sharply upon\nhim.\n\n'To any man, my lord, who asks me,' answered John.\n\n'Mr Gashford, I find, was right,' said Lord George; 'I thought him\nprejudiced, though I ought to have known a man like him better than to\nhave supposed it possible!'\n\n'I shall never have Mr Gashford's good word, my lord,' replied John,\ntouching his hat respectfully, 'and I don't covet it.'\n\n'You are an ill-conditioned, most ungrateful fellow,' said Lord George:\n'a spy, for anything I know. Mr Gashford is perfectly correct, as I\nmight have felt convinced he was. I have done wrong to retain you in\nmy service. It is a tacit insult to him as my choice and confidential\nfriend to do so, remembering the cause you sided with, on the day he was\nmaligned at Westminster. You will leave me to-night--nay, as soon as we\nreach home. The sooner the better.'\n\n'If it comes to that, I say so too, my lord. Let Mr Gashford have his\nwill. As to my being a spy, my lord, you know me better than to believe\nit, I am sure. I don't know much about causes. My cause is the cause of\none man against two hundred; and I hope it always will be.'\n\n'You have said quite enough,' returned Lord George, motioning him to go\nback. 'I desire to hear no more.'\n\n'If you'll let me have another word, my lord,' returned John Grueby,\n'I'd give this silly fellow a caution not to stay here by himself. The\nproclamation is in a good many hands already, and it's well known that\nhe was concerned in the business it relates to. He had better get to a\nplace of safety if he can, poor creature.'\n\n'You hear what this man says?' cried Lord George, addressing Barnaby,\nwho had looked on and wondered while this dialogue passed. 'He thinks\nyou may be afraid to remain upon your post, and are kept here perhaps\nagainst your will. What do you say?'\n\n'I think, young man,' said John, in explanation, 'that the soldiers may\nturn out and take you; and that if they do, you will certainly be hung\nby the neck till you're dead--dead--dead. And I think you had better go\nfrom here, as fast as you can. That's what I think.'\n\n'He's a coward, Grip, a coward!' cried Barnaby, putting the raven on the\nground, and shouldering his staff. 'Let them come! Gordon for ever! Let\nthem come!'\n\n'Ay!' said Lord George, 'let them! Let us see who will venture to attack\na power like ours; the solemn league of a whole people. THIS a madman!\nYou have said well, very well. I am proud to be the leader of such men\nas you.'\n\nBarnaby's heart swelled within his bosom as he heard these words. He took\nLord George's hand and carried it to his lips; patted his horse's crest,\nas if the affection and admiration he had conceived for the man extended\nto the animal he rode; then unfurling his flag, and proudly waving it,\nresumed his pacing up and down.\n\nLord George, with a kindling eye and glowing cheek, took off his hat,\nand flourishing it above his head, bade him exultingly Farewell!--then\ncantered off at a brisk pace; after glancing angrily round to see that\nhis servant followed. Honest John set spurs to his horse and rode after\nhis master, but not before he had again warned Barnaby to retreat,\nwith many significant gestures, which indeed he continued to make, and\nBarnaby to resist, until the windings of the road concealed them from\neach other's view.\n\nLeft to himself again with a still higher sense of the importance of\nhis post, and stimulated to enthusiasm by the special notice and\nencouragement of his leader, Barnaby walked to and fro in a delicious\ntrance rather than as a waking man. The sunshine which prevailed around\nwas in his mind. He had but one desire ungratified. If she could only\nsee him now!\n\nThe day wore on; its heat was gently giving place to the cool of\nevening; a light wind sprung up, fanning his long hair, and making\nthe banner rustle pleasantly above his head. There was a freedom and\nfreshness in the sound and in the time, which chimed exactly with his\nmood. He was happier than ever.\n\nHe was leaning on his staff looking towards the declining sun, and\nreflecting with a smile that he stood sentinel at that moment over\nburied gold, when two or three figures appeared in the distance, making\ntowards the house at a rapid pace, and motioning with their hands as\nthough they urged its inmates to retreat from some approaching danger.\nAs they drew nearer, they became more earnest in their gestures; and\nthey were no sooner within hearing, than the foremost among them cried\nthat the soldiers were coming up.\n\nAt these words, Barnaby furled his flag, and tied it round the pole. His\nheart beat high while he did so, but he had no more fear or thought of\nretreating than the pole itself. The friendly stragglers hurried past\nhim, after giving him notice of his danger, and quickly passed into the\nhouse, where the utmost confusion immediately prevailed. As those within\nhastily closed the windows and the doors, they urged him by looks and\nsigns to fly without loss of time, and called to him many times to do\nso; but he only shook his head indignantly in answer, and stood the\nfirmer on his post. Finding that he was not to be persuaded, they took\ncare of themselves; and leaving the place with only one old woman in it,\nspeedily withdrew.\n\nAs yet there had been no symptom of the news having any better\nfoundation than in the fears of those who brought it, but The Boot had\nnot been deserted five minutes, when there appeared, coming across the\nfields, a body of men who, it was easy to see, by the glitter of their\narms and ornaments in the sun, and by their orderly and regular mode of\nadvancing--for they came on as one man--were soldiers. In a very little\ntime, Barnaby knew that they were a strong detachment of the Foot\nGuards, having along with them two gentlemen in private clothes, and a\nsmall party of Horse; the latter brought up the rear, and were not in\nnumber more than six or eight.\n\nThey advanced steadily; neither quickening their pace as they came\nnearer, nor raising any cry, nor showing the least emotion or anxiety.\nThough this was a matter of course in the case of regular troops,\neven to Barnaby, there was something particularly impressive and\ndisconcerting in it to one accustomed to the noise and tumult of an\nundisciplined mob. For all that, he stood his ground not a whit the less\nresolutely, and looked on undismayed.\n\nPresently, they marched into the yard, and halted. The\ncommanding-officer despatched a messenger to the horsemen, one of whom\ncame riding back. Some words passed between them, and they glanced at\nBarnaby; who well remembered the man he had unhorsed at Westminster, and\nsaw him now before his eyes. The man being speedily dismissed, saluted,\nand rode back to his comrades, who were drawn up apart at a short\ndistance.\n\nThe officer then gave the word to prime and load. The heavy ringing of\nthe musket-stocks upon the ground, and the sharp and rapid rattling of\nthe ramrods in their barrels, were a kind of relief to Barnaby, deadly\nthough he knew the purport of such sounds to be. When this was done,\nother commands were given, and the soldiers instantaneously formed in\nsingle file all round the house and stables; completely encircling them\nin every part, at a distance, perhaps, of some half-dozen yards; at\nleast that seemed in Barnaby's eyes to be about the space left between\nhimself and those who confronted him. The horsemen remained drawn up by\nthemselves as before.\n\nThe two gentlemen in private clothes who had kept aloof, now rode\nforward, one on either side the officer. The proclamation having been\nproduced and read by one of them, the officer called on Barnaby to\nsurrender.\n\nHe made no answer, but stepping within the door, before which he had\nkept guard, held his pole crosswise to protect it. In the midst of a\nprofound silence, he was again called upon to yield.\n\nStill he offered no reply. Indeed he had enough to do, to run his eye\nbackward and forward along the half-dozen men who immediately fronted\nhim, and settle hurriedly within himself at which of them he would\nstrike first, when they pressed on him. He caught the eye of one in the\ncentre, and resolved to hew that fellow down, though he died for it.\n\nAgain there was a dead silence, and again the same voice called upon him\nto deliver himself up.\n\nNext moment he was back in the stable, dealing blows about him like a\nmadman. Two of the men lay stretched at his feet: the one he had marked,\ndropped first--he had a thought for that, even in the hot blood and\nhurry of the struggle. Another blow--another! Down, mastered, wounded in\nthe breast by a heavy blow from the butt-end of a gun (he saw the weapon\nin the act of falling)--breathless--and a prisoner.\n\nAn exclamation of surprise from the officer recalled him, in some\ndegree, to himself. He looked round. Grip, after working in secret all\nthe afternoon, and with redoubled vigour while everybody's attention was\ndistracted, had plucked away the straw from Hugh's bed, and turned up\nthe loose ground with his iron bill. The hole had been recklessly filled\nto the brim, and was merely sprinkled with earth. Golden cups, spoons,\ncandlesticks, coined guineas--all the riches were revealed.\n\nThey brought spades and a sack; dug up everything that was hidden there;\nand carried away more than two men could lift. They handcuffed him\nand bound his arms, searched him, and took away all he had. Nobody\nquestioned or reproached him, or seemed to have much curiosity about\nhim. The two men he had stunned, were carried off by their companions in\nthe same business-like way in which everything else was done. Finally,\nhe was left under a guard of four soldiers with fixed bayonets, while\nthe officer directed in person the search of the house and the other\nbuildings connected with it.\n\nThis was soon completed. The soldiers formed again in the yard; he was\nmarched out, with his guard about him; and ordered to fall in, where a\nspace was left. The others closed up all round, and so they moved away,\nwith the prisoner in the centre.\n\nWhen they came into the streets, he felt he was a sight; and looking up\nas they passed quickly along, could see people running to the windows a\nlittle too late, and throwing up the sashes to look after him. Sometimes\nhe met a staring face beyond the heads about him, or under the arms of\nhis conductors, or peering down upon him from a waggon-top or coach-box;\nbut this was all he saw, being surrounded by so many men. The very\nnoises of the streets seemed muffled and subdued; and the air came stale\nand hot upon him, like the sickly breath of an oven.\n\nTramp, tramp. Tramp, tramp. Heads erect, shoulders square, every man\nstepping in exact time--all so orderly and regular--nobody looking at\nhim--nobody seeming conscious of his presence,--he could hardly believe\nhe was a Prisoner. But at the word, though only thought, not spoken, he\nfelt the handcuffs galling his wrists, the cord pressing his arms to\nhis sides: the loaded guns levelled at his head; and those cold, bright,\nsharp, shining points turned towards him: the mere looking down at\nwhich, now that he was bound and helpless, made the warm current of his\nlife run cold.\n\n\n\nChapter 58\n\n\nThey were not long in reaching the barracks, for the officer who\ncommanded the party was desirous to avoid rousing the people by the\ndisplay of military force in the streets, and was humanely anxious\nto give as little opportunity as possible for any attempt at rescue;\nknowing that it must lead to bloodshed and loss of life, and that if the\ncivil authorities by whom he was accompanied, empowered him to order his\nmen to fire, many innocent persons would probably fall, whom curiosity\nor idleness had attracted to the spot. He therefore led the party\nbriskly on, avoiding with a merciful prudence the more public and\ncrowded thoroughfares, and pursuing those which he deemed least likely\nto be infested by disorderly persons. This wise proceeding not only\nenabled them to gain their quarters without any interruption, but\ncompletely baffled a body of rioters who had assembled in one of the\nmain streets, through which it was considered certain they would pass,\nand who remained gathered together for the purpose of releasing the\nprisoner from their hands, long after they had deposited him in a place\nof security, closed the barrack-gates, and set a double guard at every\nentrance for its better protection.\n\nArrived at this place, poor Barnaby was marched into a stone-floored\nroom, where there was a very powerful smell of tobacco, a strong\nthorough draught of air, and a great wooden bedstead, large enough for a\nscore of men. Several soldiers in undress were lounging about, or eating\nfrom tin cans; military accoutrements dangled on rows of pegs along the\nwhitewashed wall; and some half-dozen men lay fast asleep upon their\nbacks, snoring in concert. After remaining here just long enough to\nnote these things, he was marched out again, and conveyed across the\nparade-ground to another portion of the building.\n\nPerhaps a man never sees so much at a glance as when he is in a\nsituation of extremity. The chances are a hundred to one, that if\nBarnaby had lounged in at the gate to look about him, he would have\nlounged out again with a very imperfect idea of the place, and would\nhave remembered very little about it. But as he was taken handcuffed\nacross the gravelled area, nothing escaped his notice. The dry, arid\nlook of the dusty square, and of the bare brick building; the clothes\nhanging at some of the windows; and the men in their shirt-sleeves and\nbraces, lolling with half their bodies out of the others; the green\nsun-blinds at the officers' quarters, and the little scanty trees in\nfront; the drummer-boys practising in a distant courtyard; the men at\ndrill on the parade; the two soldiers carrying a basket between them,\nwho winked to each other as he went by, and slily pointed to their\nthroats; the spruce serjeant who hurried past with a cane in his hand,\nand under his arm a clasped book with a vellum cover; the fellows in the\nground-floor rooms, furbishing and brushing up their different articles\nof dress, who stopped to look at him, and whose voices as they\nspoke together echoed loudly through the empty galleries and\npassages;--everything, down to the stand of muskets before the\nguard-house, and the drum with a pipe-clayed belt attached, in one\ncorner, impressed itself upon his observation, as though he had noticed\nthem in the same place a hundred times, or had been a whole day among\nthem, in place of one brief hurried minute.\n\nHe was taken into a small paved back yard, and there they opened a great\ndoor, plated with iron, and pierced some five feet above the ground with\na few holes to let in air and light. Into this dungeon he was walked\nstraightway; and having locked him up there, and placed a sentry over\nhim, they left him to his meditations.\n\nThe cell, or black hole, for it had those words painted on the door, was\nvery dark, and having recently accommodated a drunken deserter, by no\nmeans clean. Barnaby felt his way to some straw at the farther end, and\nlooking towards the door, tried to accustom himself to the gloom, which,\ncoming from the bright sunshine out of doors, was not an easy task.\n\nThere was a kind of portico or colonnade outside, and this obstructed\neven the little light that at the best could have found its way through\nthe small apertures in the door. The footsteps of the sentinel echoed\nmonotonously as he paced its stone pavement to and fro (reminding\nBarnaby of the watch he had so lately kept himself); and as he passed\nand repassed the door, he made the cell for an instant so black by the\ninterposition of his body, that his going away again seemed like the\nappearance of a new ray of light, and was quite a circumstance to look\nfor.\n\nWhen the prisoner had sat sometime upon the ground, gazing at the\nchinks, and listening to the advancing and receding footsteps of his\nguard, the man stood still upon his post. Barnaby, quite unable to\nthink, or to speculate on what would be done with him, had been lulled\ninto a kind of doze by his regular pace; but his stopping roused him;\nand then he became aware that two men were in conversation under the\ncolonnade, and very near the door of his cell.\n\nHow long they had been talking there, he could not tell, for he had\nfallen into an unconsciousness of his real position, and when the\nfootsteps ceased, was answering aloud some question which seemed to have\nbeen put to him by Hugh in the stable, though of the fancied purport,\neither of question or reply, notwithstanding that he awoke with the\nlatter on his lips, he had no recollection whatever. The first words\nthat reached his ears, were these:\n\n'Why is he brought here then, if he has to be taken away again so soon?'\n\n'Why where would you have him go! Damme, he's not as safe anywhere as\namong the king's troops, is he? What WOULD you do with him? Would you\nhand him over to a pack of cowardly civilians, that shake in their\nshoes till they wear the soles out, with trembling at the threats of the\nragamuffins he belongs to?'\n\n'That's true enough.'\n\n'True enough!--I'll tell you what. I wish, Tom Green, that I was a\ncommissioned instead of a non-commissioned officer, and that I had the\ncommand of two companies--only two companies--of my own regiment.\nCall me out to stop these riots--give me the needful authority, and\nhalf-a-dozen rounds of ball cartridge--'\n\n'Ay!' said the other voice. 'That's all very well, but they won't give\nthe needful authority. If the magistrate won't give the word, what's the\nofficer to do?'\n\nNot very well knowing, as it seemed, how to overcome this difficulty,\nthe other man contented himself with damning the magistrates.\n\n'With all my heart,' said his friend.\n\n'Where's the use of a magistrate?' returned the other voice. 'What's\na magistrate in this case, but an impertinent, unnecessary,\nunconstitutional sort of interference? Here's a proclamation. Here's a\nman referred to in that proclamation. Here's proof against him, and a\nwitness on the spot. Damme! Take him out and shoot him, sir. Who wants a\nmagistrate?'\n\n'When does he go before Sir John Fielding?' asked the man who had spoken\nfirst.\n\n'To-night at eight o'clock,' returned the other. 'Mark what follows. The\nmagistrate commits him to Newgate. Our people take him to Newgate. The\nrioters pelt our people. Our people retire before the rioters. Stones\nare thrown, insults are offered, not a shot's fired. Why? Because of the\nmagistrates. Damn the magistrates!'\n\nWhen he had in some degree relieved his mind by cursing the magistrates\nin various other forms of speech, the man was silent, save for a low\ngrowling, still having reference to those authorities, which from time\nto time escaped him.\n\nBarnaby, who had wit enough to know that this conversation concerned,\nand very nearly concerned, himself, remained perfectly quiet until they\nceased to speak, when he groped his way to the door, and peeping through\nthe air-holes, tried to make out what kind of men they were, to whom he\nhad been listening.\n\nThe one who condemned the civil power in such strong terms, was a\nserjeant--engaged just then, as the streaming ribands in his cap\nannounced, on the recruiting service. He stood leaning sideways against\na pillar nearly opposite the door, and as he growled to himself, drew\nfigures on the pavement with his cane. The other man had his back\ntowards the dungeon, and Barnaby could only see his form. To judge from\nthat, he was a gallant, manly, handsome fellow, but he had lost his left\narm. It had been taken off between the elbow and the shoulder, and his\nempty coat-sleeve hung across his breast.\n\nIt was probably this circumstance which gave him an interest beyond any\nthat his companion could boast of, and attracted Barnaby's attention.\nThere was something soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap\nand jacket. Perhaps he had been in the service at one time or other.\nIf he had, it could not have been very long ago, for he was but a young\nfellow now.\n\n'Well, well,' he said thoughtfully; 'let the fault be where it may, it\nmakes a man sorrowful to come back to old England, and see her in this\ncondition.'\n\n'I suppose the pigs will join 'em next,' said the serjeant, with\nan imprecation on the rioters, 'now that the birds have set 'em the\nexample.'\n\n'The birds!' repeated Tom Green.\n\n'Ah--birds,' said the serjeant testily; 'that's English, an't it?'\n\n'I don't know what you mean.'\n\n'Go to the guard-house, and see. You'll find a bird there, that's got\ntheir cry as pat as any of 'em, and bawls \"No Popery,\" like a man--or\nlike a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn't wonder. The devil's loose\nin London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn't twist his neck round, on the\nchance, if I had MY way.'\n\nThe young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go and see\nthis creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby.\n\n'It's mine,' he called out, half laughing and half weeping--'my pet,\nmy friend Grip. Ha ha ha! Don't hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught\nhim; it's my fault. Let me have him, if you please. He's the only friend\nI have left now. He'll not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I\nknow; but he will for me, because he knows me and loves me--though you\nwouldn't think it--very well. You wouldn't hurt a bird, I'm sure. You're\na brave soldier, sir, and wouldn't harm a woman or a child--no, no, nor\na poor bird, I'm certain.'\n\nThis latter adjuration was addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby\njudged from his red coat to be high in office, and able to seal Grip's\ndestiny by a word. But that gentleman, in reply, surlily damned him for\na thief and rebel as he was, and with many disinterested imprecations on\nhis own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured him that if it rested with\nhim to decide, he would put a final stopper on the bird, and his master\ntoo.\n\n'You talk boldly to a caged man,' said Barnaby, in anger. 'If I was on\nthe other side of the door and there were none to part us, you'd change\nyour note--ay, you may toss your head--you would! Kill the bird--do.\nKill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their\nbare hands untied could do as much to you!'\n\nHaving vented his defiance, he flung himself into the furthest corner\nof his prison, and muttering, 'Good bye, Grip--good bye, dear old Grip!'\nshed tears for the first time since he had been taken captive; and hid\nhis face in the straw.\n\nHe had had some fancy at first, that the one-armed man would help him,\nor would give him a kind word in answer. He hardly knew why, but he\nhoped and thought so. The young fellow had stopped when he called out,\nand checking himself in the very act of turning round, stood listening\nto every word he said. Perhaps he built his feeble trust on this;\nperhaps on his being young, and having a frank and honest manner.\nHowever that might be, he built on sand. The other went away directly\nhe had finished speaking, and neither answered him, nor returned. No\nmatter. They were all against him here: he might have known as much.\nGood bye, old Grip, good bye!\n\nAfter some time, they came and unlocked the door, and called to him to\ncome out. He rose directly, and complied, for he would not have THEM\nthink he was subdued or frightened. He walked out like a man, and looked\nfrom face to face.\n\nNone of them returned his gaze or seemed to notice it. They marched\nhim back to the parade by the way they had brought him, and there they\nhalted, among a body of soldiers, at least twice as numerous as that\nwhich had taken him prisoner in the afternoon. The officer he had seen\nbefore, bade him in a few brief words take notice that if he attempted\nto escape, no matter how favourable a chance he might suppose he had,\ncertain of the men had orders to fire upon him, that moment. They then\nclosed round him as before, and marched him off again.\n\nIn the same unbroken order they arrived at Bow Street, followed and\nbeset on all sides by a crowd which was continually increasing. Here\nhe was placed before a blind gentleman, and asked if he wished to say\nanything. Not he. What had he got to tell them? After a very little\ntalking, which he was careless of and quite indifferent to, they told\nhim he was to go to Newgate, and took him away.\n\nHe went out into the street, so surrounded and hemmed in on every side\nby soldiers, that he could see nothing; but he knew there was a great\ncrowd of people, by the murmur; and that they were not friendly to the\nsoldiers, was soon rendered evident by their yells and hisses. How often\nand how eagerly he listened for the voice of Hugh! There was not a voice\nhe knew among them all. Was Hugh a prisoner too? Was there no hope!\n\nAs they came nearer and nearer to the prison, the hootings of the people\ngrew more violent; stones were thrown; and every now and then, a rush\nwas made against the soldiers, which they staggered under. One of them,\nclose before him, smarting under a blow upon the temple, levelled his\nmusket, but the officer struck it upwards with his sword, and ordered\nhim on peril of his life to desist. This was the last thing he saw\nwith any distinctness, for directly afterwards he was tossed about,\nand beaten to and fro, as though in a tempestuous sea. But go where\nhe would, there were the same guards about him. Twice or thrice he was\nthrown down, and so were they; but even then, he could not elude their\nvigilance for a moment. They were up again, and had closed about him,\nbefore he, with his wrists so tightly bound, could scramble to his feet.\nFenced in, thus, he felt himself hoisted to the top of a low flight of\nsteps, and then for a moment he caught a glimpse of the fighting in\nthe crowd, and of a few red coats sprinkled together, here and there,\nstruggling to rejoin their fellows. Next moment, everything was dark and\ngloomy, and he was standing in the prison lobby; the centre of a group\nof men.\n\nA smith was speedily in attendance, who riveted upon him a set of heavy\nirons. Stumbling on as well as he could, beneath the unusual burden of\nthese fetters, he was conducted to a strong stone cell, where, fastening\nthe door with locks, and bolts, and chains, they left him, well secured;\nhaving first, unseen by him, thrust in Grip, who, with his head drooping\nand his deep black plumes rough and rumpled, appeared to comprehend and\nto partake, his master's fallen fortunes.\n\n\n\nChapter 59\n\n\nIt is necessary at this juncture to return to Hugh, who, having, as we\nhave seen, called to the rioters to disperse from about the Warren, and\nmeet again as usual, glided back into the darkness from which he had\nemerged, and reappeared no more that night.\n\nHe paused in the copse which sheltered him from the observation of his\nmad companions, and waited to ascertain whether they drew off at his\nbidding, or still lingered and called to him to join them. Some few, he\nsaw, were indisposed to go away without him, and made towards the spot\nwhere he stood concealed as though they were about to follow in his\nfootsteps, and urge him to come back; but these men, being in their turn\ncalled to by their friends, and in truth not greatly caring to venture\ninto the dark parts of the grounds, where they might be easily surprised\nand taken, if any of the neighbours or retainers of the family were\nwatching them from among the trees, soon abandoned the idea, and hastily\nassembling such men as they found of their mind at the moment, straggled\noff.\n\nWhen he was satisfied that the great mass of the insurgents were\nimitating this example, and that the ground was rapidly clearing, he\nplunged into the thickest portion of the little wood; and, crashing the\nbranches as he went, made straight towards a distant light: guided by\nthat, and by the sullen glow of the fire behind him.\n\nAs he drew nearer and nearer to the twinkling beacon towards which he\nbent his course, the red glare of a few torches began to reveal itself,\nand the voices of men speaking together in a subdued tone broke the\nsilence which, save for a distant shouting now and then, already\nprevailed. At length he cleared the wood, and, springing across a ditch,\nstood in a dark lane, where a small body of ill-looking vagabonds, whom\nhe had left there some twenty minutes before, waited his coming with\nimpatience.\n\nThey were gathered round an old post-chaise or chariot, driven by one of\nthemselves, who sat postilion-wise upon the near horse. The blinds were\ndrawn up, and Mr Tappertit and Dennis kept guard at the two windows. The\nformer assumed the command of the party, for he challenged Hugh as he\nadvanced towards them; and when he did so, those who were resting on the\nground about the carriage rose to their feet and clustered round him.\n\n'Well!' said Simon, in a low voice; 'is all right?'\n\n'Right enough,' replied Hugh, in the same tone. 'They're dispersing\nnow--had begun before I came away.'\n\n'And is the coast clear?'\n\n'Clear enough before our men, I take it,' said Hugh. 'There are not many\nwho, knowing of their work over yonder, will want to meddle with 'em\nto-night.--Who's got some drink here?'\n\nEverybody had some plunder from the cellar; half-a-dozen flasks and\nbottles were offered directly. He selected the largest, and putting it\nto his mouth, sent the wine gurgling down his throat. Having emptied\nit, he threw it down, and stretched out his hand for another, which he\nemptied likewise, at a draught. Another was given him, and this he half\nemptied too. Reserving what remained to finish with, he asked:\n\n'Have you got anything to eat, any of you? I'm as ravenous as a hungry\nwolf. Which of you was in the larder--come?'\n\n'I was, brother,' said Dennis, pulling off his hat, and fumbling in\nthe crown. 'There's a matter of cold venison pasty somewhere or another\nhere, if that'll do.'\n\n'Do!' cried Hugh, seating himself on the pathway. 'Bring it out! Quick!\nShow a light here, and gather round! Let me sup in state, my lads! Ha ha\nha!'\n\nEntering into his boisterous humour, for they all had drunk deeply, and\nwere as wild as he, they crowded about him, while two of their number\nwho had torches, held them up, one on either side of him, that his\nbanquet might not be despatched in the dark. Mr Dennis, having by this\ntime succeeded in extricating from his hat a great mass of pasty, which\nhad been wedged in so tightly that it was not easily got out, put it\nbefore him; and Hugh, having borrowed a notched and jagged knife from\none of the company, fell to work upon it vigorously.\n\n'I should recommend you to swallow a little fire every day, about an\nhour afore dinner, brother,' said Dennis, after a pause. 'It seems to\nagree with you, and to stimulate your appetite.'\n\nHugh looked at him, and at the blackened faces by which he was\nsurrounded, and, stopping for a moment to flourish his knife above his\nhead, answered with a roar of laughter.\n\n'Keep order, there, will you?' said Simon Tappertit.\n\n'Why, isn't a man allowed to regale himself, noble captain,' retorted\nhis lieutenant, parting the men who stood between them, with his knife,\nthat he might see him,--'to regale himself a little bit after such work\nas mine? What a hard captain! What a strict captain! What a tyrannical\ncaptain! Ha ha ha!'\n\n'I wish one of you fellers would hold a bottle to his mouth to keep him\nquiet,' said Simon, 'unless you want the military to be down upon us.'\n\n'And what if they are down upon us!' retorted Hugh. 'Who cares? Who's\nafraid? Let 'em come, I say, let 'em come. The more, the merrier. Give\nme bold Barnaby at my side, and we two will settle the military, without\ntroubling any of you. Barnaby's the man for the military. Barnaby's\nhealth!'\n\nBut as the majority of those present were by no means anxious for a\nsecond engagement that night, being already weary and exhausted, they\nsided with Mr Tappertit, and pressed him to make haste with his supper,\nfor they had already delayed too long. Knowing, even in the height of\nhis frenzy, that they incurred great danger by lingering so near the\nscene of the late outrages, Hugh made an end of his meal without more\nremonstrance, and rising, stepped up to Mr Tappertit, and smote him on\nthe back.\n\n'Now then,' he cried, 'I'm ready. There are brave birds inside this\ncage, eh? Delicate birds,--tender, loving, little doves. I caged 'em--I\ncaged 'em--one more peep!'\n\nHe thrust the little man aside as he spoke, and mounting on the steps,\nwhich were half let down, pulled down the blind by force, and stared\ninto the chaise like an ogre into his larder.\n\n'Ha ha ha! and did you scratch, and pinch, and struggle, pretty\nmistress?' he cried, as he grasped a little hand that sought in vain to\nfree itself from his grip: 'you, so bright-eyed, and cherry-lipped, and\ndaintily made? But I love you better for it, mistress. Ay, I do. You\nshould stab me and welcome, so that it pleased you, and you had to\ncure me afterwards. I love to see you proud and scornful. It makes you\nhandsomer than ever; and who so handsome as you at any time, my pretty\none!'\n\n'Come!' said Mr Tappertit, who had waited during this speech with\nconsiderable impatience. 'There's enough of that. Come down.'\n\nThe little hand seconded this admonition by thrusting Hugh's great head\naway with all its force, and drawing up the blind, amidst his noisy\nlaughter, and vows that he must have another look, for the last glimpse\nof that sweet face had provoked him past all bearing. However, as the\nsuppressed impatience of the party now broke out into open murmurs,\nhe abandoned this design, and taking his seat upon the bar, contented\nhimself with tapping at the front windows of the carriage, and trying to\nsteal a glance inside; Mr Tappertit, mounting the steps and hanging on\nby the door, issued his directions to the driver with a commanding\nvoice and attitude; the rest got up behind, or ran by the side of the\ncarriage, as they could; some, in imitation of Hugh, endeavoured to\nsee the face he had praised so highly, and were reminded of their\nimpertinence by hints from the cudgel of Mr Tappertit. Thus they pursued\ntheir journey by circuitous and winding roads; preserving, except when\nthey halted to take breath, or to quarrel about the best way of reaching\nLondon, pretty good order and tolerable silence.\n\nIn the mean time, Dolly--beautiful, bewitching, captivating little\nDolly--her hair dishevelled, her dress torn, her dark eyelashes wet with\ntears, her bosom heaving--her face, now pale with fear, now crimsoned\nwith indignation--her whole self a hundred times more beautiful in\nthis heightened aspect than ever she had been before--vainly strove to\ncomfort Emma Haredale, and to impart to her the consolation of which she\nstood in so much need herself. The soldiers were sure to come; they must\nbe rescued; it would be impossible to convey them through the streets\nof London when they set the threats of their guards at defiance, and\nshrieked to the passengers for help. If they did this when they\ncame into the more frequented ways, she was certain--she was quite\ncertain--they must be released. So poor Dolly said, and so poor Dolly\ntried to think; but the invariable conclusion of all such arguments was,\nthat Dolly burst into tears; cried, as she wrung her hands, what would\nthey do or think, or who would comfort them, at home, at the Golden Key;\nand sobbed most piteously.\n\nMiss Haredale, whose feelings were usually of a quieter kind than\nDolly's, and not so much upon the surface, was dreadfully alarmed, and\nindeed had only just recovered from a swoon. She was very pale, and the\nhand which Dolly held was quite cold; but she bade her, nevertheless,\nremember that, under Providence, much must depend upon their own\ndiscretion; that if they remained quiet and lulled the vigilance of the\nruffians into whose hands they had fallen, the chances of their being\nable to procure assistance when they reached the town, were very much\nincreased; that unless society were quite unhinged, a hot pursuit must\nbe immediately commenced; and that her uncle, she might be sure, would\nnever rest until he had found them out and rescued them. But as she said\nthese latter words, the idea that he had fallen in a general massacre of\nthe Catholics that night--no very wild or improbable supposition after\nwhat they had seen and undergone--struck her dumb; and, lost in the\nhorrors they had witnessed, and those they might be yet reserved for,\nshe sat incapable of thought, or speech, or outward show of grief: as\nrigid, and almost as white and cold, as marble.\n\nOh, how many, many times, in that long ride, did Dolly think of her old\nlover,--poor, fond, slighted Joe! How many, many times, did she recall\nthat night when she ran into his arms from the very man now projecting\nhis hateful gaze into the darkness where she sat, and leering through\nthe glass in monstrous admiration! And when she thought of Joe, and what\na brave fellow he was, and how he would have rode boldly up, and\ndashed in among these villains now, yes, though they were double the\nnumber--and here she clenched her little hand, and pressed her foot upon\nthe ground--the pride she felt for a moment in having won his heart,\nfaded in a burst of tears, and she sobbed more bitterly than ever.\n\nAs the night wore on, and they proceeded by ways which were quite\nunknown to them--for they could recognise none of the objects of which\nthey sometimes caught a hurried glimpse--their fears increased; nor were\nthey without good foundation; it was not difficult for two beautiful\nyoung women to find, in their being borne they knew not whither by a\nband of daring villains who eyed them as some among these fellows did,\nreasons for the worst alarm. When they at last entered London, by a\nsuburb with which they were wholly unacquainted, it was past midnight,\nand the streets were dark and empty. Nor was this the worst, for the\ncarriage stopping in a lonely spot, Hugh suddenly opened the door,\njumped in, and took his seat between them.\n\nIt was in vain they cried for help. He put his arm about the neck of\neach, and swore to stifle them with kisses if they were not as silent as\nthe grave.\n\n'I come here to keep you quiet,' he said, 'and that's the means I shall\ntake. So don't be quiet, pretty mistresses--make a noise--do--and I\nshall like it all the better.'\n\nThey were proceeding at a rapid pace, and apparently with fewer\nattendants than before, though it was so dark (the torches being\nextinguished) that this was mere conjecture. They shrunk from his touch,\neach into the farthest corner of the carriage; but shrink as Dolly\nwould, his arm encircled her waist, and held her fast. She neither cried\nnor spoke, for terror and disgust deprived her of the power; but she\nplucked at his hand as though she would die in the effort to disengage\nherself; and crouching on the ground, with her head averted and held\ndown, repelled him with a strength she wondered at as much as he. The\ncarriage stopped again.\n\n'Lift this one out,' said Hugh to the man who opened the door, as\nhe took Miss Haredale's hand, and felt how heavily it fell. 'She's\nfainted.'\n\n'So much the better,' growled Dennis--it was that amiable gentleman.\n'She's quiet. I always like 'em to faint, unless they're very tender and\ncomposed.'\n\n'Can you take her by yourself?' asked Hugh.\n\n'I don't know till I try. I ought to be able to; I've lifted up a good\nmany in my time,' said the hangman. 'Up then! She's no small weight,\nbrother; none of these here fine gals are. Up again! Now we have her.'\n\nHaving by this time hoisted the young lady into his arms, he staggered\noff with his burden.\n\n'Look ye, pretty bird,' said Hugh, drawing Dolly towards him. 'Remember\nwhat I told you--a kiss for every cry. Scream, if you love me, darling.\nScream once, mistress. Pretty mistress, only once, if you love me.'\n\nThrusting his face away with all her force, and holding down her head,\nDolly submitted to be carried out of the chaise, and borne after Miss\nHaredale into a miserable cottage, where Hugh, after hugging her to his\nbreast, set her gently down upon the floor.\n\nPoor Dolly! Do what she would, she only looked the better for it, and\ntempted them the more. When her eyes flashed angrily, and her ripe lips\nslightly parted, to give her rapid breathing vent, who could resist it?\nWhen she wept and sobbed as though her heart would break, and bemoaned\nher miseries in the sweetest voice that ever fell upon a listener's ear,\nwho could be insensible to the little winning pettishness which now\nand then displayed itself, even in the sincerity and earnestness of her\ngrief? When, forgetful for a moment of herself, as she was now, she fell\non her knees beside her friend, and bent over her, and laid her cheek\nto hers, and put her arms about her, what mortal eyes could have avoided\nwandering to the delicate bodice, the streaming hair, the neglected\ndress, the perfect abandonment and unconsciousness of the blooming\nlittle beauty? Who could look on and see her lavish caresses and\nendearments, and not desire to be in Emma Haredale's place; to be either\nher or Dolly; either the hugging or the hugged? Not Hugh. Not Dennis.\n\n'I tell you what it is, young women,' said Mr Dennis, 'I an't much of a\nlady's man myself, nor am I a party in the present business further than\nlending a willing hand to my friends: but if I see much more of this\nhere sort of thing, I shall become a principal instead of a accessory. I\ntell you candid.'\n\n'Why have you brought us here?' said Emma. 'Are we to be murdered?'\n\n'Murdered!' cried Dennis, sitting down upon a stool, and regarding her\nwith great favour. 'Why, my dear, who'd murder sich chickabiddies as\nyou? If you was to ask me, now, whether you was brought here to be\nmarried, there might be something in it.'\n\nAnd here he exchanged a grin with Hugh, who removed his eyes from Dolly\nfor the purpose.\n\n'No, no,' said Dennis, 'there'll be no murdering, my pets. Nothing of\nthat sort. Quite the contrairy.'\n\n'You are an older man than your companion, sir,' said Emma, trembling.\n'Have you no pity for us? Do you not consider that we are women?'\n\n'I do indeed, my dear,' retorted Dennis. 'It would be very hard not to,\nwith two such specimens afore my eyes. Ha ha! Oh yes, I consider that.\nWe all consider that, miss.'\n\nHe shook his head waggishly, leered at Hugh again, and laughed very\nmuch, as if he had said a noble thing, and rather thought he was coming\nout.\n\n'There'll be no murdering, my dear. Not a bit on it. I tell you what\nthough, brother,' said Dennis, cocking his hat for the convenience\nof scratching his head, and looking gravely at Hugh, 'it's worthy of\nnotice, as a proof of the amazing equalness and dignity of our law, that\nit don't make no distinction between men and women. I've heerd the judge\nsay, sometimes, to a highwayman or housebreaker as had tied the ladies\nneck and heels--you'll excuse me making mention of it, my darlings--and\nput 'em in a cellar, that he showed no consideration to women. Now, I\nsay that there judge didn't know his business, brother; and that if\nI had been that there highwayman or housebreaker, I should have made\nanswer: \"What are you a talking of, my lord? I showed the women as much\nconsideration as the law does, and what more would you have me do?\" If\nyou was to count up in the newspapers the number of females as have\nbeen worked off in this here city alone, in the last ten year,' said Mr\nDennis thoughtfully, 'you'd be surprised at the total--quite amazed, you\nwould. There's a dignified and equal thing; a beautiful thing! But we've\nno security for its lasting. Now that they've begun to favour these here\nPapists, I shouldn't wonder if they went and altered even THAT, one of\nthese days. Upon my soul, I shouldn't.'\n\nThe subject, perhaps from being of too exclusive and professional a\nnature, failed to interest Hugh as much as his friend had anticipated.\nBut he had no time to pursue it, for at this crisis Mr Tappertit entered\nprecipitately; at sight of whom Dolly uttered a scream of joy, and\nfairly threw herself into his arms.\n\n'I knew it, I was sure of it!' cried Dolly. 'My dear father's at the\ndoor. Thank God, thank God! Bless you, Sim. Heaven bless you for this!'\n\nSimon Tappertit, who had at first implicitly believed that the\nlocksmith's daughter, unable any longer to suppress her secret passion\nfor himself, was about to give it full vent in its intensity, and to\ndeclare that she was his for ever, looked extremely foolish when she\nsaid these words;--the more so, as they were received by Hugh and Dennis\nwith a loud laugh, which made her draw back, and regard him with a fixed\nand earnest look.\n\n'Miss Haredale,' said Sim, after a very awkward silence, 'I hope\nyou're as comfortable as circumstances will permit of. Dolly Varden,\nmy darling--my own, my lovely one--I hope YOU'RE pretty comfortable\nlikewise.'\n\nPoor little Dolly! She saw how it was; hid her face in her hands; and\nsobbed more bitterly than ever.\n\n'You meet in me, Miss V.,' said Simon, laying his hand upon his breast,\n'not a 'prentice, not a workman, not a slave, not the wictim of your\nfather's tyrannical behaviour, but the leader of a great people, the\ncaptain of a noble band, in which these gentlemen are, as I may say,\ncorporals and serjeants. You behold in me, not a private individual, but\na public character; not a mender of locks, but a healer of the wounds of\nhis unhappy country. Dolly V., sweet Dolly V., for how many years have\nI looked forward to this present meeting! For how many years has it been\nmy intention to exalt and ennoble you! I redeem it. Behold in me, your\nhusband. Yes, beautiful Dolly--charmer--enslaver--S. Tappertit is all\nyour own!'\n\nAs he said these words he advanced towards her. Dolly retreated till she\ncould go no farther, and then sank down upon the floor. Thinking it very\npossible that this might be maiden modesty, Simon essayed to raise her;\non which Dolly, goaded to desperation, wound her hands in his hair, and\ncrying out amidst her tears that he was a dreadful little wretch, and\nalways had been, shook, and pulled, and beat him, until he was fain to\ncall for help, most lustily. Hugh had never admired her half so much as\nat that moment.\n\n'She's in an excited state to-night,' said Simon, as he smoothed his\nrumpled feathers, 'and don't know when she's well off. Let her be by\nherself till to-morrow, and that'll bring her down a little. Carry her\ninto the next house!'\n\nHugh had her in his arms directly. It might be that Mr Tappertit's heart\nwas really softened by her distress, or it might be that he felt it in\nsome degree indecorous that his intended bride should be struggling in\nthe grasp of another man. He commanded him, on second thoughts, to put\nher down again, and looked moodily on as she flew to Miss Haredale's\nside, and clinging to her dress, hid her flushed face in its folds.\n\n'They shall remain here together till to-morrow,' said Simon, who had\nnow quite recovered his dignity--'till to-morrow. Come away!'\n\n'Ay!' cried Hugh. 'Come away, captain. Ha ha ha!'\n\n'What are you laughing at?' demanded Simon sternly.\n\n'Nothing, captain, nothing,' Hugh rejoined; and as he spoke, and clapped\nhis hand upon the shoulder of the little man, he laughed again, for some\nunknown reason, with tenfold violence.\n\nMr Tappertit surveyed him from head to foot with lofty scorn (this only\nmade him laugh the more), and turning to the prisoners, said:\n\n'You'll take notice, ladies, that this place is well watched on every\nside, and that the least noise is certain to be attended with unpleasant\nconsequences. You'll hear--both of you--more of our intentions\nto-morrow. In the mean time, don't show yourselves at the window, or\nappeal to any of the people you may see pass it; for if you do, it'll\nbe known directly that you come from a Catholic house, and all the\nexertions our men can make, may not be able to save your lives.'\n\nWith this last caution, which was true enough, he turned to the door,\nfollowed by Hugh and Dennis. They paused for a moment, going out, to\nlook at them clasped in each other's arms, and then left the cottage;\nfastening the door, and setting a good watch upon it, and indeed all\nround the house.\n\n'I say,' growled Dennis, as they walked away in company, 'that's a\ndainty pair. Muster Gashford's one is as handsome as the other, eh?'\n\n'Hush!' said Hugh, hastily. 'Don't you mention names. It's a bad habit.'\n\n'I wouldn't like to be HIM, then (as you don't like names), when he\nbreaks it out to her; that's all,' said Dennis. 'She's one of them fine,\nblack-eyed, proud gals, as I wouldn't trust at such times with a knife\ntoo near 'em. I've seen some of that sort, afore now. I recollect one\nthat was worked off, many year ago--and there was a gentleman in that\ncase too--that says to me, with her lip a trembling, but her hand as\nsteady as ever I see one: \"Dennis, I'm near my end, but if I had a\ndagger in these fingers, and he was within my reach, I'd strike him dead\nafore me;\"--ah, she did--and she'd have done it too!'\n\nStrike who dead?' demanded Hugh.\n\n'How should I know, brother?' answered Dennis. 'SHE never said; not\nshe.'\n\nHugh looked, for a moment, as though he would have made some further\ninquiry into this incoherent recollection; but Simon Tappertit, who had\nbeen meditating deeply, gave his thoughts a new direction.\n\n'Hugh!' said Sim. 'You have done well to-day. You shall be rewarded.\nSo have you, Dennis.--There's no young woman YOU want to carry off, is\nthere?'\n\n'N--no,' returned that gentleman, stroking his grizzly beard, which was\nsome two inches long. 'None in partickler, I think.'\n\n'Very good,' said Sim; 'then we'll find some other way of making it up\nto you. As to you, old boy'--he turned to Hugh--'you shall have Miggs\n(her that I promised you, you know) within three days. Mind. I pass my\nword for it.'\n\nHugh thanked him heartily; and as he did so, his laughing fit returned\nwith such violence that he was obliged to hold his side with one hand,\nand to lean with the other on the shoulder of his small captain, without\nwhose support he would certainly have rolled upon the ground.\n\n\n\nChapter 60\n\n\nThe three worthies turned their faces towards The Boot, with the\nintention of passing the night in that place of rendezvous, and of\nseeking the repose they so much needed in the shelter of their old\nden; for now that the mischief and destruction they had purposed were\nachieved, and their prisoners were safely bestowed for the night, they\nbegan to be conscious of exhaustion, and to feel the wasting effects of\nthe madness which had led to such deplorable results.\n\nNotwithstanding the lassitude and fatigue which oppressed him now, in\ncommon with his two companions, and indeed with all who had taken an\nactive share in that night's work, Hugh's boisterous merriment broke out\nafresh whenever he looked at Simon Tappertit, and vented itself--much to\nthat gentleman's indignation--in such shouts of laughter as bade fair to\nbring the watch upon them, and involve them in a skirmish, to which in\ntheir present worn-out condition they might prove by no means equal.\nEven Mr Dennis, who was not at all particular on the score of gravity\nor dignity, and who had a great relish for his young friend's eccentric\nhumours, took occasion to remonstrate with him on this imprudent\nbehaviour, which he held to be a species of suicide, tantamount to a\nman's working himself off without being overtaken by the law, than which\nhe could imagine nothing more ridiculous or impertinent.\n\nNot abating one jot of his noisy mirth for these remonstrances, Hugh\nreeled along between them, having an arm of each, until they hove in\nsight of The Boot, and were within a field or two of that convenient\ntavern. He happened by great good luck to have roared and shouted\nhimself into silence by this time. They were proceeding onward without\nnoise, when a scout who had been creeping about the ditches all night,\nto warn any stragglers from encroaching further on what was now such\ndangerous ground, peeped cautiously from his hiding-place, and called to\nthem to stop.\n\n'Stop! and why?' said Hugh.\n\nBecause (the scout replied) the house was filled with constables and\nsoldiers; having been surprised that afternoon. The inmates had fled\nor been taken into custody, he could not say which. He had prevented a\ngreat many people from approaching nearer, and he believed they had\ngone to the markets and such places to pass the night. He had seen the\ndistant fires, but they were all out now. He had heard the people who\npassed and repassed, speaking of them too, and could report that the\nprevailing opinion was one of apprehension and dismay. He had not heard\na word of Barnaby--didn't even know his name--but it had been said in\nhis hearing that some man had been taken and carried off to Newgate.\nWhether this was true or false, he could not affirm.\n\nThe three took counsel together, on hearing this, and debated what it\nmight be best to do. Hugh, deeming it possible that Barnaby was in the\nhands of the soldiers, and at that moment under detention at The Boot,\nwas for advancing stealthily, and firing the house; but his companions,\nwho objected to such rash measures unless they had a crowd at their\nbacks, represented that if Barnaby were taken he had assuredly been\nremoved to a stronger prison; they would never have dreamed of keeping\nhim all night in a place so weak and open to attack. Yielding to this\nreasoning, and to their persuasions, Hugh consented to turn back and\nto repair to Fleet Market; for which place, it seemed, a few of their\nboldest associates had shaped their course, on receiving the same\nintelligence.\n\nFeeling their strength recruited and their spirits roused, now that\nthere was a new necessity for action, they hurried away, quite forgetful\nof the fatigue under which they had been sinking but a few minutes\nbefore; and soon arrived at their new place of destination.\n\nFleet Market, at that time, was a long irregular row of wooden sheds\nand penthouses, occupying the centre of what is now called Farringdon\nStreet. They were jumbled together in a most unsightly fashion, in the\nmiddle of the road; to the great obstruction of the thoroughfare and the\nannoyance of passengers, who were fain to make their way, as they best\ncould, among carts, baskets, barrows, trucks, casks, bulks, and benches,\nand to jostle with porters, hucksters, waggoners, and a motley crowd\nof buyers, sellers, pick-pockets, vagrants, and idlers. The air was\nperfumed with the stench of rotten leaves and faded fruit; the refuse of\nthe butchers' stalls, and offal and garbage of a hundred kinds. It\nwas indispensable to most public conveniences in those days, that they\nshould be public nuisances likewise; and Fleet Market maintained the\nprinciple to admiration.\n\nTo this place, perhaps because its sheds and baskets were a tolerable\nsubstitute for beds, or perhaps because it afforded the means of a hasty\nbarricade in case of need, many of the rioters had straggled, not only\nthat night, but for two or three nights before. It was now broad day,\nbut the morning being cold, a group of them were gathered round a fire\nin a public-house, drinking hot purl, and smoking pipes, and planning\nnew schemes for to-morrow.\n\nHugh and his two friends being known to most of these men, were received\nwith signal marks of approbation, and inducted into the most honourable\nseats. The room-door was closed and fastened to keep intruders at a\ndistance, and then they proceeded to exchange news.\n\n'The soldiers have taken possession of The Boot, I hear,' said Hugh.\n'Who knows anything about it?'\n\nSeveral cried that they did; but the majority of the company having\nbeen engaged in the assault upon the Warren, and all present having been\nconcerned in one or other of the night's expeditions, it proved that\nthey knew no more than Hugh himself; having been merely warned by each\nother, or by the scout, and knowing nothing of their own knowledge.\n\n'We left a man on guard there to-day,' said Hugh, looking round him,\n'who is not here. You know who it is--Barnaby, who brought the soldier\ndown, at Westminster. Has any man seen or heard of him?'\n\nThey shook their heads, and murmured an answer in the negative, as each\nman looked round and appealed to his fellow; when a noise was heard\nwithout, and a man was heard to say that he wanted Hugh--that he must\nsee Hugh.\n\n'He is but one man,' cried Hugh to those who kept the door; 'let him\ncome in.'\n\n'Ay, ay!' muttered the others. 'Let him come in. Let him come in.'\n\nThe door was accordingly unlocked and opened. A one-armed man, with\nhis head and face tied up with a bloody cloth, as though he had been\nseverely beaten, his clothes torn, and his remaining hand grasping a\nthick stick, rushed in among them, and panting for breath, demanded\nwhich was Hugh.\n\n'Here he is,' replied the person he inquired for. 'I am Hugh. What do\nyou want with me?'\n\n'I have a message for you,' said the man. 'You know one Barnaby.'\n\n'What of him? Did he send the message?'\n\n'Yes. He's taken. He's in one of the strong cells in Newgate. He\ndefended himself as well as he could, but was overpowered by numbers.\nThat's his message.'\n\n'When did you see him?' asked Hugh, hastily.\n\n'On his way to prison, where he was taken by a party of soldiers. They\ntook a by-road, and not the one we expected. I was one of the few who\ntried to rescue him, and he called to me, and told me to tell Hugh where\nhe was. We made a good struggle, though it failed. Look here!'\n\nHe pointed to his dress and to his bandaged head, and still panting for\nbreath, glanced round the room; then faced towards Hugh again.\n\n'I know you by sight,' he said, 'for I was in the crowd on Friday, and\non Saturday, and yesterday, but I didn't know your name. You're a bold\nfellow, I know. So is he. He fought like a lion tonight, but it was of\nno use. I did my best, considering that I want this limb.'\n\nAgain he glanced inquisitively round the room or seemed to do so, for\nhis face was nearly hidden by the bandage--and again facing sharply\ntowards Hugh, grasped his stick as if he half expected to be set upon,\nand stood on the defensive.\n\nIf he had any such apprehension, however, he was speedily reassured by\nthe demeanour of all present. None thought of the bearer of the tidings.\nHe was lost in the news he brought. Oaths, threats, and execrations,\nwere vented on all sides. Some cried that if they bore this tamely,\nanother day would see them all in jail; some, that they should have\nrescued the other prisoners, and this would not have happened. One man\ncried in a loud voice, 'Who'll follow me to Newgate!' and there was a\nloud shout and general rush towards the door.\n\nBut Hugh and Dennis stood with their backs against it, and kept them\nback, until the clamour had so far subsided that their voices could be\nheard, when they called to them together that to go now, in broad day,\nwould be madness; and that if they waited until night and arranged a\nplan of attack, they might release, not only their own companions, but\nall the prisoners, and burn down the jail.\n\n'Not that jail alone,' cried Hugh, 'but every jail in London. They shall\nhave no place to put their prisoners in. We'll burn them all down; make\nbonfires of them every one! Here!' he cried, catching at the hangman's\nhand. 'Let all who're men here, join with us. Shake hands upon it.\nBarnaby out of jail, and not a jail left standing! Who joins?'\n\nEvery man there. And they swore a great oath to release their friends\nfrom Newgate next night; to force the doors and burn the jail; or perish\nin the fire themselves.\n\n\n\nChapter 61\n\n\nOn that same night--events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and\ndistracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of a whole life\noften become compressed into the compass of four-and-twenty hours--on\nthat same night, Mr Haredale, having strongly bound his prisoner,\nwith the assistance of the sexton, and forced him to mount his horse,\nconducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a conveyance to London\nfrom that place, and carrying him at once before a justice. The\ndisturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient reason for\ndemanding the murderer's committal to prison before daybreak, as no man\ncould answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinary\nplaces of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when\nthe mob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger and\nhazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing the\nsexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer's side, and in\nthis order they reached the village about the middle of the night.\n\nThe people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of being burnt\nin their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other by watching\nin company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed and gathered in a\nbody on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr Haredale addressed\nhimself, briefly narrating what had happened, and beseeching them to aid\nin conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.\n\nBut not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion of\na finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, had\nmenaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid in\nextinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance to him, or any\nCatholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to their lives and all they\npossessed. They were assembled for their own protection, and could not\nendanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, not\nwithout hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight and\nglanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on\nhis breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor\nspoke.\n\nFinding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing how\nto do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr Haredale\nbesought them that at least they would leave him free to act for\nhimself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of\nhorses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some\ndifficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and go\naway from them in heaven's name.\n\nLeaving the sexton at the horse's bridle, he drew out the chaise\nwith his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the\npost-boy of the village--a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kind\nof fellow--was moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down\na pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut\nhim into mincemeat if they liked, but he would not stand by and see\nan honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity,\nwithout doing what he could to help him. Mr Haredale shook him warmly\nby the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In five minutes' time the\nchaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer\nwas put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat upon\nthe bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door;\nand so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, for\nLondon.\n\nThe consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escaped\nthe flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They\npassed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the driver\ntold them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but\nhad been driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd\non any of the inhabitants.\n\nNor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the people\nwere timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London they\nmet, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic family\nwho, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were\nquitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or\nhorse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave\nthem behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed a\nhouse, the master of which, a Catholic gentleman of small means, having\nhired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it all\nbrought down into the street, to wait the vehicle's arrival, and save\ntime in the packing. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed\nby the fires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing his\ndoor, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wife and\nservant and their little children, were sitting trembling among their\ngoods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing\nwhere to turn or what to do.\n\nIt was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panic\nwas so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carry\npassengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knew\nthem, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not take\nthem, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people had\nbeen afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest\nthey should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in\nconsequence. One mild old man--a priest, whose chapel was destroyed;\na very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature--who was trudging away,\nalone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try his\nfortune with the coaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might not\nfind a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner to\njail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accounts\nthey went on, and reached the Mansion House soon after sunrise.\n\nMr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to knock\nat the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the step\na portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with an\nanxious expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseen\npersonage upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door by\ndegrees and get rid of him. With the intense impatience and excitement\nnatural to one in his condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward and\nwas about to speak, when the fat old gentleman interposed:\n\n'My good sir,' said he, 'pray let me get an answer. This is the sixth\ntime I have been here. I was here five times yesterday. My house is\nthreatened with destruction. It is to be burned down to-night, and was\nto have been last night, but they had other business on their hands.\nPray let me get an answer.'\n\n'My good sir,' returned Mr Haredale, shaking his head, 'my house is\nburned to the ground. But heaven forbid that yours should be. Get your\nanswer. Be brief, in mercy to me.'\n\n'Now, you hear this, my lord?'--said the old gentleman, calling up\nthe stairs, to where the skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on the\nlanding-place. 'Here is a gentleman here, whose house was actually burnt\ndown last night.'\n\n'Dear me, dear me,' replied a testy voice, 'I am very sorry for it, but\nwhat am I to do? I can't build it up again. The chief magistrate of the\ncity can't go and be a rebuilding of people's houses, my good sir. Stuff\nand nonsense!'\n\n'But the chief magistrate of the city can prevent people's houses from\nhaving any need to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate's a man, and\nnot a dummy--can't he, my lord?' cried the old gentleman in a choleric\nmanner.\n\n'You are disrespectable, sir,' said the Lord Mayor--'leastways,\ndisrespectful I mean.'\n\n'Disrespectful, my lord!' returned the old gentleman. 'I was respectful\nfive times yesterday. I can't be respectful for ever. Men can't stand\non being respectful when their houses are going to be burnt over their\nheads, with them in 'em. What am I to do, my lord? AM I to have any\nprotection!'\n\n'I told you yesterday, sir,' said the Lord Mayor, 'that you might have\nan alderman in your house, if you could get one to come.'\n\n'What the devil's the good of an alderman?' returned the choleric old\ngentleman.\n\n'--To awe the crowd, sir,' said the Lord Mayor.\n\n'Oh Lord ha' mercy!' whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped his\nforehead in a state of ludicrous distress, 'to think of sending an\nalderman to awe a crowd! Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies,\nfed on mother's milk, what do you think they'd care for an alderman!\nWill YOU come?'\n\n'I!' said the Lord Mayor, most emphatically: 'Certainly not.'\n\n'Then what,' returned the old gentleman, 'what am I to do? Am I a\ncitizen of England? Am I to have the benefit of the laws? Am I to have\nany return for the King's taxes?'\n\n'I don't know, I am sure,' said the Lord Mayor; 'what a pity it is\nyou're a Catholic! Why couldn't you be a Protestant, and then you\nwouldn't have got yourself into such a mess? I'm sure I don't know\nwhat's to be done.--There are great people at the bottom of these\nriots.--Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public character!--You\nmust look in again in the course of the day.--Would a javelin-man\ndo?--Or there's Philips the constable,--HE'S disengaged,--he's not very\nold for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you put\nhim up at a window he'd look quite young by candle-light, and might\nfrighten 'em very much.--Oh dear!--well!--we'll see about it.'\n\n'Stop!' cried Mr Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter strove\nto shut it, and speaking rapidly, 'My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to go\naway. I have a man here, who committed a murder eight-and-twenty years\nago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on oath, will justify you in committing\nhim to prison for re-examination. I only seek, just now, to have him\nconsigned to a place of safety. The least delay may involve his being\nrescued by the rioters.'\n\n'Oh dear me!' cried the Lord Mayor. 'God bless my soul--and body--oh\nLor!--well I!--there are great people at the bottom of these riots, you\nknow.--You really mustn't.'\n\n'My lord,' said Mr Haredale, 'the murdered gentleman was my brother; I\nsucceeded to his inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tongues\nat that time, to whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deed\nwas mine--mine, who loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The time\nhas come, after all these years of gloom and misery, for avenging him,\nand bringing to light a crime so artful and so devilish that it has no\nparallel. Every second's delay on your part loosens this man's bloody\nhands again, and leads to his escape. My lord, I charge you hear me, and\ndespatch this matter on the instant.'\n\n'Oh dear me!' cried the chief magistrate; 'these an't business\nhours, you know--I wonder at you--how ungentlemanly it is of you--you\nmustn't--you really mustn't.--And I suppose you are a Catholic too?'\n\n'I am,' said Mr Haredale.\n\n'God bless my soul, I believe people turn Catholics a'purpose to vex\nand worrit me,' cried the Lord Mayor. 'I wish you wouldn't come here;\nthey'll be setting the Mansion House afire next, and we shall have you\nto thank for it. You must lock your prisoner up, sir--give him to a\nwatchman--and--call again at a proper time. Then we'll see about it!'\n\nBefore Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing of a door and drawing\nof its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had retreated to his\nbedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing. The two\nclients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into the\nstreet.\n\n'That's the way he puts me off,' said the old gentleman, 'I can get no\nredress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?'\n\n'To try elsewhere,' answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time on\nhorseback.\n\n'I feel for you, I assure you--and well I may, for we are in a common\ncause,' said the old gentleman. 'I may not have a house to offer you\nto-night; let me tender it while I can. On second thoughts though,' he\nadded, putting up a pocket-book he had produced while speaking, 'I'll\nnot give you a card, for if it was found upon you, it might get you\ninto trouble. Langdale--that's my name--vintner and distiller--Holborn\nHill--you're heartily welcome, if you'll come.'\n\nMr Haredale bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before;\ndetermining to repair to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had the\nreputation of being a bold and active magistrate, and fully resolved, in\ncase the rioters should come upon them, to do execution on the murderer\nwith his own hands, rather than suffer him to be released.\n\nThey arrived at the magistrate's dwelling, however, without molestation\n(for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper schemes), and\nknocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured that Sir\nJohn was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had been\nkeeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale stated\nhis business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant\nhis arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.\n\nNo time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new\nbuilding, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be of\nenormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takers\nbound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, and\nhad loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they should meet with any\nof the mob, and he should call to them for help; and seated themselves,\nalong with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, made\na formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though the\ncarriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that he\nmight not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.\n\nThe wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they\nhurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who,\nif they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainly\nhave stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the driver\ntarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison without\ninterruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomy\nwalls, in a twinkling.\n\nWith eager eyes and strained attention, Mr Haredale saw him chained, and\nlocked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, and\nstood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon the\ndoors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to assure\nhimself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and\nrough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and\nglanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright\nmorning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was\ntortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself\nwas but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.\n\n\n\nChapter 62\n\n\nThe prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and resting\nhis elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, remained in\nthat attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of what nature his\nreflections were. They had no distinctness, and, saving for some\nflashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the train of\ncircumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in the\npavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joined\nto stone, the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor,--such\nthings as these, subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening an\nindescribable kind of interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind;\nand although at the bottom of his every thought there was an uneasy\nsense of guilt, and dread of death, he felt no more than that vague\nconsciousness of it, which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him through\nhis dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs the\nbanquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itself\nunhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without shape,\nor form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having no\nexistence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or met\nwith face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns.\n\nAfter a long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw the\nblind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.\n\nGuided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; and\nstopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself that\nhe was right, remained, for a good space, silent.\n\n'This is bad, Rudge. This is bad,' he said at length.\n\nThe prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his body\nfrom him, but made no other answer.\n\n'How were you taken?' he asked. 'And where? You never told me more than\nhalf your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it, and where, eh?'\nhe asked again, coming still nearer to him.\n\n'At Chigwell,' said the other.\n\n'At Chigwell! How came you there?'\n\n'Because I went there to avoid the man I stumbled on,' he answered.\n'Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I was\nurged to go there, by something stronger than my own will. When I found\nhim watching in the house she used to live in, night after night, I knew\nI never could escape him--never! and when I heard the Bell--'\n\nHe shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and down\nthe narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture.\n\n'You were saying,' said the blind man, after another pause, 'that when\nyou heard the Bell--'\n\n'Let it be, will you?' he retorted in a hurried voice. 'It hangs there\nyet.'\n\nThe blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but he\ncontinued to speak, without noticing him.\n\n'I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted and\nbeset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in joining\nthem. They had gone on before; I followed them when it left off.'\n\n'When what left off?'\n\n'The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them might\nbe still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for them when\nI heard--' he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with his\nsleeve--'his voice.'\n\n'Saying what?'\n\n'No matter what. I don't know. I was then at the foot of the turret,\nwhere I did the--'\n\n'Ay,' said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure, 'I\nunderstand.'\n\n'I climbed the stair, or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide till\nhe had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as I set foot\nupon the ashes.'\n\n'You might have hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbed\nhim,' said the blind man.\n\n'Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on--I saw it,\nthough he did not--and raised above his head a bloody hand. It was in\nthe room above that HE and I stood glaring at each other on the night of\nthe murder, and before he fell he raised his hand like that, and fixed\nhis eyes on me. I knew the chase would end there.'\n\n'You have a strong fancy,' said the blind man, with a smile.\n\n'Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.'\n\nHe groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time, said,\nin a low, hollow voice:\n\n'Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has never changed\nin all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the least degree.\nHe has been before me in the dark night, and the broad sunny day; in the\ntwilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the light of fire, and lamp,\nand candle; and in the deepest gloom. Always the same! In company, in\nsolitude, on land, on shipboard; sometimes leaving me alone for months,\nand sometimes always with me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding in\nthe dead of night along the bright reflection of the moon in the calm\nwater; and I have seen him, on quays and market-places, with his hand\nuplifted, towering, the centre of a busy crowd, unconscious of the\nterrible form that had its silent stand among them. Fancy! Are you real?\nAm I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me by the smith's hammer, or\nare they fancies I can shatter at a blow?'\n\nThe blind man listened in silence.\n\n'Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that as I left the\nchamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a dark door,\nwho plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he suspected what I\nhad done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to him--that I drew\nnearer--nearer yet--with the hot knife in my sleeve? Do I fancy how HE\ndied? Did he stagger back into the angle of the wall into which I had\nhemmed him, and, bleeding inwardly, stand, not fall, a corpse before\nme? Did I see him, for an instant, as I see you now, erect and on his\nfeet--but dead!'\n\nThe blind man, who knew that he had risen, motioned him to sit down\nagain upon his bedstead; but he took no notice of the gesture.\n\n'It was then I thought, for the first time, of fastening the murder upon\nhim. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and dragged him down\nthe back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember listening to the\nbubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him in? Do I remember\nwiping the water from my face, and because the body splashed it there,\nin its descent, feeling as if it MUST be blood?\n\n'Did I go home when I had done? And oh, my God! how long it took to do!\nDid I stand before my wife, and tell her? Did I see her fall upon the\nground; and, when I stooped to raise her, did she thrust me back with a\nforce that cast me off as if I had been a child, staining the hand with\nwhich she clasped my wrist? Is THAT fancy?\n\n'Did she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that she\nand her unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she, in words\nso solemn that they turned me cold--me, fresh from the horrors my own\nhands had made--warn me to fly while there was time; for though she\nwould be silent, being my wretched wife, she would not shelter me? Did I\ngo forth that night, abjured of God and man, and anchored deep in hell,\nto wander at my cable's length about the earth, and surely be drawn down\nat last?'\n\n'Why did you return? said the blind man.\n\n'Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live without\nbreath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, through\nevery difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothing\ncould stop me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping and\nwaking, I had been among the old haunts for years--had visited my own\ngrave. Why did I come back? Because this jail was gaping for me, and he\nstood beckoning at the door.'\n\n'You were not known?' said the blind man.\n\n'I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not known.'\n\n'You should have kept your secret better.'\n\n'MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper at\nits will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing,\nthe leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurked\nin strangers' faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which it\nalways trembled.--MY secret!'\n\n'It was revealed by your own act at any rate,' said the blind man.\n\n'The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forced\nat times to wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you had\nchained me up when the fit was on me, I should have broken away, and\ngone there. As truly as the loadstone draws iron towards it, so he,\nlying at the bottom of his grave, could draw me near him when he would.\nWas that fancy? Did I like to go there, or did I strive and wrestle with\nthe power that forced me?'\n\nThe blind man shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously. The\nprisoner again resumed his old attitude, and for a long time both were\nmute.\n\n'I suppose then,' said his visitor, at length breaking silence, 'that\nyou are penitent and resigned; that you desire to make peace with\neverybody (in particular, with your wife who has brought you to this);\nand that you ask no greater favour than to be carried to Tyburn as soon\nas possible? That being the case, I had better take my leave. I am not\ngood enough to be company for you.'\n\n'Have I not told you,' said the other fiercely, 'that I have striven\nand wrestled with the power that brought me here? Has my whole life, for\neight-and-twenty years, been one perpetual struggle and resistance, and\ndo you think I want to lie down and die? Do all men shrink from death--I\nmost of all!'\n\n'That's better said. That's better spoken, Rudge--but I'll not call you\nthat again--than anything you have said yet,' returned the blind man,\nspeaking more familiarly, and laying his hands upon his arm. 'Lookye,--I\nnever killed a man myself, for I have never been placed in a position\nthat made it worth my while. Farther, I am not an advocate for killing\nmen, and I don't think I should recommend it or like it--for it's very\nhazardous--under any circumstances. But as you had the misfortune to get\ninto this trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as you have been\nmy companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I overlook\nthat part of the matter, and am only anxious that you shouldn't die\nunnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at present, it is at all\nnecessary.'\n\n'What else is left me?' returned the prisoner. 'To eat my way through\nthese walls with my teeth?'\n\n'Something easier than that,' returned his friend. 'Promise me that you\nwill talk no more of these fancies of yours--idle, foolish things, quite\nbeneath a man--and I'll tell you what I mean.'\n\n'Tell me,' said the other.\n\n'Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your scrupulous, virtuous,\npunctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife--'\n\n'What of her?'\n\n'Is now in London.'\n\n'A curse upon her, be she where she may!'\n\n'That's natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you would\nnot have been here, and we should have been better off. But that's apart\nfrom the business. She's in London. Scared, as I suppose, and have no\ndoubt, by my representation when I waited upon her, that you were close\nat hand (which I, of course, urged only as an inducement to compliance,\nknowing that she was not pining to see you), she left that place, and\ntravelled up to London.'\n\n'How do you know?'\n\n'From my friend the noble captain--the illustrious general--the bladder,\nMr Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him, which was\nyesterday, that your son who is called Barnaby--not after his father, I\nsuppose--'\n\n'Death! does that matter now!'\n\n'--You are impatient,' said the blind man, calmly; 'it's a good sign,\nand looks like life--that your son Barnaby had been lured away from her\nby one of his companions who knew him of old, at Chigwell; and that he\nis now among the rioters.'\n\n'And what is that to me? If father and son be hanged together, what\ncomfort shall I find in that?'\n\n'Stay--stay, my friend,' returned the blind man, with a cunning look,\n'you travel fast to journeys' ends. Suppose I track my lady out, and say\nthus much: \"You want your son, ma'am--good. I, knowing those who tempt\nhim to remain among them, can restore him to you, ma'am--good. You must\npay a price, ma'am, for his restoration--good again. The price is small,\nand easy to be paid--dear ma'am, that's best of all.\"'\n\n'What mockery is this?'\n\n'Very likely, she may reply in those words. \"No mockery at all,\" I\nanswer: \"Madam, a person said to be your husband (identity is difficult\nof proof after the lapse of many years) is in prison, his life in\nperil--the charge against him, murder. Now, ma'am, your husband has been\ndead a long, long time. The gentleman never can be confounded with him,\nif you will have the goodness to say a few words, on oath, as to when he\ndied, and how; and that this person (who I am told resembles him in some\ndegree) is no more he than I am. Such testimony will set the question\nquite at rest. Pledge yourself to me to give it, ma' am, and I will\nundertake to keep your son (a fine lad) out of harm's way until you have\ndone this trifling service, when he shall be delivered up to you, safe\nand sound. On the other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will be\nbetrayed, and handed over to the law, which will assuredly sentence him\nto suffer death. It is, in fact, a choice between his life and death. If\nyou refuse, he swings. If you comply, the timber is not grown, nor the\nhemp sown, that shall do him any harm.\"'\n\n'There is a gleam of hope in this!' cried the prisoner.\n\n'A gleam!' returned his friend, 'a noon-blaze; a full and glorious\ndaylight. Hush! I hear the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.'\n\n'When shall I hear more?'\n\n'As soon as I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to say that\nour time for talk is over. I hear the jingling of the keys. Not another\nword of this just now, or they may overhear us.'\n\nAs he said these words, the lock was turned, and one of the prison\nturnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for visitors\nto leave the jail.\n\n'So soon!' said Stagg, meekly. 'But it can't be helped. Cheer up,\nfriend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you are a man\nagain! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who has\nnothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him with his\nface towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank you, good sir. I\nthank you very kindly.'\n\nSo saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his grinning\nface towards his friend, he departed.\n\nWhen the officer had seen him to the porch, he returned, and again\nunlocking and unbarring the door of the cell, set it wide open,\ninforming its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in the adjacent\nyard, if he thought proper, for an hour.\n\nThe prisoner answered with a sullen nod; and being left alone again, sat\nbrooding over what he had heard, and pondering upon the hopes the recent\nconversation had awakened; gazing abstractedly, the while he did so,\non the light without, and watching the shadows thrown by one wall on\nanother, and on the stone-paved ground.\n\nIt was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, and\nseeming to chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and rough,\nand obdurate, filled even him with longing thoughts of meadow-land and\ntrees; and with a burning wish to be at liberty. As he looked, he rose,\nand leaning against the door-post, gazed up at the bright blue sky,\nsmiling even on that dreary home of crime. He seemed, for a moment, to\nremember lying on his back in some sweet-scented place, and gazing at it\nthrough moving branches, long ago.\n\nHis attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound--he knew what\nit was, for he had startled himself by making the same noise in walking\nto the door. Presently a voice began to sing, and he saw the shadow of\na figure on the pavement. It stopped--was silent all at once, as\nthough the person for a moment had forgotten where he was, but\nsoon remembered--and so, with the same clanking noise, the shadow\ndisappeared.\n\nHe walked out into the court and paced it to and fro; startling the\nechoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of his fetters. There was a\ndoor near his, which, like his, stood ajar.\n\nHe had not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when, standing\nstill to observe this door, he heard the clanking sound again. A face\nlooked out of the grated window--he saw it very dimly, for the cell was\ndark and the bars were heavy--and directly afterwards, a man appeared,\nand came towards him.\n\nFor the sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a year.\nMade eager by the hope of companionship, he quickened his pace, and\nhastened to meet the man half way--\n\nWhat was this! His son!\n\nThey stood face to face, staring at each other. He shrinking and cowed,\ndespite himself; Barnaby struggling with his imperfect memory, and\nwondering where he had seen that face before. He was not uncertain long,\nfor suddenly he laid hands upon him, and striving to bear him to the\nground, cried:\n\n'Ah! I know! You are the robber!'\n\nHe said nothing in reply at first, but held down his head, and struggled\nwith him silently. Finding the younger man too strong for him, he raised\nhis face, looked close into his eyes, and said,\n\n'I am your father.'\n\nGod knows what magic the name had for his ears; but Barnaby released his\nhold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Suddenly he sprung towards\nhim, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his head against his\ncheek.\n\nYes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But where had he been so long, and\nwhy had he left his mother by herself, or worse than by herself, with\nher poor foolish boy? And had she really been as happy as they said?\nAnd where was she? Was she near there? She was not happy now, and he in\njail? Ah, no.\n\nNot a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked loudly, and hopped\nabout them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a magic circle, and\ninvoking all the powers of mischief.\n\n\n\nChapter 63\n\n\nDuring the whole of this day, every regiment in or near the metropolis\nwas on duty in one or other part of the town; and the regulars and\nmilitia, in obedience to the orders which were sent to every barrack and\nstation within twenty-four hours' journey, began to pour in by all the\nroads. But the disturbance had attained to such a formidable height, and\nthe rioters had grown, with impunity, to be so audacious, that the sight\nof this great force, continually augmented by new arrivals, instead of\noperating as a check, stimulated them to outrages of greater hardihood\nthan any they had yet committed; and helped to kindle a flame in\nLondon, the like of which had never been beheld, even in its ancient and\nrebellious times.\n\nAll yesterday, and on this day likewise, the commander-in-chief\nendeavoured to arouse the magistrates to a sense of their duty, and in\nparticular the Lord Mayor, who was the faintest-hearted and most timid\nof them all. With this object, large bodies of the soldiery were several\ntimes despatched to the Mansion House to await his orders: but as he\ncould, by no threats or persuasions, be induced to give any, and as the\nmen remained in the open street, fruitlessly for any good purpose, and\nthrivingly for a very bad one; these laudable attempts did harm rather\nthan good. For the crowd, becoming speedily acquainted with the Lord\nMayor's temper, did not fail to take advantage of it by boasting that\neven the civil authorities were opposed to the Papists, and could not\nfind it in their hearts to molest those who were guilty of no other\noffence. These vaunts they took care to make within the hearing of the\nsoldiers; and they, being naturally loth to quarrel with the people,\nreceived their advances kindly enough: answering, when they were asked\nif they desired to fire upon their countrymen, 'No, they would be damned\nif they did;' and showing much honest simplicity and good nature.\nThe feeling that the military were No-Popery men, and were ripe for\ndisobeying orders and joining the mob, soon became very prevalent in\nconsequence. Rumours of their disaffection, and of their leaning towards\nthe popular cause, spread from mouth to mouth with astonishing rapidity;\nand whenever they were drawn up idly in the streets or squares, there\nwas sure to be a crowd about them, cheering and shaking hands, and\ntreating them with a great show of confidence and affection.\n\nBy this time, the crowd was everywhere; all concealment and disguise\nwere laid aside, and they pervaded the whole town. If any man among them\nwanted money, he had but to knock at the door of a dwelling-house, or\nwalk into a shop, and demand it in the rioters name; and his demand\nwas instantly complied with. The peaceable citizens being afraid to lay\nhands upon them, singly and alone, it may be easily supposed that\nwhen gathered together in bodies, they were perfectly secure from\ninterruption. They assembled in the streets, traversed them at their\nwill and pleasure, and publicly concerted their plans. Business was\nquite suspended; the greater part of the shops were closed; most of the\nhouses displayed a blue flag in token of their adherence to the popular\nside; and even the Jews in Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and those quarters,\nwrote upon their doors or window-shutters, 'This House is a True\nProtestant.' The crowd was the law, and never was the law held in\ngreater dread, or more implicitly obeyed.\n\nIt was about six o'clock in the evening, when a vast mob poured\ninto Lincoln's Inn Fields by every avenue, and divided--evidently in\npursuance of a previous design--into several parties. It must not be\nunderstood that this arrangement was known to the whole crowd, but that\nit was the work of a few leaders; who, mingling with the men as they\ncame upon the ground, and calling to them to fall into this or that\nparry, effected it as rapidly as if it had been determined on by a\ncouncil of the whole number, and every man had known his place.\n\nIt was perfectly notorious to the assemblage that the largest body,\nwhich comprehended about two-thirds of the whole, was designed for\nthe attack on Newgate. It comprehended all the rioters who had been\nconspicuous in any of their former proceedings; all those whom they\nrecommended as daring hands and fit for the work; all those whose\ncompanions had been taken in the riots; and a great number of people\nwho were relatives or friends of felons in the jail. This last class\nincluded, not only the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in\nLondon, but some who were comparatively innocent. There was more than\none woman there, disguised in man's attire, and bent upon the rescue\nof a child or brother. There were the two sons of a man who lay under\nsentence of death, and who was to be executed along with three\nothers, on the next day but one. There was a great party of boys whose\nfellow-pickpockets were in the prison; and at the skirts of all, a score\nof miserable women, outcasts from the world, seeking to release some\nother fallen creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by a general\nsympathy perhaps--God knows--with all who were without hope, and\nwretched.\n\nOld swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-hammers, knives,\naxes, saws, and weapons pillaged from the butchers' shops; a forest of\niron bars and wooden clubs; long ladders for scaling the walls, each\ncarried on the shoulders of a dozen men; lighted torches; tow smeared\nwith pitch, and tar, and brimstone; staves roughly plucked from fence\nand paling; and even crutches taken from crippled beggars in the\nstreets; composed their arms. When all was ready, Hugh and Dennis, with\nSimon Tappertit between them, led the way. Roaring and chafing like an\nangry sea, the crowd pressed after them.\n\nInstead of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all expected,\ntheir leaders took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring down a quiet\nstreet, halted before a locksmith's house--the Golden Key.\n\n'Beat at the door,' cried Hugh to the men about him. 'We want one of his\ncraft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.'\n\nThe shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy\nkind, and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising\na cry of 'Set fire to the house!' and torches being passed to the front,\nan upper window was thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood\nbefore them.\n\n'What now, you villains!' he demanded. 'Where is my daughter?'\n\n'Ask no questions of us, old man,' retorted Hugh, waving his comrades\nto be silent, 'but come down, and bring the tools of your trade. We want\nyou.'\n\n'Want me!' cried the locksmith, glancing at the regimental dress he\nwore: 'Ay, and if some that I could name possessed the hearts of mice,\nye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad--and you about him do\nthe same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and know, who are\ndead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker's while you can!\nYou'll want some coffins before long.'\n\n'Will you come down?' cried Hugh.\n\n'Will you give me my daughter, ruffian?' cried the locksmith.\n\n'I know nothing of her,' Hugh rejoined. 'Burn the door!'\n\n'Stop!' cried the locksmith, in a voice that made them\nfalter--presenting, as he spoke, a gun. 'Let an old man do that. You can\nspare him better.'\n\nThe young fellow who held the light, and who was stooping down before\nthe door, rose hastily at these words, and fell back. The locksmith ran\nhis eye along the upturned faces, and kept the weapon levelled at the\nthreshold of his house. It had no other rest than his shoulder, but was\nas steady as the house itself.\n\n'Let the man who does it, take heed to his prayers,' he said firmly; 'I\nwarn him.'\n\nSnatching a torch from one who stood near him, Hugh was stepping forward\nwith an oath, when he was arrested by a shrill and piercing shriek, and,\nlooking upward, saw a fluttering garment on the house-top.\n\nThere was another shriek, and another, and then a shrill voice cried,\n'Is Simmun below!' At the same moment a lean neck was stretched over\nthe parapet, and Miss Miggs, indistinctly seen in the gathering gloom\nof evening, screeched in a frenzied manner, 'Oh! dear gentlemen, let me\nhear Simmuns's answer from his own lips. Speak to me, Simmun. Speak to\nme!'\n\nMr Tappertit, who was not at all flattered by this compliment, looked\nup, and bidding her hold her peace, ordered her to come down and open\nthe door, for they wanted her master, and would take no denial.\n\n'Oh good gentlemen!' cried Miss Miggs. 'Oh my own precious, precious\nSimmun--'\n\n'Hold your nonsense, will you!' retorted Mr Tappertit; 'and come down\nand open the door.--G. Varden, drop that gun, or it will be worse for\nyou.'\n\n'Don't mind his gun,' screamed Miggs. 'Simmun and gentlemen, I poured a\nmug of table-beer right down the barrel.'\n\nThe crowd gave a loud shout, which was followed by a roar of laughter.\n\n'It wouldn't go off, not if you was to load it up to the muzzle,'\nscreamed Miggs. 'Simmun and gentlemen, I'm locked up in the front attic,\nthrough the little door on the right hand when you think you've got to\nthe very top of the stairs--and up the flight of corner steps, being\ncareful not to knock your heads against the rafters, and not to tread on\none side in case you should fall into the two-pair bedroom through the\nlath and plasture, which do not bear, but the contrairy. Simmun and\ngentlemen, I've been locked up here for safety, but my endeavours has\nalways been, and always will be, to be on the right side--the blessed\nside and to prenounce the Pope of Babylon, and all her inward and\nher outward workings, which is Pagin. My sentiments is of little\nconsequences, I know,' cried Miggs, with additional shrillness, 'for my\npositions is but a servant, and as sich, of humilities, still I gives\nexpressions to my feelings, and places my reliances on them which\nentertains my own opinions!'\n\nWithout taking much notice of these outpourings of Miss Miggs after she\nhad made her first announcement in relation to the gun, the crowd\nraised a ladder against the window where the locksmith stood, and\nnotwithstanding that he closed, and fastened, and defended it manfully,\nsoon forced an entrance by shivering the glass and breaking in the\nframes. After dealing a few stout blows about him, he found himself\ndefenceless, in the midst of a furious crowd, which overflowed the room\nand softened off in a confused heap of faces at the door and window.\n\nThey were very wrathful with him (for he had wounded two men), and\neven called out to those in front, to bring him forth and hang him on\na lamp-post. But Gabriel was quite undaunted, and looked from Hugh and\nDennis, who held him by either arm, to Simon Tappertit, who confronted\nhim.\n\n'You have robbed me of my daughter,' said the locksmith, 'who is far\ndearer to me than my life; and you may take my life, if you will. I\nbless God that I have been enabled to keep my wife free of this scene;\nand that He has made me a man who will not ask mercy at such hands as\nyours.'\n\n'And a wery game old gentleman you are,' said Mr Dennis, approvingly;\n'and you express yourself like a man. What's the odds, brother, whether\nit's a lamp-post to-night, or a feather-bed ten year to come, eh?'\n\nThe locksmith glanced at him disdainfully, but returned no other answer.\n\n'For my part,' said the hangman, who particularly favoured the lamp-post\nsuggestion, 'I honour your principles. They're mine exactly. In such\nsentiments as them,' and here he emphasised his discourse with an oath,\n'I'm ready to meet you or any man halfway.--Have you got a bit of cord\nanywheres handy? Don't put yourself out of the way, if you haven't. A\nhandkecher will do.'\n\n'Don't be a fool, master,' whispered Hugh, seizing Varden roughly by\nthe shoulder; 'but do as you're bid. You'll soon hear what you're wanted\nfor. Do it!'\n\n'I'll do nothing at your request, or that of any scoundrel here,'\nreturned the locksmith. 'If you want any service from me, you may spare\nyourselves the pains of telling me what it is. I tell you, beforehand,\nI'll do nothing for you.'\n\nMr Dennis was so affected by this constancy on the part of the staunch\nold man, that he protested--almost with tears in his eyes--that to baulk\nhis inclinations would be an act of cruelty and hard dealing to which\nhe, for one, never could reconcile his conscience. The gentleman, he\nsaid, had avowed in so many words that he was ready for working off;\nsuch being the case, he considered it their duty, as a civilised and\nenlightened crowd, to work him off. It was not often, he observed, that\nthey had it in their power to accommodate themselves to the wishes of\nthose from whom they had the misfortune to differ. Having now found an\nindividual who expressed a desire which they could reasonably indulge\n(and for himself he was free to confess that in his opinion that desire\ndid honour to his feelings), he hoped they would decide to accede to\nhis proposition before going any further. It was an experiment which,\nskilfully and dexterously performed, would be over in five minutes, with\ngreat comfort and satisfaction to all parties; and though it did not\nbecome him (Mr Dennis) to speak well of himself he trusted he might\nbe allowed to say that he had practical knowledge of the subject, and,\nbeing naturally of an obliging and friendly disposition, would work the\ngentleman off with a deal of pleasure.\n\nThese remarks, which were addressed in the midst of a frightful din and\nturmoil to those immediately about him, were received with great favour;\nnot so much, perhaps, because of the hangman's eloquence, as on account\nof the locksmith's obstinacy. Gabriel was in imminent peril, and he knew\nit; but he preserved a steady silence; and would have done so, if they\nhad been debating whether they should roast him at a slow fire.\n\nAs the hangman spoke, there was some stir and confusion on the ladder;\nand directly he was silent--so immediately upon his holding his peace,\nthat the crowd below had no time to learn what he had been saying, or to\nshout in response--some one at the window cried:\n\n'He has a grey head. He is an old man: Don't hurt him!'\n\nThe locksmith turned, with a start, towards the place from which the\nwords had come, and looked hurriedly at the people who were hanging on\nthe ladder and clinging to each other.\n\n'Pay no respect to my grey hair, young man,' he said, answering the\nvoice and not any one he saw. 'I don't ask it. My heart is green enough\nto scorn and despise every man among you, band of robbers that you are!'\n\nThis incautious speech by no means tended to appease the ferocity of the\ncrowd. They cried again to have him brought out; and it would have gone\nhard with the honest locksmith, but that Hugh reminded them, in answer,\nthat they wanted his services, and must have them.\n\n'So, tell him what we want,' he said to Simon Tappertit, 'and quickly.\nAnd open your ears, master, if you would ever use them after to-night.'\n\nGabriel folded his arms, which were now at liberty, and eyed his old\n'prentice in silence.\n\n'Lookye, Varden,' said Sim, 'we're bound for Newgate.'\n\n'I know you are,' returned the locksmith. 'You never said a truer word\nthan that.'\n\n'To burn it down, I mean,' said Simon, 'and force the gates, and set the\nprisoners at liberty. You helped to make the lock of the great door.'\n\n'I did,' said the locksmith. 'You owe me no thanks for that--as you'll\nfind before long.'\n\n'Maybe,' returned his journeyman, 'but you must show us how to force\nit.'\n\n'Must I!'\n\n'Yes; for you know, and I don't. You must come along with us, and pick\nit with your own hands.'\n\n'When I do,' said the locksmith quietly, 'my hands shall drop off at the\nwrists, and you shall wear them, Simon Tappertit, on your shoulders for\nepaulettes.'\n\n'We'll see that,' cried Hugh, interposing, as the indignation of the\ncrowd again burst forth. 'You fill a basket with the tools he'll want,\nwhile I bring him downstairs. Open the doors below, some of you. And\nlight the great captain, others! Is there no business afoot, my lads,\nthat you can do nothing but stand and grumble?'\n\nThey looked at one another, and quickly dispersing, swarmed over the\nhouse, plundering and breaking, according to their custom, and carrying\noff such articles of value as happened to please their fancy. They had\nno great length of time for these proceedings, for the basket of tools\nwas soon prepared and slung over a man's shoulders. The preparations\nbeing now completed, and everything ready for the attack, those who\nwere pillaging and destroying in the other rooms were called down to the\nworkshop. They were about to issue forth, when the man who had been last\nupstairs, stepped forward, and asked if the young woman in the garret\n(who was making a terrible noise, he said, and kept on screaming without\nthe least cessation) was to be released?\n\nFor his own part, Simon Tappertit would certainly have replied in the\nnegative, but the mass of his companions, mindful of the good service\nshe had done in the matter of the gun, being of a different opinion, he\nhad nothing for it but to answer, Yes. The man, accordingly, went back\nagain to the rescue, and presently returned with Miss Miggs, limp and\ndoubled up, and very damp from much weeping.\n\nAs the young lady had given no tokens of consciousness on their way\ndownstairs, the bearer reported her either dead or dying; and being at\nsome loss what to do with her, was looking round for a convenient bench\nor heap of ashes on which to place her senseless form, when she suddenly\ncame upon her feet by some mysterious means, thrust back her hair,\nstared wildly at Mr Tappertit, cried, 'My Simmuns's life is not a\nwictim!' and dropped into his arms with such promptitude that he\nstaggered and reeled some paces back, beneath his lovely burden.\n\n'Oh bother!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Here. Catch hold of her, somebody. Lock\nher up again; she never ought to have been let out.'\n\n'My Simmun!' cried Miss Miggs, in tears, and faintly. 'My for ever, ever\nblessed Simmun!'\n\n'Hold up, will you,' said Mr Tappertit, in a very unresponsive tone,\n'I'll let you fall if you don't. What are you sliding your feet off the\nground for?'\n\n'My angel Simmuns!' murmured Miggs--'he promised--'\n\n'Promised! Well, and I'll keep my promise,' answered Simon, testily. 'I\nmean to provide for you, don't I? Stand up!'\n\n'Where am I to go? What is to become of me after my actions of this\nnight!' cried Miggs. 'What resting-places now remains but in the silent\ntombses!'\n\n'I wish you was in the silent tombses, I do,' cried Mr Tappertit, 'and\nboxed up tight, in a good strong one. Here,' he cried to one of the\nbystanders, in whose ear he whispered for a moment: 'Take her off, will\nyou. You understand where?'\n\nThe fellow nodded; and taking her in his arms, notwithstanding her\nbroken protestations, and her struggles (which latter species of\nopposition, involving scratches, was much more difficult of resistance),\ncarried her away. They who were in the house poured out into the street;\nthe locksmith was taken to the head of the crowd, and required to walk\nbetween his two conductors; the whole body was put in rapid motion;\nand without any shouts or noise they bore down straight on Newgate, and\nhalted in a dense mass before the prison-gate.\n\n\n\nChapter 64\n\n\nBreaking the silence they had hitherto preserved, they raised a great\ncry as soon as they were ranged before the jail, and demanded to speak\nto the governor. This visit was not wholly unexpected, for his house,\nwhich fronted the street, was strongly barricaded, the wicket-gate of\nthe prison was closed up, and at no loophole or grating was any person\nto be seen. Before they had repeated their summons many times, a man\nappeared upon the roof of the governor's house, and asked what it was\nthey wanted.\n\nSome said one thing, some another, and some only groaned and hissed. It\nbeing now nearly dark, and the house high, many persons in the throng\nwere not aware that any one had come to answer them, and continued their\nclamour until the intelligence was gradually diffused through the whole\nconcourse. Ten minutes or more elapsed before any one voice could be\nheard with tolerable distinctness; during which interval the figure\nremained perched alone, against the summer-evening sky, looking down\ninto the troubled street.\n\n'Are you,' said Hugh at length, 'Mr Akerman, the head jailer here?'\n\n'Of course he is, brother,' whispered Dennis. But Hugh, without minding\nhim, took his answer from the man himself.\n\n'Yes,' he said. 'I am.'\n\n'You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master.'\n\n'I have a good many people in my custody.' He glanced downward, as\nhe spoke, into the jail: and the feeling that he could see into the\ndifferent yards, and that he overlooked everything which was hidden from\ntheir view by the rugged walls, so lashed and goaded the mob, that they\nhowled like wolves.\n\n'Deliver up our friends,' said Hugh, 'and you may keep the rest.'\n\n'It's my duty to keep them all. I shall do my duty.'\n\n'If you don't throw the doors open, we shall break 'em down,' said Hugh;\n'for we will have the rioters out.'\n\n'All I can do, good people,' Akerman replied, 'is to exhort you to\ndisperse; and to remind you that the consequences of any disturbance in\nthis place, will be very severe, and bitterly repented by most of you,\nwhen it is too late.'\n\nHe made as though he would retire when he said these words, but he was\nchecked by the voice of the locksmith.\n\n'Mr Akerman,' cried Gabriel, 'Mr Akerman.'\n\n'I will hear no more from any of you,' replied the governor, turning\ntowards the speaker, and waving his hand.\n\n'But I am not one of them,' said Gabriel. 'I am an honest man, Mr\nAkerman; a respectable tradesman--Gabriel Varden, the locksmith. You\nknow me?'\n\n'You among the crowd!' cried the governor in an altered voice.\n\n'Brought here by force--brought here to pick the lock of the great door\nfor them,' rejoined the locksmith. 'Bear witness for me, Mr Akerman,\nthat I refuse to do it; and that I will not do it, come what may of my\nrefusal. If any violence is done to me, please to remember this.'\n\n'Is there no way of helping you?' said the governor.\n\n'None, Mr Akerman. You'll do your duty, and I'll do mine. Once again,\nyou robbers and cut-throats,' said the locksmith, turning round upon\nthem, 'I refuse. Ah! Howl till you're hoarse. I refuse.'\n\n'Stay--stay!' said the jailer, hastily. 'Mr Varden, I know you for\na worthy man, and one who would do no unlawful act except upon\ncompulsion--'\n\n'Upon compulsion, sir,' interposed the locksmith, who felt that the tone\nin which this was said, conveyed the speaker's impression that he had\nample excuse for yielding to the furious multitude who beset and hemmed\nhim in, on every side, and among whom he stood, an old man, quite alone;\n'upon compulsion, sir, I'll do nothing.'\n\n'Where is that man,' said the keeper, anxiously, 'who spoke to me just\nnow?'\n\n'Here!' Hugh replied.\n\n'Do you know what the guilt of murder is, and that by keeping that\nhonest tradesman at your side you endanger his life!'\n\n'We know it very well,' he answered, 'for what else did we bring him\nhere? Let's have our friends, master, and you shall have your friend. Is\nthat fair, lads?'\n\nThe mob replied to him with a loud Hurrah!\n\n'You see how it is, sir?' cried Varden. 'Keep 'em out, in King George's\nname. Remember what I have said. Good night!'\n\nThere was no more parley. A shower of stones and other missiles\ncompelled the keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob, pressing on,\nand swarming round the walls, forced Gabriel Varden close up to the\ndoor.\n\nIn vain the basket of tools was laid upon the ground before him, and\nhe was urged in turn by promises, by blows, by offers of reward, and\nthreats of instant death, to do the office for which they had brought\nhim there. 'No,' cried the sturdy locksmith, 'I will not!'\n\nHe had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him.\nThe savage faces that glared upon him, look where he would; the cries of\nthose who thirsted, like wild animals, for his blood; the sight of men\npressing forward, and trampling down their fellows, as they strove to\nreach him, and struck at him above the heads of other men, with axes and\nwith iron bars; all failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man, and\nface to face, and still, with quickened breath and lessening colour,\ncried firmly, 'I will not!'\n\nDennis dealt him a blow upon the face which felled him to the ground. He\nsprung up again like a man in the prime of life, and with blood upon his\nforehead, caught him by the throat.\n\n'You cowardly dog!' he said: 'Give me my daughter. Give me my daughter.'\n\nThey struggled together. Some cried 'Kill him,' and some (but they were\nnot near enough) strove to trample him to death. Tug as he would at the\nold man's wrists, the hangman could not force him to unclench his hands.\n\n'Is this all the return you make me, you ungrateful monster?' he\narticulated with great difficulty, and with many oaths.\n\n'Give me my daughter!' cried the locksmith, who was now as fierce as\nthose who gathered round him: 'Give me my daughter!'\n\nHe was down again, and up, and down once more, and buffeting with a\nscore of them, who bandied him from hand to hand, when one tall fellow,\nfresh from a slaughter-house, whose dress and great thigh-boots smoked\nhot with grease and blood, raised a pole-axe, and swearing a horrible\noath, aimed it at the old man's uncovered head. At that instant, and in\nthe very act, he fell himself, as if struck by lightning, and over his\nbody a one-armed man came darting to the locksmith's side. Another man\nwas with him, and both caught the locksmith roughly in their grasp.\n\n'Leave him to us!' they cried to Hugh--struggling, as they spoke, to\nforce a passage backward through the crowd. 'Leave him to us. Why do you\nwaste your whole strength on such as he, when a couple of men can finish\nhim in as many minutes! You lose time. Remember the prisoners! remember\nBarnaby!'\n\nThe cry ran through the mob. Hammers began to rattle on the walls; and\nevery man strove to reach the prison, and be among the foremost rank.\nFighting their way through the press and struggle, as desperately as if\nthey were in the midst of enemies rather than their own friends, the two\nmen retreated with the locksmith between them, and dragged him through\nthe very heart of the concourse.\n\nAnd now the strokes began to fall like hail upon the gate, and on the\nstrong building; for those who could not reach the door, spent their\nfierce rage on anything--even on the great blocks of stone, which\nshivered their weapons into fragments, and made their hands and arms to\ntingle as if the walls were active in their stout resistance, and dealt\nthem back their blows. The clash of iron ringing upon iron, mingled\nwith the deafening tumult and sounded high above it, as the great\nsledge-hammers rattled on the nailed and plated door: the sparks flew\noff in showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved\neach other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work; but\nthere stood the portal still, as grim and dark and strong as ever, and,\nsaving for the dints upon its battered surface, quite unchanged.\n\nWhile some brought all their energies to bear upon this toilsome task;\nand some, rearing ladders against the prison, tried to clamber to the\nsummit of the walls they were too short to scale; and some again engaged\na body of police a hundred strong, and beat them back and trod them\nunder foot by force of numbers; others besieged the house on which the\njailer had appeared, and driving in the door, brought out his furniture,\nand piled it up against the prison-gate, to make a bonfire which should\nburn it down. As soon as this device was understood, all those who had\nlaboured hitherto, cast down their tools and helped to swell the heap;\nwhich reached half-way across the street, and was so high, that those\nwho threw more fuel on the top, got up by ladders. When all the keeper's\ngoods were flung upon this costly pile, to the last fragment, they\nsmeared it with the pitch, and tar, and rosin they had brought, and\nsprinkled it with turpentine. To all the woodwork round the prison-doors\nthey did the like, leaving not a joist or beam untouched. This infernal\nchristening performed, they fired the pile with lighted matches and with\nblazing tow, and then stood by, awaiting the result.\n\nThe furniture being very dry, and rendered more combustible by wax\nand oil, besides the arts they had used, took fire at once. The flames\nroared high and fiercely, blackening the prison-wall, and twining up\nits loftly front like burning serpents. At first they crowded round the\nblaze, and vented their exultation only in their looks: but when it grew\nhotter and fiercer--when it crackled, leaped, and roared, like a great\nfurnace--when it shone upon the opposite houses, and lighted up not only\nthe pale and wondering faces at the windows, but the inmost corners of\neach habitation--when through the deep red heat and glow, the fire was\nseen sporting and toying with the door, now clinging to its obdurate\nsurface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and soaring high into\nthe sky, anon returning to fold it in its burning grasp and lure it to\nits ruin--when it shone and gleamed so brightly that the church clock of\nSt Sepulchre's so often pointing to the hour of death, was legible as in\nbroad day, and the vane upon its steeple-top glittered in the unwonted\nlight like something richly jewelled--when blackened stone and sombre\nbrick grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like\nburnished gold, dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista\nwith their specks of brightness--when wall and tower, and roof and\nchimney-stack, seemed drunk, and in the flickering glare appeared to\nreel and stagger--when scores of objects, never seen before, burst out\nupon the view, and things the most familiar put on some new aspect--then\nthe mob began to join the whirl, and with loud yells, and shouts, and\nclamour, such as happily is seldom heard, bestirred themselves to feed\nthe fire, and keep it at its height.\n\nAlthough the heat was so intense that the paint on the houses over\nagainst the prison, parched and crackled up, and swelling into boils,\nas it were from excess of torture, broke and crumbled away; although the\nglass fell from the window-sashes, and the lead and iron on the roofs\nblistered the incautious hand that touched them, and the sparrows in the\neaves took wing, and rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down\nupon the blazing pile; still the fire was tended unceasingly by busy\nhands, and round it, men were going always. They never slackened in\ntheir zeal, or kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard, that\nthose in front had much ado to save themselves from being thrust in; if\none man swooned or dropped, a dozen struggled for his place, and that\nalthough they knew the pain, and thirst, and pressure to be unendurable.\nThose who fell down in fainting-fits, and were not crushed or burnt,\nwere carried to an inn-yard close at hand, and dashed with water from a\npump; of which buckets full were passed from man to man among the crowd;\nbut such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such the fighting to\nbe first, that, for the most part, the whole contents were spilled upon\nthe ground, without the lips of one man being moistened.\n\nMeanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those who were\nnearest to the pile, heaped up again the burning fragments that came\ntoppling down, and raked the fire about the door, which, although a\nsheet of flame, was still a door fast locked and barred, and kept\nthem out. Great pieces of blazing wood were passed, besides, above the\npeople's heads to such as stood about the ladders, and some of these,\nclimbing up to the topmost stave, and holding on with one hand by the\nprison wall, exerted all their skill and force to cast these fire-brands\non the roof, or down into the yards within. In many instances their\nefforts were successful; which occasioned a new and appalling addition\nto the horrors of the scene: for the prisoners within, seeing from\nbetween their bars that the fire caught in many places and thrived\nfiercely, and being all locked up in strong cells for the night, began\nto know that they were in danger of being burnt alive. This terrible\nfear, spreading from cell to cell and from yard to yard, vented itself\nin such dismal cries and wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for\nhelp, that the whole jail resounded with the noise; which was loudly\nheard even above the shouting of the mob and roaring of the flames, and\nwas so full of agony and despair, that it made the boldest tremble.\n\nIt was remarkable that these cries began in that quarter of the jail\nwhich fronted Newgate Street, where, it was well known, the men who were\nto suffer death on Thursday were confined. And not only were these four\nwho had so short a time to live, the first to whom the dread of being\nburnt occurred, but they were, throughout, the most importunate of all:\nfor they could be plainly heard, notwithstanding the great thickness of\nthe walls, crying that the wind set that way, and that the flames would\nshortly reach them; and calling to the officers of the jail to come\nand quench the fire from a cistern which was in their yard, and full\nof water. Judging from what the crowd outside the walls could hear from\ntime to time, these four doomed wretches never ceased to call for\nhelp; and that with as much distraction, and in as great a frenzy of\nattachment to existence, as though each had an honoured, happy life\nbefore him, instead of eight-and-forty hours of miserable imprisonment,\nand then a violent and shameful death.\n\nBut the anguish and suffering of the two sons of one of these men, when\nthey heard, or fancied that they heard, their father's voice, is past\ndescription. After wringing their hands and rushing to and fro as if\nthey were stark mad, one mounted on the shoulders of his brother, and\ntried to clamber up the face of the high wall, guarded at the top with\nspikes and points of iron. And when he fell among the crowd, he was not\ndeterred by his bruises, but mounted up again, and fell again, and, when\nhe found the feat impossible, began to beat the stones and tear them\nwith his hands, as if he could that way make a breach in the strong\nbuilding, and force a passage in. At last, they cleft their way among\nthe mob about the door, though many men, a dozen times their match, had\ntried in vain to do so, and were seen, in--yes, in--the fire, striving\nto prize it down, with crowbars.\n\nNor were they alone affected by the outcry from within the prison. The\nwomen who were looking on, shrieked loudly, beat their hands together,\nstopped their ears; and many fainted: the men who were not near the\nwalls and active in the siege, rather than do nothing, tore up the\npavement of the street, and did so with a haste and fury they could\nnot have surpassed if that had been the jail, and they were near their\nobject. Not one living creature in the throng was for an instant still.\nThe whole great mass were mad.\n\nA shout! Another! Another yet, though few knew why, or what it meant.\nBut those around the gate had seen it slowly yield, and drop from its\ntopmost hinge. It hung on that side by but one, but it was upright\nstill, because of the bar, and its having sunk, of its own weight, into\nthe heap of ashes at its foot. There was now a gap at the top of the\ndoorway, through which could be descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and\ndark. Pile up the fire!\n\nIt burnt fiercely. The door was red-hot, and the gap wider. They vainly\ntried to shield their faces with their hands, and standing as if in\nreadiness for a spring, watched the place. Dark figures, some crawling\non their hands and knees, some carried in the arms of others, were seen\nto pass along the roof. It was plain the jail could hold out no longer.\nThe keeper, and his officers, and their wives and children, were\nescaping. Pile up the fire!\n\nThe door sank down again: it settled deeper in the\ncinders--tottered--yielded--was down!\n\nAs they shouted again, they fell back, for a moment, and left a clear\nspace about the fire that lay between them and the jail entry. Hugh\nleapt upon the blazing heap, and scattering a train of sparks into the\nair, and making the dark lobby glitter with those that hung upon his\ndress, dashed into the jail.\n\nThe hangman followed. And then so many rushed upon their track, that the\nfire got trodden down and thinly strewn about the street; but there was\nno need of it now, for, inside and out, the prison was in flames.\n\n\n\nChapter 65\n\n\nDuring the whole course of the terrible scene which was now at its\nheight, one man in the jail suffered a degree of fear and mental torment\nwhich had no parallel in the endurance, even of those who lay under\nsentence of death.\n\nWhen the rioters first assembled before the building, the murderer\nwas roused from sleep--if such slumbers as his may have that blessed\nname--by the roar of voices, and the struggling of a great crowd. He\nstarted up as these sounds met his ear, and, sitting on his bedstead,\nlistened.\n\nAfter a short interval of silence the noise burst out again. Still\nlistening attentively, he made out, in course of time, that the jail was\nbesieged by a furious multitude. His guilty conscience instantly arrayed\nthese men against himself, and brought the fear upon him that he would\nbe singled out, and torn to pieces.\n\nOnce impressed with the terror of this conceit, everything tended to\nconfirm and strengthen it. His double crime, the circumstances under\nwhich it had been committed, the length of time that had elapsed, and\nits discovery in spite of all, made him, as it were, the visible object\nof the Almighty's wrath. In all the crime and vice and moral gloom of\nthe great pest-house of the capital, he stood alone, marked and singled\nout by his great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other prisoners\nwere a host, hiding and sheltering each other--a crowd like that without\nthe walls. He was one man against the whole united concourse; a single,\nsolitary, lonely man, from whom the very captives in the jail fell off\nand shrunk appalled.\n\nIt might be that the intelligence of his capture having been bruited\nabroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out and kill him in\nthe street; or it might be that they were the rioters, and, in pursuance\nof an old design, had come to sack the prison. But in either case he had\nno belief or hope that they would spare him. Every shout they raised,\nand every sound they made, was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went\non, he grew more wild and frantic in his terror: tried to pull away the\nbars that guarded the chimney and prevented him from climbing up: called\nloudly on the turnkeys to cluster round the cell and save him from the\nfury of the rabble; or put him in some dungeon underground, no matter\nof what depth, how dark it was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and\ncreeping things, so that it hid him and was hard to find.\n\nBut no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he cried to them,\nof attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as he looked\nfrom his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and\npavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as\nthough some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof\nof the prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down,\nspattering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One\nrolled beneath a wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a\nwater-spout, and so went climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight\ntrack of fire behind it. After a time, a slow thick shower of burning\nfragments, from some upper portion of the prison which was blazing nigh,\nbegan to fall before his door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he\nknew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost\nits bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped\nto entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with\nshrieks and cries for help,--though the fire bounded up as if each\nseparate flame had had a tiger's life, and roared as though, in every\none, there were a hungry voice--though the heat began to grow intense,\nand the air suffocating, and the clamour without increased, and the\ndanger of his situation even from one merciless element was every moment\nmore extreme,--still he was afraid to raise his voice again, lest\nthe crowd should break in, and should, of their own ears or from the\ninformation given them by the other prisoners, get the clue to his place\nof confinement. Thus fearful alike, of those within the prison and\nof those without; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of being\nreleased, and being left there to die; he was so tortured and tormented,\nthat nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice of power\nand cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment.\n\nNow, now, the door was down. Now they came rushing through the jail,\ncalling to each other in the vaulted passages; clashing the iron gates\ndividing yard from yard; beating at the doors of cells and wards;\nwrenching off bolts and locks and bars; tearing down the door-posts to\nget men out; endeavouring to drag them by main force through gaps and\nwindows where a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling without\na moment's rest; and running through the heat and flames as if they were\ncased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair upon their heads,\nthey dragged the prisoners out. Some threw themselves upon the captives\nas they got towards the door, and tried to file away their irons; some\ndanced about them with a frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were\nready, as it seemed, to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen\nmen came darting through the yard into which the murderer cast fearful\nglances from his darkened window; dragging a prisoner along the ground\nwhose dress they had nearly torn from his body in their mad eagerness to\nset him free, and who was bleeding and senseless in their hands. Now\na score of prisoners ran to and fro, who had lost themselves in the\nintricacies of the prison, and were so bewildered with the noise and\nglare that they knew not where to turn or what to do, and still cried\nout for help, as loudly as before. Anon some famished wretch whose theft\nhad been a loaf of bread, or scrap of butcher's meat, came skulking\npast, barefooted--going slowly away because that jail, his house, was\nburning; not because he had any other, or had friends to meet, or old\nhaunts to revisit, or any liberty to gain, but liberty to starve and\ndie. And then a knot of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the\nfriends they had among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they went\nalong, with handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped them in coats\nand cloaks, and gave them drink from bottles, and held it to their lips,\nbecause of their handcuffs which there was no time to remove. All this,\nand Heaven knows how much more, was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and\ndistraction, like nothing that we know of, even in our dreams; which\nseemed for ever on the rise, and never to decrease for the space of a\nsingle instant.\n\nHe was still looking down from his window upon these things, when a band\nof men with torches, ladders, axes, and many kinds of weapons, poured\ninto the yard, and hammering at his door, inquired if there were any\nprisoner within. He left the window when he saw them coming, and drew\nback into the remotest corner of the cell; but although he returned them\nno answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for they presently\nset ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars at the casement;\nnot only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to hew down the very stones in\nthe wall.\n\nAs soon as they had made a breach at the window, large enough for the\nadmission of a man's head, one of them thrust in a torch and looked all\nround the room. He followed this man's gaze until it rested on himself,\nand heard him demand why he had not answered, but made him no reply.\n\nIn the general surprise and wonder, they were used to this; without\nsaying anything more, they enlarged the breach until it was large enough\nto admit the body of a man, and then came dropping down upon the floor,\none after another, until the cell was full. They caught him up among\nthem, handed him to the window, and those who stood upon the ladders\npassed him down upon the pavement of the yard. Then the rest came out,\none after another, and, bidding him fly, and lose no time, or the way\nwould be choked up, hurried away to rescue others.\n\nIt seemed not a minute's work from first to last. He staggered to his\nfeet, incredulous of what had happened, when the yard was filled\nagain, and a crowd rushed on, hurrying Barnaby among them. In another\nminute--not so much: another minute! the same instant, with no lapse or\ninterval between!--he and his son were being passed from hand to hand,\nthrough the dense crowd in the street, and were glancing backward at a\nburning pile which some one said was Newgate.\n\nFrom the moment of their first entrance into the prison, the crowd\ndispersed themselves about it, and swarmed into every chink and crevice,\nas if they had a perfect acquaintance with its innermost parts, and bore\nin their minds an exact plan of the whole. For this immediate knowledge\nof the place, they were, no doubt, in a great degree, indebted to the\nhangman, who stood in the lobby, directing some to go this way, some\nthat, and some the other; and who materially assisted in bringing about\nthe wonderful rapidity with which the release of the prisoners was\neffected.\n\nBut this functionary of the law reserved one important piece of\nintelligence, and kept it snugly to himself. When he had issued his\ninstructions relative to every other part of the building, and the mob\nwere dispersed from end to end, and busy at their work, he took a bundle\nof keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a kind of\npassage near the chapel (it joined the governors house, and was then\non fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which were a series of\nsmall, strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low gallery, guarded, at the\nend at which he entered, by a strong iron wicket, and at its opposite\nextremity by two doors and a thick grate. Having double locked the\nwicket, and assured himself that the other entrances were well secured,\nhe sat down on a bench in the gallery, and sucked the head of his stick\nwith the utmost complacency, tranquillity, and contentment.\n\nIt would have been strange enough, a man's enjoying himself in this\nquiet manner, while the prison was burning, and such a tumult was\ncleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls. But here, in the\nvery heart of the building, and moreover with the prayers and cries\nof the four men under sentence sounding in his ears, and their hands,\nstretched out through the gratings in their cell-doors, clasped in\nfrantic entreaty before his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable.\nIndeed, Mr Dennis appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to\nbanter himself upon it; for he thrust his hat on one side as some men do\nwhen they are in a waggish humour, sucked the head of his stick with a\nhigher relish, and smiled as though he would say, 'Dennis, you're a rum\ndog; you're a queer fellow; you're capital company, Dennis, and quite a\ncharacter!'\n\nHe sat in this way for some minutes, while the four men in the cells,\nwho were certain that somebody had entered the gallery, but could not\nsee who, gave vent to such piteous entreaties as wretches in their\nmiserable condition may be supposed to have been inspired with: urging,\nwhoever it was, to set them at liberty, for the love of Heaven; and\nprotesting, with great fervour, and truly enough, perhaps, for the time,\nthat if they escaped, they would amend their ways, and would never,\nnever, never again do wrong before God or man, but would lead penitent\nand sober lives, and sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed.\nThe terrible energy with which they spoke, would have moved any person,\nno matter how good or just (if any good or just person could have\nstrayed into that sad place that night), to have set them at liberty:\nand, while he would have left any other punishment to its free course,\nto have saved them from this last dreadful and repulsive penalty; which\nnever turned a man inclined to evil, and has hardened thousands who were\nhalf inclined to good.\n\nMr Dennis, who had been bred and nurtured in the good old school, and\nhad administered the good old laws on the good old plan, always once\nand sometimes twice every six weeks, for a long time, bore these appeals\nwith a deal of philosophy. Being at last, however, rather disturbed in\nhis pleasant reflection by their repetition, he rapped at one of the\ndoors with his stick, and cried:\n\n'Hold your noise there, will you?'\n\nAt this they all cried together that they were to be hanged on the next\nday but one; and again implored his aid.\n\n'Aid! For what!' said Mr Dennis, playfully rapping the knuckles of the\nhand nearest him.\n\n'To save us!' they cried.\n\n'Oh, certainly,' said Mr Dennis, winking at the wall in the absence\nof any friend with whom he could humour the joke. 'And so you're to be\nworked off, are you, brothers?'\n\n'Unless we are released to-night,' one of them cried, 'we are dead men!'\n\n'I tell you what it is,' said the hangman, gravely; 'I'm afraid, my\nfriend, that you're not in that 'ere state of mind that's suitable to\nyour condition, then; you're not a-going to be released: don't think\nit--Will you leave off that 'ere indecent row? I wonder you an't ashamed\nof yourselves, I do.'\n\nHe followed up this reproof by rapping every set of knuckles one after\nthe other, and having done so, resumed his seat again with a cheerful\ncountenance.\n\n'You've had law,' he said, crossing his legs and elevating his eyebrows:\n'laws have been made a' purpose for you; a wery handsome prison's\nbeen made a' purpose for you; a parson's kept a purpose for you;\na constitootional officer's appointed a' purpose for you; carts is\nmaintained a' purpose for you--and yet you're not contented!--WILL you\nhold that noise, you sir in the furthest?'\n\nA groan was the only answer.\n\n'So well as I can make out,' said Mr Dennis, in a tone of mingled\nbadinage and remonstrance, 'there's not a man among you. I begin to\nthink I'm on the opposite side, and among the ladies; though for the\nmatter of that, I've seen a many ladies face it out, in a manner that\ndid honour to the sex.--You in number two, don't grind them teeth of\nyours. Worse manners,' said the hangman, rapping at the door with his\nstick, 'I never see in this place afore. I'm ashamed of you. You're a\ndisgrace to the Bailey.'\n\nAfter pausing for a moment to hear if anything could be pleaded in\njustification, Mr Dennis resumed in a sort of coaxing tone:\n\n'Now look'ee here, you four. I'm come here to take care of you, and see\nthat you an't burnt, instead of the other thing. It's no use your making\nany noise, for you won't be found out by them as has broken in, and\nyou'll only be hoarse when you come to the speeches,--which is a pity.\nWhat I say in respect to the speeches always is, \"Give it mouth.\" That's\nmy maxim. Give it mouth. I've heerd,' said the hangman, pulling off his\nhat to take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and then\nputting it on again a little more on one side than before, 'I've heerd a\neloquence on them boards--you know what boards I mean--and have heerd\na degree of mouth given to them speeches, that they was as clear as a\nbell, and as good as a play. There's a pattern! And always, when a thing\nof this natur's to come off, what I stand up for, is, a proper frame of\nmind. Let's have a proper frame of mind, and we can go through with it,\ncreditable--pleasant--sociable. Whatever you do (and I address myself in\nparticular, to you in the furthest), never snivel. I'd sooner by half,\nthough I lose by it, see a man tear his clothes a' purpose to spile\n'em before they come to me, than find him snivelling. It's ten to one a\nbetter frame of mind, every way!'\n\nWhile the hangman addressed them to this effect, in the tone and with\nthe air of a pastor in familiar conversation with his flock, the noise\nhad been in some degree subdued; for the rioters were busy in conveying\nthe prisoners to the Sessions House, which was beyond the main walls of\nthe prison, though connected with it, and the crowd were busy too, in\npassing them from thence along the street. But when he had got thus far\nin his discourse, the sound of voices in the yard showed plainly that\nthe mob had returned and were coming that way; and directly afterwards a\nviolent crashing at the grate below, gave note of their attack upon the\ncells (as they were called) at last.\n\nIt was in vain the hangman ran from door to door, and covered the\ngrates, one after another, with his hat, in futile efforts to stifle\nthe cries of the four men within; it was in vain he dogged their\noutstretched hands, and beat them with his stick, or menaced them\nwith new and lingering pains in the execution of his office; the place\nresounded with their cries. These, together with the feeling that they\nwere now the last men in the jail, so worked upon and stimulated the\nbesiegers, that in an incredibly short space of time they forced the\nstrong grate down below, which was formed of iron rods two inches\nsquare, drove in the two other doors, as if they had been but deal\npartitions, and stood at the end of the gallery with only a bar or two\nbetween them and the cells.\n\n'Halloa!' cried Hugh, who was the first to look into the dusky passage:\n'Dennis before us! Well done, old boy. Be quick, and open here, for we\nshall be suffocated in the smoke, going out.'\n\n'Go out at once, then,' said Dennis. 'What do you want here?'\n\n'Want!' echoed Hugh. 'The four men.'\n\n'Four devils!' cried the hangman. 'Don't you know they're left for death\non Thursday? Don't you respect the law--the constitootion--nothing? Let\nthe four men be.'\n\n'Is this a time for joking?' cried Hugh. 'Do you hear 'em? Pull away\nthese bars that have got fixed between the door and the ground; and let\nus in.'\n\n'Brother,' said the hangman, in a low voice, as he stooped under\npretence of doing what Hugh desired, but only looked up in his face,\n'can't you leave these here four men to me, if I've the whim! You\ndo what you like, and have what you like of everything for your\nshare,--give me my share. I want these four men left alone, I tell you!'\n\n'Pull the bars down, or stand out of the way,' was Hugh's reply.\n\n'You can turn the crowd if you like, you know that well enough,\nbrother,' said the hangman, slowly. 'What! You WILL come in, will you?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'You won't let these men alone, and leave 'em to me? You've no respect\nfor nothing--haven't you?' said the hangman, retreating to the door by\nwhich he had entered, and regarding his companion with a scowl. 'You\nWILL come in, will you, brother!'\n\n'I tell you, yes. What the devil ails you? Where are you going?'\n\n'No matter where I'm going,' rejoined the hangman, looking in again at\nthe iron wicket, which he had nearly shut upon himself, and held ajar.\n'Remember where you're coming. That's all!'\n\nWith that, he shook his likeness at Hugh, and giving him a grin,\ncompared with which his usual smile was amiable, disappeared, and shut\nthe door.\n\nHugh paused no longer, but goaded alike by the cries of the convicts,\nand by the impatience of the crowd, warned the man immediately behind\nhim--the way was only wide enough for one abreast--to stand back, and\nwielded a sledge-hammer with such strength, that after a few blows the\niron bent and broke, and gave them free admittance.\n\nIf the two sons of one of these men, of whom mention has been made,\nwere furious in their zeal before, they had now the wrath and vigour of\nlions. Calling to the man within each cell, to keep as far back as he\ncould, lest the axes crashing through the door should wound him, a party\nwent to work upon each one, to beat it in by sheer strength, and force\nthe bolts and staples from their hold. But although these two lads had\nthe weakest party, and the worst armed, and did not begin until after\nthe others, having stopped to whisper to him through the grate, that\ndoor was the first open, and that man was the first out. As they dragged\nhim into the gallery to knock off his irons, he fell down among them,\na mere heap of chains, and was carried out in that state on men's\nshoulders, with no sign of life.\n\nThe release of these four wretched creatures, and conveying them,\nastounded and bewildered, into the streets so full of life--a spectacle\nthey had never thought to see again, until they emerged from solitude\nand silence upon that last journey, when the air should be heavy with\nthe pent-up breath of thousands, and the streets and houses should\nbe built and roofed with human faces, not with bricks and tiles and\nstones--was the crowning horror of the scene. Their pale and haggard\nlooks and hollow eyes; their staggering feet, and hands stretched out as\nif to save themselves from falling; their wandering and uncertain air;\nthe way they heaved and gasped for breath, as though in water, when they\nwere first plunged into the crowd; all marked them for the men. No need\nto say 'this one was doomed to die;' for there were the words broadly\nstamped and branded on his face. The crowd fell off, as if they had been\nlaid out for burial, and had risen in their shrouds; and many were seen\nto shudder, as though they had been actually dead men, when they chanced\nto touch or brush against their garments.\n\nAt the bidding of the mob, the houses were all illuminated that\nnight--lighted up from top to bottom as at a time of public gaiety and\njoy. Many years afterwards, old people who lived in their youth near\nthis part of the city, remembered being in a great glare of light,\nwithin doors and without, and as they looked, timid and frightened\nchildren, from the windows, seeing a FACE go by. Though the whole great\ncrowd and all its other terrors had faded from their recollection, this\none object remained; alone, distinct, and well remembered. Even in the\nunpractised minds of infants, one of these doomed men darting past,\nand but an instant seen, was an image of force enough to dim the whole\nconcourse; to find itself an all-absorbing place, and hold it ever\nafter.\n\nWhen this last task had been achieved, the shouts and cries grew\nfainter; the clank of fetters, which had resounded on all sides as\nthe prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all the noises of the crowd\nsubsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed into the distance;\nand when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap of smoking\nruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared.\n\n\n\nChapter 66\n\n\nAlthough he had had no rest upon the previous night, and had watched\nwith little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping only in the day\nby starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn of morning until\nsunset, sought his niece in every place where he deemed it possible she\ncould have taken refuge. All day long, nothing, save a draught of water,\npassed his lips; though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and\nnever so much as sat down, once.\n\nIn every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; at the\nhouses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of the friends he\nknew; he pursued his search. A prey to the most harrowing anxieties and\napprehensions, he went from magistrate to magistrate, and finally to the\nSecretary of State. The only comfort he received was from this minister,\nwho assured him that the Government, being now driven to the exercise\nof the extreme prerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them;\nthat a proclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to the\nmilitary, discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression of the\nriots; that the sympathies of the King, the Administration, and both\nHouses of Parliament, and indeed of all good men of every religious\npersuasion, were strongly with the injured Catholics; and that justice\nshould be done them at any cost or hazard. He told him, moreover, that\nother persons whose houses had been burnt, had for a time lost sight of\ntheir children or their relatives, but had, in every case, within his\nknowledge, succeeded in discovering them; that his complaint should be\nremembered, and fully stated in the instructions given to the officers\nin command, and to all the inferior myrmidons of justice; and that\neverything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a\ngoodwill and in good faith.\n\nGrateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its reference to the\npast, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with the subject\nof distress which lay nearest to his heart; and really thankful for the\ninterest the minister expressed, and seemed to feel, in his condition;\nMr Haredale withdrew. He found himself, with the night coming on, alone\nin the streets; and destitute of any place in which to lay his head.\n\nHe entered an hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered some refreshment and\na bed. He saw that his faint and worn appearance attracted the attention\nof the landlord and his waiters; and thinking that they might suppose\nhim to be penniless, took out his purse, and laid it on the table. It\nwas not that, the landlord said, in a faltering voice. If he were one\nof those who had suffered by the rioters, he durst not give him\nentertainment. He had a family of children, and had been twice warned to\nbe careful in receiving guests. He heartily prayed his forgiveness, but\nwhat could he do?\n\nNothing. No man felt that more sincerely than Mr Haredale. He told the\nman as much, and left the house.\n\nFeeling that he might have anticipated this occurrence, after what\nhe had seen at Chigwell in the morning, where no man dared to touch a\nspade, though he offered a large reward to all who would come and dig\namong the ruins of his house, he walked along the Strand; too proud\nto expose himself to another refusal, and of too generous a spirit\nto involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman who might be weak\nenough to give him shelter. He wandered into one of the streets by the\nside of the river, and was pacing in a thoughtful manner up and\ndown, thinking of things that had happened long ago, when he heard a\nservant-man at an upper window call to another on the opposite side of\nthe street, that the mob were setting fire to Newgate.\n\nTo Newgate! where that man was! His failing strength returned, his\nenergies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant. If it were\npossible--if they should set the murderer free--was he, after all he had\nundergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain his own brother,\ndimly gathering about him--\n\nHe had no consciousness of going to the jail; but there he stood, before\nit. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in a dense, dark,\nmoving mass; and there were the flames soaring up into the air. His head\nturned round and round, lights flashed before his eyes, and he struggled\nhard with two men.\n\n'Nay, nay,' said one. 'Be more yourself, my good sir. We attract\nattention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?'\n\n'The gentleman's always for doing something,' said the other, forcing\nhim along as he spoke. 'I like him for that. I do like him for that.'\n\nThey had by this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. He\nlooked from one to the other, and as he tried to release himself, felt\nthat he tottered on his feet. He who had spoken first, was the old\ngentleman whom he had seen at the Lord Mayor's. The other was John\nGrueby, who had stood by him so manfully at Westminster.\n\n'What does this mean?' he asked them faintly. 'How came we together?'\n\n'On the skirts of the crowd,' returned the distiller; 'but come with us.\nPray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?'\n\n'Surely,' said Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John.\n\n'He'll tell you then,' returned the old gentleman, 'that I am a man\nto be trusted. He's my servant. He was lately (as you know, I have no\ndoubt) in Lord George Gordon's service; but he left it, and brought,\nin pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked by the rioters, such\nintelligence as he had picked up, of their designs.'\n\n--'On one condition, please, sir,' said John, touching his hat. No\nevidence against my lord--a misled man--a kind-hearted man, sir. My lord\nnever intended this.'\n\n'The condition will be observed, of course,' rejoined the old distiller.\n'It's a point of honour. But come with us, sir; pray come with us.'\n\nJohn Grueby added no entreaties, but he adopted a different kind of\npersuasion, by putting his arm through one of Mr Haredale's, while his\nmaster took the other, and leading him away with all speed.\n\nSensible, from a strange lightness in his head, and a difficulty in\nfixing his thoughts on anything, even to the extent of bearing his\ncompanions in his mind for a minute together without looking at them,\nthat his brain was affected by the agitation and suffering through which\nhe had passed, and to which he was still a prey, Mr Haredale let them\nlead him where they would. As they went along, he was conscious of\nhaving no command over what he said or thought, and that he had a fear\nof going mad.\n\nThe distiller lived, as he had told him when they first met, on Holborn\nHill, where he had great storehouses and drove a large trade. They\napproached his house by a back entrance, lest they should attract the\nnotice of the crowd, and went into an upper room which faced towards the\nstreet; the windows, however, in common with those of every other room\nin the house, were boarded up inside, in order that, out of doors, all\nmight appear quite dark.\n\nThey laid him on a sofa in this chamber, perfectly insensible; but John\nimmediately fetching a surgeon, who took from him a large quantity of\nblood, he gradually came to himself. As he was, for the time, too weak\nto walk, they had no difficulty in persuading him to remain there all\nnight, and got him to bed without loss of a minute. That done, they\ngave him cordial and some toast, and presently a pretty strong\ncomposing-draught, under the influence of which he soon fell into a\nlethargy, and, for a time, forgot his troubles.\n\nThe vintner, who was a very hearty old fellow and a worthy man, had\nno thoughts of going to bed himself, for he had received several\nthreatening warnings from the rioters, and had indeed gone out that\nevening to try and gather from the conversation of the mob whether his\nhouse was to be the next attacked. He sat all night in an easy-chair in\nthe same room--dozing a little now and then--and received from time\nto time the reports of John Grueby and two or three other trustworthy\npersons in his employ, who went out into the streets as scouts; and\nfor whose entertainment an ample allowance of good cheer (which the old\nvintner, despite his anxiety, now and then attacked himself) was set\nforth in an adjoining chamber.\n\nThese accounts were of a sufficiently alarming nature from the first;\nbut as the night wore on, they grew so much worse, and involved such a\nfearful amount of riot and destruction, that in comparison with these\nnew tidings all the previous disturbances sunk to nothing.\n\nThe first intelligence that came, was of the taking of Newgate, and the\nescape of all the prisoners, whose track, as they made up Holborn and\ninto the adjacent streets, was proclaimed to those citizens who were\nshut up in their houses, by the rattling of their chains, which formed\na dismal concert, and was heard in every direction, as though so many\nforges were at work. The flames too, shone so brightly through the\nvintner's skylights, that the rooms and staircases below were nearly as\nlight as in broad day; while the distant shouting of the mob seemed to\nshake the very walls and ceilings.\n\nAt length they were heard approaching the house, and some minutes of\nterrible anxiety ensued. They came close up, and stopped before it;\nbut after giving three loud yells, went on. And although they returned\nseveral times that night, creating new alarms each time, they did\nnothing there; having their hands full. Shortly after they had gone away\nfor the first time, one of the scouts came running in with the news that\nthey had stopped before Lord Mansfield's house in Bloomsbury Square.\n\nSoon afterwards there came another, and another, and then the first\nreturned again, and so, by little and little, their tale was this:--That\nthe mob gathering round Lord Mansfield's house, had called on those\nwithin to open the door, and receiving no reply (for Lord and Lady\nMansfield were at that moment escaping by the backway), forced an\nentrance according to their usual custom. That they then began to\ndemolish the house with great fury, and setting fire to it in several\nparts, involved in a common ruin the whole of the costly furniture, the\nplate and jewels, a beautiful gallery of pictures, the rarest collection\nof manuscripts ever possessed by any one private person in the world,\nand worse than all, because nothing could replace this loss, the great\nLaw Library, on almost every page of which were notes in the Judge's\nown hand, of inestimable value,--being the results of the study and\nexperience of his whole life. That while they were howling and exulting\nround the fire, a troop of soldiers, with a magistrate among them, came\nup, and being too late (for the mischief was by that time done), began\nto disperse the crowd. That the Riot Act being read, and the crowd still\nresisting, the soldiers received orders to fire, and levelling their\nmuskets shot dead at the first discharge six men and a woman, and\nwounded many persons; and loading again directly, fired another volley,\nbut over the people's heads it was supposed, as none were seen to fall.\nThat thereupon, and daunted by the shrieks and tumult, the crowd began\nto disperse, and the soldiers went away, leaving the killed and wounded\non the ground: which they had no sooner done than the rioters came back\nagain, and taking up the dead bodies, and the wounded people, formed\ninto a rude procession, having the bodies in the front. That in this\norder they paraded off with a horrible merriment; fixing weapons in the\ndead men's hands to make them look as if alive; and preceded by a fellow\nringing Lord Mansfield's dinner-bell with all his might.\n\nThe scouts reported further, that this party meeting with some others\nwho had been at similar work elsewhere, they all united into one, and\ndrafting off a few men with the killed and wounded, marched away to Lord\nMansfield's country seat at Caen Wood, between Hampstead and Highgate;\nbent upon destroying that house likewise, and lighting up a great fire\nthere, which from that height should be seen all over London. But in\nthis, they were disappointed, for a party of horse having arrived before\nthem, they retreated faster than they went, and came straight back to\ntown.\n\nThere being now a great many parties in the streets, each went to\nwork according to its humour, and a dozen houses were quickly blazing,\nincluding those of Sir John Fielding and two other justices, and four\nin Holborn--one of the greatest thoroughfares in London--which were all\nburning at the same time, and burned until they went out of themselves,\nfor the people cut the engine hose, and would not suffer the firemen to\nplay upon the flames. At one house near Moorfields, they found in one of\nthe rooms some canary birds in cages, and these they cast into the fire\nalive. The poor little creatures screamed, it was said, like infants,\nwhen they were flung upon the blaze; and one man was so touched that he\ntried in vain to save them, which roused the indignation of the crowd,\nand nearly cost him his life.\n\nAt this same house, one of the fellows who went through the rooms,\nbreaking the furniture and helping to destroy the building, found a\nchild's doll--a poor toy--which he exhibited at the window to the mob\nbelow, as the image of some unholy saint which the late occupants had\nworshipped. While he was doing this, another man with an equally tender\nconscience (they had both been foremost in throwing down the canary\nbirds for roasting alive), took his seat on the parapet of the house,\nand harangued the crowd from a pamphlet circulated by the Association,\nrelative to the true principles of Christianity! Meanwhile the Lord\nMayor, with his hands in his pockets, looked on as an idle man might\nlook at any other show, and seemed mightily satisfied to have got a good\nplace.\n\nSuch were the accounts brought to the old vintner by his servants as he\nsat at the side of Mr Haredale's bed, having been unable even to doze,\nafter the first part of the night; too much disturbed by his own fears;\nby the cries of the mob, the light of the fires, and the firing of the\nsoldiers. Such, with the addition of the release of all the prisoners in\nthe New Jail at Clerkenwell, and as many robberies of passengers in\nthe streets, as the crowd had leisure to indulge in, were the scenes of\nwhich Mr Haredale was happily unconscious, and which were all enacted\nbefore midnight.\n\n\n\nChapter 67\n\n\nWhen darkness broke away and morning began to dawn, the town wore a\nstrange aspect indeed.\n\nSleep had hardly been thought of all night. The general alarm was so\napparent in the faces of the inhabitants, and its expression was so\naggravated by want of rest (few persons, with any property to lose,\nhaving dared go to bed since Monday), that a stranger coming into the\nstreets would have supposed some mortal pest or plague to have been\nraging. In place of the usual cheerfulness and animation of morning,\neverything was dead and silent. The shops remained closed, offices and\nwarehouses were shut, the coach and chair stands were deserted, no carts\nor waggons rumbled through the slowly waking streets, the early cries\nwere all hushed; a universal gloom prevailed. Great numbers of people\nwere out, even at daybreak, but they flitted to and fro as though they\nshrank from the sound of their own footsteps; the public ways were\nhaunted rather than frequented; and round the smoking ruins people stood\napart from one another and in silence, not venturing to condemn the\nrioters, or to be supposed to do so, even in whispers.\n\nAt the Lord President's in Piccadilly, at Lambeth Palace, at the Lord\nChancellor's in Great Ormond Street, in the Royal Exchange, the Bank,\nthe Guildhall, the Inns of Court, the Courts of Law, and every chamber\nfronting the streets near Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament,\nparties of soldiers were posted before daylight. A body of Horse Guards\nparaded Palace Yard; an encampment was formed in the Park, where fifteen\nhundred men and five battalions of Militia were under arms; the Tower\nwas fortified, the drawbridges were raised, the cannon loaded and\npointed, and two regiments of artillery busied in strengthening the\nfortress and preparing it for defence. A numerous detachment of soldiers\nwere stationed to keep guard at the New River Head, which the people had\nthreatened to attack, and where, it was said, they meant to cut off the\nmain-pipes, so that there might be no water for the extinction of the\nflames. In the Poultry, and on Cornhill, and at several other leading\npoints, iron chains were drawn across the street; parties of soldiers\nwere distributed in some of the old city churches while it was yet\ndark; and in several private houses (among them, Lord Rockingham's in\nGrosvenor Square); which were blockaded as though to sustain a siege,\nand had guns pointed from the windows. When the sun rose, it shone into\nhandsome apartments filled with armed men; the furniture hastily heaped\naway in corners, and made of little or no account, in the terror of the\ntime--on arms glittering in city chambers, among desks and stools, and\ndusty books--into little smoky churchyards in odd lanes and by-ways,\nwith soldiers lying down among the tombs, or lounging under the shade of\nthe one old tree, and their pile of muskets sparkling in the light--on\nsolitary sentries pacing up and down in courtyards, silent now, but\nyesterday resounding with the din and hum of business--everywhere on\nguard-rooms, garrisons, and threatening preparations.\n\nAs the day crept on, still more unusual sights were witnessed in the\nstreets. The gates of the King's Bench and Fleet Prisons being opened at\nthe usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them, announcing\nthat the rioters would come that night to burn them down. The wardens,\ntoo well knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being\nfulfilled, were fain to set their prisoners at liberty, and give\nthem leave to move their goods; so, all day, such of them as had any\nfurniture were occupied in conveying it, some to this place, some to\nthat, and not a few to the brokers' shops, where they gladly sold it,\nfor any wretched price those gentry chose to give. There were some\nbroken men among these debtors who had been in jail so long, and were\nso miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world, and utterly\nforgotten and uncared for, that they implored their jailers not to\nset them free, and to send them, if need were, to some other place of\ncustody. But they, refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger\nof the mob, turned them into the streets, where they wandered up and\ndown hardly remembering the ways untrodden by their feet so long, and\ncrying--such abject things those rotten-hearted jails had made them--as\nthey slunk off in their rags, and dragged their slipshod feet along the\npavement.\n\nEven of the three hundred prisoners who had escaped from Newgate, there\nwere some--a few, but there were some--who sought their jailers out and\ndelivered themselves up: preferring imprisonment and punishment to the\nhorrors of such another night as the last. Many of the convicts, drawn\nback to their old place of captivity by some indescribable attraction,\nor by a desire to exult over it in its downfall and glut their revenge\nby seeing it in ashes, actually went back in broad noon, and loitered\nabout the cells. Fifty were retaken at one time on this next day, within\nthe prison walls; but their fate did not deter others, for there they\nwent in spite of everything, and there they were taken in twos and\nthrees, twice or thrice a day, all through the week. Of the fifty just\nmentioned, some were occupied in endeavouring to rekindle the fire; but\nin general they seemed to have no object in view but to prowl and lounge\nabout the old place: being often found asleep in the ruins, or sitting\ntalking there, or even eating and drinking, as in a choice retreat.\n\nBesides the notices on the gates of the Fleet and the King's Bench,\nmany similar announcements were left, before one o'clock at noon, at\nthe houses of private individuals; and further, the mob proclaimed their\nintention of seizing on the Bank, the Mint, the Arsenal at Woolwich, and\nthe Royal Palaces. The notices were seldom delivered by more than one\nman, who, if it were at a shop, went in, and laid it, with a bloody\nthreat perhaps, upon the counter; or if it were at a private\nhouse, knocked at the door, and thrust it in the servant's hand.\nNotwithstanding the presence of the military in every quarter of the\ntown, and the great force in the Park, these messengers did their\nerrands with impunity all through the day. So did two boys who went\ndown Holborn alone, armed with bars taken from the railings of Lord\nMansfield's house, and demanded money for the rioters. So did a tall man\non horseback who made a collection for the same purpose in Fleet Street,\nand refused to take anything but gold.\n\nA rumour had now got into circulation, too, which diffused a greater\ndread all through London, even than these publicly announced intentions\nof the rioters, though all men knew that if they were successfully\neffected, there must ensue a national bankruptcy and general ruin. It\nwas said that they meant to throw the gates of Bedlam open, and let all\nthe madmen loose. This suggested such dreadful images to the people's\nminds, and was indeed an act so fraught with new and unimaginable\nhorrors in the contemplation, that it beset them more than any loss or\ncruelty of which they could foresee the worst, and drove many sane men\nnearly mad themselves.\n\nSo the day passed on: the prisoners moving their goods; people running\nto and fro in the streets, carrying away their property; groups standing\nin silence round the ruins; all business suspended; and the soldiers\ndisposed as has been already mentioned, remaining quite inactive. So the\nday passed on, and dreaded night drew near again.\n\nAt last, at seven o'clock in the evening, the Privy Council issued a\nsolemn proclamation that it was now necessary to employ the military,\nand that the officers had most direct and effectual orders, by an\nimmediate exertion of their utmost force, to repress the disturbances;\nand warning all good subjects of the King to keep themselves, their\nservants, and apprentices, within doors that night. There was then\ndelivered out to every soldier on duty, thirty-six rounds of powder and\nball; the drums beat; and the whole force was under arms at sunset.\n\nThe City authorities, stimulated by these vigorous measures, held a\nCommon Council; passed a vote thanking the military associations who\nhad tendered their aid to the civil authorities; accepted it; and placed\nthem under the direction of the two sheriffs. At the Queen's palace,\na double guard, the yeomen on duty, the groom-porters, and all other\nattendants, were stationed in the passages and on the staircases at\nseven o'clock, with strict instructions to be watchful on their posts\nall night; and all the doors were locked. The gentlemen of the Temple,\nand the other Inns, mounted guard within their gates, and strengthened\nthem with the great stones of the pavement, which they took up for the\npurpose. In Lincoln's Inn, they gave up the hall and commons to the\nNorthumberland Militia, under the command of Lord Algernon Percy; in\nsome few of the city wards, the burgesses turned out, and without\nmaking a very fierce show, looked brave enough. Some hundreds of stout\ngentlemen threw themselves, armed to the teeth, into the halls of the\ndifferent companies, double-locked and bolted all the gates, and\ndared the rioters (among themselves) to come on at their peril. These\narrangements being all made simultaneously, or nearly so, were completed\nby the time it got dark; and then the streets were comparatively clear,\nand were guarded at all the great corners and chief avenues by\nthe troops: while parties of the officers rode up and down in all\ndirections, ordering chance stragglers home, and admonishing the\nresidents to keep within their houses, and, if any firing ensued, not\nto approach the windows. More chains were drawn across such of the\nthoroughfares as were of a nature to favour the approach of a great\ncrowd, and at each of these points a considerable force was stationed.\nAll these precautions having been taken, and it being now quite dark,\nthose in command awaited the result in some anxiety: and not without a\nhope that such vigilant demonstrations might of themselves dishearten\nthe populace, and prevent any new outrages.\n\nBut in this reckoning they were cruelly mistaken, for in half an hour,\nor less, as though the setting in of night had been their preconcerted\nsignal, the rioters having previously, in small parties, prevented the\nlighting of the street lamps, rose like a great sea; and that in so many\nplaces at once, and with such inconceivable fury, that those who had the\ndirection of the troops knew not, at first, where to turn or what to do.\nOne after another, new fires blazed up in every quarter of the town,\nas though it were the intention of the insurgents to wrap the city in a\ncircle of flames, which, contracting by degrees, should burn the whole\nto ashes; the crowd swarmed and roared in every street; and none but\nrioters and soldiers being out of doors, it seemed to the latter as if\nall London were arrayed against them, and they stood alone against the\ntown.\n\nIn two hours, six-and-thirty fires were raging--six-and-thirty great\nconflagrations: among them the Borough Clink in Tooley Street, the\nKing's Bench, the Fleet, and the New Bridewell. In almost every street,\nthere was a battle; and in every quarter the muskets of the troops were\nheard above the shouts and tumult of the mob. The firing began in the\nPoultry, where the chain was drawn across the road, where nearly a score\nof people were killed on the first discharge. Their bodies having been\nhastily carried into St Mildred's Church by the soldiers, the latter\nfired again, and following fast upon the crowd, who began to give way\nwhen they saw the execution that was done, formed across Cheapside, and\ncharged them at the point of the bayonet.\n\nThe streets were now a dreadful spectacle. The shouts of the rabble,\nthe shrieks of women, the cries of the wounded, and the constant firing,\nformed a deafening and an awful accompaniment to the sights which every\ncorner presented. Wherever the road was obstructed by the chains, there\nthe fighting and the loss of life were greatest; but there was hot work\nand bloodshed in almost every leading thoroughfare.\n\nAt Holborn Bridge, and on Holborn Hill, the confusion was greater than\nin any other part; for the crowd that poured out of the city in two\ngreat streams, one by Ludgate Hill, and one by Newgate Street, united at\nthat spot, and formed a mass so dense, that at every volley the people\nseemed to fall in heaps. At this place a large detachment of soldiery\nwere posted, who fired, now up Fleet Market, now up Holborn, now up Snow\nHill--constantly raking the streets in each direction. At this place\ntoo, several large fires were burning, so that all the terrors of that\nterrible night seemed to be concentrated in one spot.\n\nFull twenty times, the rioters, headed by one man who wielded an axe\nin his right hand, and bestrode a brewer's horse of great size and\nstrength, caparisoned with fetters taken out of Newgate, which clanked\nand jingled as he went, made an attempt to force a passage at this\npoint, and fire the vintner's house. Full twenty times they were\nrepulsed with loss of life, and still came back again; and though\nthe fellow at their head was marked and singled out by all, and was a\nconspicuous object as the only rioter on horseback, not a man could\nhit him. So surely as the smoke cleared away, so surely there was he;\ncalling hoarsely to his companions, brandishing his axe above his head,\nand dashing on as though he bore a charmed life, and was proof against\nball and powder.\n\nThis man was Hugh; and in every part of the riot, he was seen. He headed\ntwo attacks upon the Bank, helped to break open the Toll-houses on\nBlackfriars Bridge, and cast the money into the street: fired two of the\nprisons with his own hand: was here, and there, and everywhere--always\nforemost--always active--striking at the soldiers, cheering on the\ncrowd, making his horse's iron music heard through all the yell and\nuproar: but never hurt or stopped. Turn him at one place, and he made\na new struggle in another; force him to retreat at this point, and he\nadvanced on that, directly. Driven from Holborn for the twentieth\ntime, he rode at the head of a great crowd straight upon Saint Paul's,\nattacked a guard of soldiers who kept watch over a body of prisoners\nwithin the iron railings, forced them to retreat, rescued the men they\nhad in custody, and with this accession to his party, came back again,\nmad with liquor and excitement, and hallooing them on like a demon.\n\nIt would have been no easy task for the most careful rider to sit a\nhorse in the midst of such a throng and tumult; but though this madman\nrolled upon his back (he had no saddle) like a boat upon the sea, he\nnever for an instant lost his seat, or failed to guide him where he\nwould. Through the very thickest of the press, over dead bodies and\nburning fragments, now on the pavement, now in the road, now riding up\na flight of steps to make himself the more conspicuous to his party,\nand now forcing a passage through a mass of human beings, so closely\nsqueezed together that it seemed as if the edge of a knife would\nscarcely part them,--on he went, as though he could surmount all\nobstacles by the mere exercise of his will. And perhaps his not being\nshot was in some degree attributable to this very circumstance; for his\nextreme audacity, and the conviction that he must be one of those to\nwhom the proclamation referred, inspired the soldiers with a desire to\ntake him alive, and diverted many an aim which otherwise might have been\nmore near the mark.\n\nThe vintner and Mr Haredale, unable to sit quietly listening to the\nnoise without seeing what went on, had climbed to the roof of the house,\nand hiding behind a stack of chimneys, were looking cautiously down into\nthe street, almost hoping that after so many repulses the rioters would\nbe foiled, when a great shout proclaimed that a parry were coming round\nthe other way; and the dismal jingling of those accursed fetters warned\nthem next moment that they too were led by Hugh. The soldiers had\nadvanced into Fleet Market and were dispersing the people there; so that\nthey came on with hardly any check, and were soon before the house.\n\n'All's over now,' said the vintner. 'Fifty thousand pounds will be\nscattered in a minute. We must save ourselves. We can do no more, and\nshall have reason to be thankful if we do as much.'\n\nTheir first impulse was, to clamber along the roofs of the houses, and,\nknocking at some garret window for admission, pass down that way into\nthe street, and so escape. But another fierce cry from below, and a\ngeneral upturning of the faces of the crowd, apprised them that they\nwere discovered, and even that Mr Haredale was recognised; for Hugh,\nseeing him plainly in the bright glare of the fire, which in that part\nmade it as light as day, called to him by his name, and swore to have\nhis life.\n\n'Leave me here,' said Mr Haredale, 'and in Heaven's name, my good\nfriend, save yourself! Come on!' he muttered, as he turned towards Hugh\nand faced him without any further effort at concealment: 'This roof is\nhigh, and if we close, we will die together!'\n\n'Madness,' said the honest vintner, pulling him back, 'sheer madness.\nHear reason, sir. My good sir, hear reason. I could never make myself\nheard by knocking at a window now; and even if I could, no one would be\nbold enough to connive at my escape. Through the cellars, there's a kind\nof passage into the back street by which we roll casks in and out. We\nshall have time to get down there before they can force an entry. Do\nnot delay an instant, but come with me--for both our sakes--for mine--my\ndear good sir!'\n\nAs he spoke, and drew Mr Haredale back, they had both a glimpse of the\nstreet. It was but a glimpse, but it showed them the crowd, gathering\nand clustering round the house: some of the armed men pressing to the\nfront to break down the doors and windows, some bringing brands from\nthe nearest fire, some with lifted faces following their course upon the\nroof and pointing them out to their companions: all raging and roaring\nlike the flames they lighted up. They saw some men thirsting for the\ntreasures of strong liquor which they knew were stored within; they saw\nothers, who had been wounded, sinking down into the opposite doorways\nand dying, solitary wretches, in the midst of all the vast assemblage;\nhere a frightened woman trying to escape; and there a lost child; and\nthere a drunken ruffian, unconscious of the death-wound on his head,\nraving and fighting to the last. All these things, and even such trivial\nincidents as a man with his hat off, or turning round, or stooping down,\nor shaking hands with another, they marked distinctly; yet in a glance\nso brief, that, in the act of stepping back, they lost the whole, and\nsaw but the pale faces of each other, and the red sky above them.\n\nMr Haredale yielded to the entreaties of his companion--more because he\nwas resolved to defend him, than for any thought he had of his own life,\nor any care he entertained for his own safety--and quickly re-entering\nthe house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were\nthundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the\ndoor, the glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every\ncrevice, and they heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close\nto every chink and keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering\ntheir threats into their very ears. They had but a moment reached the\nbottom of the cellar-steps and shut the door behind them, when the mob\nbroke in.\n\nThe vaults were profoundly dark, and having no torch or candle--for\nthey had been afraid to carry one, lest it should betray their place of\nrefuge--they were obliged to grope with their hands. But they were not\nlong without light, for they had not gone far when they heard the crowd\nforcing the door; and, looking back among the low-arched passages,\ncould see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with flashing links,\nbroaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon the right\nhand and the left, into the different cellars, and lying down to drink\nat the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the\nground.\n\nThey hurried on, not the less quickly for this; and had reached the only\nvault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from\nthe direction in which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon\ntheir faces; and before they could slip aside, or turn back, or hide\nthemselves, two men (one bearing a torch) came upon them, and cried in\nan astonished whisper, 'Here they are!'\n\nAt the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their heads. Mr\nHaredale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the vintner\ngasped his name, Joe Willet.\n\nAy, the same Joe, though with an arm the less, who used to make the\nquarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill to the purple-faced\nvintner; and that very same purple-faced vintner, formerly of Thames\nStreet, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by name.\n\n'Give me your hand,' said Joe softly, taking it whether the astonished\nvintner would or no. 'Don't fear to shake it; it's a friendly one and\na hearty one, though it has no fellow. Why, how well you look and how\nbluff you are! And you--God bless you, sir. Take heart, take heart.\nWe'll find them. Be of good cheer; we have not been idle.'\n\nThere was something so honest and frank in Joe's speech, that Mr\nHaredale put his hand in his involuntarily, though their meeting\nwas suspicious enough. But his glance at Edward Chester, and that\ngentleman's keeping aloof, were not lost upon Joe, who said bluntly,\nglancing at Edward while he spoke:\n\n'Times are changed, Mr Haredale, and times have come when we ought to\nknow friends from enemies, and make no confusion of names. Let me tell\nyou that but for this gentleman, you would most likely have been dead by\nthis time, or badly wounded at the best.'\n\n'What do you say?' cried Mr Haredale.\n\n'I say,' said Joe, 'first, that it was a bold thing to be in the crowd\nat all disguised as one of them; though I won't say much about that, on\nsecond thoughts, for that's my case too. Secondly, that it was a brave\nand glorious action--that's what I call it--to strike that fellow off\nhis horse before their eyes!'\n\n'What fellow! Whose eyes!'\n\n'What fellow, sir!' cried Joe: 'a fellow who has no goodwill to you, and\nwho has the daring and devilry in him of twenty fellows. I know him of\nold. Once in the house, HE would have found you, here or anywhere. The\nrest owe you no particular grudge, and, unless they see you, will only\nthink of drinking themselves dead. But we lose time. Are you ready?'\n\n'Quite,' said Edward. 'Put out the torch, Joe, and go on. And be silent,\nthere's a good fellow.'\n\n'Silent or not silent,' murmured Joe, as he dropped the flaring link\nupon the ground, crushed it with his foot, and gave his hand to Mr\nHaredale, 'it was a brave and glorious action;--no man can alter that.'\n\nBoth Mr Haredale and the worthy vintner were too amazed and too much\nhurried to ask any further questions, so followed their conductors\nin silence. It seemed, from a short whispering which presently ensued\nbetween them and the vintner relative to the best way of escape, that\nthey had entered by the back-door, with the connivance of John Grueby,\nwho watched outside with the key in his pocket, and whom they had taken\ninto their confidence. A party of the crowd coming up that way, just as\nthey entered, John had double-locked the door again, and made off for\nthe soldiers, so that means of retreat was cut off from under them.\n\nHowever, as the front-door had been forced, and this minor crowd, being\nanxious to get at the liquor, had no fancy for losing time in breaking\ndown another, but had gone round and got in from Holborn with the rest,\nthe narrow lane in the rear was quite free of people. So, when they had\ncrawled through the passage indicated by the vintner (which was a mere\nshelving-trap for the admission of casks), and had managed with some\ndifficulty to unchain and raise the door at the upper end, they emerged\ninto the street without being observed or interrupted. Joe still holding\nMr Haredale tight, and Edward taking the same care of the vintner, they\nhurried through the streets at a rapid pace; occasionally standing aside\nto let some fugitives go by, or to keep out of the way of the soldiers\nwho followed them, and whose questions, when they halted to put any,\nwere speedily stopped by one whispered word from Joe.\n\n\n\nChapter 68\n\n\nWhile Newgate was burning on the previous night, Barnaby and his\nfather, having been passed among the crowd from hand to hand, stood in\nSmithfield, on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames like men\nwho had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before\nthey could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got\nthere; or recollected that while they were standing idle and listless\nspectators of the fire, they had tools in their hands which had been\nhurriedly given them that they might free themselves from their fetters.\n\nBarnaby, heavily ironed as he was, if he had obeyed his first impulse,\nor if he had been alone, would have made his way back to the side of\nHugh, who to his clouded intellect now shone forth with the new lustre\nof being his preserver and truest friend. But his father's terror\nof remaining in the streets, communicated itself to him when he\ncomprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the\nsame eagerness to fly to a place of safety.\n\nIn a corner of the market among the pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down,\nand pausing every now and then to pass his hand over his father's face,\nor look up to him with a smile, knocked off his irons. When he had seen\nhim spring, a free man, to his feet, and had given vent to the transport\nof delight which the sight awakened, he went to work upon his own, which\nsoon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his limbs unfettered.\n\nGliding away together when this task was accomplished, and passing\nseveral groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide\nhim from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of\nhammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work,--the two\nfugitives made towards Clerkenwell, and passing thence to Islington, as\nthe nearest point of egress, were quickly in the fields. After wandering\nabout for a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor\nshed, with walls of mud, and roof of grass and brambles, built for\nsome cowherd, but now deserted. Here, they lay down for the rest of the\nnight.\n\nThey wandered to and fro when it was day, and once Barnaby went off\nalone to a cluster of little cottages two or three miles away, to\npurchase some bread and milk. But finding no better shelter, they\nreturned to the same place, and lay down again to wait for night.\n\nHeaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty, and affection;\nwith what strange promptings of nature, intelligible to him as to a man\nof radiant mind and most enlarged capacity; with what dim memories of\nchildren he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled\nof their fathers, and of loving them, and being loved; with how many\nhalf-remembered, dreamy associations of his mother's grief and tears and\nwidowhood; he watched and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy\ncrowd of such ideas came slowly on him; that they taught him to be sorry\nwhen he looked upon his haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when\nhe stooped to kiss him, that they kept him waking in a tearful gladness,\nshading him from the sun, fanning him with leaves, soothing him when he\nstarted in his sleep--ah! what a troubled sleep it was--and wondering\nwhen SHE would come to join them and be happy, is the truth. He sat\nbeside him all that day; listening for her footsteps in every breath\nof air, looking for her shadow on the gently-waving grass, twining the\nhedge flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when he awoke; and\nstooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings, and wonder\nwhy he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and night\ncame on, and he was still quite tranquil; busied with these thoughts, as\nif there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke\nhanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no\nlife or death, or cause of disquiet--nothing but clear air.\n\nBut the hour had now come when he must go alone to find out the blind\nman (a task that filled him with delight) and bring him to that place;\ntaking especial care that he was not watched or followed on his way\nback. He listened to the directions he must observe, repeated them again\nand again, and after twice or thrice returning to surprise his father\nwith a light-hearted laugh, went forth, at last, upon his errand:\nleaving Grip, whom he had carried from the jail in his arms, to his\ncare.\n\nFleet of foot, and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the\ncity, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night\nangry with their dismal lustre. When he entered the town--it might be\nthat he was changed by going there without his late companions, and on\nno violent errand; or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed\nthe day, or by the thoughts that had come upon him,--but it seemed\npeopled by a legion of devils. This flight and pursuit, this cruel\nburning and destroying, these dreadful cries and stunning noises, were\nTHEY the good lord's noble cause!\n\nThough almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still he found the\nblind man's house. It was shut up and tenantless.\n\nHe waited for a long while, but no one came. At last he withdrew; and as\nhe knew by this time that the soldiers were firing, and many people must\nhave been killed, he went down into Holborn, where he heard the great\ncrowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade him to avoid the\ndanger, and return with him.\n\nIf he had been stunned and shocked before, his horror was increased a\nthousandfold when he got into this vortex of the riot, and not being an\nactor in the terrible spectacle, had it all before his eyes. But there,\nin the midst, towering above them all, close before the house they were\nattacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to the rest!\n\nSickened by the sights surrounding him on every side, and by the heat\nand roar, and crash, he forced his way among the crowd (where many\nrecognised him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass), and in\ntime was nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening some one, but\nwhom or what he said, he could not, in the great confusion, understand.\nAt that moment the crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh--it\nwas impossible to see by what means, in such a concourse--fell headlong\ndown.\n\nBarnaby was beside him when he staggered to his feet. It was well he\nmade him hear his voice, or Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have\ncleft his skull in twain.\n\n'Barnaby--you! Whose hand was that, that struck me down?'\n\n'Not mine.'\n\n'Whose!--I say, whose!' he cried, reeling back, and looking wildly\nround. 'What are you doing? Where is he? Show me!'\n\n'You are hurt,' said Barnaby--as indeed he was, in the head, both by the\nblow he had received, and by his horse's hoof. 'Come away with me.'\n\nAs he spoke, he took the horse's bridle in his hand, turned him, and\ndragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which\nwas pouring from the street into the vintner's cellars.\n\n'Where's--where's Dennis?' said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking\nBarnaby with his strong arm. 'Where has he been all day? What did\nhe mean by leaving me as he did, in the jail, last night? Tell me,\nyou--d'ye hear!'\n\nWith a flourish of his dangerous weapon, he fell down upon the ground\nlike a log. After a minute, though already frantic with drinking and\nwith the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream of burning spirit\nwhich was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it as if it\nwere a brook of water.\n\nBarnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise. Though he could neither\nstand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his horse, climbed upon\nhis back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to divest the animal\nof his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him, snatched the\nbridle, turned into Leather Lane, which was close at hand, and urged the\nfrightened horse into a heavy trot.\n\nHe looked back, once, before he left the street; and looked upon a sight\nnot easily to be erased, even from his remembrance, so long as he had\nlife.\n\nThe vintner's house with a half-a-dozen others near at hand, was one\ngreat, glowing blaze. All night, no one had essayed to quench the\nflames, or stop their progress; but now a body of soldiers were actively\nengaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which were every moment\nin danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if they were\nleft to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling\ndown of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and\nthe execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military\ndetachments, the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations\nwere in danger, the hurrying to and fro of frightened people with\ntheir goods; the reflections in every quarter of the sky, of deep, red,\nsoaring flames, as though the last day had come and the whole universe\nwere burning; the dust, and smoke, and drift of fiery particles,\nscorching and kindling all it fell upon; the hot unwholesome vapour,\nthe blight on everything; the stars, and moon, and very sky,\nobliterated;--made up such a sum of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed\nas if the face of Heaven were blotted out, and night, in its rest and\nquiet, and softened light, never could look upon the earth again.\n\nBut there was a worse spectacle than this--worse by far than fire and\nsmoke, or even the rabble's unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters\nof the street, and every crack and fissure in the stones, ran with\nscorching spirit, which being dammed up by busy hands, overflowed\nthe road and pavement, and formed a great pool, into which the people\ndropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round this fearful\npond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, women\nwith children in their arms and babies at their breasts, and drank until\nthey died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and never\nraised their heads again, others sprang up from their fiery draught,\nand danced, half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation,\nuntil they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed\nthem. Nor was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that\nhappened on this fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they\ndrank out of hats, pails, buckets, tubs, and shoes, some men were drawn,\nalive, but all alight from head to foot; who, in their unendurable\nanguish and suffering, making for anything that had the look of water,\nrolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and splashed up liquid fire\nwhich lapped in all it met with as it ran along the surface, and\nneither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the great\nriots--for the last night it was--the wretched victims of a senseless\noutcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had\nkindled, and strewed the public streets of London.\n\nWith all he saw in this last glance fixed indelibly upon his mind,\nBarnaby hurried from the city which enclosed such horrors; and holding\ndown his head that he might not even see the glare of the fires upon the\nquiet landscape, was soon in the still country roads.\n\nHe stopped at about half-a-mile from the shed where his father lay, and\nwith some difficulty making Hugh sensible that he must dismount, sunk\nthe horse's furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal\nloose. That done, he supported his companion as well as he could, and\nled him slowly forward.\n\n\n\nChapter 69\n\n\nIt was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his\nstumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father;\nbut he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of\nhim, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice that\nthere was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sink\nupon the ground, and followed to bring him back.\n\nHe continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him; then\nturned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:\n\n'Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and you and she\ntogether have betrayed me!'\n\nBarnaby looked at him, in silence.\n\n'You have seen your mother!'\n\n'No,' cried Barnaby, eagerly. 'Not for a long time--longer than I can\ntell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?'\n\nHis father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and then\nsaid--drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face, and\nhearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth:\n\n'What man is that?'\n\n'Hugh--Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will not harm you. Why, you're\nafraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, noisy Hugh!'\n\n'What man is he, I ask you,' he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnaby\nstopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a look of\nterrified amazement.\n\n'Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are my father.\nWhy do you speak to me so?'\n\n--'I want,' he answered, putting away the hand which his son, with\na timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve,--'I want an\nanswer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have you brought\nwith you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is the blind man?'\n\n'I don't know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no person\ncame; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh--brave Hugh, who broke\ninto that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like him now, do you? You\nlike him now!'\n\n'Why does he lie upon the ground?'\n\n'He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees go\nround, and round, and round with him, and the ground heaves under his\nfeet. You know him? You remember? See!'\n\nThey had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over\nhim to look into his face.\n\n'I recollect the man,' his father murmured. 'Why did you bring him\nhere?'\n\n'Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder. They\nwere firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn you\nsick, father? I see it does, by your face. That's like me--What are you\nlooking at?'\n\n'At nothing!' said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace or\ntwo, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son's head.\n'At nothing!'\n\nHe remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on his\nface for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if he had lost\nsomething; and went shivering back, towards the shed.\n\n'Shall I bring him in, father?' asked Barnaby, who had looked on,\nwondering.\n\nHe only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon the\nground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into the darkest\ncorner.\n\nFinding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible for a\nmoment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a little\nheap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed; first having\nbrought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound,\nand laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two,\nto pass the night; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep.\n\nAwakened early in the morning, by the sunshine and the songs of birds,\nand hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into\nthe sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses,\noppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and many\nnights before, all the beauties of opening day, which he had so often\ntasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell heavily. He\nthought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on\ntogether through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled his\neyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done\nwrong, nor had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which\nhe had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he was\nfull of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes\n(quite unknown to him before) that this or that event had never\nhappened, and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had been\nspared. And now he began to think how happy they would be--his father,\nmother, he, and Hugh--if they rambled away together, and lived in some\nlonely place, where there were none of these troubles; and that perhaps\nthe blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold, and told him of\nthe great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without being\npinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he\nhad not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this regret,\nwhen his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.\n\n'Ah!' cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. 'Is it\nonly you?'\n\n'Who should it be?'\n\n'I almost thought,' he answered, 'it was the blind man. I must have some\ntalk with him, father.'\n\n'And so must I, for without seeing him, I don't know where to fly or\nwhat to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to him again, and\nbring him here.'\n\n'Must I!' cried Barnaby, delighted; 'that's brave, father. That's what I\nwant to do.'\n\n'But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you wait at\nhis door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come back\nwithout him.'\n\n'Don't you fear that,' he cried gaily. 'He shall come, he shall come.'\n\n'Trim off these gewgaws,' said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon\nand the feathers from his hat, 'and over your own dress wear my cloak.\nTake heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to notice\nyou. Of your coming back you need take no account, for he'll manage\nthat, safely.'\n\n'To be sure!' said Barnaby. 'To be sure he will! A wise man, father, and\none who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, I know him.'\n\nHe was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With a\nlighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh,\nwho was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within the\nshed, and his father walking to and fro before it.\n\nThe murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up\nand down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among the\nboughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the\ndaisied ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though his\nown life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. In\nthe intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of his\ngreat crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter, engendered,\nevery thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up and lost. Still,\nhis presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes, there were\nterrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect, and his\nhalf-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung\ninto existence from his victim's blood. He could not bear his look, his\nvoice, his touch; and yet he was forced, by his own desperate condition\nand his only hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, and\nto know that he was inseparable from his single chance of escape.\n\nHe walked to and fro, with little rest, all day, revolving these things\nin his mind; and still Hugh lay, unconscious, in the shed. At length,\nwhen the sun was setting, Barnaby returned, leading the blind man, and\ntalking earnestly to him as they came along together.\n\nThe murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on and speak\nto Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at the\nblind man's elbow, and slowly followed, towards the shed.\n\n'Why did you send HIM?' said Stagg. 'Don't you know it was the way to\nhave him lost, as soon as found?'\n\n'Would you have had me come myself?' returned the other.\n\n'Humph! Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missed\nyou in the crowd. I was out last night, too. There was good work last\nnight--gay work--profitable work'--he added, rattling the money in his\npockets.\n\n'Have you--'\n\n--'Seen your good lady? Yes.'\n\n'Do you mean to tell me more, or not?'\n\n'I'll tell you all,' returned the blind man, with a laugh. 'Excuse\nme--but I love to see you so impatient. There's energy in it.'\n\n'Does she consent to say the word that may save me?'\n\n'No,' returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his face towards\nhim. 'No. Thus it is. She has been at death's door since she lost her\ndarling--has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to a\nhospital, and presented myself (with your leave) at her bedside. Our\ntalk was not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people near\nI was not quite easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, and\npointed out the young gentleman's position, in strong terms. She tried\nto soften me, but that, of course (as I told her), was lost time. She\ncried and moaned, you may be sure; all women do. Then, of a sudden, she\nfound her voice and strength, and said that Heaven would help her and\nher innocent son; and that to Heaven she appealed against us--which she\ndid; in really very pretty language, I assure you. I advised her, as\na friend, not to count too much on assistance from any such distant\nquarter--recommended her to think of it--told her where I lived--said I\nknew she would send to me before noon, next day--and left her, either in\na faint or shamming.'\n\nWhen he had concluded this narration, during which he had made several\npauses, for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of which\nhe seemed to have a pocketful, the blind man pulled a flask from his\npocket, took a draught himself, and offered it to his companion.\n\n'You won't, won't you?' he said, feeling that he pushed it from him.\n'Well! Then the gallant gentleman who's lodging with you, will. Hallo,\nbully!'\n\n'Death!' said the other, holding him back. 'Will you tell me what I am\nto do!'\n\n'Do! Nothing easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours' time with\nthe young gentleman (he's quite ready to go; I have been giving him good\nadvice as we came along), and get as far from London as you can. Let me\nknow where you are, and leave the rest to me. She MUST come round; she\ncan't hold out long; and as to the chances of your being retaken in\nthe meanwhile, why it wasn't one man who got out of Newgate, but three\nhundred. Think of that, for your comfort.'\n\n'We must support life. How?'\n\n'How!' repeated the blind man. 'By eating and drinking. And how get meat\nand drink, but by paying for it! Money!' he cried, slapping his pocket.\n'Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money. Devil send\nthat the sport's not over yet, for these are jolly times; golden, rare,\nroaring, scrambling times. Hallo, bully! Hallo! Hallo! Drink, bully,\ndrink. Where are ye there! Hallo!'\n\nWith such vociferations, and with a boisterous manner which bespoke his\nperfect abandonment to the general licence and disorder, he groped his\nway towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were sitting on the ground.\n\n'Put it about!' he cried, handing his flask to Hugh. 'The kennels run\nwith wine and gold. Guineas and strong water flow from the very pumps.\nAbout with it, don't spare it!'\n\nExhausted, unwashed, unshorn, begrimed with smoke and dust, his hair\nclotted with blood, his voice quite gone, so that he spoke in whispers;\nhis skin parched up by fever, his whole body bruised and cut, and beaten\nabout, Hugh still took the flask, and raised it to his lips. He was in\nthe act of drinking, when the front of the shed was suddenly darkened,\nand Dennis stood before them.\n\n'No offence, no offence,' said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as\nHugh stopped in his draught, and eyed him, with no pleasant look, from\nhead to foot. 'No offence, brother. Barnaby here too, eh? How are you,\nBarnaby? And two other gentlemen! Your humble servant, gentlemen. No\noffence to YOU either, I hope. Eh, brothers?'\n\nNotwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confident\nmanner, he seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, and\nremained outside the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual:\nwearing the same suit of threadbare black, it is true, but having round\nhis neck an unwholesome-looking cravat of a yellowish white; and, on his\nhands, great leather gloves, such as a gardener might wear in following\nhis trade. His shoes were newly greased, and ornamented with a pair of\nrusty iron buckles; the packthread at his knees had been renewed; and\nwhere he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether, he had something the\nlook of a tipstaff, or a bailiff's follower, desperately faded, but who\nhad a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional character,\nand making the best of the worst means.\n\n'You're very snug here,' said Mr Dennis, pulling out a mouldy\npocket-handkerchief, which looked like a decomposed halter, and wiping\nhis forehead in a nervous manner.\n\n'Not snug enough to prevent your finding us, it seems,' Hugh answered,\nsulkily.\n\n'Why I'll tell you what, brother,' said Dennis, with a friendly smile,\n'when you don't want me to know which way you're riding, you must wear\nanother sort of bells on your horse. Ah! I know the sound of them you\nwore last night, and have got quick ears for 'em; that's the truth.\nWell, but how are you, brother?'\n\nHe had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him.\n\n'How am I?' answered Hugh. 'Where were you yesterday? Where did you go\nwhen you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did you\nmean by rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh?'\n\n'I shake my fist!--at you, brother!' said Dennis, gently checking Hugh's\nuplifted hand, which looked threatening.\n\n'Your stick, then; it's all one.'\n\n'Lord love you, brother, I meant nothing. You don't understand me by\nhalf. I shouldn't wonder now,' he added, in the tone of a desponding and\nan injured man, 'but you thought, because I wanted them chaps left in\nthe prison, that I was a going to desert the banners?'\n\nHugh told him, with an oath, that he had thought so.\n\n'Well!' said Mr Dennis, mournfully, 'if you an't enough to make a man\nmistrust his feller-creeturs, I don't know what is. Desert the banners!\nMe! Ned Dennis, as was so christened by his own father!--Is this axe\nyour'n, brother?'\n\n'Yes, it's mine,' said Hugh, in the same sullen manner as before; 'it\nmight have hurt you, if you had come in its way once or twice last\nnight. Put it down.'\n\n'Might have hurt me!' said Mr Dennis, still keeping it in his hand, and\nfeeling the edge with an air of abstraction. 'Might have hurt me! and me\nexerting myself all the time to the wery best advantage. Here's a world!\nAnd you're not a-going to ask me to take a sup out of that 'ere bottle,\neh?'\n\nHugh passed it towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumped\nup, and motioning them to be silent, looked eagerly out.\n\n'What's the matter, Barnaby?' said Dennis, glancing at Hugh and dropping\nthe flask, but still holding the axe in his hand.\n\n'Hush!' he answered softly. 'What do I see glittering behind the hedge?'\n\n'What!' cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and\nlaying hold of him and Hugh. 'Not SOLDIERS, surely!'\n\nThat moment, the shed was filled with armed men; and a body of horse,\ngalloping into the field, drew up before it.\n\n'There!' said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they had\nseized their prisoners; 'it's them two young ones, gentlemen, that the\nproclamation puts a price on. This other's an escaped felon.--I'm sorry\nfor it, brother,' he added, in a tone of resignation, addressing himself\nto Hugh; 'but you've brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you\nwouldn't respect the soundest constitootional principles, you know; you\nwent and wiolated the wery framework of society. I had sooner have\ngiven away a trifle in charity than done this, I would upon my soul.--If\nyou'll keep fast hold on 'em, gentlemen, I think I can make a shift to\ntie 'em better than you can.'\n\nBut this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence.\nThe blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people's sight, had\nbeen alarmed, before Barnaby, by a rustling in the bushes, under cover\nof which the soldiers had advanced. He retreated instantly--had hidden\nsomewhere for a minute--and probably in his confusion mistaking the\npoint at which he had emerged, was now seen running across the open\nmeadow.\n\nAn officer cried directly that he had helped to plunder a house last\nnight. He was loudly called on, to surrender. He ran the harder, and in\na few seconds would have been out of gunshot. The word was given, and\nthe men fired.\n\nThere was a breathless pause and a profound silence, during which all\neyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start at the discharge, as\nif the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped nor slackened\nhis pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further. Then,\nwithout one reel or stagger, or sign of faintness, or quivering of any\nlimb, he dropped.\n\nSome of them hurried up to where he lay;--the hangman with them.\nEverything had passed so quickly, that the smoke had not yet scattered,\nbut curled slowly off in a little cloud, which seemed like the dead\nman's spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood upon\nthe grass--more, when they turned him over--that was all.\n\n'Look here! Look here!' said the hangman, stooping one knee beside the\nbody, and gazing up with a disconsolate face at the officer and men.\n'Here's a pretty sight!'\n\n'Stand out of the way,' replied the officer. 'Serjeant! see what he had\nabout him.'\n\nThe man turned his pockets out upon the grass, and counted, besides some\nforeign coins and two rings, five-and-forty guineas in gold. These were\nbundled up in a handkerchief and carried away; the body remained there\nfor the present, but six men and the serjeant were left to take it to\nthe nearest public-house.\n\n'Now then, if you're going,' said the serjeant, clapping Dennis on the\nback, and pointing after the officer who was walking towards the shed.\n\nTo which Mr Dennis only replied, 'Don't talk to me!' and then repeated\nwhat he had said before, namely, 'Here's a pretty sight!'\n\n'It's not one that you care for much, I should think,' observed the\nserjeant coolly.\n\n'Why, who,' said Mr Dennis rising, 'should care for it, if I don't?'\n\n'Oh! I didn't know you was so tender-hearted,' said the serjeant.\n'That's all!'\n\n'Tender-hearted!' echoed Dennis. 'Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Do\nyou call THIS constitootional? Do you see him shot through and through\ninstead of being worked off like a Briton? Damme, if I know which\nparty to side with. You're as bad as the other. What's to become of the\ncountry if the military power's to go a superseding the ciwilians in\nthis way? Where's this poor feller-creetur's rights as a citizen, that\nhe didn't have ME in his last moments! I was here. I was willing. I\nwas ready. These are nice times, brother, to have the dead crying out\nagainst us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds arterwards;\nwery nice!'\n\nWhether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners,\nis uncertain; most probably he did. At all events his being summoned to\nthat work, diverted him, for the time, from these painful reflections,\nand gave his thoughts a more congenial occupation.\n\nThey were not all three carried off together, but in two parties;\nBarnaby and his father, going by one road in the centre of a body of\nfoot; and Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, and strongly guarded by a troop\nof cavalry, being taken by another.\n\nThey had no opportunity for the least communication, in the short\ninterval which preceded their departure; being kept strictly apart. Hugh\nonly observed that Barnaby walked with a drooping head among his guard,\nand, without raising his eyes, that he tried to wave his fettered hand\nwhen he passed. For himself, he buoyed up his courage as he rode along,\nwith the assurance that the mob would force his jail wherever it might\nbe, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London, and more\nespecially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters,\nwhere the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, he\nsaw that this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death.\n\n\n\nChapter 70\n\n\nMr Dennis having despatched this piece of business without any personal\nhurt or inconvenience, and having now retired into the tranquil\nrespectability of private life, resolved to solace himself with half an\nhour or so of female society. With this amiable purpose in his mind,\nhe bent his steps towards the house where Dolly and Miss Haredale were\nstill confined, and whither Miss Miggs had also been removed by order of\nMr Simon Tappertit.\n\nAs he walked along the streets with his leather gloves clasped\nbehind him, and his face indicative of cheerful thought and pleasant\ncalculation, Mr Dennis might have been likened unto a farmer ruminating\namong his crops, and enjoying by anticipation the bountiful gifts of\nProvidence. Look where he would, some heap of ruins afforded him rich\npromise of a working off; the whole town appeared to have been ploughed\nand sown, and nurtured by most genial weather; and a goodly harvest was\nat hand.\n\nHaving taken up arms and resorted to deeds of violence, with the great\nmain object of preserving the Old Bailey in all its purity, and the\ngallows in all its pristine usefulness and moral grandeur, it would\nperhaps be going too far to assert that Mr Dennis had ever distinctly\ncontemplated and foreseen this happy state of things. He rather looked\nupon it as one of those beautiful dispensations which are inscrutably\nbrought about for the behoof and advantage of good men. He felt, as\nit were, personally referred to, in this prosperous ripening for the\ngibbet; and had never considered himself so much the pet and favourite\nchild of Destiny, or loved that lady so well or with such a calm and\nvirtuous reliance, in all his life.\n\nAs to being taken up, himself, for a rioter, and punished with the\nrest, Mr Dennis dismissed that possibility from his thoughts as an idle\nchimera; arguing that the line of conduct he had adopted at Newgate,\nand the service he had rendered that day, would be more than a set-off\nagainst any evidence which might identify him as a member of the crowd.\nThat any charge of companionship which might be made against him by\nthose who were themselves in danger, would certainly go for nought. And\nthat if any trivial indiscretion on his part should unluckily come out,\nthe uncommon usefulness of his office, at present, and the great demand\nfor the exercise of its functions, would certainly cause it to be winked\nat, and passed over. In a word, he had played his cards throughout, with\ngreat care; had changed sides at the very nick of time; had delivered\nup two of the most notorious rioters, and a distinguished felon to boot;\nand was quite at his ease.\n\nSaving--for there is a reservation; and even Mr Dennis was not perfectly\nhappy--saving for one circumstance; to wit, the forcible detention of\nDolly and Miss Haredale, in a house almost adjoining his own. This was\na stumbling-block; for if they were discovered and released, they could,\nby the testimony they had it in their power to give, place him in a\nsituation of great jeopardy; and to set them at liberty, first extorting\nfrom them an oath of secrecy and silence, was a thing not to be thought\nof. It was more, perhaps, with an eye to the danger which lurked in this\nquarter, than from his abstract love of conversation with the sex, that\nthe hangman, quickening his steps, now hastened into their society,\ncursing the amorous natures of Hugh and Mr Tappertit with great\nheartiness, at every step he took.\n\nWhen he entered the miserable room in which they were confined, Dolly\nand Miss Haredale withdrew in silence to the remotest corner. But Miss\nMiggs, who was particularly tender of her reputation, immediately fell\nupon her knees and began to scream very loud, crying, 'What will become\nof me!'--'Where is my Simmuns!'--'Have mercy, good gentlemen, on my\nsex's weaknesses!'--with other doleful lamentations of that nature,\nwhich she delivered with great propriety and decorum.\n\n'Miss, miss,' whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his forefinger,\n'come here--I won't hurt you. Come here, my lamb, will you?'\n\nOn hearing this tender epithet, Miss Miggs, who had left off screaming\nwhen he opened his lips, and had listened to him attentively, began\nagain, crying: 'Oh I'm his lamb! He says I'm his lamb! Oh gracious, why\nwasn't I born old and ugly! Why was I ever made to be the youngest of\nsix, and all of 'em dead and in their blessed graves, excepting\none married sister, which is settled in Golden Lion Court, number\ntwenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the--!'\n\n'Don't I say I an't a-going to hurt you?' said Dennis, pointing to a\nchair. 'Why miss, what's the matter?'\n\n'I don't know what mayn't be the matter!' cried Miss Miggs, clasping her\nhands distractedly. 'Anything may be the matter!'\n\n'But nothing is, I tell you,' said the hangman. 'First stop that noise\nand come and sit down here, will you, chuckey?'\n\nThe coaxing tone in which he said these latter words might have failed\nin its object, if he had not accompanied them with sundry sharp jerks of\nhis thumb over one shoulder, and with divers winks and thrustings of his\ntongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel gathered that he\nsought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Haredale and Dolly. Her\ncuriosity being very powerful, and her jealousy by no means inactive,\nshe arose, and with a great deal of shivering and starting back, and\nmuch muscular action among all the small bones in her throat, gradually\napproached him.\n\n'Sit down,' said the hangman.\n\nSuiting the action to the word, he thrust her rather suddenly and\nprematurely into a chair, and designing to reassure her by a little\nharmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and fascinate the sex,\nconverted his right forefinger into an ideal bradawl or gimlet, and\nmade as though he would screw the same into her side--whereat Miss Miggs\nshrieked again, and evinced symptoms of faintness.\n\n'Lovey, my dear,' whispered Dennis, drawing his chair close to hers.\n'When was your young man here last, eh?'\n\n'MY young man, good gentleman!' answered Miggs in a tone of exquisite\ndistress.\n\n'Ah! Simmuns, you know--him?' said Dennis.\n\n'Mine indeed!' cried Miggs, with a burst of bitterness--and as she said\nit, she glanced towards Dolly. 'MINE, good gentleman!'\n\nThis was just what Mr Dennis wanted, and expected.\n\n'Ah!' he said, looking so soothingly, not to say amorously on Miggs,\nthat she sat, as she afterwards remarked, on pins and needles of\nthe sharpest Whitechapel kind, not knowing what intentions might be\nsuggesting that expression to his features: 'I was afraid of that. I saw\nas much myself. It's her fault. She WILL entice 'em.'\n\n'I wouldn't,' cried Miggs, folding her hands and looking upwards with\na kind of devout blankness, 'I wouldn't lay myself out as she does; I\nwouldn't be as bold as her; I wouldn't seem to say to all male creeturs\n\"Come and kiss me\"'--and here a shudder quite convulsed her frame--'for\nany earthly crowns as might be offered. Worlds,' Miggs added solemnly,\n'should not reduce me. No. Not if I was Wenis.'\n\n'Well, but you ARE Wenus, you know,' said Mr Dennis, confidentially.\n\n'No, I am not, good gentleman,' answered Miggs, shaking her head with an\nair of self-denial which seemed to imply that she might be if she chose,\nbut she hoped she knew better. 'No, I am not, good gentleman. Don't\ncharge me with it.'\n\nUp to this time she had turned round, every now and then, to where Dolly\nand Miss Haredale had retired and uttered a scream, or groan, or laid\nher hand upon her heart and trembled excessively, with a view of keeping\nup appearances, and giving them to understand that she conversed with\nthe visitor, under protest and on compulsion, and at a great personal\nsacrifice, for their common good. But at this point, Mr Dennis looked\nso very full of meaning, and gave such a singularly expressive twitch\nto his face as a request to her to come still nearer to him, that\nshe abandoned these little arts, and gave him her whole and undivided\nattention.\n\n'When was Simmuns here, I say?' quoth Dennis, in her ear.\n\n'Not since yesterday morning; and then only for a few minutes. Not all\nday, the day before.'\n\n'You know he meant all along to carry off that one!' said Dennis,\nindicating Dolly by the slightest possible jerk of his head:--'And to\nhand you over to somebody else.'\n\nMiss Miggs, who had fallen into a terrible state of grief when the first\npart of this sentence was spoken, recovered a little at the second,\nand seemed by the sudden check she put upon her tears, to intimate\nthat possibly this arrangement might meet her views; and that it might,\nperhaps, remain an open question.\n\n'--But unfort'nately,' pursued Dennis, who observed this: 'somebody else\nwas fond of her too, you see; and even if he wasn't, somebody else is\ntook for a rioter, and it's all over with him.'\n\nMiss Miggs relapsed.\n\n'Now I want,' said Dennis, 'to clear this house, and to see you righted.\nWhat if I was to get her off, out of the way, eh?'\n\nMiss Miggs, brightening again, rejoined, with many breaks and pauses\nfrom excess of feeling, that temptations had been Simmuns's bane. That\nit was not his faults, but hers (meaning Dolly's). That men did not see\nthrough these dreadful arts as women did, and therefore was caged\nand trapped, as Simmun had been. That she had no personal motives to\nserve--far from it--on the contrary, her intentions was good towards\nall parties. But forasmuch as she knowed that Simmun, if united to any\ndesigning and artful minxes (she would name no names, for that was not\nher dispositions)--to ANY designing and artful minxes--must be made\nmiserable and unhappy for life, she DID incline towards prewentions.\nSuch, she added, was her free confessions. But as this was private\nfeelings, and might perhaps be looked upon as wengeance, she begged the\ngentleman would say no more. Whatever he said, wishing to do her duty\nby all mankind, even by them as had ever been her bitterest enemies, she\nwould not listen to him. With that she stopped her ears, and shook her\nhead from side to side, to intimate to Mr Dennis that though he talked\nuntil he had no breath left, she was as deaf as any adder.\n\n'Lookee here, my sugar-stick,' said Mr Dennis, 'if your view's the same\nas mine, and you'll only be quiet and slip away at the right time, I\ncan have the house clear to-morrow, and be out of this trouble.--Stop\nthough! there's the other.'\n\n'Which other, sir?' asked Miggs--still with her fingers in her ears and\nher head shaking obstinately.\n\n'Why, the tallest one, yonder,' said Dennis, as he stroked his chin, and\nadded, in an undertone to himself, something about not crossing Muster\nGashford.\n\nMiss Miggs replied (still being profoundly deaf) that if Miss Haredale\nstood in the way at all, he might make himself quite easy on that score;\nas she had gathered, from what passed between Hugh and Mr Tappertit when\nthey were last there, that she was to be removed alone (not by them, but\nby somebody else), to-morrow night.\n\nMr Dennis opened his eyes very wide at this piece of information,\nwhistled once, considered once, and finally slapped his head once and\nnodded once, as if he had got the clue to this mysterious removal, and\nso dismissed it. Then he imparted his design concerning Dolly to Miss\nMiggs, who was taken more deaf than before, when he began; and so\nremained, all through.\n\nThe notable scheme was this. Mr Dennis was immediately to seek out from\namong the rioters, some daring young fellow (and he had one in his eye,\nhe said), who, terrified by the threats he could hold out to him, and\nalarmed by the capture of so many who were no better and no worse than\nhe, would gladly avail himself of any help to get abroad, and out of\nharm's way, with his plunder, even though his journey were incumbered\nby an unwilling companion; indeed, the unwilling companion being\na beautiful girl, would probably be an additional inducement and\ntemptation. Such a person found, he proposed to bring him there on\nthe ensuing night, when the tall one was taken off, and Miss Miggs had\npurposely retired; and then that Dolly should be gagged, muffled in a\ncloak, and carried in any handy conveyance down to the river's side;\nwhere there were abundant means of getting her smuggled snugly off in\nany small craft of doubtful character, and no questions asked. With\nregard to the expense of this removal, he would say, at a rough\ncalculation, that two or three silver tea or coffee-pots, with something\nadditional for drink (such as a muffineer, or toast-rack), would more\nthan cover it. Articles of plate of every kind having been buried by the\nrioters in several lonely parts of London, and particularly, as he\nknew, in St James's Square, which, though easy of access, was little\nfrequented after dark, and had a convenient piece of water in the midst,\nthe needful funds were close at hand, and could be had upon the shortest\nnotice. With regard to Dolly, the gentleman would exercise his own\ndiscretion. He would be bound to do nothing but to take her away,\nand keep her away. All other arrangements and dispositions would rest\nentirely with himself.\n\nIf Miss Miggs had had her hearing, no doubt she would have been greatly\nshocked by the indelicacy of a young female's going away with a stranger\nby night (for her moral feelings, as we have said, were of the tenderest\nkind); but directly Mr Dennis ceased to speak, she reminded him that he\nhad only wasted breath. She then went on to say (still with her fingers\nin her ears) that nothing less than a severe practical lesson would save\nthe locksmith's daughter from utter ruin; and that she felt it, as it\nwere, a moral obligation and a sacred duty to the family, to wish that\nsome one would devise one for her reformation. Miss Miggs remarked, and\nvery justly, as an abstract sentiment which happened to occur to her\nat the moment, that she dared to say the locksmith and his wife would\nmurmur, and repine, if they were ever, by forcible abduction, or\notherwise, to lose their child; but that we seldom knew, in this world,\nwhat was best for us: such being our sinful and imperfect natures, that\nvery few arrived at that clear understanding.\n\nHaving brought their conversation to this satisfactory end, they parted:\nDennis, to pursue his design, and take another walk about his farm; Miss\nMiggs, to launch, when he left her, into such a burst of mental anguish\n(which she gave them to understand was occasioned by certain tender\nthings he had had the presumption and audacity to say), that little\nDolly's heart was quite melted. Indeed, she said and did so much to\nsoothe the outraged feelings of Miss Miggs, and looked so beautiful\nwhile doing so, that if that young maid had not had ample vent for her\nsurpassing spite, in a knowledge of the mischief that was brewing, she\nmust have scratched her features, on the spot.\n\n\n\nChapter 71\n\n\nAll next day, Emma Haredale, Dolly, and Miggs, remained cooped up\ntogether in what had now been their prison for so many days, without\nseeing any person, or hearing any sound but the murmured conversation,\nin an outer room, of the men who kept watch over them. There appeared to\nbe more of these fellows than there had been hitherto; and they could\nno longer hear the voices of women, which they had before plainly\ndistinguished. Some new excitement, too, seemed to prevail among them;\nfor there was much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning\nof those who were newly arrived. They had previously been quite reckless\nin their behaviour; often making a great uproar; quarrelling among\nthemselves, fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very subdued\nand silent, conversing almost in whispers, and stealing in and out with\na soft and stealthy tread, very different from the boisterous trampling\nin which their arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced to\nthe trembling captives.\n\nWhether this change was occasioned by the presence among them of some\nperson of authority in their ranks, or by any other cause, they were\nunable to decide. Sometimes they thought it was in part attributable to\nthere being a sick man in the chamber, for last night there had been a\nshuffling of feet, as though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a\nmoaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining the truth: for\nany question or entreaty on their parts only provoked a storm of\nexecrations, or something worse; and they were too happy to be left\nalone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk even that comfort,\nby any voluntary communication with those who held them in durance.\n\nIt was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith's poor\nlittle daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of\nattraction; and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in\nthe softer passion, Hugh and Mr Tappertit would certainly fall to blows\nfor her sake; in which latter case, it was not very difficult to see\nwhose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man\nrevived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no\nlanguage can describe; with a thousand old recollections and regrets,\nand causes of distress, anxiety, and fear, besetting her on all sides;\npoor Dolly Varden--sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly--began to hang her head,\nand fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her\ncheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful\nof all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and\ninconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she\nnestled all the livelong day in Emma Haredale's bosom; and, sometimes\ncalling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and\nsometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in\nits cage.\n\nLight hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that\nare so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine--down upon fruit, bloom\nupon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose\nwhole existence is a day--how soon ye sink in troubled water! Poor\nDolly's heart--a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing; giddy, restless,\nfluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and smiles and\nlaughter--Dolly's heart was breaking.\n\nEmma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort\nto impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly\nclung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her\nwith some fortitude, she increased her own; and though the nights\nwere long, and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence\nof watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear\nperception of their destitute condition and its worst dangers, she\nuttered no complaint. Before the ruffians, in whose power they were, she\nbore herself so calmly, and with such an appearance, in the midst of all\nher terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that\nthere was not a man among them but held her in some degree of dread;\nand more than one believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was\nprepared to use it.\n\nSuch was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave\nthem to understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her\ncharms, and detailed such feats of resistance she had performed (her\nvirtue having given her supernatural strength), that they felt it quite\na happiness to have her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort\nthey derived at first from Miggs's presence and society: for that young\nlady displayed such resignation and long-suffering, and so much meek\nendurance, under her trials, and breathed in all her chaste discourse a\nspirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and devout belief that\nall would happen for the best, that Emma felt her courage strengthened\nby the bright example; never doubting but that everything she said was\ntrue, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and agonised\nby doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at\nfirst, by seeing one who came from home; but when she heard under what\ncircumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had\nfallen, she wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort.\n\nMiss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for this state of mind,\nand to entreat her to take example by herself, who, she said, was now\nreceiving back, with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions\nto the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace of mind and a\nquiet conscience. And, while on serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it\nher duty to try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haredale; for whose\nimprovement she launched into a polemical address of some length, in the\ncourse whereof, she likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that\nyoung lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she returned so often to\nthese subjects, and so frequently called upon them to take a lesson from\nher,--at the same time vaunting and, as it were, rioting in, her huge\nunworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,--that, in the course of a\nshort time, she became, in that small chamber, rather a nuisance than a\ncomfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had\nbeen before.\n\nThe night had now come; and for the first time (for their jailers had\nbeen regular in bringing food and candles), they were left in darkness.\nAny change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears; and\nwhen some hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could\nno longer repress her alarm.\n\nThey listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in the outer\nroom, and now and then a moan which seemed to be wrung from a person in\ngreat pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these\nmen seemed to be in darkness too; for no light shone through the chinks\nin the door, nor were they moving, as their custom was, but quite still:\nthe silence being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board.\n\nAt first, Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick\nperson might be; but arriving, on second thoughts, at the conclusion\nthat he was a part of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to\nbe employed with great success, she opined, for Miss Haredale's comfort,\nthat it must be some misguided Papist who had been wounded: and this\nhappy supposition encouraged her to say, under her breath, 'Ally\nLooyer!' several times.\n\n'Is it possible,' said Emma, with some indignation, 'that you who have\nseen these men committing the outrages you have told us of, and who have\nfallen into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties!'\n\n'Personal considerations, miss,' rejoined Miggs, 'sinks into nothing,\nafore a noble cause. Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good\ngentlemen!'\n\nIt seemed from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs repeated\nthis form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the\nkeyhole of the door; but in the profound darkness she could not be seen.\n\n'If the time has come--Heaven knows it may come at any moment--when they\nare bent on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, with which\nthey have brought us here, can you still encourage, and take part with\nthem?' demanded Emma.\n\n'I thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, miss,' returned\nMiggs, with increased energy.--'Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!'\n\nEven Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she was, revived at this, and\nbade Miggs hold her tongue directly.\n\n'WHICH, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?' said Miggs, with a\nstrong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun.\n\nDolly repeated her request.\n\n'Ho, gracious me!' cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. 'Ho, gracious\nme! Yes, to be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a\ntoiling, moiling, constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with,\nnever-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself,\npotter's wessel--an't I, miss! Ho yes! My situations is lowly, and my\ncapacities is limited, and my duties is to humble myself afore the\nbase degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is--fit to\nkeep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from\nwicked relations--and to demean myself before them as is no better than\nInfidels--an't it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help\nyoung flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into\nwhitening and suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there\nan't a bit of padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor\npomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities--an't it, miss! Yes, to be\nsure it is--ho yes!'\n\nHaving delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful\nvolubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when\nshe jerked out the interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not\nbecause weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of\ntriumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an\nimpassioned manner on the name of Simmuns.\n\nWhat Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long Miss Miggs,\nnow that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on waving\nthem before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is\nit necessary to speculate on these matters, for a startling interruption\noccurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm.\n\nThis was a violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its\nsudden bursting open; which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in\nthe room without, and the clash of weapons. Transported with the hope\nthat rescue had at length arrived, Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for\nhelp; nor were their shrieks unanswered; for after a hurried interval, a\nman, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the other a taper, rushed\ninto the chamber where they were confined.\n\nIt was some check upon their transport to find in this person an entire\nstranger, but they appealed to him, nevertheless, and besought him, in\nimpassioned language, to restore them to their friends.\n\n'For what other purpose am I here?' he answered, closing the door, and\nstanding with his back against it. 'With what object have I made my way\nto this place, through difficulty and danger, but to preserve you?'\n\nWith a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate expression, they\nembraced each other, and thanked Heaven for this most timely aid. Their\ndeliverer stepped forward for a moment to put the light upon the table,\nand immediately returning to his former position against the door, bared\nhis head, and looked on smilingly.\n\n'You have news of my uncle, sir?' said Emma, turning hastily towards\nhim.\n\n'And of my father and mother?' added Dolly.\n\n'Yes,' he said. 'Good news.'\n\n'They are alive and unhurt?' they both cried at once.\n\n'Yes, and unhurt,' he rejoined.\n\n'And close at hand?'\n\n'I did not say close at hand,' he answered smoothly; 'they are at no\ngreat distance. YOUR friends, sweet one,' he added, addressing Dolly,\n'are within a few hours' journey. You will be restored to them, I hope,\nto-night.'\n\n'My uncle, sir--' faltered Emma.\n\n'Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily--I say happily, because he has\nsucceeded where many of our creed have failed, and is safe--has crossed\nthe sea, and is out of Britain.'\n\n'I thank God for it,' said Emma, faintly.\n\n'You say well. You have reason to be thankful: greater reason than it is\npossible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages,\nto imagine.'\n\n'Does he desire,' said Emma, 'that I should follow him?'\n\n'Do you ask if he desires it?' cried the stranger in surprise. 'IF he\ndesires it! But you do not know the danger of remaining in England,\nthe difficulty of escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure the\nmeans, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me. I had forgotten that you\ncould not, being prisoner here.'\n\n'I gather, sir,' said Emma, after a moment's pause, 'from what you hint\nat, but fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and\nthe least, of the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not\nyet slackened in its fury?'\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands; and with\nthe same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his\neyes upon the ground, and remained silent.\n\n'You may venture, sir, to speak plain,' said Emma, 'and to tell me the\nworst. We have undergone some preparation for it.'\n\nBut here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to hear the worst, but\nthe best; and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to\nkeep the remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends\nagain.\n\n'It is told in three words,' he said, glancing at the locksmith's\ndaughter with a look of some displeasure. 'The people have risen, to a\nman, against us; the streets are filled with soldiers, who support\nthem and do their bidding. We have no protection but from above, and no\nsafety but in flight; and that is a poor resource; for we are watched on\nevery hand, and detained here, both by force and fraud. Miss Haredale,\nI cannot bear--believe me, that I cannot bear--by speaking of myself,\nor what I have done, or am prepared to do, to seem to vaunt my services\nbefore you. But, having powerful Protestant connections, and having my\nwhole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping and commerce, I happily\npossessed the means of saving your uncle. I have the means of saving\nyou; and in redemption of my sacred promise, made to him, I am here;\npledged not to leave you until I have placed you in his arms. The\ntreachery or penitence of one of the men about you, led to the discovery\nof your place of confinement; and that I have forced my way here, sword\nin hand, you see.'\n\n'You bring,' said Emma, faltering, 'some note or token from my uncle?'\n\n'No, he doesn't,' cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly; 'now I am sure\nhe doesn't. Don't go with him for the world!'\n\n'Hush, pretty fool--be silent,' he replied, frowning angrily upon her.\n'No, Miss Haredale, I have no letter, nor any token of any kind; for\nwhile I sympathise with you, and such as you, on whom misfortune so\nheavy and so undeserved has fallen, I value my life. I carry, therefore,\nno writing which, found upon me, would lead to its certain loss. I\nnever thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr Haredale think of\nentrusting me with one--possibly because he had good experience of my\nfaith and honesty, and owed his life to me.'\n\nThere was a reproof conveyed in these words, which to a nature like\nEmma Haredale's, was well addressed. But Dolly, who was differently\nconstituted, was by no means touched by it, and still conjured her, in\nall the terms of affection and attachment she could think of, not to be\nlured away.\n\n'Time presses,' said their visitor, who, although he sought to express\nthe deepest interest, had something cold and even in his speech, that\ngrated on the ear; 'and danger surrounds us. If I have exposed myself to\nit, in vain, let it be so; but if you and he should ever meet again, do\nme justice. If you decide to remain (as I think you do), remember, Miss\nHaredale, that I left you with a solemn caution, and acquitting myself\nof all the consequences to which you expose yourself.'\n\n'Stay, sir!' cried Emma--'one moment, I beg you. Cannot we'--and she drew\nDolly closer to her--'cannot we go together?'\n\n'The task of conveying one female in safety through such scenes as we\nmust encounter, to say nothing of attracting the attention of those who\ncrowd the streets,' he answered, 'is enough. I have said that she will\nbe restored to her friends to-night. If you accept the service I tender,\nMiss Haredale, she shall be instantly placed in safe conduct, and that\npromise redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all ranks and\ncreeds are flying from the town, which is sacked from end to end. Let me\nbe of use in some quarter. Do you stay, or go?'\n\n'Dolly,' said Emma, in a hurried manner, 'my dear girl, this is our last\nhope. If we part now, it is only that we may meet again in happiness and\nhonour. I will trust to this gentleman.'\n\n'No no-no!' cried Dolly, clinging to her. 'Pray, pray, do not!'\n\n'You hear,' said Emma, 'that to-night--only to-night--within a few\nhours--think of that!--you will be among those who would die of grief to\nlose you, and who are now plunged in the deepest misery for your sake.\nPray for me, dear girl, as I will for you; and never forget the many\nquiet hours we have passed together. Say one \"God bless you!\" Say that\nat parting!'\n\nBut Dolly could say nothing; no, not when Emma kissed her cheek a\nhundred times, and covered it with tears, could she do more than hang\nupon her neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight.\n\n'We have time for no more of this,' cried the man, unclenching her\nhands, and pushing her roughly off, as he drew Emma Haredale towards the\ndoor: 'Now! Quick, outside there! are you ready?'\n\n'Ay!' cried a loud voice, which made him start. 'Quite ready! Stand back\nhere, for your lives!'\n\nAnd in an instant he was felled like an ox in the butcher's\nshambles--struck down as though a block of marble had fallen from the\nroof and crushed him--and cheerful light, and beaming faces came pouring\nin--and Emma was clasped in her uncle's embrace, and Dolly, with a\nshriek that pierced the air, fell into the arms of her father and\nmother.\n\nWhat fainting there was, what laughing, what crying, what sobbing, what\nsmiling, how much questioning, no answering, all talking together, all\nbeside themselves with joy; what kissing, congratulating, embracing,\nshaking of hands, and falling into all these raptures, over and over and\nover again; no language can describe.\n\nAt length, and after a long time, the old locksmith went up and fairly\nhugged two strangers, who had stood apart and left them to themselves;\nand then they saw--whom? Yes, Edward Chester and Joseph Willet.\n\n'See here!' cried the locksmith. 'See here! where would any of us have\nbeen without these two? Oh, Mr Edward, Mr Edward--oh, Joe, Joe, how\nlight, and yet how full, you have made my old heart to-night!'\n\n'It was Mr Edward that knocked him down, sir,' said Joe: 'I longed to do\nit, but I gave it up to him. Come, you brave and honest gentleman! Get\nyour senses together, for you haven't long to lie here.'\n\nHe had his foot upon the breast of their sham deliverer, in the absence\nof a spare arm; and gave him a gentle roll as he spoke. Gashford, for\nit was no other, crouching yet malignant, raised his scowling face, like\nsin subdued, and pleaded to be gently used.\n\n'I have access to all my lord's papers, Mr Haredale,' he said, in a\nsubmissive voice: Mr Haredale keeping his back towards him, and not once\nlooking round: 'there are very important documents among them. There are\na great many in secret drawers, and distributed in various places, known\nonly to my lord and me. I can give some very valuable information, and\nrender important assistance to any inquiry. You will have to answer it,\nif I receive ill usage.\n\n'Pah!' cried Joe, in deep disgust. 'Get up, man; you're waited for,\noutside. Get up, do you hear?'\n\nGashford slowly rose; and picking up his hat, and looking with a baffled\nmalevolence, yet with an air of despicable humility, all round the room,\ncrawled out.\n\n'And now, gentlemen,' said Joe, who seemed to be the spokesman of the\nparty, for all the rest were silent; 'the sooner we get back to the\nBlack Lion, the better, perhaps.'\n\nMr Haredale nodded assent, and drawing his niece's arm through his,\nand taking one of her hands between his own, passed out straightway;\nfollowed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly--who would scarcely\nhave presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and caresses they\nbestowed upon her though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward Chester and\nJoe followed.\n\nAnd did Dolly never once look behind--not once? Was there not one little\nfleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on her flushed\ncheek, and of the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought there\nwas--and he is not likely to have been mistaken; for there were not many\neyes like Dolly's, that's the truth.\n\nThe outer room through which they had to pass, was full of men; among\nthem, Mr Dennis in safe keeping; and there, had been since yesterday,\nlying in hiding behind a wooden screen which was now thrown down,\nSimon Tappertit, the recreant 'prentice, burnt and bruised, and with a\ngun-shot wound in his body; and his legs--his perfect legs, the pride\nand glory of his life, the comfort of his existence--crushed into\nshapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard,\nDolly kept closer to her father, and shuddered at the sight; but neither\nbruises, burns, nor gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered\nlimbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon's breast, as Dolly passing out,\nwith Joe for her preserver.\n\nA coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found herself safe and whole\ninside, between her father and mother, with Emma Haredale and her uncle,\nquite real, sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward; and they\nhad said nothing. They had only bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear\nheart! what a long way it was to the Black Lion!\n\n\n\nChapter 72\n\n\nThe Black Lion was so far off, and occupied such a length of time in the\ngetting at, that notwithstanding the strong presumptive evidence she had\nabout her of the late events being real and of actual occurrence, Dolly\ncould not divest herself of the belief that she must be in a dream which\nwas lasting all night. Nor was she quite certain that she saw and heard\nwith her own proper senses, even when the coach, in the fulness of time,\nstopped at the Black Lion, and the host of that tavern approached in a\ngush of cheerful light to help them to dismount, and give them hearty\nwelcome.\n\nThere too, at the coach door, one on one side, one upon the other, were\nalready Edward Chester and Joe Willet, who must have followed in another\ncoach: and this was such a strange and unaccountable proceeding, that\nDolly was the more inclined to favour the idea of her being fast asleep.\nBut when Mr Willet appeared--old John himself--so heavy-headed and\nobstinate, and with such a double chin as the liveliest imagination\ncould never in its boldest flights have conjured up in all its vast\nproportions--then she stood corrected, and unwillingly admitted to\nherself that she was broad awake.\n\nAnd Joe had lost an arm--he--that well-made, handsome, gallant fellow!\nAs Dolly glanced towards him, and thought of the pain he must have\nsuffered, and the far-off places in which he had been wandering, and\nwondered who had been his nurse, and hoped that whoever it was, she\nhad been as kind and gentle and considerate as she would have been,\nthe tears came rising to her bright eyes, one by one, little by little,\nuntil she could keep them back no longer, and so before them all, wept\nbitterly.\n\n'We are all safe now, Dolly,' said her father, kindly. 'We shall not be\nseparated any more. Cheer up, my love, cheer up!'\n\nThe locksmith's wife knew better perhaps, than he, what ailed her\ndaughter. But Mrs Varden being quite an altered woman--for the riots had\ndone that good--added her word to his, and comforted her with similar\nrepresentations.\n\n'Mayhap,' said Mr Willet, senior, looking round upon the company, 'she's\nhungry. That's what it is, depend upon it--I am, myself.'\n\nThe Black Lion, who, like old John, had been waiting supper past all\nreasonable and conscionable hours, hailed this as a philosophical\ndiscovery of the profoundest and most penetrating kind; and the table\nbeing already spread, they sat down to supper straightway.\n\nThe conversation was not of the liveliest nature, nor were the appetites\nof some among them very keen. But, in both these respects, old John more\nthan atoned for any deficiency on the part of the rest, and very much\ndistinguished himself.\n\nIt was not in point of actual conversation that Mr Willet shone so\nbrilliantly, for he had none of his old cronies to 'tackle,' and was\nrather timorous of venturing on Joe; having certain vague misgivings\nwithin him, that he was ready on the shortest notice, and on receipt of\nthe slightest offence, to fell the Black Lion to the floor of his own\nparlour, and immediately to withdraw to China or some other remote and\nunknown region, there to dwell for evermore, or at least until he had\ngot rid of his remaining arm and both legs, and perhaps an eye or so,\ninto the bargain. It was with a peculiar kind of pantomime that Mr\nWillet filled up every pause; and in this he was considered by the Black\nLion, who had been his familiar for some years, quite to surpass and\ngo beyond himself, and outrun the expectations of his most admiring\nfriends.\n\nThe subject that worked in Mr Willet's mind, and occasioned these\ndemonstrations, was no other than his son's bodily disfigurement, which\nhe had never yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or comprehend.\nShortly after their first meeting, he had been observed to wander, in\na state of great perplexity, to the kitchen, and to direct his gaze\ntowards the fire, as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of\ndoubt and difficulty. But there being no boiler at the Black Lion, and\nthe rioters having so beaten and battered his own that it was quite\nunfit for further service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of\nuncertainty and mental confusion, and in that state took the strangest\nmeans of resolving his doubts: such as feeling the sleeve of his son's\ngreatcoat as deeming it possible that his arm might be there; looking at\nhis own arms and those of everybody else, as if to assure himself that\ntwo and not one was the usual allowance; sitting by the hour together in\na brown study, as if he were endeavouring to recall Joe's image in his\nyounger days, and to remember whether he really had in those times one\narm or a pair; and employing himself in many other speculations of the\nsame kind.\n\nFinding himself at this supper, surrounded by faces with which he had\nbeen so well acquainted in old times, Mr Willet recurred to the subject\nwith uncommon vigour; apparently resolved to understand it now or never.\nSometimes, after every two or three mouthfuls, he laid down his knife\nand fork, and stared at his son with all his might--particularly at his\nmaimed side; then, he looked slowly round the table until he caught some\nperson's eye, when he shook his head with great solemnity, patted his\nshoulder, winked, or as one may say--for winking was a very slow process\nwith him--went to sleep with one eye for a minute or two; and so, with\nanother solemn shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork\nagain, and went on eating. Sometimes, he put his food into his mouth\nabstractedly, and, with all his faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at\nhim in a fit of stupefaction as he cut his meat with one hand, until he\nwas recalled to himself by symptoms of choking on his own part, and was\nby that means restored to consciousness. At other times he resorted to\nsuch small devices as asking him for the salt, the pepper, the vinegar,\nthe mustard--anything that was on his maimed side--and watching him as\nhe handed it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last so satisfy\nand convince himself, that, after a longer silence than he had yet\nmaintained, he laid down his knife and fork on either side his plate,\ndrank a long draught from a tankard beside him (still keeping his eyes\non Joe), and leaning backward in his chair and fetching a long breath,\nsaid, as he looked all round the board:\n\n'It's been took off!'\n\n'By George!' said the Black Lion, striking the table with his hand,\n'he's got it!'\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mr Willet, with the look of a man who felt that he had\nearned a compliment, and deserved it. 'That's where it is. It's been\ntook off.'\n\n'Tell him where it was done,' said the Black Lion to Joe.\n\n'At the defence of the Savannah, father.'\n\n'At the defence of the Salwanners,' repeated Mr Willet, softly; again\nlooking round the table.\n\n'In America, where the war is,' said Joe.\n\n'In America, where the war is,' repeated Mr Willet. 'It was took off in\nthe defence of the Salwanners in America where the war is.' Continuing\nto repeat these words to himself in a low tone of voice (the same\ninformation had been conveyed to him in the same terms, at least fifty\ntimes before), Mr Willet arose from table, walked round to Joe, felt his\nempty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the stump of his\narm remained; shook his hand; lighted his pipe at the fire, took a long\nwhiff, walked to the door, turned round once when he had reached it,\nwiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and said, in\na faltering voice: 'My son's arm--was took off--at the defence of\nthe--Salwanners--in America--where the war is'--with which words he\nwithdrew, and returned no more that night.\n\nIndeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one after another, save\nDolly, who was left sitting there alone. It was a great relief to be\nalone, and she was crying to her heart's content, when she heard Joe's\nvoice at the end of the passage, bidding somebody good night.\n\nGood night! Then he was going elsewhere--to some distance, perhaps. To\nwhat kind of home COULD he be going, now that it was so late!\n\nShe heard him walk along the passage, and pass the door. But there was a\nhesitation in his footsteps. He turned back--Dolly's heart beat high--he\nlooked in.\n\n'Good night!'--he didn't say Dolly, but there was comfort in his not\nsaying Miss Varden.\n\n'Good night!' sobbed Dolly.\n\n'I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past and gone,' said Joe\nkindly. 'Don't. I can't bear to see you do it. Think of it no longer.\nYou are safe and happy now.'\n\nDolly cried the more.\n\n'You must have suffered very much within these few days--and yet you're\nnot changed, unless it's for the better. They said you were, but I don't\nsee it. You were--you were always very beautiful,' said Joe, 'but you\nare more beautiful than ever, now. You are indeed. There can be no harm\nin my saying so, for you must know it. You are told so very often, I am\nsure.'\n\nAs a general principle, Dolly DID know it, and WAS told so, very often.\nBut the coachmaker had turned out, years ago, to be a special donkey;\nand whether she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in others,\nor had grown by dint of long custom to be careless of compliments\ngenerally, certain it is that although she cried so much, she was better\npleased to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her life.\n\n'I shall bless your name,' sobbed the locksmith's little daughter, 'as\nlong as I live. I shall never hear it spoken without feeling as if my\nheart would burst. I shall remember it in my prayers, every night and\nmorning till I die!'\n\n'Will you?' said Joe, eagerly. 'Will you indeed? It makes me--well, it\nmakes me very glad and proud to hear you say so.'\n\nDolly still sobbed, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. Joe still\nstood, looking at her.\n\n'Your voice,' said Joe, 'brings up old times so pleasantly, that, for\nthe moment, I feel as if that night--there can be no harm in talking\nof that night now--had come back, and nothing had happened in the mean\ntime. I feel as if I hadn't suffered any hardships, but had knocked down\npoor Tom Cobb only yesterday, and had come to see you with my bundle on\nmy shoulder before running away.--You remember?'\n\nRemember! But she said nothing. She raised her eyes for an instant. It\nwas but a glance; a little, tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent\nthough, for a long time.\n\n'Well!' he said stoutly, 'it was to be otherwise, and was. I have been\nabroad, fighting all the summer and frozen up all the winter, ever\nsince. I have come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled for\nlife besides. But, Dolly, I would rather have lost this other arm--ay, I\nwould rather have lost my head--than have come back to find you dead,\nor anything but what I always pictured you to myself, and what I always\nhoped and wished to find you. Thank God for all!'\n\nOh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette of five years ago, felt\nnow! She had found her heart at last. Never having known its worth till\nnow, she had never known the worth of his. How priceless it appeared!\n\n'I did hope once,' said Joe, in his homely way, 'that I might come back\na rich man, and marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long known\nbetter than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier, and must\nbe content to rub through life as I can. I can't say, even now, that I\nshall be glad to see you married, Dolly; but I AM glad--yes, I am, and\nglad to think I can say so--to know that you are admired and courted,\nand can pick and choose for a happy life. It's a comfort to me to know\nthat you'll talk to your husband about me; and I hope the time will come\nwhen I may be able to like him, and to shake hands with him, and to\ncome and see you as a poor friend who knew you when you were a girl. God\nbless you!'\n\nHis hand DID tremble; but for all that, he took it away again, and left\nher.\n\n\n\nChapter 73\n\n\nBy this Friday night--for it was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma\nand Dolly were rescued, by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester--the\ndisturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order were restored\nto the affrighted city. True, after what had happened, it was impossible\nfor any man to say how long this better state of things might last, or\nhow suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so lately witnessed,\nmight burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and bloodshed; for\nthis reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept at\na distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means\nof flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the\ncountry. The shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut;\nand very little business was transacted in any of the places of great\ncommercial resort. But, notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy\nforebodings of that numerous class of society who see with the greatest\nclearness into the darkest perspectives, the town remained profoundly\nquiet. The strong military force disposed in every advantageous quarter,\nand stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered fragments\nof the mob in check; the search after rioters was prosecuted with\nunrelenting vigour; and if there were any among them so desperate and\nreckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld,\nto venture forth again, they were so daunted by these resolute measures,\nthat they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had no thought\nbut for their safety.\n\nIn a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards of two hundred had been\nshot dead in the streets. Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly\nwounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within a short\ntime afterwards. A hundred were already in custody, and more were taken\nevery hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own\nexcesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the hot\nashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars\nto drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light\nagain, is certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold\nfor many weeks, the labourers' spades proved this, beyond a doubt.\n\nSeventy-two private houses and four strong jails were destroyed in the\nfour great days of these riots. The total loss of property, as estimated\nby the sufferers, was one hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds; at the\nlowest and least partial estimate of disinterested persons, it exceeded\none hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. For this immense loss,\ncompensation was soon afterwards made out of the public purse, in\npursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum being levied on the\nvarious wards in the city, on the county, and the borough of Southwark.\nBoth Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been great\nsufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever.\n\nThe House of Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors,\nhad passed a resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults\nsubsided, it would immediately proceed to consider the petitions\npresented from many of his Majesty's Protestant subjects, and would take\nthe same into its serious consideration. While this question was under\ndebate, Mr Herbert, one of the members present, indignantly rose and\ncalled upon the House to observe that Lord George Gordon was then\nsitting under the gallery with the blue cockade, the signal of\nrebellion, in his hat. He was not only obliged, by those who sat near,\nto take it out; but offering to go into the street to pacify the mob\nwith the somewhat indefinite assurance that the House was prepared to\ngive them 'the satisfaction they sought,' was actually held down in his\nseat by the combined force of several members. In short, the disorder\nand violence which reigned triumphant out of doors, penetrated into\nthe senate, and there, as elsewhere, terror and alarm prevailed, and\nordinary forms were for the time forgotten.\n\nOn the Thursday, both Houses had adjourned until the following Monday\nse'nnight, declaring it impossible to pursue their deliberations with\nthe necessary gravity and freedom, while they were surrounded by armed\ntroops. And now that the rioters were dispersed, the citizens were beset\nwith a new fear; for, finding the public thoroughfares and all their\nusual places of resort filled with soldiers entrusted with the free use\nof fire and sword, they began to lend a greedy ear to the rumours which\nwere afloat of martial law being declared, and to dismal stories of\nprisoners having been seen hanging on lamp-posts in Cheapside and\nFleet Street. These terrors being promptly dispelled by a Proclamation\ndeclaring that all the rioters in custody would be tried by a special\ncommission in due course of law, a fresh alarm was engendered by its\nbeing whispered abroad that French money had been found on some of the\nrioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign powers\nwho sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report,\nwhich was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but\nwhich, if it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the\ncircumstance of some few coins which were not English money having been\nswept into the pockets of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty,\nand afterwards discovered on the prisoners or the dead bodies,--caused\na great sensation; and men's minds being in that excited state when they\nare most apt to catch at any shadow of apprehension, was bruited about\nwith much industry.\n\nAll remaining quiet, however, during the whole of this Friday, and on\nthis Friday night, and no new discoveries being made, confidence began\nto be restored, and the most timid and desponding breathed again.\nIn Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of the inhabitants formed\nthemselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets every hour. Nor were\nthe citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it being the manner\nof peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they were\nabundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest\npassenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand\nover all errand-boys, servant-girls, and 'prentices.\n\nAs day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and\ncorners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering\nstrength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon,\nwondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry\nwhich had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in\nhers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and\naltered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.\n\n'Mother,' he said, after a long silence: 'how long,--how many days and\nnights,--shall I be kept here?'\n\n'Not many, dear. I hope not many.'\n\n'You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but\nthey don't mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?'\n\nThe raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said 'Nobody,' as\nplainly as a croak could speak.\n\n'Who cares for Grip, except you and me?' said Barnaby, smoothing the\nbird's rumpled feathers with his hand. 'He never speaks in this place;\nhe never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark\ncorner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps\nin through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from\nthose great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who\ncares for Grip?'\n\nThe raven croaked again--Nobody.\n\n'And by the way,' said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and\nlaying it upon his mother's arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; 'if\nthey kill me--they may: I heard it said they would--what will become of\nGrip when I am dead?'\n\nThe sound of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to\nGrip his old phrase 'Never say die!' But he stopped short in the middle\nof it, drew a dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he\nlacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.\n\n'Will they take HIS life as well as mine?' said Barnaby. 'I wish they\nwould. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to\nfeel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I don't fear\nthem, mother!'\n\n'They will not harm you,' she said, her tears choking her utterance.\n'They never will harm you, when they know all. I am sure they never\nwill.'\n\n'Oh! Don't be too sure of that,' cried Barnaby, with a strange pleasure\nin the belief that she was self-deceived, and in his own sagacity. 'They\nhave marked me from the first. I heard them say so to each other when\nthey brought me to this place last night; and I believe them. Don't you\ncry for me. They said that I was bold, and so I am, and so I will be.\nYou may think that I am silly, but I can die as well as another.--I have\ndone no harm, have I?' he added quickly.\n\n'None before Heaven,' she answered.\n\n'Why then,' said Barnaby, 'let them do their worst. You told me\nonce--you--when I asked you what death meant, that it was nothing to\nbe feared, if we did no harm--Aha! mother, you thought I had forgotten\nthat!'\n\nHis merry laugh and playful manner smote her to the heart. She drew him\ncloser to her, and besought him to talk to her in whispers and to be\nvery quiet, for it was getting dark, and their time was short, and she\nwould soon have to leave him for the night.\n\n'You will come to-morrow?' said Barnaby.\n\nYes. And every day. And they would never part again.\n\nHe joyfully replied that this was well, and what he wished, and what he\nhad felt quite certain she would tell him; and then he asked her where\nshe had been so long, and why she had not come to see him when he had\nbeen a great soldier, and ran through the wild schemes he had had for\ntheir being rich and living prosperously, and with some faint notion in\nhis mind that she was sad and he had made her so, tried to console and\ncomfort her, and talked of their former life and his old sports and\nfreedom: little dreaming that every word he uttered only increased her\nsorrow, and that her tears fell faster at the freshened recollection of\ntheir lost tranquillity.\n\n'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to close the\ncells for the night, 'when I spoke to you just now about my father you\ncried \"Hush!\" and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why,\nin a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive\nand has come back to us. Where is he? Here?'\n\n'Do not ask any one where he is, or speak about him,' she made answer.\n\n'Why not?' said Barnaby. 'Because he is a stern man, and talks roughly?\nWell! I don't like him, or want to be with him by myself; but why not\nspeak about him?'\n\n'Because I am sorry that he is alive; sorry that he has come back;\nand sorry that he and you have ever met. Because, dear Barnaby, the\nendeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.'\n\n'Father and son asunder! Why?'\n\n'He has,' she whispered in his ear, 'he has shed blood. The time has\ncome when you must know it. He has shed the blood of one who loved him\nwell, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or deed.'\n\nBarnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an\ninstant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress.\n\n'But,' she added hastily as the key turned in the lock, 'although we\nshun him, he is your father, dearest, and I am his wretched wife. They\nseek his life, and he will lose it. It must not be by our means; nay, if\nwe could win him back to penitence, we should be bound to love him yet.\nDo not seem to know him, except as one who fled with you from the jail,\nand if they question you about him, do not answer them. God be with you\nthrough the night, dear boy! God be with you!'\n\nShe tore herself away, and in a few seconds Barnaby was alone. He stood\nfor a long time rooted to the spot, with his face hidden in his hands;\nthen flung himself, sobbing, on his miserable bed.\n\nBut the moon came slowly up in all her gentle glory, and the stars\nlooked out, and through the small compass of the grated window, as\nthrough the narrow crevice of one good deed in a murky life of guilt,\nthe face of Heaven shone bright and merciful. He raised his head;\ngazed upward at the quiet sky, which seemed to smile upon the earth in\nsadness, as if the night, more thoughtful than the day, looked down in\nsorrow on the sufferings and evil deeds of men; and felt its peace sink\ndeep into his heart. He, a poor idiot, caged in his narrow cell, was as\nmuch lifted up to God, while gazing on the mild light, as the freest and\nmost favoured man in all the spacious city; and in his ill-remembered\nprayer, and in the fragment of the childish hymn, with which he sung and\ncrooned himself asleep, there breathed as true a spirit as ever studied\nhomily expressed, or old cathedral arches echoed.\n\nAs his mother crossed a yard on her way out, she saw, through a grated\ndoor which separated it from another court, her husband, walking round\nand round, with his hands folded on his breast, and his head hung down.\nShe asked the man who conducted her, if she might speak a word with\nthis prisoner. Yes, but she must be quick for he was locking up for\nthe night, and there was but a minute or so to spare. Saying this, he\nunlocked the door, and bade her go in.\n\nIt grated harshly as it turned upon its hinges, but he was deaf to\nthe noise, and still walked round and round the little court, without\nraising his head or changing his attitude in the least. She spoke to\nhim, but her voice was weak, and failed her. At length she put herself\nin his track, and when he came near, stretched out her hand and touched\nhim.\n\nHe started backward, trembling from head to foot; but seeing who it was,\ndemanded why she came there. Before she could reply, he spoke again.\n\n'Am I to live or die? Do you murder too, or spare?'\n\n'My son--our son,' she answered, 'is in this prison.'\n\n'What is that to me?' he cried, stamping impatiently on the stone\npavement. 'I know it. He can no more aid me than I can aid him. If you\nare come to talk of him, begone!'\n\nAs he spoke he resumed his walk, and hurried round the court as before.\nWhen he came again to where she stood, he stopped, and said,\n\n'Am I to live or die? Do you repent?'\n\n'Oh!--do YOU?' she answered. 'Will you, while time remains? Do not\nbelieve that I could save you, if I dared.'\n\n'Say if you would,' he answered with an oath, as he tried to disengage\nhimself and pass on. 'Say if you would.'\n\n'Listen to me for one moment,' she returned; 'for but a moment. I am but\nnewly risen from a sick-bed, from which I never hoped to rise again. The\nbest among us think, at such a time, of good intentions half-performed\nand duties left undone. If I have ever, since that fatal night, omitted\nto pray for your repentance before death--if I omitted, even then,\nanything which might tend to urge it on you when the horror of your\ncrime was fresh--if, in our later meeting, I yielded to the dread that\nwas upon me, and forgot to fall upon my knees and solemnly adjure you,\nin the name of him you sent to his account with Heaven, to prepare for\nthe retribution which must come, and which is stealing on you now--I\nhumbly before you, and in the agony of supplication in which you see me,\nbeseech that you will let me make atonement.'\n\n'What is the meaning of your canting words?' he answered roughly. 'Speak\nso that I may understand you.'\n\n'I will,' she answered, 'I desire to. Bear with me for a moment more.\nThe hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now. You\ncannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell\nbefore his birth, is in this place in peril of his life--brought here\nby your guilt; yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he\nhas been led astray in the darkness of his intellect, and that is the\nterrible consequence of your crime.'\n\n'If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches--' he muttered,\nagain endeavouring to break away.\n\n'I do not. I have a different purpose. You must hear it. If not\nto-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time. You MUST hear\nit. Husband, escape is hopeless--impossible.'\n\n'You tell me so, do you?' he said, raising his manacled hand, and\nshaking it. 'You!'\n\n'Yes,' she said, with indescribable earnestness. 'But why?'\n\n'To make me easy in this jail. To make the time 'twixt this and death,\npass pleasantly. For my good--yes, for my good, of course,' he said,\ngrinding his teeth, and smiling at her with a livid face.\n\n'Not to load you with reproaches,' she replied; 'not to aggravate the\ntortures and miseries of your condition, not to give you one hard word,\nbut to restore you to peace and hope. Husband, dear husband, if you will\nbut confess this dreadful crime; if you will but implore forgiveness of\nHeaven and of those whom you have wronged on earth; if you will dismiss\nthese vain uneasy thoughts, which never can be realised, and will rely\non Penitence and on the Truth, I promise you, in the great name of the\nCreator, whose image you have defaced, that He will comfort and console\nyou. And for myself,' she cried, clasping her hands, and looking upward,\n'I swear before Him, as He knows my heart and reads it now, that from\nthat hour I will love and cherish you as I did of old, and watch you\nnight and day in the short interval that will remain to us, and\nsoothe you with my truest love and duty, and pray with you, that one\nthreatening judgment may be arrested, and that our boy may be spared to\nbless God, in his poor way, in the free air and light!'\n\nHe fell back and gazed at her while she poured out these words, as\nthough he were for a moment awed by her manner, and knew not what to do.\nBut anger and fear soon got the mastery of him, and he spurned her from\nhim.\n\n'Begone!' he cried. 'Leave me! You plot, do you! You plot to get speech\nwith me, and let them know I am the man they say I am. A curse on you\nand on your boy.'\n\n'On him the curse has already fallen,' she replied, wringing her hands.\n\n'Let it fall heavier. Let it fall on one and all. I hate you both. The\nworst has come to me. The only comfort that I seek or I can have, will\nbe the knowledge that it comes to you. Now go!'\n\nShe would have urged him gently, even then, but he menaced her with his\nchain.\n\n'I say go--I say it for the last time. The gallows has me in its grasp,\nand it is a black phantom that may urge me on to something more. Begone!\nI curse the hour that I was born, the man I slew, and all the living\nworld!'\n\nIn a paroxysm of wrath, and terror, and the fear of death, he broke from\nher, and rushed into the darkness of his cell, where he cast himself\njangling down upon the stone floor, and smote it with his ironed hands.\nThe man returned to lock the dungeon door, and having done so, carried\nher away.\n\nOn that warm, balmy night in June, there were glad faces and light\nhearts in all quarters of the town, and sleep, banished by the late\nhorrors, was doubly welcomed. On that night, families made merry in\ntheir houses, and greeted each other on the common danger they had\nescaped; and those who had been denounced, ventured into the streets;\nand they who had been plundered, got good shelter. Even the timorous\nLord Mayor, who was summoned that night before the Privy Council to\nanswer for his conduct, came back contented; observing to all his\nfriends that he had got off very well with a reprimand, and repeating\nwith huge satisfaction his memorable defence before the Council, 'that\nsuch was his temerity, he thought death would have been his portion.'\n\nOn that night, too, more of the scattered remnants of the mob were\ntraced to their lurking-places, and taken; and in the hospitals, and\ndeep among the ruins they had made, and in the ditches, and fields, many\nunshrouded wretches lay dead: envied by those who had been active in\nthe disturbances, and who pillowed their doomed heads in the temporary\njails.\n\nAnd in the Tower, in a dreary room whose thick stone walls shut out\nthe hum of life, and made a stillness which the records left by former\nprisoners with those silent witnesses seemed to deepen and intensify;\nremorseful for every act that had been done by every man among the cruel\ncrowd; feeling for the time their guilt his own, and their lives put in\nperil by himself; and finding, amidst such reflections, little comfort\nin fanaticism, or in his fancied call; sat the unhappy author of\nall--Lord George Gordon.\n\nHe had been made prisoner that evening. 'If you are sure it's me you\nwant,' he said to the officers, who waited outside with the warrant for\nhis arrest on a charge of High Treason, 'I am ready to accompany you--'\nwhich he did without resistance. He was conducted first before the Privy\nCouncil, and afterwards to the Horse Guards, and then was taken by way\nof Westminster Bridge, and back over London Bridge (for the purpose of\navoiding the main streets), to the Tower, under the strongest guard ever\nknown to enter its gates with a single prisoner.\n\nOf all his forty thousand men, not one remained to bear him company.\nFriends, dependents, followers,--none were there. His fawning secretary\nhad played the traitor; and he whose weakness had been goaded and urged\non by so many for their own purposes, was desolate and alone.\n\n\n\nChapter 74\n\n\nMr Dennis, having been made prisoner late in the evening, was removed to\na neighbouring round-house for that night, and carried before a justice\nfor examination on the next day, Saturday. The charges against him\nbeing numerous and weighty, and it being in particular proved, by the\ntestimony of Gabriel Varden, that he had shown a special desire to take\nhis life, he was committed for trial. Moreover he was honoured with\nthe distinction of being considered a chief among the insurgents, and\nreceived from the magistrate's lips the complimentary assurance that\nhe was in a position of imminent danger, and would do well to prepare\nhimself for the worst.\n\nTo say that Mr Dennis's modesty was not somewhat startled by these\nhonours, or that he was altogether prepared for so flattering a\nreception, would be to claim for him a greater amount of stoical\nphilosophy than even he possessed. Indeed this gentleman's stoicism was\nof that not uncommon kind, which enables a man to bear with exemplary\nfortitude the afflictions of his friends, but renders him, by way of\ncounterpoise, rather selfish and sensitive in respect of any that happen\nto befall himself. It is therefore no disparagement to the great officer\nin question to state, without disguise or concealment, that he was at\nfirst very much alarmed, and that he betrayed divers emotions of fear,\nuntil his reasoning powers came to his relief, and set before him a more\nhopeful prospect.\n\nIn proportion as Mr Dennis exercised these intellectual qualities\nwith which he was gifted, in reviewing his best chances of coming off\nhandsomely and with small personal inconvenience, his spirits rose, and\nhis confidence increased. When he remembered the great estimation in\nwhich his office was held, and the constant demand for his services;\nwhen he bethought himself, how the Statute Book regarded him as a kind\nof Universal Medicine applicable to men, women, and children, of every\nage and variety of criminal constitution; and how high he stood, in\nhis official capacity, in the favour of the Crown, and both Houses of\nParliament, the Mint, the Bank of England, and the Judges of the land;\nwhen he recollected that whatever Ministry was in or out, he remained\ntheir peculiar pet and panacea, and that for his sake England stood\nsingle and conspicuous among the civilised nations of the earth: when\nhe called these things to mind and dwelt upon them, he felt certain that\nthe national gratitude MUST relieve him from the consequences of his\nlate proceedings, and would certainly restore him to his old place in\nthe happy social system.\n\nWith these crumbs, or as one may say, with these whole loaves of comfort\nto regale upon, Mr Dennis took his place among the escort that awaited\nhim, and repaired to jail with a manly indifference. Arriving at\nNewgate, where some of the ruined cells had been hastily fitted up for\nthe safe keeping of rioters, he was warmly received by the turnkeys,\nas an unusual and interesting case, which agreeably relieved their\nmonotonous duties. In this spirit, he was fettered with great care, and\nconveyed into the interior of the prison.\n\n'Brother,' cried the hangman, as, following an officer, he traversed\nunder these novel circumstances the remains of passages with which he\nwas well acquainted, 'am I going to be along with anybody?'\n\n'If you'd have left more walls standing, you'd have been alone,' was the\nreply. 'As it is, we're cramped for room, and you'll have company.'\n\n'Well,' returned Dennis, 'I don't object to company, brother. I rather\nlike company. I was formed for society, I was.'\n\n'That's rather a pity, an't it?' said the man.\n\n'No,' answered Dennis, 'I'm not aware that it is. Why should it be a\npity, brother?'\n\n'Oh! I don't know,' said the man carelessly. 'I thought that was what\nyou meant. Being formed for society, and being cut off in your flower,\nyou know--'\n\n'I say,' interposed the other quickly, 'what are you talking of? Don't.\nWho's a-going to be cut off in their flowers?'\n\n'Oh, nobody particular. I thought you was, perhaps,' said the man.\n\nMr Dennis wiped his face, which had suddenly grown very hot, and\nremarking in a tremulous voice to his conductor that he had always been\nfond of his joke, followed him in silence until he stopped at a door.\n\n'This is my quarters, is it?' he asked facetiously.\n\n'This is the shop, sir,' replied his friend.\n\nHe was walking in, but not with the best possible grace, when he\nsuddenly stopped, and started back.\n\n'Halloa!' said the officer. 'You're nervous.'\n\n'Nervous!' whispered Dennis in great alarm. 'Well I may be. Shut the\ndoor.'\n\n'I will, when you're in,' returned the man.\n\n'But I can't go in there,' whispered Dennis. 'I can't be shut up with\nthat man. Do you want me to be throttled, brother?'\n\nThe officer seemed to entertain no particular desire on the subject one\nway or other, but briefly remarking that he had his orders, and intended\nto obey them, pushed him in, turned the key, and retired.\n\nDennis stood trembling with his back against the door, and involuntarily\nraising his arm to defend himself, stared at a man, the only other\ntenant of the cell, who lay, stretched at his fall length, upon a stone\nbench, and who paused in his deep breathing as if he were about to wake.\nBut he rolled over on one side, let his arm fall negligently down, drew\na long sigh, and murmuring indistinctly, fell fast asleep again.\n\nRelieved in some degree by this, the hangman took his eyes for an\ninstant from the slumbering figure, and glanced round the cell in search\nof some 'vantage-ground or weapon of defence. There was nothing moveable\nwithin it, but a clumsy table which could not be displaced without\nnoise, and a heavy chair. Stealing on tiptoe towards this latter\npiece of furniture, he retired with it into the remotest corner,\nand intrenching himself behind it, watched the enemy with the utmost\nvigilance and caution.\n\nThe sleeping man was Hugh; and perhaps it was not unnatural for Dennis\nto feel in a state of very uncomfortable suspense, and to wish with\nhis whole soul that he might never wake again. Tired of standing, he\ncrouched down in his corner after some time, and rested on the cold\npavement; but although Hugh's breathing still proclaimed that he\nwas sleeping soundly, he could not trust him out of his sight for an\ninstant. He was so afraid of him, and of some sudden onslaught, that he\nwas not content to see his closed eyes through the chair-back, but\nevery now and then, rose stealthily to his feet, and peered at him with\noutstretched neck, to assure himself that he really was still asleep,\nand was not about to spring upon him when he was off his guard.\n\nHe slept so long and so soundly, that Mr Dennis began to think he might\nsleep on until the turnkey visited them. He was congratulating himself\nupon these promising appearances, and blessing his stars with much\nfervour, when one or two unpleasant symptoms manifested themselves: such\nas another motion of the arm, another sigh, a restless tossing of the\nhead. Then, just as it seemed that he was about to fall heavily to the\nground from his narrow bed, Hugh's eyes opened.\n\nIt happened that his face was turned directly towards his unexpected\nvisitor. He looked lazily at him for some half-dozen seconds without any\naspect of surprise or recognition; then suddenly jumped up, and with a\ngreat oath pronounced his name.\n\n'Keep off, brother, keep off!' cried Dennis, dodging behind the chair.\n'Don't do me a mischief. I'm a prisoner like you. I haven't the free use\nof my limbs. I'm quite an old man. Don't hurt me!'\n\nHe whined out the last three words in such piteous accents, that Hugh,\nwho had dragged away the chair, and aimed a blow at him with it, checked\nhimself, and bade him get up.\n\n'I'll get up certainly, brother,' cried Dennis, anxious to propitiate\nhim by any means in his power. 'I'll comply with any request of yours,\nI'm sure. There--I'm up now. What can I do for you? Only say the word,\nand I'll do it.'\n\n'What can you do for me!' cried Hugh, clutching him by the collar with\nboth hands, and shaking him as though he were bent on stopping his\nbreath by that means. 'What have you done for me?'\n\n'The best. The best that could be done,' returned the hangman.\n\nHugh made him no answer, but shaking him in his strong grip until his\nteeth chattered in his head, cast him down upon the floor, and flung\nhimself on the bench again.\n\n'If it wasn't for the comfort it is to me, to see you here,' he\nmuttered, 'I'd have crushed your head against it; I would.'\n\nIt was some time before Dennis had breath enough to speak, but as soon\nas he could resume his propitiatory strain, he did so.\n\n'I did the best that could be done, brother,' he whined; 'I did indeed.\nI was forced with two bayonets and I don't know how many bullets on each\nside of me, to point you out. If you hadn't been taken, you'd have been\nshot; and what a sight that would have been--a fine young man like you!'\n\n'Will it be a better sight now?' asked Hugh, raising his head, with such\na fierce expression, that the other durst not answer him just then.\n\n'A deal better,' said Dennis meekly, after a pause. 'First, there's all\nthe chances of the law, and they're five hundred strong. We may get off\nscot-free. Unlikelier things than that have come to pass. Even if we\nshouldn't, and the chances fail, we can but be worked off once: and when\nit's well done, it's so neat, so skilful, so captiwating, if that don't\nseem too strong a word, that you'd hardly believe it could be brought\nto sich perfection. Kill one's fellow-creeturs off, with muskets!--Pah!'\nand his nature so revolted at the bare idea, that he spat upon the\ndungeon pavement.\n\nHis warming on this topic, which to one unacquainted with his pursuits\nand tastes appeared like courage; together with his artful suppression\nof his own secret hopes, and mention of himself as being in the same\ncondition with Hugh; did more to soothe that ruffian than the most\nelaborate arguments could have done, or the most abject submission.\nHe rested his arms upon his knees, and stooping forward, looked from\nbeneath his shaggy hair at Dennis, with something of a smile upon his\nface.\n\n'The fact is, brother,' said the hangman, in a tone of greater\nconfidence, 'that you got into bad company. The man that was with you\nwas looked after more than you, and it was him I wanted. As to me, what\nhave I got by it? Here we are, in one and the same plight.'\n\n'Lookee, rascal,' said Hugh, contracting his brows, 'I'm not altogether\nsuch a shallow blade but I know you expected to get something by it, or\nyou wouldn't have done it. But it's done, and you're here, and it will\nsoon be all over with you and me; and I'd as soon die as live, or live\nas die. Why should I trouble myself to have revenge on you? To eat, and\ndrink, and go to sleep, as long as I stay here, is all I care for. If\nthere was but a little more sun to bask in, than can find its way into\nthis cursed place, I'd lie in it all day, and not trouble myself to sit\nor stand up once. That's all the care I have for myself. Why should I\ncare for YOU?'\n\nFinishing this speech with a growl like the yawn of a wild beast, he\nstretched himself upon the bench again, and closed his eyes once more.\n\nAfter looking at him in silence for some moments, Dennis, who was\ngreatly relieved to find him in this mood, drew the chair towards his\nrough couch and sat down near him--taking the precaution, however, to\nkeep out of the range of his brawny arm.\n\n'Well said, brother; nothing could be better said,' he ventured to\nobserve. 'We'll eat and drink of the best, and sleep our best, and make\nthe best of it every way. Anything can be got for money. Let's spend it\nmerrily.'\n\n'Ay,' said Hugh, coiling himself into a new position.--'Where is it?'\n\n'Why, they took mine from me at the lodge,' said Mr Dennis; 'but mine's\na peculiar case.'\n\n'Is it? They took mine too.'\n\n'Why then, I tell you what, brother,' Dennis began. 'You must look up\nyour friends--'\n\n'My friends!' cried Hugh, starting up and resting on his hands. 'Where\nare my friends?'\n\n'Your relations then,' said Dennis.\n\n'Ha ha ha!' laughed Hugh, waving one arm above his head. 'He talks of\nfriends to me--talks of relations to a man whose mother died the death\nin store for her son, and left him, a hungry brat, without a face he\nknew in all the world! He talks of this to me!'\n\n'Brother,' cried the hangman, whose features underwent a sudden change,\n'you don't mean to say--'\n\n'I mean to say,' Hugh interposed, 'that they hung her up at Tyburn. What\nwas good enough for her, is good enough for me. Let them do the like by\nme as soon as they please--the sooner the better. Say no more to me. I'm\ngoing to sleep.'\n\n'But I want to speak to you; I want to hear more about that,' said\nDennis, changing colour.\n\n'If you're a wise man,' growled Hugh, raising his head to look at him\nwith a frown, 'you'll hold your tongue. I tell you I'm going to sleep.'\n\nDennis venturing to say something more in spite of this caution, the\ndesperate fellow struck at him with all his force, and missing him, lay\ndown again with many muttered oaths and imprecations, and turned his\nface towards the wall. After two or three ineffectual twitches at his\ndress, which he was hardy enough to venture upon, notwithstanding his\ndangerous humour, Mr Dennis, who burnt, for reasons of his own, to\npursue the conversation, had no alternative but to sit as patiently as\nhe could: waiting his further pleasure.\n\n\n\nChapter 75\n\n\nA month has elapsed,--and we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John\nChester. Through the half-opened window, the Temple Garden looks green\nand pleasant; the placid river, gay with boat and barge, and dimpled\nwith the plash of many an oar, sparkles in the distance; the sky is blue\nand clear; and the summer air steals gently in, filling the room with\nperfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High roofs and\nsteeple-tops, wont to look black and sullen, smile a cheerful grey;\nevery old gilded vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright\nmorning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul's towers up, showing its\nlofty crest in burnished gold.\n\nSir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a\nlittle table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand,\nupon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of\ntranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to\ngaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news\nluxuriously.\n\nThe cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even\nupon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more\nplacid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He\nlaid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his\npillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming\nrecollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:\n\n'And my friend the centaur, goes the way of his mamma! I am not\nsurprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not\nsurprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young\nmadman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It's the very best thing that\ncould possibly happen to him.'\n\nAfter delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his\nsmiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length\nto finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for\nmore.\n\nThe new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant's hand;\nand saying, with a charming affability, 'I am obliged to you, Peak,'\ndismissed him.\n\n'It is a remarkable circumstance,' he mused, dallying lazily with the\nteaspoon, 'that my friend the madman should have been within an ace of\nescaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the\nworld would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord\nMayor should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose\nvery dense heads curiosity had penetrated. For though the brother of my\nLord Mayor was decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship\nto that amusing person beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend\nwas sane, and had, to his knowledge, wandered about the country with a\nvagabond parent, avowing revolutionary and rebellious sentiments; I am\nnot the less obliged to him for volunteering that evidence. These insane\ncreatures make such very odd and embarrassing remarks, that they really\nought to be hanged for the comfort of society.'\n\nThe country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against poor\nBarnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little\nthought how much he had to answer for.\n\n'They will be a singular party,' said Sir John, leaning his head upon\nhis hand, and sipping his chocolate; 'a very curious party. The hangman\nhimself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur would make a very\nhandsome preparation in Surgeons' Hall, and would benefit science\nextremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak him.--Peak, I am not\nat home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.'\n\nThis reminder to his servant was called forth by a knock at the door,\nwhich the man hastened to open. After a prolonged murmur of question and\nanswer, he returned; and as he cautiously closed the room-door behind\nhim, a man was heard to cough in the passage.\n\n'Now, it is of no use, Peak,' said Sir John, raising his hand in\ndeprecation of his delivering any message; 'I am not at home. I cannot\npossibly hear you. I told you I was not at home, and my word is sacred.\nWill you never do as you are desired?'\n\nHaving nothing to oppose to this reproof, the man was about to withdraw,\nwhen the visitor who had given occasion to it, probably rendered\nimpatient by delay, knocked with his knuckles at the chamber-door, and\ncalled out that he had urgent business with Sir John Chester, which\nadmitted of no delay.\n\n'Let him in,' said Sir John. 'My good fellow,' he added, when the door\nwas opened, 'how come you to intrude yourself in this extraordinary\nmanner upon the privacy of a gentleman? How can you be so wholly\ndestitute of self-respect as to be guilty of such remarkable\nill-breeding?'\n\n'My business, Sir John, is not of a common kind, I do assure you,'\nreturned the person he addressed. 'If I have taken any uncommon course\nto get admission to you, I hope I shall be pardoned on that account.'\n\n'Well! we shall see; we shall see,' returned Sir John, whose face\ncleared up when he saw who it was, and whose prepossessing smile was now\nrestored. 'I am sure we have met before,' he added in his winning tone,\n'but really I forget your name?'\n\n'My name is Gabriel Varden, sir.'\n\n'Varden, of course, Varden,' returned Sir John, tapping his forehead.\n'Dear me, how very defective my memory becomes! Varden to be sure--Mr\nVarden the locksmith. You have a charming wife, Mr Varden, and a most\nbeautiful daughter. They are well?'\n\nGabriel thanked him, and said they were.\n\n'I rejoice to hear it,' said Sir John. 'Commend me to them when you\nreturn, and say that I wished I were fortunate enough to convey, myself,\nthe salute which I entrust you to deliver. And what,' he asked very\nsweetly, after a moment's pause, 'can I do for you? You may command me\nfreely.'\n\n'I thank you, Sir John,' said Gabriel, with some pride in his\nmanner, 'but I have come to ask no favour of you, though I come on\nbusiness.--Private,' he added, with a glance at the man who stood\nlooking on, 'and very pressing business.'\n\n'I cannot say you are the more welcome for being independent, and having\nnothing to ask of me,' returned Sir John, graciously, 'for I should have\nbeen happy to render you a service; still, you are welcome on any terms.\nOblige me with some more chocolate, Peak, and don't wait.'\n\nThe man retired, and left them alone.\n\n'Sir John,' said Gabriel, 'I am a working-man, and have been so, all my\nlife. If I don't prepare you enough for what I have to tell; if I come\nto the point too abruptly; and give you a shock, which a gentleman could\nhave spared you, or at all events lessened very much; I hope you will\ngive me credit for meaning well. I wish to be careful and considerate,\nand I trust that in a straightforward person like me, you'll take the\nwill for the deed.'\n\n'Mr Varden,' returned the other, perfectly composed under this exordium;\n'I beg you'll take a chair. Chocolate, perhaps, you don't relish? Well!\nit IS an acquired taste, no doubt.'\n\n'Sir John,' said Gabriel, who had acknowledged with a bow the invitation\nto be seated, but had not availed himself of it. 'Sir John'--he\ndropped his voice and drew nearer to the bed--'I am just now come from\nNewgate--'\n\n'Good Gad!' cried Sir John, hastily sitting up in bed; 'from Newgate,\nMr Varden! How could you be so very imprudent as to come from Newgate!\nNewgate, where there are jail-fevers, and ragged people, and bare-footed\nmen and women, and a thousand horrors! Peak, bring the camphor, quick!\nHeaven and earth, Mr Varden, my dear, good soul, how COULD you come from\nNewgate?'\n\nGabriel returned no answer, but looked on in silence while Peak (who had\nentered with the hot chocolate) ran to a drawer, and returning with\na bottle, sprinkled his master's dressing-gown and the bedding; and\nbesides moistening the locksmith himself, plentifully, described a\ncircle round about him on the carpet. When he had done this, he again\nretired; and Sir John, reclining in an easy attitude upon his pillow,\nonce more turned a smiling face towards his visitor.\n\n'You will forgive me, Mr Varden, I am sure, for being at first a little\nsensitive both on your account and my own. I confess I was startled,\nnotwithstanding your delicate exordium. Might I ask you to do me the\nfavour not to approach any nearer?--You have really come from Newgate!'\n\nThe locksmith inclined his head.\n\n'In-deed! And now, Mr Varden, all exaggeration and embellishment apart,'\nsaid Sir John Chester, confidentially, as he sipped his chocolate, 'what\nkind of place IS Newgate?'\n\n'A strange place, Sir John,' returned the locksmith, 'of a sad and\ndoleful kind. A strange place, where many strange things are heard and\nseen; but few more strange than that I come to tell you of. The case is\nurgent. I am sent here.'\n\n'Not--no, no--not from the jail?'\n\n'Yes, Sir John; from the jail.'\n\n'And my good, credulous, open-hearted friend,' said Sir John, setting\ndown his cup, and laughing,--'by whom?'\n\n'By a man called Dennis--for many years the hangman, and to-morrow\nmorning the hanged,' returned the locksmith.\n\nSir John had expected--had been quite certain from the first--that he\nwould say he had come from Hugh, and was prepared to meet him on that\npoint. But this answer occasioned him a degree of astonishment, which,\nfor the moment, he could not, with all his command of feature, prevent\nhis face from expressing. He quickly subdued it, however, and said in\nthe same light tone:\n\n'And what does the gentleman require of me? My memory may be at\nfault again, but I don't recollect that I ever had the pleasure of\nan introduction to him, or that I ever numbered him among my personal\nfriends, I do assure you, Mr Varden.'\n\n'Sir John,' returned the locksmith, gravely, 'I will tell you, as nearly\nas I can, in the words he used to me, what he desires that you should\nknow, and what you ought to know without a moment's loss of time.'\n\nSir John Chester settled himself in a position of greater repose, and\nlooked at his visitor with an expression of face which seemed to say,\n'This is an amusing fellow! I'll hear him out.'\n\n'You may have seen in the newspapers, sir,' said Gabriel, pointing to\nthe one which lay by his side, 'that I was a witness against this man\nupon his trial some days since; and that it was not his fault I was\nalive, and able to speak to what I knew.'\n\n'MAY have seen!' cried Sir John. 'My dear Mr Varden, you are quite\na public character, and live in all men's thoughts most deservedly.\nNothing can exceed the interest with which I read your testimony,\nand remembered that I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with\nyou.---I hope we shall have your portrait published?'\n\n'This morning, sir,' said the locksmith, taking no notice of these\ncompliments, 'early this morning, a message was brought to me from\nNewgate, at this man's request, desiring that I would go and see him,\nfor he had something particular to communicate. I needn't tell you\nthat he is no friend of mine, and that I had never seen him, until the\nrioters beset my house.'\n\nSir John fanned himself gently with the newspaper, and nodded.\n\n'I knew, however, from the general report,' resumed Gabriel, 'that the\norder for his execution to-morrow, went down to the prison last night;\nand looking upon him as a dying man, I complied with his request.'\n\n'You are quite a Christian, Mr Varden,' said Sir John; 'and in that\namiable capacity, you increase my desire that you should take a chair.'\n\n'He said,' continued Gabriel, looking steadily at the knight, 'that he\nhad sent to me, because he had no friend or companion in the whole world\n(being the common hangman), and because he believed, from the way in\nwhich I had given my evidence, that I was an honest man, and would act\ntruly by him. He said that, being shunned by every one who knew his\ncalling, even by people of the lowest and most wretched grade, and\nfinding, when he joined the rioters, that the men he acted with had no\nsuspicion of it (which I believe is true enough, for a poor fool of an\nold 'prentice of mine was one of them), he had kept his own counsel, up\nto the time of his being taken and put in jail.'\n\n'Very discreet of Mr Dennis,' observed Sir John with a slight yawn,\nthough still with the utmost affability, 'but--except for your admirable\nand lucid manner of telling it, which is perfect--not very interesting\nto me.'\n\n'When,' pursued the locksmith, quite unabashed and wholly regardless of\nthese interruptions, 'when he was taken to the jail, he found that his\nfellow-prisoner, in the same room, was a young man, Hugh by name, a\nleader in the riots, who had been betrayed and given up by himself. From\nsomething which fell from this unhappy creature in the course of the\nangry words they had at meeting, he discovered that his mother had\nsuffered the death to which they both are now condemned.--The time is\nvery short, Sir John.'\n\nThe knight laid down his paper fan, replaced his cup upon the table at\nhis side, and, saving for the smile that lurked about his mouth, looked\nat the locksmith with as much steadiness as the locksmith looked at him.\n\n'They have been in prison now, a month. One conversation led to many\nmore; and the hangman soon found, from a comparison of time, and place,\nand dates, that he had executed the sentence of the law upon this woman,\nhimself. She had been tempted by want--as so many people are--into the\neasy crime of passing forged notes. She was young and handsome; and the\ntraders who employ men, women, and children in this traffic, looked\nupon her as one who was well adapted for their business, and who\nwould probably go on without suspicion for a long time. But they were\nmistaken; for she was stopped in the commission of her very first\noffence, and died for it. She was of gipsy blood, Sir John--'\n\nIt might have been the effect of a passing cloud which obscured the sun,\nand cast a shadow on his face; but the knight turned deadly pale. Still\nhe met the locksmith's eye, as before.\n\n'She was of gipsy blood, Sir John,' repeated Gabriel, 'and had a high,\nfree spirit. This, and her good looks, and her lofty manner, interested\nsome gentlemen who were easily moved by dark eyes; and efforts were made\nto save her. They might have been successful, if she would have given\nthem any clue to her history. But she never would, or did. There was\nreason to suspect that she would make an attempt upon her life. A watch\nwas set upon her night and day; and from that time she never spoke\nagain--'\n\nSir John stretched out his hand towards his cup. The locksmith going on,\narrested it half-way.\n\n--'Until she had but a minute to live. Then she broke silence, and said,\nin a low firm voice which no one heard but this executioner, for all\nother living creatures had retired and left her to her fate, \"If I had\na dagger within these fingers and he was within my reach, I would strike\nhim dead before me, even now!\" The man asked \"Who?\" She said, \"The\nfather of her boy.\"'\n\nSir John drew back his outstretched hand, and seeing that the locksmith\npaused, signed to him with easy politeness and without any new\nappearance of emotion, to proceed.\n\n'It was the first word she had ever spoken, from which it could be\nunderstood that she had any relative on earth. \"Was the child alive?\" he\nasked. \"Yes.\" He asked her where it was, its name, and whether she had\nany wish respecting it. She had but one, she said. It was that the boy\nmight live and grow, in utter ignorance of his father, so that no arts\nmight teach him to be gentle and forgiving. When he became a man,\nshe trusted to the God of their tribe to bring the father and the\nson together, and revenge her through her child. He asked her other\nquestions, but she spoke no more. Indeed, he says, she scarcely said\nthis much, to him, but stood with her face turned upwards to the sky,\nand never looked towards him once.'\n\nSir John took a pinch of snuff; glanced approvingly at an elegant little\nsketch, entitled 'Nature,' on the wall; and raising his eyes to the\nlocksmith's face again, said, with an air of courtesy and patronage,\n'You were observing, Mr Varden--'\n\n'That she never,' returned the locksmith, who was not to be diverted by\nany artifice from his firm manner, and his steady gaze, 'that she never\nlooked towards him once, Sir John; and so she died, and he forgot her.\nBut, some years afterwards, a man was sentenced to die the same death,\nwho was a gipsy too; a sunburnt, swarthy fellow, almost a wild man; and\nwhile he lay in prison, under sentence, he, who had seen the hangman\nmore than once while he was free, cut an image of him on his stick, by\nway of braving death, and showing those who attended on him, how little\nhe cared or thought about it. He gave this stick into his hands at\nTyburn, and told him then, that the woman I have spoken of had left her\nown people to join a fine gentleman, and that, being deserted by him,\nand cast off by her old friends, she had sworn within her own proud\nbreast, that whatever her misery might be, she would ask no help of any\nhuman being. He told him that she had kept her word to the last; and\nthat, meeting even him in the streets--he had been fond of her once, it\nseems--she had slipped from him by a trick, and he never saw her again,\nuntil, being in one of the frequent crowds at Tyburn, with some of\nhis rough companions, he had been driven almost mad by seeing, in\nthe criminal under another name, whose death he had come to witness,\nherself. Standing in the same place in which she had stood, he told\nthe hangman this, and told him, too, her real name, which only her own\npeople and the gentleman for whose sake she had left them, knew. That\nname he will tell again, Sir John, to none but you.'\n\n'To none but me!' exclaimed the knight, pausing in the act of raising\nhis cup to his lips with a perfectly steady hand, and curling up his\nlittle finger for the better display of a brilliant ring with which it\nwas ornamented: 'but me!--My dear Mr Varden, how very preposterous, to\nselect me for his confidence! With you at his elbow, too, who are so\nperfectly trustworthy!'\n\n'Sir John, Sir John,' returned the locksmith, 'at twelve tomorrow, these\nmen die. Hear the few words I have to add, and do not hope to deceive\nme; for though I am a plain man of humble station, and you are a\ngentleman of rank and learning, the truth raises me to your level, and\nI KNOW that you anticipate the disclosure with which I am about to end,\nand that you believe this doomed man, Hugh, to be your son.'\n\n'Nay,' said Sir John, bantering him with a gay air; 'the wild gentleman,\nwho died so suddenly, scarcely went as far as that, I think?'\n\n'He did not,' returned the locksmith, 'for she had bound him by some\npledge, known only to these people, and which the worst among them\nrespect, not to tell your name: but, in a fantastic pattern on the\nstick, he had carved some letters, and when the hangman asked it, he\nbade him, especially if he should ever meet with her son in after life,\nremember that place well.'\n\n'What place?'\n\n'Chester.'\n\nThe knight finished his cup of chocolate with an appearance of infinite\nrelish, and carefully wiped his lips upon his handkerchief.\n\n'Sir John,' said the locksmith, 'this is all that has been told to me;\nbut since these two men have been left for death, they have conferred\ntogether closely. See them, and hear what they can add. See this Dennis,\nand learn from him what he has not trusted to me. If you, who hold the\nclue to all, want corroboration (which you do not), the means are easy.'\n\n'And to what,' said Sir John Chester, rising on his elbow, after\nsmoothing the pillow for its reception; 'my dear, good-natured,\nestimable Mr Varden--with whom I cannot be angry if I would--to what\ndoes all this tend?'\n\n'I take you for a man, Sir John, and I suppose it tends to some pleading\nof natural affection in your breast,' returned the locksmith. 'I suppose\nto the straining of every nerve, and the exertion of all the influence\nyou have, or can make, in behalf of your miserable son, and the man\nwho has disclosed his existence to you. At the worst, I suppose to your\nseeing your son, and awakening him to a sense of his crime and danger.\nHe has no such sense now. Think what his life must have been, when he\nsaid in my hearing, that if I moved you to anything, it would be to\nhastening his death, and ensuring his silence, if you had it in your\npower!'\n\n'And have you, my good Mr Varden,' said Sir John in a tone of mild\nreproof, 'have you really lived to your present age, and remained so\nvery simple and credulous, as to approach a gentleman of established\ncharacter with such credentials as these, from desperate men in their\nlast extremity, catching at any straw? Oh dear! Oh fie, fie!'\n\nThe locksmith was going to interpose, but he stopped him:\n\n'On any other subject, Mr Varden, I shall be delighted--I shall be\ncharmed--to converse with you, but I owe it to my own character not to\npursue this topic for another moment.'\n\n'Think better of it, sir, when I am gone,' returned the locksmith;\n'think better of it, sir. Although you have, thrice within as many\nweeks, turned your lawful son, Mr Edward, from your door, you may have\ntime, you may have years to make your peace with HIM, Sir John: but that\ntwelve o'clock will soon be here, and soon be past for ever.'\n\n'I thank you very much,' returned the knight, kissing his delicate hand\nto the locksmith, 'for your guileless advice; and I only wish, my good\nsoul, although your simplicity is quite captivating, that you had a\nlittle more worldly wisdom. I never so much regretted the arrival of my\nhairdresser as I do at this moment. God bless you! Good morning! You'll\nnot forget my message to the ladies, Mr Varden? Peak, show Mr Varden to\nthe door.'\n\nGabriel said no more, but gave the knight a parting look, and left him.\nAs he quitted the room, Sir John's face changed; and the smile gave\nplace to a haggard and anxious expression, like that of a weary actor\njaded by the performance of a difficult part. He rose from his bed with\na heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning-gown.\n\n'So she kept her word,' he said, 'and was constant to her threat! I\nwould I had never seen that dark face of hers,--I might have read these\nconsequences in it, from the first. This affair would make a noise\nabroad, if it rested on better evidence; but, as it is, and by not\njoining the scattered links of the chain, I can afford to slight\nit.--Extremely distressing to be the parent of such an uncouth creature!\nStill, I gave him very good advice. I told him he would certainly be\nhanged. I could have done no more if I had known of our relationship;\nand there are a great many fathers who have never done as much for THEIR\nnatural children.--The hairdresser may come in, Peak!'\n\nThe hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester (whose\naccommodating conscience was soon quieted by the numerous precedents\nthat occurred to him in support of his last observation), the same\nimperturbable, fascinating, elegant gentleman he had seen yesterday, and\nmany yesterdays before.\n\n\n\nChapter 76\n\n\nAs the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester's chambers,\nhe lingered under the trees which shaded the path, almost hoping that\nhe might be summoned to return. He had turned back thrice, and still\nloitered at the corner, when the clock struck twelve.\n\nIt was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference to to-morrow;\nfor he knew that in that chime the murderer's knell was rung. He had\nseen him pass along the crowded street, amidst the execration of the\nthrong; and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs; the ashy hue\nupon his face, his clammy brow, the wild distraction of his eye--the\nfear of death that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without\ncessation at his heart and brain. He had marked the wandering look,\nseeking for hope, and finding, turn where it would, despair. He had seen\nthe remorseful, pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with his coffin\nby his side, to the gibbet. He knew that, to the last, he had been an\nunyielding, obdurate man; that in the savage terror of his condition he\nhad hardened, rather than relented, to his wife and child; and that the\nlast words which had passed his white lips were curses on them as his\nenemies.\n\nMr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it done. Nothing but\nthe evidence of his own senses could satisfy that gloomy thirst for\nretribution which had been gathering upon him for so many years. The\nlocksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased to vibrate, hurried\naway to meet him.\n\n'For these two men,' he said, as he went, 'I can do no more. Heaven have\nmercy on them!--Alas! I say I can do no more for them, but whom can I\nhelp? Mary Rudge will have a home, and a firm friend when she most wants\none; but Barnaby--poor Barnaby--willing Barnaby--what aid can I render\nhim? There are many, many men of sense, God forgive me,' cried the\nhonest locksmith, stopping in a narrow court to pass his hand across his\neyes, 'I could better afford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been\ngood friends, but I never knew, till now, how much I loved the lad.'\n\nThere were not many in the great city who thought of Barnaby that day,\notherwise than as an actor in a show which was to take place to-morrow.\nBut if the whole population had had him in their minds, and had wished\nhis life to be spared, not one among them could have done so with a\npurer zeal or greater singleness of heart than the good locksmith.\n\nBarnaby was to die. There was no hope. It is not the least evil\nattendant upon the frequent exhibition of this last dread punishment,\nof Death, that it hardens the minds of those who deal it out, and makes\nthem, though they be amiable men in other respects, indifferent to, or\nunconscious of, their great responsibility. The word had gone forth that\nBarnaby was to die. It went forth, every month, for lighter crimes.\nIt was a thing so common, that very few were startled by the awful\nsentence, or cared to question its propriety. Just then, too, when the\nlaw had been so flagrantly outraged, its dignity must be asserted.\nThe symbol of its dignity,--stamped upon every page of the criminal\nstatute-book,--was the gallows; and Barnaby was to die.\n\nThey had tried to save him. The locksmith had carried petitions and\nmemorials to the fountain-head, with his own hands. But the well was not\none of mercy, and Barnaby was to die.\n\nFrom the first his mother had never left him, save at night; and with\nher beside him, he was as usual contented. On this last day, he was more\nelated and more proud than he had been yet; and when she dropped the\nbook she had been reading to him aloud, and fell upon his neck, he\nstopped in his busy task of folding a piece of crape about his hat,\nand wondered at her anguish. Grip uttered a feeble croak, half in\nencouragement, it seemed, and half in remonstrance, but he wanted heart\nto sustain it, and lapsed abruptly into silence.\n\nWith them who stood upon the brink of the great gulf which none can see\nbeyond, Time, so soon to lose itself in vast Eternity, rolled on like a\nmighty river, swollen and rapid as it nears the sea. It was morning but\nnow; they had sat and talked together in a dream; and here was evening.\nThe dreadful hour of separation, which even yesterday had seemed so\ndistant, was at hand.\n\nThey walked out into the courtyard, clinging to each other, but not\nspeaking. Barnaby knew that the jail was a dull, sad, miserable place,\nand looked forward to to-morrow, as to a passage from it to something\nbright and beautiful. He had a vague impression too, that he was\nexpected to be brave--that he was a man of great consequence, and that\nthe prison people would be glad to make him weep. He trod the ground\nmore firmly as he thought of this, and bade her take heart and cry no\nmore, and feel how steady his hand was. 'They call me silly, mother.\nThey shall see to-morrow!'\n\nDennis and Hugh were in the courtyard. Hugh came forth from his cell as\nthey did, stretching himself as though he had been sleeping. Dennis sat\nupon a bench in a corner, with his knees and chin huddled together, and\nrocked himself to and fro like a person in severe pain.\n\nThe mother and son remained on one side of the court, and these two men\nupon the other. Hugh strode up and down, glancing fiercely every now and\nthen at the bright summer sky, and looking round, when he had done so,\nat the walls.\n\n'No reprieve, no reprieve! Nobody comes near us. There's only the night\nleft now!' moaned Dennis faintly, as he wrung his hands. 'Do you think\nthey'll reprieve me in the night, brother? I've known reprieves come\nin the night, afore now. I've known 'em come as late as five, six, and\nseven o'clock in the morning. Don't you think there's a good chance\nyet,--don't you? Say you do. Say you do, young man,' whined the\nmiserable creature, with an imploring gesture towards Barnaby, 'or I\nshall go mad!'\n\n'Better be mad than sane, here,' said Hugh. 'GO mad.'\n\n'But tell me what you think. Somebody tell me what he thinks!' cried\nthe wretched object,--so mean, and wretched, and despicable, that even\nPity's self might have turned away, at sight of such a being in the\nlikeness of a man--'isn't there a chance for me,--isn't there a good\nchance for me? Isn't it likely they may be doing this to frighten me?\nDon't you think it is? Oh!' he almost shrieked, as he wrung his hands,\n'won't anybody give me comfort!'\n\n'You ought to be the best, instead of the worst,' said Hugh, stopping\nbefore him. 'Ha, ha, ha! See the hangman, when it comes home to him!'\n\n'You don't know what it is,' cried Dennis, actually writhing as he\nspoke: 'I do. That I should come to be worked off! I! I! That I should\ncome!'\n\n'And why not?' said Hugh, as he thrust back his matted hair to get a\nbetter view of his late associate. 'How often, before I knew your trade,\ndid I hear you talking of this as if it was a treat?'\n\n'I an't unconsistent,' screamed the miserable creature; 'I'd talk so\nagain, if I was hangman. Some other man has got my old opinions at this\nminute. That makes it worse. Somebody's longing to work me off. I know\nby myself that somebody must be!'\n\n'He'll soon have his longing,' said Hugh, resuming his walk. 'Think of\nthat, and be quiet.'\n\nAlthough one of these men displayed, in his speech and bearing, the\nmost reckless hardihood; and the other, in his every word and action,\ntestified such an extreme of abject cowardice that it was humiliating\nto see him; it would be difficult to say which of them would most have\nrepelled and shocked an observer. Hugh's was the dogged desperation of\na savage at the stake; the hangman was reduced to a condition little\nbetter, if any, than that of a hound with the halter round his neck.\nYet, as Mr Dennis knew and could have told them, these were the two\ncommonest states of mind in persons brought to their pass. Such was the\nwholesome growth of the seed sown by the law, that this kind of harvest\nwas usually looked for, as a matter of course.\n\nIn one respect they all agreed. The wandering and uncontrollable train\nof thought, suggesting sudden recollections of things distant and long\nforgotten and remote from each other--the vague restless craving for\nsomething undefined, which nothing could satisfy--the swift flight of\nthe minutes, fusing themselves into hours, as if by enchantment--the\nrapid coming of the solemn night--the shadow of death always upon them,\nand yet so dim and faint, that objects the meanest and most trivial\nstarted from the gloom beyond, and forced themselves upon the view--the\nimpossibility of holding the mind, even if they had been so disposed,\nto penitence and preparation, or of keeping it to any point while one\nhideous fascination tempted it away--these things were common to them\nall, and varied only in their outward tokens.\n\n'Fetch me the book I left within--upon your bed,' she said to Barnaby,\nas the clock struck. 'Kiss me first.'\n\nHe looked in her face, and saw there, that the time was come. After a\nlong embrace, he tore himself away, and ran to bring it to her; bidding\nher not stir till he came back. He soon returned, for a shriek recalled\nhim,--but she was gone.\n\nHe ran to the yard-gate, and looked through. They were carrying her\naway. She had said her heart would break. It was better so.\n\n'Don't you think,' whimpered Dennis, creeping up to him, as he stood\nwith his feet rooted to the ground, gazing at the blank walls--'don't\nyou think there's still a chance? It's a dreadful end; it's a terrible\nend for a man like me. Don't you think there's a chance? I don't mean\nfor you, I mean for me. Don't let HIM hear us (meaning Hugh); 'he's so\ndesperate.'\n\n'Now then,' said the officer, who had been lounging in and out with his\nhands in his pockets, and yawning as if he were in the last extremity\nfor some subject of interest: 'it's time to turn in, boys.'\n\n'Not yet,' cried Dennis, 'not yet. Not for an hour yet.'\n\n'I say,--your watch goes different from what it used to,' returned the\nman. 'Once upon a time it was always too fast. It's got the other fault\nnow.'\n\n'My friend,' cried the wretched creature, falling on his knees, 'my\ndear friend--you always were my dear friend--there's some mistake. Some\nletter has been mislaid, or some messenger has been stopped upon the\nway. He may have fallen dead. I saw a man once, fall down dead in the\nstreet, myself, and he had papers in his pocket. Send to inquire. Let\nsomebody go to inquire. They never will hang me. They never can.--Yes,\nthey will,' he cried, starting to his feet with a terrible scream.\n'They'll hang me by a trick, and keep the pardon back. It's a plot\nagainst me. I shall lose my life!' And uttering another yell, he fell in\na fit upon the ground.\n\n'See the hangman when it comes home to him!' cried Hugh again, as they\nbore him away--'Ha ha ha! Courage, bold Barnaby, what care we? Your\nhand! They do well to put us out of the world, for if we got loose a\nsecond time, we wouldn't let them off so easy, eh? Another shake! A man\ncan die but once. If you wake in the night, sing that out lustily, and\nfall asleep again. Ha ha ha!'\n\nBarnaby glanced once more through the grate into the empty yard;\nand then watched Hugh as he strode to the steps leading to his\nsleeping-cell. He heard him shout, and burst into a roar of laughter,\nand saw him flourish his hat. Then he turned away himself, like one who\nwalked in his sleep; and, without any sense of fear or sorrow, lay down\non his pallet, listening for the clock to strike again.\n\n\n\nChapter 77\n\n\nThe time wore on. The noises in the streets became less frequent by\ndegrees, until silence was scarcely broken save by the bells in church\ntowers, marking the progress--softer and more stealthy while the city\nslumbered--of that Great Watcher with the hoary head, who never sleeps\nor rests. In the brief interval of darkness and repose which feverish\ntowns enjoy, all busy sounds were hushed; and those who awoke from\ndreams lay listening in their beds, and longed for dawn, and wished the\ndead of the night were past.\n\nInto the street outside the jail's main wall, workmen came straggling at\nthis solemn hour, in groups of two or three, and meeting in the centre,\ncast their tools upon the ground and spoke in whispers. Others soon\nissued from the jail itself, bearing on their shoulders planks and\nbeams: these materials being all brought forth, the rest bestirred\nthemselves, and the dull sound of hammers began to echo through the\nstillness.\n\nHere and there among this knot of labourers, one, with a lantern or\na smoky link, stood by to light his fellows at their work; and by its\ndoubtful aid, some might be dimly seen taking up the pavement of the\nroad, while others held great upright posts, or fixed them in the holes\nthus made for their reception. Some dragged slowly on, towards the rest,\nan empty cart, which they brought rumbling from the prison-yard; while\nothers erected strong barriers across the street. All were busily\nengaged. Their dusky figures moving to and fro, at that unusual hour,\nso active and so silent, might have been taken for those of shadowy\ncreatures toiling at midnight on some ghostly unsubstantial work, which,\nlike themselves, would vanish with the first gleam of day, and leave but\nmorning mist and vapour.\n\nWhile it was yet dark, a few lookers-on collected, who had plainly come\nthere for the purpose and intended to remain: even those who had to pass\nthe spot on their way to some other place, lingered, and lingered yet,\nas though the attraction of that were irresistible. Meanwhile the noise\nof saw and mallet went on briskly, mingled with the clattering of boards\non the stone pavement of the road, and sometimes with the workmen's\nvoices as they called to one another. Whenever the chimes of the\nneighbouring church were heard--and that was every quarter of an hour--a\nstrange sensation, instantaneous and indescribable, but perfectly\nobvious, seemed to pervade them all.\n\nGradually, a faint brightness appeared in the east, and the air, which\nhad been very warm all through the night, felt cool and chilly. Though\nthere was no daylight yet, the darkness was diminished, and the stars\nlooked pale. The prison, which had been a mere black mass with little\nshape or form, put on its usual aspect; and ever and anon a solitary\nwatchman could be seen upon its roof, stopping to look down upon the\npreparations in the street. This man, from forming, as it were, a part\nof the jail, and knowing or being supposed to know all that was passing\nwithin, became an object of as much interest, and was as eagerly looked\nfor, and as awfully pointed out, as if he had been a spirit.\n\nBy and by, the feeble light grew stronger, and the houses with their\nsignboards and inscriptions, stood plainly out, in the dull grey\nmorning. Heavy stage waggons crawled from the inn-yard opposite; and\ntravellers peeped out; and as they rolled sluggishly away, cast many\na backward look towards the jail. And now, the sun's first beams came\nglancing into the street; and the night's work, which, in its various\nstages and in the varied fancies of the lookers-on had taken a hundred\nshapes, wore its own proper form--a scaffold, and a gibbet.\n\nAs the warmth of the cheerful day began to shed itself upon the scanty\ncrowd, the murmur of tongues was heard, shutters were thrown open,\nand blinds drawn up, and those who had slept in rooms over against the\nprison, where places to see the execution were let at high prices, rose\nhastily from their beds. In some of the houses, people were busy taking\nout the window-sashes for the better accommodation of spectators; in\nothers, the spectators were already seated, and beguiling the time with\ncards, or drink, or jokes among themselves. Some had purchased seats\nupon the house-tops, and were already crawling to their stations from\nparapet and garret-window. Some were yet bargaining for good places, and\nstood in them in a state of indecision: gazing at the slowly-swelling\ncrowd, and at the workmen as they rested listlessly against the\nscaffold--affecting to listen with indifference to the proprietor's\neulogy of the commanding view his house afforded, and the surpassing\ncheapness of his terms.\n\nA fairer morning never shone. From the roofs and upper stories of these\nbuildings, the spires of city churches and the great cathedral dome were\nvisible, rising up beyond the prison, into the blue sky, and clad in the\ncolour of light summer clouds, and showing in the clear atmosphere their\nevery scrap of tracery and fretwork, and every niche and loophole. All\nwas brightness and promise, excepting in the street below, into which\n(for it yet lay in shadow) the eye looked down as into a dark trench,\nwhere, in the midst of so much life, and hope, and renewal of existence,\nstood the terrible instrument of death. It seemed as if the very sun\nforbore to look upon it.\n\nBut it was better, grim and sombre in the shade, than when, the day\nbeing more advanced, it stood confessed in the full glare and glory of\nthe sun, with its black paint blistering, and its nooses dangling in the\nlight like loathsome garlands. It was better in the solitude and gloom\nof midnight with a few forms clustering about it, than in the freshness\nand the stir of morning: the centre of an eager crowd. It was better\nhaunting the street like a spectre, when men were in their beds, and\ninfluencing perchance the city's dreams, than braving the broad day, and\nthrusting its obscene presence upon their waking senses.\n\nFive o'clock had struck--six--seven--and eight. Along the two main\nstreets at either end of the cross-way, a living stream had now set in,\nrolling towards the marts of gain and business. Carts, coaches, waggons,\ntrucks, and barrows, forced a passage through the outskirts of the\nthrong, and clattered onward in the same direction. Some of these\nwhich were public conveyances and had come from a short distance in the\ncountry, stopped; and the driver pointed to the gibbet with his whip,\nthough he might have spared himself the pains, for the heads of all the\npassengers were turned that way without his help, and the coach-windows\nwere stuck full of staring eyes. In some of the carts and waggons, women\nmight be seen, glancing fearfully at the same unsightly thing; and even\nlittle children were held up above the people's heads to see what kind\nof a toy a gallows was, and learn how men were hanged.\n\nTwo rioters were to die before the prison, who had been concerned in\nthe attack upon it; and one directly afterwards in Bloomsbury Square.\nAt nine o'clock, a strong body of military marched into the street,\nand formed and lined a narrow passage into Holborn, which had been\nindifferently kept all night by constables. Through this, another\ncart was brought (the one already mentioned had been employed in the\nconstruction of the scaffold), and wheeled up to the prison-gate. These\npreparations made, the soldiers stood at ease; the officers lounged\nto and fro, in the alley they had made, or talked together at the\nscaffold's foot; and the concourse, which had been rapidly augmenting\nfor some hours, and still received additions every minute, waited with\nan impatience which increased with every chime of St Sepulchre's clock,\nfor twelve at noon.\n\nUp to this time they had been very quiet, comparatively silent, save\nwhen the arrival of some new party at a window, hitherto unoccupied,\ngave them something new to look at or to talk of. But, as the hour\napproached, a buzz and hum arose, which, deepening every moment, soon\nswelled into a roar, and seemed to fill the air. No words or even voices\ncould be distinguished in this clamour, nor did they speak much to each\nother; though such as were better informed upon the topic than the rest,\nwould tell their neighbours, perhaps, that they might know the hangman\nwhen he came out, by his being the shorter one: and that the man who\nwas to suffer with him was named Hugh: and that it was Barnaby Rudge who\nwould be hanged in Bloomsbury Square.\n\nThe hum grew, as the time drew near, so loud, that those who were at the\nwindows could not hear the church-clock strike, though it was close at\nhand. Nor had they any need to hear it, either, for they could see it\nin the people's faces. So surely as another quarter chimed, there was\na movement in the crowd--as if something had passed over it--as if the\nlight upon them had been changed--in which the fact was readable as on a\nbrazen dial, figured by a giant's hand.\n\nThree quarters past eleven! The murmur now was deafening, yet every man\nseemed mute. Look where you would among the crowd, you saw strained eyes\nand lips compressed; it would have been difficult for the most vigilant\nobserver to point this way or that, and say that yonder man had cried\nout. It were as easy to detect the motion of lips in a sea-shell.\n\nThree quarters past eleven! Many spectators who had retired from the\nwindows, came back refreshed, as though their watch had just begun.\nThose who had fallen asleep, roused themselves; and every person in the\ncrowd made one last effort to better his position--which caused a press\nagainst the sturdy barriers that made them bend and yield like twigs.\nThe officers, who until now had kept together, fell into their several\npositions, and gave the words of command. Swords were drawn, muskets\nshouldered, and the bright steel winding its way among the crowd,\ngleamed and glittered in the sun like a river. Along this shining path,\ntwo men came hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed\nto the cart at the prison-door. Then, a profound silence replaced the\ntumult that had so long been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued.\nEvery window was now choked up with heads; the house-tops teemed with\npeople--clinging to chimneys, peering over gable-ends, and holding on\nwhere the sudden loosening of any brick or stone would dash them down\ninto the street. The church tower, the church roof, the church yard,\nthe prison leads, the very water-spouts and lampposts--every inch of\nroom--swarmed with human life.\n\nAt the first stroke of twelve the prison-bell began to toll. Then the\nroar--mingled now with cries of 'Hats off!' and 'Poor fellows!' and,\nfrom some specks in the great concourse, with a shriek or groan--burst\nforth again. It was terrible to see--if any one in that distraction of\nexcitement could have seen--the world of eager eyes, all strained upon\nthe scaffold and the beam.\n\nThe hollow murmuring was heard within the jail as plainly as without.\nThe three were brought forth into the yard, together, as it resounded\nthrough the air. They knew its import well.\n\n'D'ye hear?' cried Hugh, undaunted by the sound. 'They expect us!\nI heard them gathering when I woke in the night, and turned over on\nt'other side and fell asleep again. We shall see how they welcome the\nhangman, now that it comes home to him. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\nThe Ordinary coming up at this moment, reproved him for his indecent\nmirth, and advised him to alter his demeanour.\n\n'And why, master?' said Hugh. 'Can I do better than bear it easily? YOU\nbear it easily enough. Oh! never tell me,' he cried, as the other would\nhave spoken, 'for all your sad look and your solemn air, you think\nlittle enough of it! They say you're the best maker of lobster salads in\nLondon. Ha, ha! I've heard that, you see, before now. Is it a good\none, this morning--is your hand in? How does the breakfast look? I hope\nthere's enough, and to spare, for all this hungry company that'll sit\ndown to it, when the sight's over.'\n\n'I fear,' observed the clergyman, shaking his head, 'that you are\nincorrigible.'\n\n'You're right. I am,' rejoined Hugh sternly. 'Be no hypocrite, master!\nYou make a merry-making of this, every month; let me be merry, too. If\nyou want a frightened fellow there's one that'll suit you. Try your hand\nupon him.'\n\nHe pointed, as he spoke, to Dennis, who, with his legs trailing on the\nground, was held between two men; and who trembled so, that all his\njoints and limbs seemed racked by spasms. Turning from this wretched\nspectacle, he called to Barnaby, who stood apart.\n\n'What cheer, Barnaby? Don't be downcast, lad. Leave that to HIM.'\n\n'Bless you,' cried Barnaby, stepping lightly towards him, 'I'm not\nfrightened, Hugh. I'm quite happy. I wouldn't desire to live now,\nif they'd let me. Look at me! Am I afraid to die? Will they see ME\ntremble?'\n\nHugh gazed for a moment at his face, on which there was a strange,\nunearthly smile; and at his eye, which sparkled brightly; and\ninterposing between him and the Ordinary, gruffly whispered to the\nlatter:\n\n'I wouldn't say much to him, master, if I was you. He may spoil your\nappetite for breakfast, though you ARE used to it.'\n\nHe was the only one of the three who had washed or trimmed himself\nthat morning. Neither of the others had done so, since their doom was\npronounced. He still wore the broken peacock's feathers in his hat; and\nall his usual scraps of finery were carefully disposed about his person.\nHis kindling eye, his firm step, his proud and resolute bearing, might\nhave graced some lofty act of heroism; some voluntary sacrifice, born of\na noble cause and pure enthusiasm; rather than that felon's death.\n\nBut all these things increased his guilt. They were mere assumptions.\nThe law had declared it so, and so it must be. The good minister had\nbeen greatly shocked, not a quarter of an hour before, at his parting\nwith Grip. For one in his condition, to fondle a bird!--The yard was\nfilled with people; bluff civic functionaries, officers of justice,\nsoldiers, the curious in such matters, and guests who had been bidden as\nto a wedding. Hugh looked about him, nodded gloomily to some person\nin authority, who indicated with his hand in what direction he was to\nproceed; and clapping Barnaby on the shoulder, passed out with the gait\nof a lion.\n\nThey entered a large room, so near to the scaffold that the voices of\nthose who stood about it, could be plainly heard: some beseeching\nthe javelin-men to take them out of the crowd: others crying to those\nbehind, to stand back, for they were pressed to death, and suffocating\nfor want of air.\n\nIn the middle of this chamber, two smiths, with hammers, stood beside an\nanvil. Hugh walked straight up to them, and set his foot upon it with a\nsound as though it had been struck by a heavy weapon. Then, with folded\narms, he stood to have his irons knocked off: scowling haughtily round,\nas those who were present eyed him narrowly and whispered to each other.\n\nIt took so much time to drag Dennis in, that this ceremony was over with\nHugh, and nearly over with Barnaby, before he appeared. He no sooner\ncame into the place he knew so well, however, and among faces with which\nhe was so familiar, than he recovered strength and sense enough to clasp\nhis hands and make a last appeal.\n\n'Gentlemen, good gentlemen,' cried the abject creature, grovelling down\nupon his knees, and actually prostrating himself upon the stone floor:\n'Governor, dear governor--honourable sheriffs--worthy gentlemen--have\nmercy upon a wretched man that has served His Majesty, and the Law, and\nParliament, for so many years, and don't--don't let me die--because of a\nmistake.'\n\n'Dennis,' said the governor of the jail, 'you know what the course\nis, and that the order came with the rest. You know that we could do\nnothing, even if we would.'\n\n'All I ask, sir,--all I want and beg, is time, to make it sure,' cried\nthe trembling wretch, looking wildly round for sympathy. 'The King and\nGovernment can't know it's me; I'm sure they can't know it's me; or they\nnever would bring me to this dreadful slaughterhouse. They know my name,\nbut they don't know it's the same man. Stop my execution--for charity's\nsake stop my execution, gentlemen--till they can be told that I've\nbeen hangman here, nigh thirty year. Will no one go and tell them?' he\nimplored, clenching his hands and glaring round, and round, and round\nagain--'will no charitable person go and tell them!'\n\n'Mr Akerman,' said a gentleman who stood by, after a moment's pause,\n'since it may possibly produce in this unhappy man a better frame of\nmind, even at this last minute, let me assure him that he was well known\nto have been the hangman, when his sentence was considered.'\n\n'--But perhaps they think on that account that the punishment's not so\ngreat,' cried the criminal, shuffling towards this speaker on his knees,\nand holding up his folded hands; 'whereas it's worse, it's worse a\nhundred times, to me than any man. Let them know that, sir. Let them\nknow that. They've made it worse to me by giving me so much to do. Stop\nmy execution till they know that!'\n\nThe governor beckoned with his hand, and the two men, who had supported\nhim before, approached. He uttered a piercing cry:\n\n'Wait! Wait. Only a moment--only one moment more! Give me a last chance\nof reprieve. One of us three is to go to Bloomsbury Square. Let me be\nthe one. It may come in that time; it's sure to come. In the Lord's name\nlet me be sent to Bloomsbury Square. Don't hang me here. It's murder.'\n\nThey took him to the anvil: but even then he could be heard above the\nclinking of the smiths' hammers, and the hoarse raging of the crowd,\ncrying that he knew of Hugh's birth--that his father was living, and\nwas a gentleman of influence and rank--that he had family secrets in his\npossession--that he could tell nothing unless they gave him time, but\nmust die with them on his mind; and he continued to rave in this sort\nuntil his voice failed him, and he sank down a mere heap of clothes\nbetween the two attendants.\n\nIt was at this moment that the clock struck the first stroke of twelve,\nand the bell began to toll. The various officers, with the two sheriffs\nat their head, moved towards the door. All was ready when the last chime\ncame upon the ear.\n\nThey told Hugh this, and asked if he had anything to say.\n\n'To say!' he cried. 'Not I. I'm ready.--Yes,' he added, as his eye fell\nupon Barnaby, 'I have a word to say, too. Come hither, lad.'\n\nThere was, for the moment, something kind, and even tender, struggling\nin his fierce aspect, as he wrung his poor companion by the hand.\n\n'I'll say this,' he cried, looking firmly round, 'that if I had ten\nlives to lose, and the loss of each would give me ten times the agony\nof the hardest death, I'd lay them all down--ay, I would, though you\ngentlemen may not believe it--to save this one. This one,' he added,\nwringing his hand again, 'that will be lost through me.'\n\n'Not through you,' said the idiot, mildly. 'Don't say that. You were\nnot to blame. You have always been very good to me.--Hugh, we shall know\nwhat makes the stars shine, NOW!'\n\n'I took him from her in a reckless mood, and didn't think what harm\nwould come of it,' said Hugh, laying his hand upon his head, and\nspeaking in a lower voice. 'I ask her pardon; and his.--Look here,' he\nadded roughly, in his former tone. 'You see this lad?'\n\nThey murmured 'Yes,' and seemed to wonder why he asked.\n\n'That gentleman yonder--' pointing to the clergyman--'has often in the\nlast few days spoken to me of faith, and strong belief. You see what\nI am--more brute than man, as I have been often told--but I had faith\nenough to believe, and did believe as strongly as any of you gentlemen\ncan believe anything, that this one life would be spared. See what he\nis!--Look at him!'\n\nBarnaby had moved towards the door, and stood beckoning him to follow.\n\n'If this was not faith, and strong belief!' cried Hugh, raising his\nright arm aloft, and looking upward like a savage prophet whom the near\napproach of Death had filled with inspiration, 'where are they! What\nelse should teach me--me, born as I was born, and reared as I have\nbeen reared--to hope for any mercy in this hardened, cruel, unrelenting\nplace! Upon these human shambles, I, who never raised this hand in\nprayer till now, call down the wrath of God! On that black tree, of\nwhich I am the ripened fruit, I do invoke the curse of all its victims,\npast, and present, and to come. On the head of that man, who, in his\nconscience, owns me for his son, I leave the wish that he may never\nsicken on his bed of down, but die a violent death as I do now, and have\nthe night-wind for his only mourner. To this I say, Amen, amen!'\n\nHis arm fell downward by his side; he turned; and moved towards them\nwith a steady step, the man he had been before.\n\n'There is nothing more?' said the governor.\n\nHugh motioned Barnaby not to come near him (though without looking in\nthe direction where he stood) and answered, 'There is nothing more.'\n\n'Move forward!'\n\n'--Unless,' said Hugh, glancing hurriedly back,--'unless any person here\nhas a fancy for a dog; and not then, unless he means to use him well.\nThere's one, belongs to me, at the house I came from, and it wouldn't\nbe easy to find a better. He'll whine at first, but he'll soon get over\nthat.--You wonder that I think about a dog just now,' he added, with a\nkind of laugh. 'If any man deserved it of me half as well, I'd think of\nHIM.'\n\nHe spoke no more, but moved onward in his place, with a careless air,\nthough listening at the same time to the Service for the Dead, with\nsomething between sullen attention, and quickened curiosity. As soon as\nhe had passed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the\ncrowd beheld the rest.\n\nBarnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time--indeed he would\nhave gone before them, but in both attempts he was restrained, as he\nwas to undergo the sentence elsewhere. In a few minutes the sheriffs\nreappeared, the same procession was again formed, and they passed\nthrough various rooms and passages to another door--that at which the\ncart was waiting. He held down his head to avoid seeing what he knew his\neyes must otherwise encounter, and took his seat sorrowfully,--and yet\nwith something of a childish pride and pleasure,--in the vehicle. The\nofficers fell into their places at the sides, in front and in the rear;\nthe sheriffs' carriages rolled on; a guard of soldiers surrounded the\nwhole; and they moved slowly forward through the throng and pressure\ntoward Lord Mansfield's ruined house.\n\nIt was a sad sight--all the show, and strength, and glitter, assembled\nround one helpless creature--and sadder yet to note, as he rode along,\nhow his wandering thoughts found strange encouragement in the crowded\nwindows and the concourse in the streets; and how, even then, he felt\nthe influence of the bright sky, and looked up, smiling, into its deep\nunfathomable blue. But there had been many such sights since the riots\nwere over--some so moving in their nature, and so repulsive too, that\nthey were far more calculated to awaken pity for the sufferers, than\nrespect for that law whose strong arm seemed in more than one case to be\nas wantonly stretched forth now that all was safe, as it had been basely\nparalysed in time of danger.\n\nTwo cripples--both mere boys--one with a leg of wood, one who dragged\nhis twisted limbs along by the help of a crutch, were hanged in this\nsame Bloomsbury Square. As the cart was about to glide from under them,\nit was observed that they stood with their faces from, not to, the house\nthey had assisted to despoil; and their misery was protracted that this\nomission might be remedied. Another boy was hanged in Bow Street; other\nyoung lads in various quarters of the town. Four wretched women, too,\nwere put to death. In a word, those who suffered as rioters were, for\nthe most part, the weakest, meanest, and most miserable among them. It\nwas a most exquisite satire upon the false religious cry which had led\nto so much misery, that some of these people owned themselves to be\nCatholics, and begged to be attended by their own priests.\n\nOne young man was hanged in Bishopsgate Street, whose aged grey-headed\nfather waited for him at the gallows, kissed him at its foot when he\narrived, and sat there, on the ground, till they took him down. They\nwould have given him the body of his child; but he had no hearse, no\ncoffin, nothing to remove it in, being too poor--and walked meekly away\nbeside the cart that took it back to prison, trying, as he went, to\ntouch its lifeless hand.\n\nBut the crowd had forgotten these matters, or cared little about them\nif they lived in their memory: and while one great multitude fought\nand hustled to get near the gibbet before Newgate, for a parting look,\nanother followed in the train of poor lost Barnaby, to swell the throng\nthat waited for him on the spot.\n\n\n\nChapter 78\n\n\nOn this same day, and about this very hour, Mr Willet the elder sat\nsmoking his pipe in a chamber at the Black Lion. Although it was hot\nsummer weather, Mr Willet sat close to the fire. He was in a state of\nprofound cogitation, with his own thoughts, and it was his custom\nat such times to stew himself slowly, under the impression that that\nprocess of cookery was favourable to the melting out of his ideas,\nwhich, when he began to simmer, sometimes oozed forth so copiously as to\nastonish even himself.\n\nMr Willet had been several thousand times comforted by his friends and\nacquaintance, with the assurance that for the loss he had sustained in\nthe damage done to the Maypole, he could 'come upon the county.' But as\nthis phrase happened to bear an unfortunate resemblance to the popular\nexpression of 'coming on the parish,' it suggested to Mr Willet's mind\nno more consolatory visions than pauperism on an extensive scale, and\nruin in a capacious aspect. Consequently, he had never failed to receive\nthe intelligence with a rueful shake of the head, or a dreary stare, and\nhad been always observed to appear much more melancholy after a visit of\ncondolence than at any other time in the whole four-and-twenty hours.\n\nIt chanced, however, that sitting over the fire on this particular\noccasion--perhaps because he was, as it were, done to a turn; perhaps\nbecause he was in an unusually bright state of mind; perhaps because\nhe had considered the subject so long; perhaps because of all these\nfavouring circumstances, taken together--it chanced that, sitting over\nthe fire on this particular occasion, Mr Willet did, afar off and in\nthe remotest depths of his intellect, perceive a kind of lurking hint or\nfaint suggestion, that out of the public purse there might issue funds\nfor the restoration of the Maypole to its former high place among the\ntaverns of the earth. And this dim ray of light did so diffuse itself\nwithin him, and did so kindle up and shine, that at last he had it as\nplainly and visibly before him as the blaze by which he sat; and, fully\npersuaded that he was the first to make the discovery, and that he had\nstarted, hunted down, fallen upon, and knocked on the head, a perfectly\noriginal idea which had never presented itself to any other man, alive\nor dead, he laid down his pipe, rubbed his hands, and chuckled audibly.\n\n'Why, father!' cried Joe, entering at the moment, 'you're in spirits\nto-day!'\n\n'It's nothing partickler,' said Mr Willet, chuckling again. 'It's\nnothing at all partickler, Joseph. Tell me something about the\nSalwanners.' Having preferred this request, Mr Willet chuckled a third\ntime, and after these unusual demonstrations of levity, he put his pipe\nin his mouth again.\n\n'What shall I tell you, father?' asked Joe, laying his hand upon his\nsire's shoulder, and looking down into his face. 'That I have come back,\npoorer than a church mouse? You know that. That I have come back, maimed\nand crippled? You know that.'\n\n'It was took off,' muttered Mr Willet, with his eyes upon the fire, 'at\nthe defence of the Salwanners, in America, where the war is.'\n\n'Quite right,' returned Joe, smiling, and leaning with his remaining\nelbow on the back of his father's chair; 'the very subject I came to\nspeak to you about. A man with one arm, father, is not of much use in\nthe busy world.'\n\nThis was one of those vast propositions which Mr Willet had never\nconsidered for an instant, and required time to 'tackle.' Wherefore he\nmade no answer.\n\n'At all events,' said Joe, 'he can't pick and choose his means of\nearning a livelihood, as another man may. He can't say \"I will turn my\nhand to this,\" or \"I won't turn my hand to that,\" but must take what he\ncan do, and be thankful it's no worse.--What did you say?'\n\nMr Willet had been softly repeating to himself, in a musing tone, the\nwords 'defence of the Salwanners:' but he seemed embarrassed at having\nbeen overheard, and answered 'Nothing.'\n\n'Now look here, father.--Mr Edward has come to England from the West\nIndies. When he was lost sight of (I ran away on the same day, father),\nhe made a voyage to one of the islands, where a school-friend of his\nhad settled; and, finding him, wasn't too proud to be employed on his\nestate, and--and in short, got on well, and is prospering, and has come\nover here on business of his own, and is going back again speedily. Our\nreturning nearly at the same time, and meeting in the course of the late\ntroubles, has been a good thing every way; for it has not only enabled\nus to do old friends some service, but has opened a path in life for me\nwhich I may tread without being a burden upon you. To be plain, father,\nhe can employ me; I have satisfied myself that I can be of real use to\nhim; and I am going to carry my one arm away with him, and to make the\nmost of it.'\n\nIn the mind's eye of Mr Willet, the West Indies, and indeed all foreign\ncountries, were inhabited by savage nations, who were perpetually\nburying pipes of peace, flourishing tomahawks, and puncturing strange\npatterns in their bodies. He no sooner heard this announcement,\ntherefore, than he leaned back in his chair, took his pipe from his\nlips, and stared at his son with as much dismay as if he already beheld\nhim tied to a stake, and tortured for the entertainment of a lively\npopulation. In what form of expression his feelings would have found\na vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for, before a\nsyllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in\ntears, threw herself on Joe's breast without a word of explanation, and\nclasped her white arms round his neck.\n\n'Dolly!' cried Joe. 'Dolly!'\n\n'Ay, call me that; call me that always,' exclaimed the locksmith's\nlittle daughter; 'never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never\nagain reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die,\nJoe.'\n\n'I reprove you!' said Joe.\n\n'Yes--for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For\nyou, who have borne so much from me--for you, who owe your sufferings\nand pain to my caprice--for you to be so kind--so noble to me, Joe--'\n\nHe could say nothing to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of\neloquence in his one arm, which had crept round her waist: but his lips\nwere mute.\n\n'If you had reminded me by a word--only by one short word,' sobbed\nDolly, clinging yet closer to him, 'how little I deserved that you\nshould treat me with so much forbearance; if you had exulted only for\none moment in your triumph, I could have borne it better.'\n\n'Triumph!' repeated Joe, with a smile which seemed to say, 'I am a\npretty figure for that.'\n\n'Yes, triumph,' she cried, with her whole heart and soul in her earnest\nvoice, and gushing tears; 'for it is one. I am glad to think and know\nit is. I wouldn't be less humbled, dear--I wouldn't be without the\nrecollection of that last time we spoke together in this place--no, not\nif I could recall the past, and make our parting, yesterday.'\n\nDid ever lover look as Joe looked now!\n\n'Dear Joe,' said Dolly, 'I always loved you--in my own heart I always\ndid, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped you would come back that\nnight. I made quite sure you would. I prayed for it on my knees. Through\nall these long, long years, I have never once forgotten you, or left off\nhoping that this happy time might come.'\n\nThe eloquence of Joe's arm surpassed the most impassioned language; and\nso did that of his lips--yet he said nothing, either.\n\n'And now, at last,' cried Dolly, trembling with the fervour of her\nspeech, 'if you were sick, and shattered in your every limb; if you were\nailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you were\nin everybody's eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man; I would be\nyour wife, dear love, with greater pride and joy, than if you were the\nstateliest lord in England!'\n\n'What have I done,' cried Joe, 'what have I done to meet with this\nreward?'\n\n'You have taught me,' said Dolly, raising her pretty face to his, 'to\nknow myself, and your worth; to be something better than I was; to be\nmore deserving of your true and manly nature. In years to come, dear\nJoe, you shall find that you have done so; for I will be, not only\nnow, when we are young and full of hope, but when we have grown old and\nweary, your patient, gentle, never-tiring wife. I will never know a wish\nor care beyond our home and you, and I will always study how to please\nyou with my best affection and my most devoted love. I will: indeed I\nwill!'\n\nJoe could only repeat his former eloquence--but it was very much to the\npurpose.\n\n'They know of this, at home,' said Dolly. 'For your sake, I would leave\neven them; but they know it, and are glad of it, and are as proud of you\nas I am, and as full of gratitude.--You'll not come and see me as a poor\nfriend who knew me when I was a girl, will you, dear Joe?'\n\nWell, well! It don't matter what Joe said in answer, but he said a great\ndeal; and Dolly said a great deal too: and he folded Dolly in his one\narm pretty tight, considering that it was but one; and Dolly made no\nresistance: and if ever two people were happy in this world--which is\nnot an utterly miserable one, with all its faults--we may, with some\nappearance of certainty, conclude that they were.\n\nTo say that during these proceedings Mr Willet the elder underwent\nthe greatest emotions of astonishment of which our common nature is\nsusceptible--to say that he was in a perfect paralysis of surprise, and\nthat he wandered into the most stupendous and theretofore unattainable\nheights of complicated amazement--would be to shadow forth his state of\nmind in the feeblest and lamest terms. If a roc, an eagle, a griffin, a\nflying elephant, a winged sea-horse, had suddenly appeared, and, taking\nhim on its back, carried him bodily into the heart of the 'Salwanners,'\nit would have been to him as an everyday occurrence, in comparison with\nwhat he now beheld. To be sitting quietly by, seeing and hearing these\nthings; to be completely overlooked, unnoticed, and disregarded,\nwhile his son and a young lady were talking to each other in the most\nimpassioned manner, kissing each other, and making themselves in\nall respects perfectly at home; was a position so tremendous, so\ninexplicable, so utterly beyond the widest range of his capacity of\ncomprehension, that he fell into a lethargy of wonder, and could no more\nrouse himself than an enchanted sleeper in the first year of his fairy\nlease, a century long.\n\n'Father,' said Joe, presenting Dolly. 'You know who this is?'\n\nMr Willet looked first at her, then at his son, then back again at\nDolly, and then made an ineffectual effort to extract a whiff from his\npipe, which had gone out long ago.\n\n'Say a word, father, if it's only \"how d'ye do,\"' urged Joe.\n\n'Certainly, Joseph,' answered Mr Willet. 'Oh yes! Why not?'\n\n'To be sure,' said Joe. 'Why not?'\n\n'Ah!' replied his father. 'Why not?' and with this remark, which he\nuttered in a low voice as though he were discussing some grave question\nwith himself, he used the little finger--if any of his fingers can\nbe said to have come under that denomination--of his right hand as a\ntobacco-stopper, and was silent again.\n\nAnd so he sat for half an hour at least, although Dolly, in the most\nendearing of manners, hoped, a dozen times, that he was not angry with\nher. So he sat for half an hour, quite motionless, and looking all\nthe while like nothing so much as a great Dutch Pin or Skittle. At the\nexpiration of that period, he suddenly, and without the least notice,\nburst (to the great consternation of the young people) into a very loud\nand very short laugh; and repeating, 'Certainly, Joseph. Oh yes! Why\nnot?' went out for a walk.\n\n\n\nChapter 79\n\n\nOld John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Key\nand the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets--as everybody\nknows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell and\nWhitechapel--and he was by no means famous for pedestrian exercises.\nBut the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to the\nGolden Key this chapter goes.\n\nThe Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith's trade, had been\npulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled under foot. But, now,\nit was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat of paint,\nand showed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole\nhouse-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if\nthere yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in\nthe attack upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling,\nso revived, must have been to them as gall and wormwood.\n\nThe shutters of the shop were closed, however, and the window-blinds\nabove were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerful\nappearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of mourning;\nwhich the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go in\nand out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open;\nbut the locksmith's hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy\nforge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.\n\nOn the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The\nyounger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which\nseemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed\nto go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.\n\nEntering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs,\nabrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into\nthe best room; the pride of Mrs Varden's heart, and erst the scene of\nMiggs's household labours.\n\n'Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?' said Mr\nHaredale.\n\n'She is above-stairs now--in the room over here,' Edward rejoined. 'Her\ngrief, they say, is past all telling. I needn't add--for that you know\nbeforehand, sir--that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good\npeople have no bounds.'\n\n'I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden\nis out?'\n\n'He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of\nhis coming home himself. He was out the whole night--but that of course\nyou know. He was with you the greater part of it?'\n\n'He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an older\nman than I; but nothing can conquer him.'\n\n'The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.'\n\n'He has a right to be. He has a right to he. A better creature never\nlived. He reaps what he has sown--no more.'\n\n'It is not all men,' said Edward, after a moment's hesitation, 'who have\nthe happiness to do that.'\n\n'More than you imagine,' returned Mr Haredale. 'We note the harvest more\nthan the seed-time. You do so in me.'\n\nIn truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far\ninfluenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to\nanswer him.\n\n'Tut, tut,' said Mr Haredale, ''twas not very difficult to read a\nthought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my\nshare of sorrows--more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have borne\nthem ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused and\nbrooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all God's great creation.\nThe men who learn endurance, are they who call the whole world, brother.\nI have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.'\n\nEdward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time.\n\n'It is too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had\nto live my life once more, I might amend this fault--not so much, I\ndiscover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my\nown sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively\nrecoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in\nthis circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be\nthe same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its\nexperience to guide me.'\n\n'Nay, you make too sure of that,' said Edward.\n\n'You think so,' Mr Haredale answered, 'and I am glad you do. I know\nmyself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this\nsubject for another--not so far removed from it as it might, at first\nsight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still\nattached to you.'\n\n'I have that assurance from her own lips,' said Edward, 'and you know--I\nam sure you know--that I would not exchange it for any blessing life\ncould yield me.'\n\n'You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,' said Mr Haredale; 'you\nhave forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundiced\nmind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.'\n\nHe left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. 'On that\nfirst and only time,' he said, looking from the one to the other, 'when\nwe three stood together under her father's roof, I told you to quit it,\nand charged you never to return.'\n\n'It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,' observed Edward,\n'that I have forgotten.'\n\n'You own a name,' said Mr Haredale, 'I had deep reason to remember. I\nwas moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I\nknow, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever,\nlost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having\nacted--however much I was mistaken--with any other impulse than the one\npure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature\nlay, the father she had lost.'\n\n'Dear uncle,' cried Emma, 'I have known no parent but you. I have loved\nthe memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father\nkinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of\none harsh hour, since I can first remember.'\n\n'You speak too fondly,' he answered, 'and yet I cannot wish you were\nless partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall\nhave in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else\ncould give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and I\nhave been together many years; and although I believe that in resigning\nher to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs an\neffort.'\n\nHe pressed her tenderly to his bosom, and after a minute's pause,\nresumed:\n\n'I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask your forgiveness--in no common\nphrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In the\nsame spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been when\nI connived at treachery and falsehood--which if I did not perpetrate\nmyself, I still permitted--to rend you two asunder.'\n\n'You judge yourself too harshly,' said Edward. 'Let these things rest.'\n\n'They rise in judgment against me when I look back, and not now for\nthe first time,' he answered. 'I cannot part from you without your full\nforgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common now, and\nI have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to the\nstock.'\n\n'You bear a blessing from us both,' said Emma. 'Never mingle thoughts of\nme--of me who owe you so much love and duty--with anything but undying\naffection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.'\n\n'The future,' returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, 'is a bright\nword for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mine\nis of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from\ncare or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are\ncloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set\nat rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am\ngrowing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it\nagain--not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful\ncounsel, Emma.'\n\n'And you will take it?' asked his niece.\n\n'I'll listen to it,' he answered, with a kiss, 'and it will have its\nweight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, been\nmuch together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstances\nattendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed between\nyou suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.'\n\n'Much, much better,' whispered Emma.\n\n'I avow my share in them,' said Mr Haredale, 'though I held it, at the\ntime, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from the\nbroad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified by\nthe goodness of his end. All good ends can be worked out by good means.\nThose that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at once, and left\nalone.'\n\nHe looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler tone:\n\n'In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful\nsteward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother left\nher, I desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcely\nworth the mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you go\nabroad. Let our ill-fated house remain the ruin it is. When you return,\nafter a few thriving years, you will command a better, and a more\nfortunate one. We are friends?'\n\nEdward took his extended hand, and grasped it heartily.\n\n'You are neither slow nor cold in your response,' said Mr Haredale,\ndoing the like by him, 'and when I look upon you now, and know you, I\nfeel that I would choose you for her husband. Her father had a generous\nnature, and you would have pleased him well. I give her to you in his\nname, and with his blessing. If the world and I part in this act, we\npart on happier terms than we have lived for many a day.'\n\nHe placed her in his arms, and would have left the room, but that he was\nstopped in his passage to the door by a great noise at a distance, which\nmade them start and pause.\n\nIt was a loud shouting, mingled with boisterous acclamations, that rent\nthe very air. It drew nearer and nearer every moment, and approached\nso rapidly, that, even while they listened, it burst into a deafening\nconfusion of sounds at the street corner.\n\n'This must be stopped--quieted,' said Mr Haredale, hastily. 'We should\nhave foreseen this, and provided against it. I will go out to them at\nonce.'\n\nBut, before he could reach the door, and before Edward could catch up\nhis hat and follow him, they were again arrested by a loud shriek from\nabove-stairs: and the locksmith's wife, bursting in, and fairly running\ninto Mr Haredale's arms, cried out:\n\n'She knows it all, dear sir!--she knows it all! We broke it out to her\nby degrees, and she is quite prepared.' Having made this communication,\nand furthermore thanked Heaven with great fervour and heartiness, the\ngood lady, according to the custom of matrons, on all occasions of\nexcitement, fainted away directly.\n\nThey ran to the window, drew up the sash, and looked into the crowded\nstreet. Among a dense mob of persons, of whom not one was for an instant\nstill, the locksmith's ruddy face and burly form could be descried,\nbeating about as though he was struggling with a rough sea. Now, he was\ncarried back a score of yards, now onward nearly to the door, now\nback again, now forced against the opposite houses, now against those\nadjoining his own: now carried up a flight of steps, and greeted by the\noutstretched hands of half a hundred men, while the whole tumultuous\nconcourse stretched their throats, and cheered with all their might.\nThough he was really in a fair way to be torn to pieces in the general\nenthusiasm, the locksmith, nothing discomposed, echoed their shouts till\nhe was as hoarse as they, and in a glow of joy and right good-humour,\nwaved his hat until the daylight shone between its brim and crown.\n\nBut in all the bandyings from hand to hand, and strivings to and fro,\nand sweepings here and there, which--saving that he looked more jolly\nand more radiant after every struggle--troubled his peace of mind no\nmore than if he had been a straw upon the water's surface, he never once\nreleased his firm grasp of an arm, drawn tight through his. He sometimes\nturned to clap this friend upon the back, or whisper in his ear a word\nof staunch encouragement, or cheer him with a smile; but his great care\nwas to shield him from the pressure, and force a passage for him to the\nGolden Key. Passive and timid, scared, pale, and wondering, and gazing\nat the throng as if he were newly risen from the dead, and felt himself\na ghost among the living, Barnaby--not Barnaby in the spirit, but in\nflesh and blood, with pulses, sinews, nerves, and beating heart, and\nstrong affections--clung to his stout old friend, and followed where he\nled.\n\nAnd thus, in course of time, they reached the door, held ready for their\nentrance by no unwilling hands. Then slipping in, and shutting out\nthe crowd by main force, Gabriel stood between Mr Haredale and Edward\nChester, and Barnaby, rushing up the stairs, fell upon his knees beside\nhis mother's bed.\n\n'Such is the blessed end, sir,' cried the panting locksmith, to Mr\nHaredale, 'of the best day's work we ever did. The rogues! it's been\nhard fighting to get away from 'em. I almost thought, once or twice,\nthey'd have been too much for us with their kindness!'\n\nThey had striven, all the previous day, to rescue Barnaby from his\nimpending fate. Failing in their attempts, in the first quarter to which\nthey addressed themselves, they renewed them in another. Failing there,\nlikewise, they began afresh at midnight; and made their way, not only to\nthe judge and jury who had tried him, but to men of influence at court,\nto the young Prince of Wales, and even to the ante-chamber of the King\nhimself. Successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour,\nand an inclination to inquire more dispassionately into his case, they\nhad had an interview with the minister, in his bed, so late as eight\no'clock that morning. The result of a searching inquiry (in which\nthey, who had known the poor fellow from his childhood, did other good\nservice, besides bringing it about) was, that between eleven and twelve\no'clock, a free pardon to Barnaby Rudge was made out and signed, and\nentrusted to a horse-soldier for instant conveyance to the place of\nexecution. This courier reached the spot just as the cart appeared in\nsight; and Barnaby being carried back to jail, Mr Haredale, assured that\nall was safe, had gone straight from Bloomsbury Square to the Golden\nKey, leaving to Gabriel the grateful task of bringing him home in\ntriumph.\n\n'I needn't say,' observed the locksmith, when he had shaken hands with\nall the males in the house, and hugged all the females, five-and-forty\ntimes, at least, 'that, except among ourselves, I didn't want to make a\ntriumph of it. But, directly we got into the street we were known, and\nthis hubbub began. Of the two,' he added, as he wiped his crimson face,\n'and after experience of both, I think I'd rather be taken out of my\nhouse by a crowd of enemies, than escorted home by a mob of friends!'\n\nIt was plain enough, however, that this was mere talk on Gabriel's part,\nand that the whole proceeding afforded him the keenest delight; for\nthe people continuing to make a great noise without, and to cheer as if\ntheir voices were in the freshest order, and good for a fortnight, he\nsent upstairs for Grip (who had come home at his master's back, and had\nacknowledged the favours of the multitude by drawing blood from every\nfinger that came within his reach), and with the bird upon his arm\npresented himself at the first-floor window, and waved his hat again\nuntil it dangled by a shred, between his finger and thumb. This\ndemonstration having been received with appropriate shouts, and silence\nbeing in some degree restored, he thanked them for their sympathy; and\ntaking the liberty to inform them that there was a sick person in the\nhouse, proposed that they should give three cheers for King George,\nthree more for Old England, and three more for nothing particular, as\na closing ceremony. The crowd assenting, substituted Gabriel Varden\nfor the nothing particular; and giving him one over, for good measure,\ndispersed in high good-humour.\n\nWhat congratulations were exchanged among the inmates at the Golden\nKey, when they were left alone; what an overflowing of joy and happiness\nthere was among them; how incapable it was of expression in Barnaby's\nown person; and how he went wildly from one to another, until he became\nso far tranquillised, as to stretch himself on the ground beside his\nmother's couch and fall into a deep sleep; are matters that need not be\ntold. And it is well they happened to be of this class, for they would\nbe very hard to tell, were their narration ever so indispensable.\n\nBefore leaving this bright picture, it may be well to glance at a dark\nand very different one which was presented to only a few eyes, that same\nnight.\n\nThe scene was a churchyard; the time, midnight; the persons, Edward\nChester, a clergyman, a grave-digger, and the four bearers of a homely\ncoffin. They stood about a grave which had been newly dug, and one of\nthe bearers held up a dim lantern,--the only light there--which shed\nits feeble ray upon the book of prayer. He placed it for a moment on the\ncoffin, when he and his companions were about to lower it down. There\nwas no inscription on the lid.\n\nThe mould fell solemnly upon the last house of this nameless man; and\nthe rattling dust left a dismal echo even in the accustomed ears of\nthose who had borne it to its resting-place. The grave was filled in to\nthe top, and trodden down. They all left the spot together.\n\n'You never saw him, living?' asked the clergyman, of Edward.\n\n'Often, years ago; not knowing him for my brother.'\n\n'Never since?'\n\n'Never. Yesterday, he steadily refused to see me. It was urged upon him,\nmany times, at my desire.'\n\n'Still he refused? That was hardened and unnatural.'\n\n'Do you think so?'\n\n'I infer that you do not?'\n\n'You are right. We hear the world wonder, every day, at monsters of\ningratitude. Did it never occur to you that it often looks for monsters\nof affection, as though they were things of course?'\n\nThey had reached the gate by this time, and bidding each other good\nnight, departed on their separate ways.\n\n\n\nChapter 80\n\n\nThat afternoon, when he had slept off his fatigue; had shaved, and\nwashed, and dressed, and freshened himself from top to toe; when he had\ndined, comforted himself with a pipe, an extra Toby, a nap in the great\narm-chair, and a quiet chat with Mrs Varden on everything that had\nhappened, was happening, or about to happen, within the sphere of their\ndomestic concern; the locksmith sat himself down at the tea-table in\nthe little back-parlour: the rosiest, cosiest, merriest, heartiest,\nbest-contented old buck, in Great Britain or out of it.\n\nThere he sat, with his beaming eye on Mrs V., and his shining face\nsuffused with gladness, and his capacious waistcoat smiling in every\nwrinkle, and his jovial humour peeping from under the table in the very\nplumpness of his legs; a sight to turn the vinegar of misanthropy into\npurest milk of human kindness. There he sat, watching his wife as she\ndecorated the room with flowers for the greater honour of Dolly and\nJoseph Willet, who had gone out walking, and for whom the tea-kettle\nhad been singing gaily on the hob full twenty minutes, chirping as\nnever kettle chirped before; for whom the best service of real undoubted\nchina, patterned with divers round-faced mandarins holding up broad\numbrellas, was now displayed in all its glory; to tempt whose\nappetites a clear, transparent, juicy ham, garnished with cool green\nlettuce-leaves and fragrant cucumber, reposed upon a shady table,\ncovered with a snow-white cloth; for whose delight, preserves and jams,\ncrisp cakes and other pastry, short to eat, with cunning twists, and\ncottage loaves, and rolls of bread both white and brown, were all set\nforth in rich profusion; in whose youth Mrs V. herself had grown quite\nyoung, and stood there in a gown of red and white: symmetrical in\nfigure, buxom in bodice, ruddy in cheek and lip, faultless in ankle,\nlaughing in face and mood, in all respects delicious to behold--there\nsat the locksmith among all and every these delights, the sun that shone\nupon them all: the centre of the system: the source of light, heat,\nlife, and frank enjoyment in the bright household world.\n\nAnd when had Dolly ever been the Dolly of that afternoon? To see how she\ncame in, arm-in-arm with Joe; and how she made an effort not to blush or\nseem at all confused; and how she made believe she didn't care to sit on\nhis side of the table; and how she coaxed the locksmith in a whisper not\nto joke; and how her colour came and went in a little restless flutter\nof happiness, which made her do everything wrong, and yet so charmingly\nwrong that it was better than right!--why, the locksmith could have\nlooked on at this (as he mentioned to Mrs Varden when they retired for\nthe night) for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and never wished it\ndone.\n\nThe recollections, too, with which they made merry over that long\nprotracted tea! The glee with which the locksmith asked Joe if he\nremembered that stormy night at the Maypole when he first asked after\nDolly--the laugh they all had, about that night when she was going out\nto the party in the sedan-chair--the unmerciful manner in which they\nrallied Mrs Varden about putting those flowers outside that very\nwindow--the difficulty Mrs Varden found in joining the laugh against\nherself, at first, and the extraordinary perception she had of the joke\nwhen she overcame it--the confidential statements of Joe concerning the\nprecise day and hour when he was first conscious of being fond of Dolly,\nand Dolly's blushing admissions, half volunteered and half extorted, as\nto the time from which she dated the discovery that she 'didn't mind'\nJoe--here was an exhaustless fund of mirth and conversation.\n\nThen, there was a great deal to be said regarding Mrs Varden's doubts,\nand motherly alarms, and shrewd suspicions; and it appeared that from\nMrs Varden's penetration and extreme sagacity nothing had ever been\nhidden. She had known it all along. She had seen it from the first. She\nhad always predicted it. She had been aware of it before the principals.\nShe had said within herself (for she remembered the exact words) 'that\nyoung Willet is certainly looking after our Dolly, and I must look\nafter HIM.' Accordingly, she had looked after him, and had observed many\nlittle circumstances (all of which she named) so exceedingly minute that\nnobody else could make anything out of them even now; and had, it\nseemed from first to last, displayed the most unbounded tact and most\nconsummate generalship.\n\nOf course the night when Joe WOULD ride homeward by the side of the\nchaise, and when Mrs Varden WOULD insist upon his going back again,\nwas not forgotten--nor the night when Dolly fainted on his name being\nmentioned--nor the times upon times when Mrs Varden, ever watchful and\nprudent, had found her pining in her own chamber. In short, nothing was\nforgotten; and everything by some means or other brought them back to\nthe conclusion, that that was the happiest hour in all their lives;\nconsequently, that everything must have occurred for the best, and\nnothing could be suggested which would have made it better.\n\nWhile they were in the full glow of such discourse as this, there came a\nstartling knock at the door, opening from the street into the workshop,\nwhich had been kept closed all day that the house might be more quiet.\nJoe, as in duty bound, would hear of nobody but himself going to open\nit; and accordingly left the room for that purpose.\n\nIt would have been odd enough, certainly, if Joe had forgotten the way\nto this door; and even if he had, as it was a pretty large one and stood\nstraight before him, he could not easily have missed it. But Dolly,\nperhaps because she was in the flutter of spirits before mentioned, or\nperhaps because she thought he would not be able to open it with his one\narm--she could have had no other reason--hurried out after him; and they\nstopped so long in the passage--no doubt owing to Joe's entreaties\nthat she would not expose herself to the draught of July air which must\ninfallibly come rushing in on this same door being opened--that the\nknock was repeated, in a yet more startling manner than before.\n\n'Is anybody going to open that door?' cried the locksmith. 'Or shall I\ncome?'\n\nUpon that, Dolly went running back into the parlour, all dimples and\nblushes; and Joe opened it with a mighty noise, and other superfluous\ndemonstrations of being in a violent hurry.\n\n'Well,' said the locksmith, when he reappeared: 'what is it? eh Joe?\nwhat are you laughing at?'\n\n'Nothing, sir. It's coming in.'\n\n'Who's coming in? what's coming in?' Mrs Varden, as much at a loss as\nher husband, could only shake her head in answer to his inquiring look:\nso, the locksmith wheeled his chair round to command a better view of\nthe room-door, and stared at it with his eyes wide open, and a mingled\nexpression of curiosity and wonder shining in his jolly face.\n\nInstead of some person or persons straightway appearing, divers\nremarkable sounds were heard, first in the workshop and afterwards\nin the little dark passage between it and the parlour, as though some\nunwieldy chest or heavy piece of furniture were being brought in, by an\namount of human strength inadequate to the task. At length after much\nstruggling and humping, and bruising of the wall on both sides, the\ndoor was forced open as by a battering-ram; and the locksmith, steadily\nregarding what appeared beyond, smote his thigh, elevated his eyebrows,\nopened his mouth, and cried in a loud voice expressive of the utmost\nconsternation:\n\n'Damme, if it an't Miggs come back!'\n\nThe young damsel whom he named no sooner heard these words, than\ndeserting a small boy and a very large box by which she was accompanied,\nand advancing with such precipitation that her bonnet flew off her head,\nburst into the room, clasped her hands (in which she held a pair of\npattens, one in each), raised her eyes devotedly to the ceiling, and\nshed a flood of tears.\n\n'The old story!' cried the locksmith, looking at her in inexpressible\ndesperation. 'She was born to be a damper, this young woman! nothing can\nprevent it!'\n\n'Ho master, ho mim!' cried Miggs, 'can I constrain my feelings in these\nhere once agin united moments! Ho Mr Warsen, here's blessedness\namong relations, sir! Here's forgivenesses of injuries, here's\namicablenesses!'\n\nThe locksmith looked from his wife to Dolly, and from Dolly to Joe, and\nfrom Joe to Miggs, with his eyebrows still elevated and his mouth still\nopen. When his eyes got back to Miggs, they rested on her; fascinated.\n\n'To think,' cried Miggs with hysterical joy, 'that Mr Joe, and dear\nMiss Dolly, has raly come together after all as has been said and done\ncontrairy! To see them two a-settin' along with him and her, so pleasant\nand in all respects so affable and mild; and me not knowing of it, and\nnot being in the ways to make no preparations for their teas. Ho what a\ncutting thing it is, and yet what sweet sensations is awoke within me!'\n\nEither in clasping her hands again, or in an ecstasy of pious joy, Miss\nMiggs clinked her pattens after the manner of a pair of cymbals, at this\njuncture; and then resumed, in the softest accents:\n\n'And did my missis think--ho goodness, did she think--as her own Miggs,\nwhich supported her under so many trials, and understood her natur'\nwhen them as intended well but acted rough, went so deep into her\nfeelings--did she think as her own Miggs would ever leave her? Did she\nthink as Miggs, though she was but a servant, and knowed that servitudes\nwas no inheritances, would forgit that she was the humble instruments\nas always made it comfortable between them two when they fell out,\nand always told master of the meekness and forgiveness of her blessed\ndispositions! Did she think as Miggs had no attachments! Did she think\nthat wages was her only object!'\n\nTo none of these interrogatories, whereof every one was more\npathetically delivered than the last, did Mrs Varden answer one word:\nbut Miggs, not at all abashed by this circumstance, turned to the\nsmall boy in attendance--her eldest nephew--son of her own married\nsister--born in Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, and bred in the\nvery shadow of the second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post--and\nwith a plentiful use of her pocket-handkerchief, addressed herself to\nhim: requesting that on his return home he would console his parents for\nthe loss of her, his aunt, by delivering to them a faithful statement\nof his having left her in the bosom of that family, with which, as his\naforesaid parents well knew, her best affections were incorporated; that\nhe would remind them that nothing less than her imperious sense of duty,\nand devoted attachment to her old master and missis, likewise Miss Dolly\nand young Mr Joe, should ever have induced her to decline that pressing\ninvitation which they, his parents, had, as he could testify, given her,\nto lodge and board with them, free of all cost and charge, for evermore;\nlastly, that he would help her with her box upstairs, and then repair\nstraight home, bearing her blessing and her strong injunctions to mingle\nin his prayers a supplication that he might in course of time grow up\na locksmith, or a Mr Joe, and have Mrs Vardens and Miss Dollys for his\nrelations and friends.\n\nHaving brought this admonition to an end--upon which, to say the truth,\nthe young gentleman for whose benefit it was designed, bestowed little\nor no heed, having to all appearance his faculties absorbed in the\ncontemplation of the sweetmeats,--Miss Miggs signified to the company in\ngeneral that they were not to be uneasy, for she would soon return; and,\nwith her nephew's aid, prepared to bear her wardrobe up the staircase.\n\n'My dear,' said the locksmith to his wife. 'Do you desire this?'\n\n'I desire it!' she answered. 'I am astonished--I am amazed--at her\naudacity. Let her leave the house this moment.'\n\nMiggs, hearing this, let her end of the box fall heavily to the floor,\ngave a very loud sniff, crossed her arms, screwed down the corners of\nher mouth, and cried, in an ascending scale, 'Ho, good gracious!' three\ndistinct times.\n\n'You hear what your mistress says, my love,' remarked the locksmith.\n'You had better go, I think. Stay; take this with you, for the sake of\nold service.'\n\nMiss Miggs clutched the bank-note he took from his pocket-book and held\nout to her; deposited it in a small, red leather purse; put the purse\nin her pocket (displaying, as she did so, a considerable portion of some\nunder-garment, made of flannel, and more black cotton stocking than is\ncommonly seen in public); and, tossing her head, as she looked at Mrs\nVarden, repeated--\n\n'Ho, good gracious!'\n\n'I think you said that once before, my dear,' observed the locksmith.\n\n'Times is changed, is they, mim!' cried Miggs, bridling; 'you can spare\nme now, can you? You can keep 'em down without me? You're not in wants\nof any one to scold, or throw the blame upon, no longer, an't you, mim?\nI'm glad to find you've grown so independent. I wish you joy, I'm sure!'\n\nWith that she dropped a curtsey, and keeping her head erect, her ear\ntowards Mrs Varden, and her eye on the rest of the company, as she\nalluded to them in her remarks, proceeded:\n\n'I'm quite delighted, I'm sure, to find sich independency, feeling sorry\nthough, at the same time, mim, that you should have been forced into\nsubmissions when you couldn't help yourself--he he he! It must be great\nvexations, 'specially considering how ill you always spoke of Mr Joe--to\nhave him for a son-in-law at last; and I wonder Miss Dolly can put\nup with him, either, after being off and on for so many years with a\ncoachmaker. But I HAVE heerd say, that the coachmaker thought twice\nabout it--he he he!--and that he told a young man as was a frind of his,\nthat he hoped he knowed better than to be drawed into that; though she\nand all the family DID pull uncommon strong!'\n\nHere she paused for a reply, and receiving none, went on as before.\n\n'I HAVE heerd say, mim, that the illnesses of some ladies was all\npretensions, and that they could faint away, stone dead, whenever they\nhad the inclinations so to do. Of course I never see sich cases with my\nown eyes--ho no! He he he! Nor master neither--ho no! He he he! I HAVE\nheerd the neighbours make remark as some one as they was acquainted\nwith, was a poor good-natur'd mean-spirited creetur, as went out\nfishing for a wife one day, and caught a Tartar. Of course I never to my\nknowledge see the poor person himself. Nor did you neither, mim--ho no.\nI wonder who it can be--don't you, mim? No doubt you do, mim. Ho yes. He\nhe he!'\n\nAgain Miggs paused for a reply; and none being offered, was so oppressed\nwith teeming spite and spleen, that she seemed like to burst.\n\n'I'm glad Miss Dolly can laugh,' cried Miggs with a feeble titter. 'I\nlike to see folks a-laughing--so do you, mim, don't you? You was always\nglad to see people in spirits, wasn't you, mim? And you always did your\nbest to keep 'em cheerful, didn't you, mim? Though there an't such a\ngreat deal to laugh at now either; is there, mim? It an't so much of a\ncatch, after looking out so sharp ever since she was a little chit, and\ncosting such a deal in dress and show, to get a poor, common soldier,\nwith one arm, is it, mim? He he! I wouldn't have a husband with one arm,\nanyways. I would have two arms. I would have two arms, if it was me,\nthough instead of hands they'd only got hooks at the end, like our\ndustman!'\n\nMiss Miggs was about to add, and had, indeed, begun to add, that,\ntaking them in the abstract, dustmen were far more eligible matches than\nsoldiers, though, to be sure, when people were past choosing they must\ntake the best they could get, and think themselves well off too; but her\nvexation and chagrin being of that internally bitter sort which finds no\nrelief in words, and is aggravated to madness by want of contradiction,\nshe could hold out no longer, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.\n\nIn this extremity she fell on the unlucky nephew, tooth and nail, and\nplucking a handful of hair from his head, demanded to know how long she\nwas to stand there to be insulted, and whether or no he meant to help\nher to carry out the box again, and if he took a pleasure in hearing his\nfamily reviled: with other inquiries of that nature; at which disgrace\nand provocation, the small boy, who had been all this time gradually\nlashed into rebellion by the sight of unattainable pastry, walked off\nindignant, leaving his aunt and the box to follow at their leisure.\nSomehow or other, by dint of pushing and pulling, they did attain the\nstreet at last; where Miss Miggs, all blowzed with the exertion of\ngetting there, and with her sobs and tears, sat down upon her property\nto rest and grieve, until she could ensnare some other youth to help her\nhome.\n\n'It's a thing to laugh at, Martha, not to care for,' whispered the\nlocksmith, as he followed his wife to the window, and good-humouredly\ndried her eyes. 'What does it matter? You had seen your fault before.\nCome! Bring up Toby again, my dear; Dolly shall sing us a song; and\nwe'll be all the merrier for this interruption!'\n\n\n\nChapter 81\n\n\nAnother month had passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when Mr\nHaredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but a\nfew weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester and\nhis niece, in the locksmith's house, and he had made no change, in the\nmean time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatly\naltered. He looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation and anxiety\nof mind scatter wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; but\ndeeper traces follow on the silent uprooting of old habits, and severing\nof dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so easily wounded as\nthe passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting. He was now a\nsolitary man, and the heart within him was dreary and lonesome.\n\nHe was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion\nand retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of social\ncheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility.\nHe had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had\ncome to be so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had so\nmany cares and thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; that\nlosing her was beginning life anew, and being required to summon up the\nhope and elasticity of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakened\nenergies of age.\n\nThe effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and\nhope--and they had parted only yesterday--left him the more depressed.\nWith these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time,\nand look once more upon the walls of their old home, before turning his\nback upon it, for ever.\n\nThe journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the\npresent generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest\njourney will, and he stood again in the streets of the metropolis. He\nlay at the inn where the coach stopped, and resolved, before he went\nto bed, that he would make his arrival known to no one; would spend but\nanother night in London; and would spare himself the pang of parting,\neven with the honest locksmith.\n\nSuch conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he lay\ndown to rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, and\nuneasy visions. He knew this, even in the horror with which he started\nfrom his first sleep, and threw up the window to dispel it by the\npresence of some object, beyond the room, which had not been, as it\nwere, the witness of his dream. But it was not a new terror of the\nnight; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it had haunted\nhim in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it had\nbeen but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, its\nreturn, in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation of\nfear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This\ndisquiet, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When\nhe closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunk\ninto a slumber, he was conscious of its gathering strength and purpose,\nand gradually assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed,\nthe same phantom vanished from his heated brain, and left him filled\nwith a dread against which reason and waking thought were powerless.\n\nThe sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but not\nrefreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy for\npaying his last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had been\naccustomed to walk there at that season, and desired to see it under the\naspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as would afford\nhim time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and turned\ninto the busy street.\n\nHe had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisy\ncrowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognised\none of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had left\nhis sword behind him.\n\n'Why have you brought it to me?' he asked, stretching out his hand, and\nyet not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed and\nagitated manner.\n\nThe man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again.\nThe gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country,\nand that he might not return until late. The roads were not very safe\nfor single travellers after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen had\nbeen more careful than ever, not to trust themselves unarmed in lonely\nplaces. 'We thought you were a stranger, sir,' he added, 'and that you\nmight believe our roads to be better than they are; but perhaps you know\nthem well, and carry fire-arms--'\n\nHe took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and\nresumed his walk.\n\nIt was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and\nwith such a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after his\nretreating figure, doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watch\nhim. It was long remembered that he had been heard pacing his bedroom in\nthe dead of the night; that the attendants had mentioned to each other\nin the morning, how fevered and how pale he looked; and that when this\nman went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he had\nobserved in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that he\nfeared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never come\nback alive.\n\nWith a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man's\nattention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted),\nMr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches,\nbargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road as\nthe point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his\nreturn at a house of entertainment which was within a stone's-throw of\nthat place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his\nway on foot.\n\nHe passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from\namong the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its old inhabitants,\ndoubtless--sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded\nsky. 'The old house will brighten up now,' he said, as he looked towards\nit, 'and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is\nsome comfort to know that everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I\nshall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to,\nin my mind!'\n\nHe resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a\nclear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the\nleaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy\nsheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals, the far-off\nlowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant with\nthe softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deep\nrepose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted mansion\nwhich had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its\nblackened walls.\n\nThe ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them there\nis an image of death and ruin,--of something that has been bright, and\nis but dull, cold, dreary dust,--with which our nature forces us to\nsympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting\ndown of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform\nthe worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such\nsacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put\nthe proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the\nblush!\n\nHe roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly\nround the house. It was by this time almost dark.\n\nHe had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a\nhalf-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an\neasy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin\nwith an expression of pleasure,--a pleasure so keen that it overcame his\nhabitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly\nfree from all restraint or reserve,--before him, on his own ground,\nand triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune and\ndisappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of all\nmankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the least\nendure.\n\nAlthough his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirred\nwithin him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce\nconstraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes,\nand he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil\nwho poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcely\nto be achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to stop: and\nthat, with an assumed compassion in his voice which drove him well-nigh\nmad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it had been\nanguish--acute, poignant anguish--to sustain.\n\nAll consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by which\na goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him as he turned\nback. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly--far more calmly than he\nhad ever spoken to him before:\n\n'Why have you called to me?'\n\n'To remark,' said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, 'what an\nodd chance it is, that we should meet here!'\n\n'It IS a strange chance.'\n\n'Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. I never\nride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim seized me,\nquite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.--How very picturesque\nthis is!'--He pointed, as he spoke, to the dismantled house, and raised\nhis glass to his eye.\n\n'You praise your own work very freely.'\n\nSir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an air\nof the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though he\nwere remarking to himself, 'I fear this animal is going mad!'\n\n'I say you praise your own work very freely,' repeated Mr Haredale.\n\n'Work!' echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. 'Mine!--I beg your\npardon, I really beg your pardon--'\n\n'Why, you see,' said Mr Haredale, 'those walls. You see those tottering\ngables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You see\nthe destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?'\n\n'My good friend,' returned the knight, gently checking his impatience\nwith his hand, 'of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you\nstand aside, and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I\nam very sorry for you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here,\nI think I should have written to tell you so. But you don't bear it as\nwell as I had expected--excuse me--no, you don't indeed.'\n\nHe pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of\na man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a moral\nlesson to another, continued:\n\n'For you are a philosopher, you know--one of that stern and rigid school\nwho are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed,\na long way, from the frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from a\nheight, and rail at them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard\nyou.'\n\n--'And shall again,' said Mr Haredale.\n\n'Thank you,' returned the other. 'Shall we walk as we talk? The damp\nfalls rather heavily. Well,--as you please. But I grieve to say that I\ncan spare you only a very few moments.'\n\n'I would,' said Mr Haredale, 'you had spared me none. I would, with\nall my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous lie could be\nenacted), rather than here to-night.'\n\n'Nay,' returned the other--'really--you do yourself injustice. You are a\nrough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.'\n\n'Listen to me,' said Mr Haredale. 'Listen to me.'\n\n'While you rail?' inquired Sir John.\n\n'While I deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your work\na fit agent, but one who in his nature--in the very essence of his\nbeing--is a traitor, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathy\nyou two should have together) as he has been to all others. With hints,\nand looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you set on\nGashford to this work--this work before us now. With these same hints,\nand looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you urged\nhim on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me--I have earned it, I thank\nHeaven--by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I see\ndenial in your looks,' he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, and\nstepping back, 'and denial is a lie!'\n\nHe had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuous\nsmile, replied to him as coldly as before.\n\n'You will take notice, sir--if you can discriminate sufficiently--that I\nhave taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine\nenough for the perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech;\nnor has it ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could\nname, you would have read indifference, not to say disgust, somewhat\nsooner than you did. I speak of a long time ago,--but you understand\nme.'\n\n'Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit or reserved,\nexpressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don't\ndeny. Do you admit?'\n\n'You yourself,' returned Sir John, suffering the current of his\nspeech to flow as smoothly as if it had been stemmed by no one word of\ninterruption, 'publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman in\nquestion (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve me\nfrom the necessity of making any further allusion to him. You may\nhave been warranted; you may not have been; I can't say. Assuming the\ngentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any other\nperson any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves to\nhim, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or for\nhis own amusement, or for any other consideration,--I have nothing to\nsay of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me\nto be shared with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that\nyou will excuse a little freedom in me, I am sure.'\n\n'Attend to me again, Sir John but once,' cried Mr Haredale; 'in your\nevery look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. I\ntell you that it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak of, and\nwith your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk of\ndegradation and character. You told me once that you had purchased the\nabsence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discovered\nsince, and then suspected) you had gone to tempt them, and had found\nthem flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped any\nharvest from my brother's death; and all the foul attacks and whispered\ncalumnies that followed in its train. In every action of my life, from\nthat first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you have\nstood, like an adverse fate, between me and peace. In all, you have ever\nbeen the same cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain. For the\nsecond time, and for the last, I cast these charges in your teeth, and\nspurn you from me as I would a faithless dog!'\n\nWith that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he\nstaggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw\naway the scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary made a\ndesperate lunge at his heart, which, but that his guard was quick and\ntrue, would have stretched him dead upon the grass.\n\nIn the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent's rage had\nreached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them,\nand called to him, with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keep\nback.\n\n'Not to-night! not to-night!' he cried. 'In God's name, not tonight!'\n\nSeeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn,\nSir John lowered his.\n\n'Not to-night!' his adversary cried. 'Be warned in time!'\n\n'You told me--it must have been in a sort of inspiration--' said Sir\nJohn, quite deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his\nhatred in his face, 'that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did\nyou believe our last meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your\nevery word and look was not to be accounted for, and was not well\nremembered? Do you believe that I have waited your time, or you mine?\nWhat kind of man is he who entered, with all his sickening cant of\nhonesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage he affected\nto dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit and the\nletter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time,\nto rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious\nlustre on his house?'\n\n'I have acted,' cried Mr Haredale, 'with honour and in good faith. I do\nso now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!'\n\n'You said my \"wretched\" son, I think?' said Sir John, with a smile.\n'Poor fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave--trapped into marriage by\nsuch an uncle and by such a niece--he well deserves your pity. But he\nis no longer a son of mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft has\nmade, sir.'\n\n'Once more,' cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground,\n'although you tear me from my better angel, I implore you not to come\nwithin the reach of my sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Why\nhave we met! To-morrow would have cast us far apart for ever!'\n\n'That being the case,' returned Sir John, without the least emotion, 'it\nis very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despised\nyou, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute\ncourage. For the honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one,\nI am sorry to find you a coward.'\n\nNot another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, though\nit was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They were\nwell matched, and each was thoroughly skilled in the management of his\nweapon.\n\nAfter a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing on\neach other inflicted and received several slight wounds. It was directly\nafter receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making a\nkeener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged his sword\nthrough his opponent's body to the hilt.\n\nTheir eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put his\narm about the dying man, who repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon the\nturf. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant,\nwith scorn and hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then,\nthat this expression would distort his features after death, he tried\nto smile, and, faintly moving his right hand, as if to hide his bloody\nlinen in his vest, fell back dead--the phantom of last night.\n\n\n\nChapter the Last\n\n\nA parting glance at such of the actors in this little history as it has\nnot, in the course of its events, dismissed, will bring it to an end.\n\nMr Haredale fled that night. Before pursuit could be begun, indeed\nbefore Sir John was traced or missed, he had left the kingdom. Repairing\nstraight to a religious establishment, known throughout Europe for the\nrigour and severity of its discipline, and for the merciless penitence\nit exacted from those who sought its shelter as a refuge from the world,\nhe took the vows which thenceforth shut him out from nature and\nhis kind, and after a few remorseful years was buried in its gloomy\ncloisters.\n\nTwo days elapsed before the body of Sir John was found. As soon as\nit was recognised and carried home, the faithful valet, true to his\nmaster's creed, eloped with all the cash and movables he could lay his\nhands on, and started as a finished gentleman upon his own account. In\nthis career he met with great success, and would certainly have married\nan heiress in the end, but for an unlucky check which led to his\npremature decease. He sank under a contagious disorder, very prevalent\nat that time, and vulgarly termed the jail fever.\n\nLord George Gordon, remaining in his prison in the Tower until Monday\nthe fifth of February in the following year, was on that day solemnly\ntried at Westminster for High Treason. Of this crime he was, after a\npatient investigation, declared Not Guilty; upon the ground that there\nwas no proof of his having called the multitude together with any\ntraitorous or unlawful intentions. Yet so many people were there, still,\nto whom those riots taught no lesson of reproof or moderation, that a\npublic subscription was set on foot in Scotland to defray the cost of\nhis defence.\n\nFor seven years afterwards he remained, at the strong intercession of\nhis friends, comparatively quiet; saving that he, every now and then,\ntook occasion to display his zeal for the Protestant faith in some\nextravagant proceeding which was the delight of its enemies; and saving,\nbesides, that he was formally excommunicated by the Archbishop of\nCanterbury, for refusing to appear as a witness in the Ecclesiastical\nCourt when cited for that purpose. In the year 1788 he was stimulated by\nsome new insanity to write and publish an injurious pamphlet, reflecting\non the Queen of France, in very violent terms. Being indicted for the\nlibel, and (after various strange demonstrations in court) found guilty,\nhe fled into Holland in place of appearing to receive sentence: from\nwhence, as the quiet burgomasters of Amsterdam had no relish for his\ncompany, he was sent home again with all speed. Arriving in the month of\nJuly at Harwich, and going thence to Birmingham, he made in the latter\nplace, in August, a public profession of the Jewish religion; and\nfigured there as a Jew until he was arrested, and brought back to London\nto receive the sentence he had evaded. By virtue of this sentence he\nwas, in the month of December, cast into Newgate for five years and ten\nmonths, and required besides to pay a large fine, and to furnish heavy\nsecurities for his future good behaviour.\n\nAfter addressing, in the midsummer of the following year, an appeal to\nthe commiseration of the National Assembly of France, which the English\nminister refused to sanction, he composed himself to undergo his full\nterm of punishment; and suffering his beard to grow nearly to his waist,\nand conforming in all respects to the ceremonies of his new religion, he\napplied himself to the study of history, and occasionally to the art\nof painting, in which, in his younger days, he had shown some skill.\nDeserted by his former friends, and treated in all respects like the\nworst criminal in the jail, he lingered on, quite cheerful and resigned,\nuntil the 1st of November 1793, when he died in his cell, being then\nonly three-and-forty years of age.\n\nMany men with fewer sympathies for the distressed and needy, with less\nabilities and harder hearts, have made a shining figure and left a\nbrilliant fame. He had his mourners. The prisoners bemoaned his loss,\nand missed him; for though his means were not large, his charity was\ngreat, and in bestowing alms among them he considered the necessities of\nall alike, and knew no distinction of sect or creed. There are wise men\nin the highways of the world who may learn something, even from this\npoor crazy lord who died in Newgate.\n\nTo the last, he was truly served by bluff John Grueby. John was at his\nside before he had been four-and-twenty hours in the Tower, and never\nleft him until he died. He had one other constant attendant, in the\nperson of a beautiful Jewish girl; who attached herself to him\nfrom feelings half religious, half romantic, but whose virtuous and\ndisinterested character appears to have been beyond the censure even of\nthe most censorious.\n\nGashford deserted him, of course. He subsisted for a time upon his\ntraffic in his master's secrets; and, this trade failing when the stock\nwas quite exhausted, procured an appointment in the honourable corps\nof spies and eavesdroppers employed by the government. As one of these\nwretched underlings, he did his drudgery, sometimes abroad, sometimes at\nhome, and long endured the various miseries of such a station. Ten or a\ndozen years ago--not more--a meagre, wan old man, diseased and miserably\npoor, was found dead in his bed at an obscure inn in the Borough, where\nhe was quite unknown. He had taken poison. There was no clue to his\nname; but it was discovered from certain entries in a pocket-book he\ncarried, that he had been secretary to Lord George Gordon in the time of\nthe famous riots.\n\nMany months after the re-establishment of peace and order, and even when\nit had ceased to be the town-talk, that every military officer, kept at\nfree quarters by the City during the late alarms, had cost for his board\nand lodging four pounds four per day, and every private soldier two and\ntwopence halfpenny; many months after even this engrossing topic was\nforgotten, and the United Bulldogs were to a man all killed, imprisoned,\nor transported, Mr Simon Tappertit, being removed from a hospital\nto prison, and thence to his place of trial, was discharged by\nproclamation, on two wooden legs. Shorn of his graceful limbs, and\nbrought down from his high estate to circumstances of utter destitution,\nand the deepest misery, he made shift to stump back to his old master,\nand beg for some relief. By the locksmith's advice and aid, he was\nestablished in business as a shoeblack, and opened shop under an archway\nnear the Horse Guards. This being a central quarter, he quickly made a\nvery large connection; and on levee days, was sometimes known to have\nas many as twenty half-pay officers waiting their turn for polishing.\nIndeed his trade increased to that extent, that in course of time he\nentertained no less than two apprentices, besides taking for his wife\nthe widow of an eminent bone and rag collector, formerly of Millbank.\nWith this lady (who assisted in the business) he lived in great domestic\nhappiness, only chequered by those little storms which serve to clear\nthe atmosphere of wedlock, and brighten its horizon. In some of these\ngusts of bad weather, Mr Tappertit would, in the assertion of his\nprerogative, so far forget himself, as to correct his lady with a brush,\nor boot, or shoe; while she (but only in extreme cases) would retaliate\nby taking off his legs, and leaving him exposed to the derision of those\nurchins who delight in mischief.\n\nMiss Miggs, baffled in all her schemes, matrimonial and otherwise, and\ncast upon a thankless, undeserving world, turned very sharp and sour;\nand did at length become so acid, and did so pinch and slap and tweak\nthe hair and noses of the youth of Golden Lion Court, that she was by\none consent expelled that sanctuary, and desired to bless some other\nspot of earth, in preference. It chanced at that moment, that the\njustices of the peace for Middlesex proclaimed by public placard that\nthey stood in need of a female turnkey for the County Bridewell, and\nappointed a day and hour for the inspection of candidates. Miss Miggs\nattending at the time appointed, was instantly chosen and selected from\none hundred and twenty-four competitors, and at once promoted to\nthe office; which she held until her decease, more than thirty years\nafterwards, remaining single all that time. It was observed of this lady\nthat while she was inflexible and grim to all her female flock, she was\nparticularly so to those who could establish any claim to beauty: and\nit was often remarked as a proof of her indomitable virtue and severe\nchastity, that to such as had been frail she showed no mercy; always\nfalling upon them on the slightest occasion, or on no occasion at all,\nwith the fullest measure of her wrath. Among other useful inventions\nwhich she practised upon this class of offenders and bequeathed to\nposterity, was the art of inflicting an exquisitely vicious poke or dig\nwith the wards of a key in the small of the back, near the spine. She\nlikewise originated a mode of treading by accident (in pattens) on\nsuch as had small feet; also very remarkable for its ingenuity, and\npreviously quite unknown.\n\nIt was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and Dolly\nVarden were made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (for\nthe locksmith could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopened\nthe Maypole. It was not very long, you may be sure, before a red-faced\nlittle boy was seen staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking up\nhis heels on the green before the door. It was not very long, counting\nby years, before there was a red-faced little girl, another red-faced\nlittle boy, and a whole troop of girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwell\nwhen you would, there would surely be seen, either in the village\nstreet, or on the green, or frolicking in the farm-yard--for it was a\nfarm now, as well as a tavern--more small Joes and small Dollys than\ncould be easily counted. It was not a very long time before these\nappearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked five\nyears older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wife\neither: for cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and are\nfamous preservers of youthful looks, depend upon it.\n\nIt was a long time, too, before there was such a country inn as the\nMaypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question whether there has\never been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was a long time\ntoo--for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day--before they forgot\nto have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joe\nomitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or before\nthe serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before they\nfatigued themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions of\nbattles and sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousand\nthings belonging to a soldier's life. As to the great silver snuff-box\nwhich the King sent Joe with his own hand, because of his conduct in the\nRiots, what guest ever went to the Maypole without putting finger and\nthumb into that box, and taking a great pinch, though he had never taken\na pinch of snuff before, and almost sneezed himself into convulsions\neven then? As to the purple-faced vintner, where is the man who lived in\nthose times and never saw HIM at the Maypole: to all appearance as much\nat home in the best room, as if he lived there? And as to the feastings\nand christenings, and revellings at Christmas, and celebrations of\nbirthdays, wedding-days, and all manner of days, both at the Maypole and\nthe Golden Key,--if they are not notorious, what facts are?\n\nMr Willet the elder, having been by some extraordinary means possessed\nwith the idea that Joe wanted to be married, and that it would be well\nfor him, his father, to retire into private life, and enable him to live\nin comfort, took up his abode in a small cottage at Chigwell; where\nthey widened and enlarged the fireplace for him, hung up the boiler,\nand furthermore planted in the little garden outside the front-door, a\nfictitious Maypole; so that he was quite at home directly. To this, his\nnew habitation, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes, and Solomon Daisy went regularly\nevery night: and in the chimney-corner, they all four quaffed, and\nsmoked, and prosed, and dozed, as they had done of old. It being\naccidentally discovered after a short time that Mr Willet still appeared\nto consider himself a landlord by profession, Joe provided him with\na slate, upon which the old man regularly scored up vast accounts for\nmeat, drink, and tobacco. As he grew older this passion increased upon\nhim; and it became his delight to chalk against the name of each of his\ncronies a sum of enormous magnitude, and impossible to be paid: and such\nwas his secret joy in these entries, that he would be perpetually seen\ngoing behind the door to look at them, and coming forth again, suffused\nwith the liveliest satisfaction.\n\nHe never recovered the surprise the Rioters had given him, and remained\nin the same mental condition down to the last moment of his life. It was\nlike to have been brought to a speedy termination by the first sight of\nhis first grandchild, which appeared to fill him with the belief that\nsome alarming miracle had happened to Joe. Being promptly blooded,\nhowever, by a skilful surgeon, he rallied; and although the doctors\nall agreed, on his being attacked with symptoms of apoplexy six months\nafterwards, that he ought to die, and took it very ill that he did\nnot, he remained alive--possibly on account of his constitutional\nslowness--for nearly seven years more, when he was one morning found\nspeechless in his bed. He lay in this state, free from all tokens\nof uneasiness, for a whole week, when he was suddenly restored to\nconsciousness by hearing the nurse whisper in his son's ear that he was\ngoing. 'I'm a-going, Joseph,' said Mr Willet, turning round upon the\ninstant, 'to the Salwanners'--and immediately gave up the ghost.\n\nHe left a large sum of money behind him; even more than he was supposed\nto have been worth, although the neighbours, according to the custom of\nmankind in calculating the wealth that other people ought to have saved,\nhad estimated his property in good round numbers. Joe inherited the\nwhole; so that he became a man of great consequence in those parts, and\nwas perfectly independent.\n\nSome time elapsed before Barnaby got the better of the shock he had\nsustained, or regained his old health and gaiety. But he recovered\nby degrees: and although he could never separate his condemnation and\nescape from the idea of a terrific dream, he became, in other respects,\nmore rational. Dating from the time of his recovery, he had a better\nmemory and greater steadiness of purpose; but a dark cloud overhung his\nwhole previous existence, and never cleared away.\n\nHe was not the less happy for this, for his love of freedom and interest\nin all that moved or grew, or had its being in the elements, remained\nto him unimpaired. He lived with his mother on the Maypole farm, tending\nthe poultry and the cattle, working in a garden of his own, and helping\neverywhere. He was known to every bird and beast about the place, and\nhad a name for every one. Never was there a lighter-hearted husbandman,\na creature more popular with young and old, a blither or more happy soul\nthan Barnaby; and though he was free to ramble where he would, he never\nquitted Her, but was for evermore her stay and comfort.\n\nIt was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the past, he\nsought out Hugh's dog, and took him under his care; and that he never\ncould be tempted into London. When the Riots were many years old,\nand Edward and his wife came back to England with a family almost as\nnumerous as Dolly's, and one day appeared at the Maypole porch, he knew\nthem instantly, and wept and leaped for joy. But neither to visit them,\nnor on any other pretence, no matter how full of promise and enjoyment,\ncould he be persuaded to set foot in the streets: nor did he ever\nconquer this repugnance or look upon the town again.\n\nGrip soon recovered his looks, and became as glossy and sleek as ever.\nBut he was profoundly silent. Whether he had forgotten the art of Polite\nConversation in Newgate, or had made a vow in those troubled times to\nforego, for a period, the display of his accomplishments, is matter of\nuncertainty; but certain it is that for a whole year he never indulged\nin any other sound than a grave, decorous croak. At the expiration of\nthat term, the morning being very bright and sunny, he was heard to\naddress himself to the horses in the stable, upon the subject of the\nKettle, so often mentioned in these pages; and before the witness who\noverheard him could run into the house with the intelligence, and add\nto it upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard him\nlaugh, the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very door\nof the bar, and there cried, 'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!'\nwith extraordinary rapture.\n\nFrom that period (although he was supposed to be much affected by the\ndeath of Mr Willet senior), he constantly practised and improved himself\nin the vulgar tongue; and, as he was a mere infant for a raven when\nBarnaby was grey, he has very probably gone on talking to the present\ntime."