BARNABY RUDGE

 

A TALE OF THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY

 

By

 

Charles Dickens

 


CONTENTS:

 

PREFACE. 4

Chapter 1. 7

Chapter 2. 19

Chapter 3. 26

Chapter 4. 32

Chapter 5. 40

Chapter 6. 44

Chapter 7. 52

Chapter 8. 57

Chapter 9. 65

Chapter 10. 70

Chapter 11. 79

Chapter 12. 83

Chapter 13. 90

Chapter 14. 99

Chapter 15. 103

Chapter 16. 111

Chapter 17. 116

Chapter 18. 125

Chapter 19. 129

Chapter 20. 137

Chapter 21. 142

Chapter 22. 149

Chapter 23. 154

Chapter 24. 163

Chapter 25. 168

Chapter 26. 176

Chapter 27. 180

Chapter 28. 189

Chapter 29. 194

Chapter 30. 203

Chapter 31. 206

Chapter 32. 215

Chapter 33. 219

Chapter 34. 227

Chapter 35. 232

Chapter 36. 242

Chapter 37. 247

Chapter 38. 256

Chapter 39. 261

Chapter 40. 270

Chapter 41. 276

Chapter 42. 285

Chapter 43. 289

Chapter 44. 298

Chapter 45. 302

Chapter 46. 310

Chapter 47. 315

Chapter 48. 322

Chapter 49. 329

Chapter 50. 337

Chapter 51. 342

Chapter 52. 350

Chapter 53. 355

Chapter 54. 362

Chapter 55. 368

Chapter 56. 374

Chapter 57. 381

Chapter 58. 388

Chapter 59. 394

Chapter 60. 403

Chapter 61. 407

Chapter 62. 413

Chapter 63. 421

Chapter 64. 428

Chapter 65. 435

Chapter 66. 443

Chapter 67. 448

Chapter 68. 456

Chapter 69. 460

Chapter 70. 469

Chapter 71. 475

Chapter 72. 483

Chapter 73. 488

Chapter 74. 496

Chapter 75. 502

Chapter 76. 511

Chapter 77. 515

Chapter 78. 524

Chapter 79. 529

Chapter 80. 536

Chapter 81. 542

Chapter the Last 549

 

 


PREFACE

 

The late Mr Waterton having, some time ago, expressed his opinion  that ravens are gradually becoming extinct in England, I offered  the few following words about my experience of these birds.

 

The raven in this story is a compound of two great originals, of  whom I was, at different times, the proud possessor.  The first was  in the bloom of his youth, when he was discovered in a modest  retirement in London, by a friend of mine, and given to me.  He had  from the first, as Sir Hugh Evans says of Anne Page, 'good gifts',  which he improved by study and attention in a most exemplary  manner.  He slept in a stable--generally on horseback--and so  terrified a Newfoundland dog by his preternatural sagacity, that he  has been known, by the mere superiority of his genius, to walk off  unmolested with the dog's dinner, from before his face.  He was  rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour,  his stable was newly painted.  He observed the workmen closely,  saw that they were careful of the paint, and immediately burned to  possess it.  On their going to dinner, he ate up all they had left  behind, consisting of a pound or two of white lead; and this  youthful indiscretion terminated in death.

 

While I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine  in Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village  public-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for  a consideration, and sent up to me.  The first act of this Sage,  was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor, by  disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the  garden--a work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted  all the energies of his mind.  When he had achieved this task, he  applied himself to the acquisition of stable language, in which he  soon became such an adept, that he would perch outside my window  and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all day.  Perhaps  even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his  duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very strong,  would I be so good as to show him a drunken man'--which I never  did, having (unfortunately) none but sober people at hand.

 

But I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the  stimulating influences of this sight might have been.  He had not  the least respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return, or for  anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached--but only, I fear, as  a Policeman might have been.  Once, I met him unexpectedly, about  half-a-mile from my house, walking down the middle of a public  street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and spontaneously  exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments.  His gravity under  those trying circumstances, I can never forget, nor the  extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he  defended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers.  It  may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it  may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill,  and thence into his maw--which is not improbable, seeing that he  new-pointed the greater part of the garden-wall by digging out the  mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty  all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the  greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing--but  after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the  kitchen fire.  He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it  roasted, and suddenly.  turned over on his back with a sepulchral  cry of 'Cuckoo!'  Since then I have been ravenless.

 

No account of the Gordon Riots having been to my knowledge  introduced into any Work of Fiction, and the subject presenting  very extraordinary and remarkable features, I was led to project  this Tale.

 

It is unnecessary to say, that those shameful tumults, while they  reflect indelible disgrace upon the time in which they occurred,  and all who had act or part in them, teach a good lesson.  That  what we falsely call a religious cry is easily raised by men who  have no religion, and who in their daily practice set at nought the  commonest principles of right and wrong; that it is begotten of  intolerance and persecution; that it is senseless, besotted,  inveterate and unmerciful; all History teaches us.  But perhaps we  do not know it in our hearts too well, to profit by even so humble  an example as the 'No Popery' riots of Seventeen Hundred and Eighty.

 

However imperfectly those disturbances are set forth in the  following pages, they are impartially painted by one who has no  sympathy with the Romish Church, though he acknowledges, as most  men do, some esteemed friends among the followers of its creed.

 

In the description of the principal outrages, reference has been  had to the best authorities of that time, such as they are; the  account given in this Tale, of all the main features of the Riots,  is substantially correct.

 

Mr Dennis's allusions to the flourishing condition of his trade in  those days, have their foundation in Truth, and not in the  Author's fancy.  Any file of old Newspapers, or odd volume of the  Annual Register, will prove this with terrible ease.

 

Even the case of Mary Jones, dwelt upon with so much pleasure by  the same character, is no effort of invention.  The facts were  stated, exactly as they are stated here, in the House of Commons.   Whether they afforded as much entertainment to the merry gentlemen  assembled there, as some other most affecting circumstances of a  similar nature mentioned by Sir Samuel Romilly, is not recorded.

 

That the case of Mary Jones may speak the more emphatically for  itself, I subjoin it, as related by SIR WILLIAM MEREDITH in a  speech in Parliament, 'on Frequent Executions', made in 1777.

 

'Under this act,' the Shop-lifting Act, 'one Mary Jones was  executed, whose case I shall just mention; it was at the time when  press warrants were issued, on the alarm about Falkland Islands.   The woman's husband was pressed, their goods seized for some debts  of his, and she, with two small children, turned into the streets  a-begging.  It is a circumstance not to be forgotten, that she was  very young (under nineteen), and most remarkably handsome.  She  went to a linen-draper's shop, took some coarse linen off the  counter, and slipped it under her cloak; the shopman saw her, and  she laid it down: for this she was hanged.  Her defence was (I have  the trial in my pocket), "that she had lived in credit, and wanted  for nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband from her;  but since then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give her  children to eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she might  have done something wrong, for she hardly knew what she did."  The  parish officers testified the truth of this story; but it seems,  there had been a good deal of shop-lifting about Ludgate; an  example was thought necessary; and this woman was hanged for the  comfort and satisfaction of shopkeepers in Ludgate Street.  When  brought to receive sentence, she behaved in such a frantic manner,  as proved her mind to he in a distracted and desponding state; and  the child was sucking at her breast when she set out for Tyburn.'

 


Chapter 1

 

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest,  at a distance of about twelve miles from London--measuring from the  Standard in Cornhill,' or rather from the spot on or near to which  the Standard used to be in days of yore--a house of public  entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to  all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that  time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in  this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against  the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles  were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty  feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman  drew.

 

The Maypole--by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and  not its sign--the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends  than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag  chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not  choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted  to it in its tortuous progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous,  and empty.  The place was said to have been built in the days of  King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen  Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion,  to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but  that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the  door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and  there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty.   The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few  among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every  little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as  rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient  hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and  triumphantly pointed out that there it stood in the same place to  that very day, the doubters never failed to be put down by a large  majority, and all true believers exulted as in a victory.

 

Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true  or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house,  perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will  sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a  certain, age.  Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its  floors were sunken and uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand  of time, and heavy with massive beams.  Over the doorway was an  ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely carved; and here on summer  evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank--ay, and  sang many a good song too, sometimes--reposing on two grim-looking  high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy  tale, guarded the entrance to the mansion.

 

In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their  nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest  autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the  eaves.  There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and  out-buildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up.  The  wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and  pouters, were perhaps not quite consistent with the grave and sober  character of the building, but the monotonous cooing, which never  ceased to be raised by some among them all day long, suited it  exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest.  With its overhanging  stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and  projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were  nodding in its sleep.  Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of  fancy to detect in it other resemblances to humanity.  The bricks  of which it was built had originally been a deep dark red, but had  grown yellow and discoloured like an old man's skin; the sturdy  timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a  warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves  closely round the time-worn walls.

 

It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer or  autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak  and chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking  of its lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good  years of life in him yet.

 

The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an  autumn one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind  howled dismally among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling  in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of  the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters as chanced to be  there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their stay,  and caused the landlord to prophesy that the night would certainly  clear at eleven o'clock precisely,--which by a remarkable  coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his house.

 

The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was  John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which  betokened profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension,  combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits.  It was  John Willet's ordinary boast in his more placid moods that if he  were slow he was sure; which assertion could, in one sense at  least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing that he was in everything  unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one of the most  dogged and positive fellows in existence--always sure that what he  thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite  settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that  anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and  of necessity wrong.

 

Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose  against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might  not be affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad.  Then  he walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and,  composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might  give way to and so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze,  said, looking round upon his guests:

 

'It'll clear at eleven o'clock.  No sooner and no later.  Not  before and not arterwards.'

 

'How do you make out that?' said a little man in the opposite  corner.  'The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.'

 

John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had  brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and  then made answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was  peculiarly his business and nobody else's:

 

'Never you mind about the moon.  Don't you trouble yourself about  her.  You let the moon alone, and I'll let you alone.'

 

'No offence I hope?' said the little man.

 

Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly  penetrated to his brain, and then replying, 'No offence as YET,'  applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and  then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver lace and  large metal buttons, who sat apart from the regular frequenters of  the house, and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which was still  further shaded by the hand on which his forehead rested, looked  unsociable enough.

 

There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some  distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts--to judge from his  folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before  him--were occupied with other matters than the topics under  discussion or the persons who discussed them.  This was a young man  of about eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and  though of somewhat slight figure, gracefully and strongly made.  He  wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in a riding dress, which  together with his large boots (resembling in shape and fashion  those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed  indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads.  But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly attired, and  without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.

 

Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them  down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn  no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency of the weather.   There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short  riding-cloak.  Little of his face was visible, except the long dark  lashes which concealed his downcast eyes, but an air of careless  ease and natural gracefulness of demeanour pervaded the figure, and  seemed to comprehend even those slight accessories, which were all  handsome, and in good keeping.

 

Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but  once, and then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his  silent neighbour.  It was plain that John and the young gentleman  had often met before.  Finding that his look was not returned, or  indeed observed by the person to whom it was addressed, John  gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one focus,  and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he  came to stare in course of time with an intensity so remarkable,  that it affected his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord,  took their pipes from their lips, and stared with open mouths at  the stranger likewise.

 

The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and  the little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who  was the parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard  by) had little round black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this  little man wore at the knees of his rusty black breeches, and on  his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat,  little queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like  them, that as they twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire,  which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from  head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of them at the  unknown customer.  No wonder that a man should grow restless under  such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging to  short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and  long Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example  of their companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less  attentively.

 

The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this  raking fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous  meditations--most probably from the latter cause, for as he changed  his position and looked hastily round, he started to find himself  the object of such keen regard, and darted an angry and suspicious  glance at the fireside group.  It had the effect of immediately  diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who  finding himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as  has been already observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring  at his guest in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner.

 

'Well?' said the stranger.

 

Well.  There was not much in well.  It was not a long speech.  'I  thought you gave an order,' said the landlord, after a pause of two  or three minutes for consideration.

 

The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a  man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time,  and the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a  dark handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and,  while it served the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and  almost hid his eyebrows.  If it were intended to conceal or divert  attention from a deep gash, now healed into an ugly seam, which  when it was first inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, the  object was but indifferently attained, for it could scarcely fail  to be noted at a glance.  His complexion was of a cadaverous hue,  and he had a grizzly jagged beard of some three weeks' date.  Such  was the figure (very meanly and poorly clad) that now rose from the  seat, and stalking across the room sat down in a corner of the  chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little clerk very  readily assigned to him.

 

'A highwayman!' whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.

 

'Do you suppose highwaymen don't dress handsomer than that?'  replied Parkes.  'It's a better business than you think for, Tom,  and highwaymen don't need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.'

 

Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to  the house by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by  the landlord's son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow  of twenty, whom it pleased his father still to consider a little  boy, and to treat accordingly.  Stretching out his hands to warm  them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the  company, and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a  voice well suited to his appearance:

 

'What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?'

 

'Public-house?' said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.

 

'Public-house, father!' exclaimed Joe, 'where's the public-house  within a mile or so of the Maypole?  He means the great house--the  Warren--naturally and of course.  The old red brick house, sir,  that stands in its own grounds--?'

 

'Aye,' said the stranger.

 

'And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as  broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed  hands and dwindled away--more's the pity!' pursued the young man.

 

'Maybe,' was the reply.  'But my question related to the owner.   What it has been I don't care to know, and what it is I can see for  myself.'

 

The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips,  and glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had  changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in  a lower tone:

 

'The owner's name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and'--again he  glanced in the same direction as before--'and a worthy gentleman  too--hem!'

 

Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the  significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his  questioning.

 

'I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that  crosses the grounds.  Who was the young lady that I saw entering a  carriage?  His daughter?'

 

'Why, how should I know, honest man?' replied Joe, contriving in  the course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close  to his questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, 'I didn't see the  young lady, you know.  Whew!  There's the wind again--AND rain--well it IS a night!'

 

Rough weather indeed!' observed the strange man.

 

'You're used to it?' said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to  promise a diversion of the subject.

 

'Pretty well,' returned the other.  'About the young lady--has Mr  Haredale a daughter?'

 

'No, no,' said the young fellow fretfully, 'he's a single  gentleman--he's--be quiet, can't you, man?  Don't you see this  talk is not relished yonder?'

 

Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to  hear it, his tormentor provokingly continued:

 

'Single men have had daughters before now.  Perhaps she may be his  daughter, though he is not married.'

 

'What do you mean?' said Joe, adding in an undertone as he  approached him again, 'You'll come in for it presently, I know you  will!'

 

'I mean no harm'--returned the traveller boldly, 'and have said  none that I know of.  I ask a few questions--as any stranger may,  and not unnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable house in a  neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and  disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George.   Perhaps you can tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger,  and this is Greek to me?'

 

The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe  Willet's discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak preparatory to sallying abroad.  Briefly replying that he  could give him no information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and  handing him a piece of money in payment of his reckoning, hurried  out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a candle  followed to light him to the house-door.

 

While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three  companions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep  silence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that  was suspended over the fire.  After some time John Willet slowly  shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but  no man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn  expression of his countenance in the slightest degree.

 

At length Joe returned--very talkative and conciliatory, as though  with a strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault  with.

 

'Such a thing as love is!' he said, drawing a chair near the fire,  and looking round for sympathy.  'He has set off to walk to  London,--all the way to London.  His nag gone lame in riding out  here this blessed afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our  stable at this minute; and he giving up a good hot supper and our  best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone to a masquerade up in  town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her!  I don't think I  could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,--but then  I'm not in love (at least I don't think I am) and that's the whole  difference.'

 

'He is in love then?' said the stranger.

 

'Rather,' replied Joe.  'He'll never be more in love, and may very  easily be less.'

 

'Silence, sir!' cried his father.

 

'What a chap you are, Joe!' said Long Parkes.

 

'Such a inconsiderate lad!' murmured Tom Cobb.

 

'Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own  father's face!' exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.

 

'What HAVE I done?' reasoned poor Joe.

 

'Silence, sir!' returned his father, 'what do you mean by talking,  when you see people that are more than two or three times your age,  sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?'

 

'Why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?' said Joe  rebelliously.

 

'The proper time, sir!' retorted his father, 'the proper time's no  time.'

 

'Ah to be sure!' muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two  who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was  the point.

 

'The proper time's no time, sir,' repeated John Willet; 'when I was  your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk.  I listened and  improved myself that's what I did.'

 

'And you'd find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment,  Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him,' said Parkes.

 

'For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr Willet, blowing a long,  thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and  staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; 'For the matter o'  that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur.  If Natur has gifted a  man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of  'em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that  he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a  flouting of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving  of one's self to be a swine that isn't worth her scattering pearls  before.'

 

The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally  concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and  therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity,  exclaimed:

 

'You hear what your father says, Joe?  You wouldn't much like to  tackle him in argeyment, I'm thinking, sir.'

 

'IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the  face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals,  to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with  unbecoming and irreverent haste; 'IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me  the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory  in the same?  Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way.  You are  right, sir.  My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many  and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don't know,' added  John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, 'so much the better, for  I an't proud and am not going to tell you.'

 

A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of  heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had  good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to  assure them of his superiority.  John smoked with a little more  dignity and surveyed them in silence.

 

'It's all very fine talking,' muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting  in his chair with divers uneasy gestures.  'But if you mean to tell  me that I'm never to open my lips--'

 

'Silence, sir!' roared his father.  'No, you never are.  When your  opinion's wanted, you give it.  When you're spoke to, you speak.   When your opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't you  give an opinion and don't you speak.  The world's undergone a nice  alteration since my time, certainly.  My belief is that there an't  any boys left--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's  nothing now between a male baby and a man--and that all the boys  went out with his blessed Majesty King George the Second.'

 

'That's a very true observation, always excepting the young  princes,' said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of  church and state in that company, held himself bound to the nicest  loyalty.  'If it's godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages  of boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes  must be boys and cannot be otherwise.'

 

'Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?' said Mr Willet.

 

'Certainly I have,' replied the clerk.

 

'Very good,' said Mr Willet.  'According to the constitution of  mermaids, so much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish.   According to the constitution of young princes, so much of a young  prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and  righteous.  Therefore if it's becoming and godly and righteous in  the young princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be  boys, they are and must be boys, and cannot by possibility be  anything else.'

 

This elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks  of approval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented  himself with repeating to his son his command of silence, and  addressing the stranger, said:

 

'If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person--of me or any  of these gentlemen--you'd have had some satisfaction, and wouldn't  have wasted breath.  Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale's  niece.'

 

'Is her father alive?' said the man, carelessly.

 

'No,' rejoined the landlord, 'he is not alive, and he is not dead--'

 

'Not dead!' cried the other.

 

'Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord.

 

The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an  undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, 'let no  man contradict me, for I won't believe him,' that John Willet was  in amazing force to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.

 

The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked  abruptly, 'What do you mean?'

 

'More than you think for, friend,' returned John Willet.  'Perhaps  there's more meaning in them words than you suspect.'

 

'Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; 'but what the  devil do you speak in such mysteries for?  You tell me, first, that  a man is not alive, nor yet dead--then, that he's not dead in a  common sort of way--then, that you mean a great deal more than I  think for.  To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so  far as I can make out, you mean nothing.  What DO you mean, I ask  again?'

 

'That,' returned the landlord, a little brought down from his  dignity by the stranger's surliness, 'is a Maypole story, and has  been any time these four-and-twenty years.  That story is Solomon  Daisy's story.  It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon  Daisy has ever told it under this roof, or ever shall--that's  more.'

 

The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness  and importance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to,  and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a  very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell  his story without further solicitation, gathered his large coat  about him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom  of the spacious chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling  from under a great faggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the  time, shot upward with a strong and sudden glare, and illumining  his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to cast it into deeper  obscurity than before.

 

By this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavy  timbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished  ebony--the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latch  and creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving at  the casement as though it would beat it in--by this light, and  under circumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:

 

'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother--'

 

Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even  John Willet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.

 

'Cobb,' said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the  post-office keeper; 'what day of the month is this?'

 

'The nineteenth.'

 

'Of March,' said the clerk, bending forward, 'the nineteenth of  March; that's very strange.'

 

In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:

 

'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother, that  twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe  has said--not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can't  do that, but because you have often heard me say so--was then a  much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property  than it is now.  His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one  child--the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about--who was  then scarcely a year old.'

 

Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so  much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if  expecting some exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter  made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was  interested in what was said.  Solomon therefore turned to his old  companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated by the deep red  glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of  their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent  behaviour.

 

'Mr Haredale,' said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man,  'left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and  went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that  place as lonely as this--as I suppose and have always heard say--he  suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren,  bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and  his steward, and a gardener.'

 

Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out,  and then proceeded--at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by  keen enjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and  afterwards with increasing distinctness:

 

'--Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a  gardener.  The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow  next day.  It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived  at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order  came to me at half after twelve o'clock at night to go and toll the  passing-bell.'

 

There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently  indicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt  to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand.  The clerk  felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.

 

'It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up  in his bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to  take his dinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under  obligation to go alone, for it was too late to hope to get any  other companion.  However, I wasn't unprepared for it; as the old  gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be  tolled as soon as possible after the breath was out of his body,  and he had been expected to go for some days.  I put as good a face  upon it as I could, and muffling myself up (for it was mortal  cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key  of the church in the other.'

 

At this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man  rustled as if he had turned himself to hear more distinctly.   Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows  and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the case.  Joe  shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could  make out nothing, and so shook his head.

 

'It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining  heavily, and very dark--I often think now, darker than I ever saw  it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all  close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one  other man who knows how dark it really was.  I got into the church,  chained the door back so that it should keep ajar--for, to tell the  truth, I didn't like to be shut in there alone--and putting my  lantern on the stone seat in the little corner where the bell-rope  is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.

 

'I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not  persuade myself to get up again, and go about my work.  I don't  know how it was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever  heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and  had forgotten long ago; and they didn't come into my mind one after  another, but all crowding at once, like.  I recollected one story  there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year  (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead  people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own  graves till morning.  This made me think how many people I had  known, were buried between the church-door and the churchyard gate,  and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among them  and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves.  I had known  all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still, I  couldn't persuade myself that those were their natural shadows  which I saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly  figures hiding among 'em and peeping out.  Thinking on in this  way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just dead, and I  could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him  in his usual place, wrapping his shroud about him and shivering as  if he felt it cold.  All this time I sat listening and listening,  and hardly dared to breathe.  At length I started up and took the  bell-rope in my hands.  At that minute there rang--not that bell,  for I had hardly touched the rope--but another!

 

'I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly.   It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the  sound away, but I heard it.  I listened for a long time, but it  rang no more.  I had heard of corpse candles, and at last I  persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell tolling of itself  at midnight for the dead.  I tolled my bell--how, or how long, I  don't know--and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the  ground.

 

'I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the  story to my neighbours.  Some were serious and some made light of  it; I don't think anybody believed it real.  But, that morning, Mr  Reuben Haredale was found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his  hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-bell outside the  roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder, no doubt by  the murderer, when he seized it.

 

'That was the bell I heard.

 

'A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had  brought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of  money, was gone.  The steward and gardener were both missing and  both suspected for a long time, but they were never found, though  hunted far and wide.  And far enough they might have looked for  poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body--scarcely to be recognised by  his clothes and the watch and ring he wore--was found, months  afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with  a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife.   He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed that he had been  sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of  blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his master.

 

Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and  though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will  be, mark my words.  The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty  years--on the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and  fifty-three.  On the nineteenth of March in some year--no matter  when--I know it, I am sure of it, for we have always, in some  strange way or other, been brought back to the subject on that day  ever since--on the nineteenth of March in some year, sooner or  later, that man will be discovered.'


 

Chapter 2

 

'A strange story!' said the man who had been the cause of the  narration.--'Stranger still if it comes about as you predict.  Is  that all?'

 

A question so unexpected, nettled Solomon Daisy not a little.  By  dint of relating the story very often, and ornamenting it  (according to village report) with a few flourishes suggested by  the various hearers from time to time, he had come by degrees to  tell it with great effect; and 'Is that all?' after the climax, was  not what he was accustomed to.

 

'Is that all?' he repeated, 'yes, that's all, sir.  And enough  too, I think.'

 

'I think so too.  My horse, young man!  He is but a hack hired from  a roadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to-night.'

 

'To-night!' said Joe.

 

'To-night,' returned the other.  'What do you stare at?  This  tavern would seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers  of the neighbourhood!'

 

At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he  had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of  John Willet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity  to the copper boiler again.  Not so with Joe, who, being a  mettlesome fellow, returned the stranger's angry glance with a  steady look, and rejoined:

 

'It is not a very bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night.   Surely you have been asked such a harmless question in an inn  before, and in better weather than this.  I thought you mightn't  know the way, as you seem strange to this part.'

 

'The way--' repeated the other, irritably.

 

'Yes.  DO you know it?'

 

'I'll--humph!--I'll find it,' replied the nian, waving his hand and  turning on his heel.  'Landlord, take the reckoning here.'

 

John Willet did as he was desired; for on that point he was seldom  slow, except in the particulars of giving change, and testing the  goodness of any piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the  application of his teeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in  doubtful cases, by a long series of tests terminating in its  rejection.  The guest then wrapped his garments about him so as to  shelter himself as effectually as he could from the rough weather,  and without any word or sign of farewell betook himself to the  stableyard.  Here Joe (who had left the room on the conclusion of  their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse from the  rain under the shelter of an old penthouse roof.

 

'He's pretty much of my opinion,' said Joe, patting the horse upon  the neck.  'I'll wager that your stopping here to-night would  please him better than it would please me.'

 

'He and I are of different opinions, as we have been more than once  on our way here,' was the short reply.

 

'So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your spurs,  poor beast.'

 

The stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and made no  answer.

 

'You'll know me again, I see,' he said, marking the young fellow's  earnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle.

 

'The man's worth knowing, master, who travels a road he don't know,  mounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such  a night as this.'

 

'You have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.'

 

'Both I hope by nature, but the last grows rusty sometimes for  want of using.'

 

'Use the first less too, and keep their sharpness for your  sweethearts, boy,' said the man.

 

So saying he shook his hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on  the head with the butt end of his whip, and galloped away; dashing  through the mud and darkness with a headlong speed, which few badly  mounted horsemen would have cared to venture, even had they been  thoroughly acquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew  nothing of the way he rode, was attended at every step with great  hazard and danger.

 

The roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time  ill paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made.  The way this  rider traversed had been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy  waggons, and rendered rotten by the frosts and thaws of the  preceding winter, or possibly of many winters.  Great holes and  gaps had been worn into the soil, which, being now filled with  water from the late rains, were not easily distinguishable even by  day; and a plunge into any one of them might have brought down a  surer-footed horse than the poor beast now urged forward to the  utmost extent of his powers.  Sharp flints and stones rolled from  under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely see beyond  the animal's head, or farther on either side than his own arm  would have extended.  At that time, too, all the roads in the  neighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads or  highwaymen, and it was a night, of all others, in which any evil-disposed person of this class might have pursued his unlawful  calling with little fear of detection.

 

Still, the traveller dashed forward at the same reckless pace,  regardless alike of the dirt and wet which flew about his head, the  profound darkness of the night, and the probability of encountering  some desperate characters abroad.  At every turn and angle, even  where a deviation from the direct course might have been least  expected, and could not possibly be seen until he was close upon  it, he guided the bridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle  of the road.  Thus he sped onward, raising himself in the stirrups,  leaning his body forward until it almost touched the horse's neck,  and flourishing his heavy whip above his head with the fervour of a  madman.

 

There are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion,  those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great  thoughts, whether of good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with  the tumult of nature, and are roused into corresponding violence.   In the midst of thunder, lightning, and storm, many tremendous  deeds have been committed; men, self-possessed before, have given  a sudden loose to passions they could no longer control.  The  demons of wrath and despair have striven to emulate those who ride  the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man, lashed into madness  with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time  as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.

 

Whether the traveller was possessed by thoughts which the fury of  the night had heated and stimulated into a quicker current, or was  merely impelled by some strong motive to reach his journey's end,  on he swept more like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his  pace until, arriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a  longer route to the place whence he had lately started, he bore  down so suddenly upon a vehicle which was coming towards him, that  in the effort to avoid it he well-nigh pulled his horse upon his  haunches, and narrowly escaped being thrown.

 

'Yoho!' cried the voice of a man.  'What's that?  Who goes there?'

 

'A friend!' replied the traveller.

 

'A friend!' repeated the voice.  'Who calls himself a friend and  rides like that, abusing Heaven's gifts in the shape of horseflesh,  and endangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great  matter) but the necks of other people?'

 

'You have a lantern there, I see,' said the traveller dismounting,  'lend it me for a moment.  You have wounded my horse, I think, with  your shaft or wheel.'

 

'Wounded him!' cried the other, 'if I haven't killed him, it's no  fault of yours.  What do you mean by galloping along the king's  highway like that, eh?'

 

'Give me the light,' returned the traveller, snatching it from his  hand, 'and don't ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for  talking.'

 

'If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should  perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,' said the voice.   'Hows'ever as it's the poor horse that's damaged and not you, one  of you is welcome to the light at all events--but it's not the  crusty one.'

 

The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the  light near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb  and carcass.  Meanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his  vehicle, which was a kind of chaise with a depository for a large  bag of tools, and watched his proceedings with a careful eye.

 

The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double  chin, and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good  humour, and good health.  He was past the prime of life, but Father  Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none  of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have  used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but  leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour.  With  such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's  hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in  the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.

 

The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of  this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace  with himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world.   Although muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs--one of  which, passed over his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of  his double chin, secured his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from  blowing off his head--there was no disguising his plump and  comfortable figure; neither did certain dirty finger-marks upon  his face give it any other than an odd and comical expression,  through which its natural good humour shone with undiminished  lustre.

 

'He is not hurt,' said the traveller at length, raising his head  and the lantern together.

 

'You have found that out at last, have you?' rejoined the old man.   'My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn't change  with you.'

 

'What do you mean?'

 

'Mean!  I could have told you he wasn't hurt, five minutes ago.   Give me the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good  night.'

 

In handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays full  on the speaker's face.  Their eyes met at the instant.  He suddenly  dropped it and crushed it with his foot.

 

'Did you never see a locksmith before, that you start as if you had  come upon a ghost?' cried the old man in the chaise, 'or is this,'  he added hastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and  drawing out a hammer, 'a scheme for robbing me?  I know these  roads, friend.  When I travel them, I carry nothing but a few  shillings, and not a crown's worth of them.  I tell you plainly, to  save us both trouble, that there's nothing to be got from me but a  pretty stout arm considering my years, and this tool, which, mayhap  from long acquaintance with, I can use pretty briskly.  You shall  not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at that  game.  With these words he stood upon the defensive.

 

'I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,' replied the other.

 

'Then what and who are you?' returned the locksmith.  'You know my  name, it seems.  Let me know yours.'

 

'I have not gained the information from any confidence of yours,  but from the inscription on your cart which tells it to all the  town,' replied the traveller.

 

'You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,'  said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; 'who are you?  Let  me see your face.'

 

While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his  saddle, from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as  the horse moved in chafing under the tightened rein, kept close  beside him.

 

'Let me see your face, I say.'

 

'Stand off!'

 

'No masquerading tricks,' said the locksmith, 'and tales at the  club to-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice  and a dark night.  Stand--let me see your face.'

 

Finding that further resistance would only involve him in a  personal struggle with an antagonist by no means to be despised,  the traveller threw back his coat, and stooping down looked  steadily at the locksmith.

 

Perhaps two men more powerfully contrasted, never opposed each  other face to face.  The ruddy features of the locksmith so set off  and heightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that  he looked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard  riding had brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy  drops, like dews of agony and death.  The countenance of the old  locksmith lighted up with the smile of one expecting to detect in  this unpromising stranger some latent roguery of eye or lip, which  should reveal a familiar person in that arch disguise, and spoil  his jest.  The face of the other, sullen and fierce, but shrinking  too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while his firmly closed  jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain stealthy  motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a  desperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child's play.

 

Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.

 

'Humph!' he said when he had scanned his features; 'I don't know  you.'

 

'Don't desire to?'--returned the other, muffling himself as before.

 

'I don't,' said Gabriel; 'to be plain with you, friend, you don't  carry in your countenance a letter of recommendation.'

 

'It's not my wish,' said the traveller.  'My humour is to be  avoided.'

 

'Well,' said the locksmith bluntly, 'I think you'll have your  humour.'

 

'I will, at any cost,' rejoined the traveller.  'In proof of it,  lay this to heart--that you were never in such peril of your life  as you have been within these few moments; when you are within  five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death  than you have been to-night!'

 

'Aye!' said the sturdy locksmith.

 

'Aye! and a violent death.'

 

'From whose hand?'

 

'From mine,' replied the traveller.

 

With that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first  plashing heavily through the mire at a smart trot, but gradually  increasing in speed until the last sound of his horse's hoofs died  away upon the wind; when he was again hurrying on at the same  furious gallop, which had been his pace when the locksmith first  encountered him.

 

Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken  lantern in his hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound  reached his ear but the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling  rain; when he struck himself one or two smart blows in the breast  by way of rousing himself, and broke into an exclamation of  surprise.

 

'What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a  highwayman? a cut-throat?  If he had not scoured off so fast, we'd  have seen who was in most danger, he or I.  I never nearer death  than I have been to-night!  I hope I may be no nearer to it for a  score of years to come--if so, I'll be content to be no farther  from it.  My stars!--a pretty brag this to a stout man--pooh,  pooh!'

 

Gabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which  the traveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:

 

'The Maypole--two miles to the Maypole.  I came the other road from  the Warren after a long day's work at locks and bells, on purpose  that I should not come by the Maypole and break my promise to  Martha by looking in--there's resolution!  It would be dangerous to  go on to London without a light; and it's four miles, and a good  half mile besides, to the Halfway-House; and between this and that  is the very place where one needs a light most.  Two miles to the  Maypole!  I told Martha I wouldn't; I said I wouldn't, and I  didn't--there's resolution!'

 

Repeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for  the little resolution he was going to show by piquing himself on  the great resolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned  back, determining to get a light at the Maypole, and to take  nothing but a light.

 

When he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his  well-known hail, came running out to the horse's head, leaving the  door open behind him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of  warmth and brightness--when the ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming  through the old red curtains of the common room, seemed to bring  with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a  fragrant odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as  it were in the cheerful glow--when the shadows, flitting across the  curtain, showed that those inside had risen from their snug seats,  and were making room in the snuggest corner (how well he knew that  corner!) for the honest locksmith, and a broad glare, suddenly  streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling log from which  a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment whirling  up the chimney in honour of his coming--when, superadded to these  enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle  sound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a  savoury smell that made even the boisterous wind a perfume--Gabriel  felt his firmness oozing rapidly away.  He tried to look stoically  at the tavern, but his features would relax into a look of  fondness.  He turned his head the other way, and the cold black  country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into  its hospitable arms.

 

'The merciful man, Joe,' said the locksmith, 'is merciful to his  beast.  I'll get out for a little while.'

 

And how natural it was to get out!  And how unnatural it seemed for  a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads,  encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain,  when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well  swept hearth, a blazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth,  bright pewter flagons, and other tempting preparations for a well-cooked meal--when there were these things, and company disposed to  make the most of them, all ready to his hand, and entreating him to  enjoyment!

 


Chapter 3

 

Such were the locksmith's thoughts when first seated in the snug  corner, and slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision--pleasant, because occasioned by the wind blowing in his eyes--which  made it a matter of sound policy and duty to himself, that he  should take refuge from the weather, and tempted him, for the same  reason, to aggravate a slight cough, and declare he felt but  poorly.  Such were still his thoughts more than a full hour  afterwards, when, supper over, he still sat with shining jovial  face in the same warm nook, listening to the cricket-like chirrup  of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no unimportant or slightly  respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole fire.

 

'I wish he may be an honest man, that's all,' said Solomon, winding  up a variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning  whom Gabriel had compared notes with the company, and so raised a  grave discussion; 'I wish he may be an honest man.'

 

'So we all do, I suppose, don't we?' observed the locksmith.

 

'I don't,' said Joe.

 

'No!' cried Gabriel.

 

'No.  He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted  and I afoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what  I think him.'

 

'And what may that be, Joe?'

 

'No good, Mr Varden.  You may shake your head, father, but I say no  good, and will say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times  over, if that would bring him back to have the drubbing he  deserves.'

 

'Hold your tongue, sir,' said John Willet.

 

'I won't, father.  It's all along of you that he ventured to do  what he did.  Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a  fool, HE plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he  thinks--and may well think too--hasn't a grain of spirit.  But he's  mistaken, as I'll show him, and as I'll show all of you before  long.'

 

'Does the boy know what he's a saying of!' cried the astonished  John Willet.

 

'Father,' returned Joe, 'I know what I say and mean, well--better  than you do when you hear me.  I can bear with you, but I cannot  bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings  upon me from others every day.  Look at other young men of my age.   Have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak?  Are they obliged  to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the  laughing-stock of young and old?  I am a bye-word all over  Chigwell, and I say--and it's fairer my saying so now, than waiting  till you are dead, and I have got your money--I say, that before  long I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it  won't be me that you'll have to blame, but your own self, and no  other.'

 

John Willet was so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his  hopeful son, that he sat as one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous  manner at the boiler, and endeavouring, but quite ineffectually, to  collect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer.  The guests,  scarcely less disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length,  with a variety of muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces  of advice, rose to depart; being at the same time slightly muddled  with liquor.

 

The honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and  sensible advice to both parties, urging John Willet to remember  that Joe was nearly arrived at man's estate, and should not be  ruled with too tight a hand, and exhorting Joe himself to bear with  his father's caprices, and rather endeavour to turn them aside by  temperate remonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion.  This advice  was received as such advice usually is.  On John Willet it made  almost as much impression as on the sign outside the door, while  Joe, who took it in the best part, avowed himself more obliged than  he could well express, but politely intimated his intention  nevertheless of taking his own course uninfluenced by anybody.

 

'You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,' he  said, as they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was  equipping himself for his journey home; 'I take it very kind of  you to say all this, but the time's nearly come when the Maypole  and I must part company.'

 

'Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,' said Gabriel.

 

'Nor milestones much,' replied Joe.  'I'm little better than one  here, and see as much of the world.'

 

'Then, what would you do, Joe?' pursued the locksmith, stroking  his chin reflectively.  'What could you be?  Where could you go,  you see?'

 

'I must trust to chance, Mr Varden.'

 

'A bad thing to trust to, Joe.  I don't like it.  I always tell my  girl when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to  chance, but to make sure beforehand that she has a good man and  true, and then chance will neither make her nor break her.  What  are you fidgeting about there, Joe?  Nothing gone in the harness, I  hope?'

 

'No no,' said Joe--finding, however, something very engrossing to  do in the way of strapping and buckling--'Miss Dolly quite well?'

 

'Hearty, thankye.  She looks pretty enough to be well, and good  too.'

 

'She's always both, sir'--

 

'So she is, thank God!'

 

'I hope,' said Joe after some hesitation, 'that you won't tell this  story against me--this of my having been beat like the boy they'd  make of me--at all events, till I have met this man again and  settled the account.  It'll be a better story then.'

 

'Why who should I tell it to?' returned Gabriel.  'They know it  here, and I'm not likely to come across anybody else who would care  about it.'

 

'That's true enough,' said the young fellow with a sigh.  'I quite  forgot that.  Yes, that's true!'

 

So saying, he raised his face, which was very red,--no doubt from  the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,--and giving  the reins to the old man, who had by this time taken his seat,  sighed again and bade him good night.

 

'Good night!' cried Gabriel.  'Now think better of what we have  just been speaking of; and don't be rash, there's a good fellow!  I  have an interest in you, and wouldn't have you cast yourself away.   Good night!'

 

Returning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet  lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears,  and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.

 

Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great  many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate  his adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for  visiting the Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between  himself and that lady.  Thinking begets, not only thought, but  drowsiness occasionally, and the more the locksmith thought, the  more sleepy he became.

 

A man may be very sober--or at least firmly set upon his legs on  that neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect  sobriety and slight tipsiness--and yet feel a strong tendency to  mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner of  connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons,  things, times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts  together in a kind of mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations  as unexpected as they are transitory.  This was Gabriel Varden's  state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and leaving his horse to  pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got over the  ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home.  He had  roused himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate  was opened, and had cried a lusty 'good night!' to the toll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in  the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up  the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty  years.  It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and  jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress.

 

And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched  before him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish  air with a deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways  and shops, and swarms of busy people.  Approaching nearer and  nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes which produced  it slowly to develop themselves.  Long lines of poorly lighted  streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter  spot, where lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round  some great building; after a time these grew more distinct, and the  lamps themselves were visible; slight yellow specks, that seemed to  be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as intervening obstacles hid  them from the sight.  Then, sounds arose--the striking of church  clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the  streets; then outlines might be traced--tall steeples looming in  the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then,  the noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct  and numerous still, and London--visible in the darkness by its own  faint light, and not by that of Heaven--was at hand.

 

The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still  jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no  great distance ahead, roused him with a start.

 

For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been  transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon  recognising familiar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have  relapsed again, but that the cry was repeated--not once or twice or  thrice, but many times, and each time, if possible, with increased  vehemence.  Thoroughly aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not  easily daunted, made straight to the spot, urging on his stout  little horse as if for life or death.

 

The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the  place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a  man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway,  and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand,  which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling  meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to  the spot.

 

'What's here to do?' said the old man, alighting.  'How's this--what--Barnaby?'

 

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his  eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith,  fixed upon him a look which told his history at once.

 

'You know me, Barnaby?' said Varden.

 

He nodded--not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a  fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for  an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his  eye sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body  with an inquiring look.

 

'There's blood upon him,' said Barnaby with a shudder.  'It makes  me sick!'

 

'How came it there?' demanded Varden.

 

'Steel, steel, steel!' he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand  the thrust of a sword.

 

'Is he robbed?' said the locksmith.

 

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded 'Yes;' then pointed  towards the city.

 

'Oh!' said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as  he spoke into Barnaby's pale face, strangely lighted up by  something that was NOT intellect.  'The robber made off that way,  did he?  Well, well, never mind that just now.  Hold your torch  this way--a little farther off--so.  Now stand quiet, while I try  to see what harm is done.'

 

With these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of the  prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been  directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or  curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret  horror which convulsed him in every nerve.

 

As he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending  forward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of  the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad  day.  He was about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather  spare, of a fair height and strong make.  His hair, of which he had  a great profusion, was red, and hanging in disorder about his face  and shoulders, gave to his restless looks an expression quite  unearthly--enhanced by the paleness of his complexion, and the  glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes.  Startling as his  aspect was, the features were good, and there was something even  plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect.  But, the absence of the  soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and  in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.

 

His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there--apparently  by his own hands--with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was  most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best.  A pair  of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was  nearly bare.  He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's  feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed  negligently down his back.  Girt to his side was the steel hilt of  an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends  of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of  his attire.  The fluttered and confused disposition of all the  motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less  degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his  mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more  impressive wildness of his face.

 

'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful  inspection, 'this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side,  and is in a fainting-fit.'

 

'I know him, I know him!' cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.

 

'Know him?' repeated the locksmith.

 

'Hush!' said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips.  'He went  out to-day a wooing.  I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should  never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim  that are now as bright as--see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come  out!  Whose eyes are they?  If they are angels' eyes, why do they  look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all  the night?'

 

'Now Heaven help this silly fellow,' murmured the perplexed  locksmith; 'can he know this gentleman?  His mother's house is not  far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is.  Barnaby,  my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we'll ride home  together.'

 

'I can't touch him!' cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering  as with a strong spasm; he's bloody!'

 

'It's in his nature, I know,' muttered the locksmith, 'it's cruel  to ask him, but I must have help.  Barnaby--good Barnaby--dear  Barnaby--if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and  everybody's life that loves him, help me to raise him and lay him  down.'

 

'Cover him then, wrap him close--don't let me see it--smell it--hear the word.  Don't speak the word--don't!'

 

'No, no, I'll not.  There, you see he's covered now.  Gently.  Well  done, well done!'

 

They placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was  strong and active, but all the time they were so occupied he  shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of  terror.

 

This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden's  own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded  onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his  fingers, and Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an  adventure now, which would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the  Maypole, for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

 


Chapter 4

 

In the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell,  towards that part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter  House, and in one of those cool, shady Streets, of which a few,  widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the  metropolis,--each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient  citizen who long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its  infirmity until in course of time it tumbles down, and is replaced  by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and ornamental  work, and all the vanities of modern days,--in this quarter, and in  a street of this description, the business of the present chapter  lies.

 

At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years  ago, a very large part of what is London now had no existence.   Even in the brains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up  no long rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no  assemblages of palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in  the open fields.  Although this part of town was then, as now,  parcelled out in streets, and plentifully peopled, it wore a  different aspect.  There were gardens to many of the houses, and  trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up  and down, which in these days would be sought in vain.  Fields were  nigh at hand, through which the New River took its winding course,  and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time.  Nature was  not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and  although there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working  jewellers by scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer  to it than many modern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers'  walks at no great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long  before the lovers of this age were born, or, as the phrase goes,  thought of.

 

In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady  side of the way--for good housewives know that sunlight damages  their cherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its  intrusive glare--there stood the house with which we have to deal.   It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall;  not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking  house, with a conical roof going up into a peak over its garret  window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head  of an elderly gentleman with one eye.  It was not built of brick or  lofty stone, but of wood and plaster; it was not planned with a  dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no one window matched  the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything  besides itself.

 

The shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first  floor, where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between  it and any other shop stopped short and ceased.  People who went in  and out didn't go up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in  upon a level with the street, but dived down three steep stairs,  as into a cellar.  Its floor was paved with stone and brick, as  that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of window framed and  glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast  high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting  as much cold air as light, and very often more.  Behind this shop  was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a paved yard, and  beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised some feet  above it.  Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscoted  parlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had  entered, was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed  most strangers on their first entrance were observed to grow  extremely thoughtful, as weighing and pondering in their minds  whether the upper rooms were only approachable by ladders from  without; never suspecting that two of the most unassuming and  unlikely doors in existence, which the most ingenious mechanician  on earth must of necessity have supposed to be the doors of  closets, opened out of this room--each without the smallest  preparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage--upon  two dark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other  downward, which were the sole means of communication between that  chamber and the other portions of the house.

 

With all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously  tidy, or more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in  London, in all England.  There were not cleaner windows, or whiter  floors, or brighter Stoves, or more highly shining articles of  furniture in old mahogany; there was not more rubbing, scrubbing,  burnishing and polishing, in the whole street put together.  Nor  was this excellence attained without some cost and trouble and  great expenditure of voice, as the neighbours were frequently  reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked and assisted in  its being put to rights on cleaning days--which were usually from  Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.

 

Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith  stood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man,  gazing disconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in  vivid yellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front,  and swung to and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if  complaining that it had nothing to unlock.  Sometimes, he looked  over his shoulder into the shop, which was so dark and dingy with  numerous tokens of his trade, and so blackened by the smoke of a  little forge, near which his 'prentice was at work, that it would  have been difficult for one unused to such espials to have  distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth make and shape,  great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finished  locks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung in  clusters from the ceiling.

 

After a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many  such backward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a  look at the upper windows.  One of them chanced to be thrown open  at the moment, and a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the  loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon;  the face of a pretty, laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and  healthful--the very impersonation of good-humour and blooming  beauty.

 

'Hush!' she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the  window underneath.  'Mother is still asleep.'

 

'Still, my dear,' returned the locksmith in the same tone.  'You  talk as if she had been asleep all night, instead of little more  than half an hour.  But I'm very thankful.  Sleep's a blessing--no  doubt about it.'  The last few words he muttered to himself.

 

'How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never  tell us where you were, or send us word!' said the girl.

 

'Ah Dolly, Dolly!' returned the locksmith, shaking his head, and  smiling, 'how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed!  Come down to  breakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you'll wake your  mother.  She must be tired, I am sure--I am.'

 

Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his  daughter's nod, he was passing into the workshop, with the smile  she had awakened still beaming on his face, when he just caught  sight of his 'prentice's brown paper cap ducking down to avoid  observation, and shrinking from the window back to its former  place, which the wearer no sooner reached than he began to hammer  lustily.

 

'Listening again, Simon!' said Gabriel to himself.  'That's bad.   What in the name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I  always catch him listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other  time!  A bad habit, Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way.  Ah! you may  hammer, but you won't beat that out of me, if you work at it till  your time's up!'

 

So saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the  workshop, and confronted the subject of these remarks.

 

'There's enough of that just now,' said the locksmith.  'You  needn't make any more of that confounded clatter.  Breakfast's  ready.'

 

'Sir,' said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiar  little bow cut short off at the neck, 'I shall attend you  immediately.'

 

'I suppose,' muttered Gabriel, 'that's out of the 'Prentice's  Garland or the 'Prentice's Delight, or the 'Prentice's Warbler, or  the Prentice's Guide to the Gallows, or some such improving  textbook.  Now he's going to beautify himself--here's a precious  locksmith!'

 

Quite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark  corner by the parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang  from his seat, and in two extraordinary steps, something between  skating and minuet dancing, bounded to a washing place at the other  end of the shop, and there removed from his face and hands all  traces of his previous work--practising the same step all the time  with the utmost gravity.  This done, he drew from some concealed  place a little scrap of looking-glass, and with its assistance  arranged his hair, and ascertained the exact state of a little  carbuncle on his nose.  Having now completed his toilet, he placed  the fragment of mirror on a low bench, and looked over his shoulder  at so much of his legs as could be reflected in that small compass,  with the greatest possible complacency and satisfaction.

 

Sim, as he was called in the locksmith's family, or Mr Simon  Tappertit, as he called himself, and required all men to style him  out of doors, on holidays, and Sundays out,--was an old-fashioned,  thin-faced, sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow,  very little more than five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in  his own mind that he was above the middle size; rather tall, in  fact, than otherwise.  Of his figure, which was well enough formed,  though somewhat of the leanest, he entertained the highest  admiration; and with his legs, which, in knee-breeches, were  perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured to a degree  amounting to enthusiasm.  He also had some majestic, shadowy ideas,  which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends,  concerning the power of his eye.  Indeed he had been known to go so  far as to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the  haughtiest beauty by a simple process, which he termed 'eyeing her  over;' but it must be added, that neither of this faculty, nor of  the power he claimed to have, through the same gift, of vanquishing  and heaving down dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he ever  furnished evidence which could be deemed quite satisfactory and  conclusive.

 

It may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of  Mr Tappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul.   As certain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their  dimensions, will ferment, and fret, and chafe in their  imprisonment, so the spiritual essence or soul of Mr Tappertit  would sometimes fume within that precious cask, his body, until,  with great foam and froth and splutter, it would force a vent, and  carry all before it.  It was his custom to remark, in reference to  any one of these occasions, that his soul had got into his head;  and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapes and mishaps  befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no small  difficulty from his worthy master.

 

Sim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-mentioned soul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which  fancies, like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed  upon), had a mighty notion of his order; and had been heard by the  servant-maid openly expressing his regret that the 'prentices no  longer carried clubs wherewith to mace the citizens: that was his  strong expression.  He was likewise reported to have said that in  former times a stigma had been cast upon the body by the execution  of George Barnwell, to which they should not have basely  submitted, but should have demanded him of the legislature--temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if necessary--to  be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit.  These  thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the  'prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at  their head; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his  hearers, hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a  certain Lion Heart ready to become their captain, who, once afoot,  would make the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne.

 

In respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no  less of an adventurous and enterprising character.  He had been  seen, beyond dispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at  the corner of the street on Sunday nights, and to put them  carefully in his pocket before returning home; and it was quite  notorious that on all great holiday occasions it was his habit to  exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for a pair of glittering  paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted most conveniently  in that same spot.  Add to this that he was in years just twenty,  in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred; that  he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration of  his master's daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain  obscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love,  toasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christian  name, he said, began with a D--;--and as much is known of Sim  Tappertit, who has by this time followed the locksmith in to  breakfast, as is necessary to be known in making his acquaintance.

 

It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea  equipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of  beef, a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered  Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order.   There was also a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into  the form of an old gentleman, not by any means unlike the  locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering  to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home-brewed  ale.  But, better far than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or  ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or  water can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith's  rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant,  and malt became as nothing.

 

Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by.   It's too much.  There are bounds to human endurance.  So thought  Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his--those lips  within Sim's reach from day to day, and yet so far off.  He had a  respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might  choke him.

 

'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over,  and they took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last  night?'

 

'All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.'

 

'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you  came up!'

 

'Ay--Mr Edward.  And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all  his might.  It was well it happened as it did; for the road's a  lonely one, the hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor  Barnaby even less sensible than usual from surprise and fright, the  young gentleman might have met his death in a very short time.'

 

'I dread to think of it!' cried his daughter with a shudder.  'How  did you know him?'

 

'Know him!' returned the locksmith.  'I didn't know him--how could  I?  I had never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him.   I took him to Mrs Rudge's; and she no sooner saw him than the truth  came out.'

 

'Miss Emma, father--If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as  it is sure to be, she will go distracted.'

 

'Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-natured,' said the locksmith.  'Miss Emma was with her uncle at the  masquerade at Carlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at  the Warren told me, sorely against her will.  What does your  blockhead father when he and Mrs Rudge have laid their heads  together, but goes there when he ought to be abed, makes interest  with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask and domino,  and mixes with the masquers.'

 

'And like himself to do so!' cried the girl, putting her fair arm  round his neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.

 

'Like himself!' repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but  evidently delighted with the part he had taken, and with her  praise.  'Very like himself--so your mother said.  However, he  mingled with the crowd, and prettily worried and badgered he was, I  warrant you, with people squeaking, "Don't you know me?" and "I've  found you out," and all that kind of nonsense in his ears.  He  might have wandered on till now, but in a little room there was a  young lady who had taken off her mask, on account of the place  being very warm, and was sitting there alone.'

 

'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily.

 

'And that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner  whispered to her what the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with  nearly as much art as you could have used yourself--than she gives  a kind of scream and faints away.'

 

'What did you do--what happened next?' asked his daughter.  'Why,  the masks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and  I thought myself in luck to get clear off, that's all,' rejoined  the locksmith.  'What happened when I reached home you may guess,  if you didn't hear it.  Ah!  Well, it's a poor heart that never  rejoices.--Put Toby this way, my dear.'

 

This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been  made.  Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman's benevolent  forehead, the locksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among  the eatables, kept them there so long, at the same time raising the  vessel slowly in the air, that at length Toby stood on his head  upon his nose, when he smacked his lips, and set him on the table  again with fond reluctance.

 

Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no  part of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such  silent manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible  with the favourable display of his eyes.  Regarding the pause which  now ensued, as a particularly advantageous opportunity for doing  great execution with them upon the locksmith's daughter (who he had  no doubt was looking at him in mute admiration), he began to screw  and twist his face, and especially those features, into such  extraordinary, hideous, and unparalleled contortions, that Gabriel,  who happened to look towards him, was stricken with amazement.

 

'Why, what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the  locksmith.  'Is he choking?'

 

'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain.

 

'Who?  Why, you,' returned his master.  'What do you mean by making  those horrible faces over your breakfast?'

 

'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, rather  discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's  daughter smiling.

 

'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily.  'Don't be a fool, for  I'd rather see you in your senses.  These young fellows,' he added,  turning to his daughter, 'are always committing some folly or  another.  There was a quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last  night though I can't say Joe was much in fault either.  He'll be  missing one of these mornings, and will have gone away upon some  wild-goose errand, seeking his fortune.--Why, what's the matter,  Doll?  YOU are making faces now.  The girls are as bad as the boys  every bit!'

 

'It's the tea,' said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very  white, which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald--'so very hot.'

 

Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table,  and breathed hard.

 

'Is that all?' returned the locksmith.  'Put some more milk in it.--Yes, I am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and  gains upon one every time one sees him.  But he'll start off,  you'll find.  Indeed he told me as much himself!'

 

'Indeed!' cried Dolly in a faint voice.  'In-deed!'

 

'Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?' said the  locksmith.

 

But, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken  with a troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough,  that, when she left off, the tears were starting in her bright  eyes.  The good-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back  and applying such gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from  Mrs Varden, making known to all whom it might concern, that she  felt too much indisposed to rise after her great agitation and  anxiety of the previous night; and therefore desired to be  immediately accommodated with the little black teapot of strong  mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a middling-sized  dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual in two  volumes post octavo.  Like some other ladies who in remote ages  flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most  ill-tempered.  Whenever she and her husband were at unusual  variance, then the Protestant Manual was in high feather.

 

Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the  triumvirate broke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all  despatch; Gabriel, to some out-of-door work in his little chaise;  and Sim, to his daily duty in the workshop, to which retreat he  carried the big look, although the loaf remained behind.

 

Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his  apron on, became quite gigantic.  It was not until he had several  times walked up and down with folded arms, and the longest strides  be could take, and had kicked a great many small articles out of  his way, that his lip began to curl.  At length, a gloomy derision  came upon his features, and he smiled; uttering meanwhile with  supreme contempt the monosyllable 'Joe!'

 

'I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,' he said, 'and  that was of course the reason of her being confused.  Joe!'

 

He walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if  possible with longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance  at his legs, and sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another  'Joe!'  In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again  assumed the paper cap and tried to work.  No.  It could not be  done.

 

'I'll do nothing to-day,' said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again,  'but grind.  I'll grind up all the tools.  Grinding will suit my  present humour well.  Joe!'

 

Whirr-r-r-r.  The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were  flying off in showers.  This was the occupation for his heated  spirit.

 

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.

 

'Something will come of this!' said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in  triumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve.  'Something  will come of this.  I hope it mayn't be human gore!'

 

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

 


Chapter 5

 

As soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied  forth, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain the  progress of his recovery.  The house where he had left him was in a  by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither he  hied with all speed, bent upon returning with as little delay as  might be, and getting to bed betimes.

 

The evening was boisterous--scarcely better than the previous night  had been.  It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep his  legs at the street corners, or to make head against the high wind,  which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some  paces, or, in defiance of all his energy, forced him to take  shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent.   Occasionally a hat or wig, or both, came spinning and trundling  past him, like a mad thing; while the more serious spectacle of  falling tiles and slates, or of masses of brick and mortar or  fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement near at hand,  and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the  journey, or make the way less dreary.

 

'A trying night for a man like me to walk in!' said the locksmith,  as he knocked softly at the widow's door.  'I'd rather be in old  John's chimney-corner, faith!'

 

'Who's there?' demanded a woman's voice from within.  Being  answered, it added a hasty word of welcome, and the door was  quickly opened.

 

She was about forty--perhaps two or three years older--with a  cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty.  It bore  traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and  Time had smoothed them.  Any one who had bestowed but a casual  glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother, from  the strong resemblance between them; but where in his face there  was wildness and vacancy, in hers there was the patient composure  of long effort and quiet resignation.

 

One thing about this face was very strange and startling.  You  could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling  that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror.  It  was not on the surface.  It was in no one feature that it lingered.   You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and  say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so.  Yet there  it always lurked--something for ever dimly seen, but ever there,  and never absent for a moment.  It was the faintest, palest shadow  of some look, to which an instant of intense and most unutterable  horror only could have given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it  was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and fixed it in  the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.

 

More faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were,  because of his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon  the son.  Seen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it,  and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas.  They who  knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow was,  before her husband's and his master's murder, understood it well.   They recollected how the change had come, and could call to mind  that when her son was born, upon the very day the deed was known,  he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear of blood but half washed  out.

 

'God save you, neighbour!' said the locksmith, as he followed her,  with the air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a  cheerful fire was burning.

 

'And you,' she answered smiling.  'Your kind heart has brought you  here again.  Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there  are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.'

 

'Tut, tut,' returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming  them.  'You women are such talkers.  What of the patient,  neighbour?'

 

'He is sleeping now.  He was very restless towards daylight, and  for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly.  But the fever has left  him, and the doctor says he will soon mend.  He must not be removed  until to-morrow.'

 

'He has had visitors to-day--humph?' said Gabriel, slyly.

 

'Yes.  Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and  had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.'

 

'No ladies?' said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking  disappointed.

 

'A letter,' replied the widow.

 

'Come.  That's better than nothing!' replied the locksmith.  'Who  was the bearer?'

 

'Barnaby, of course.'

 

'Barnaby's a jewel!' said Varden; 'and comes and goes with ease  where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand  of it.  He is not out wandering, again, I hope?'

 

'Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you  know, and on his feet all day.  He was quite tired out.  Ah,  neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so--if I could but tame  down that terrible restlessness--'

 

'In good time,' said the locksmith, kindly, 'in good time--don't be  down-hearted.  To my mind he grows wiser every day.'

 

The widow shook her head.  And yet, though she knew the locksmith  sought to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she  was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted son.

 

'He will be a 'cute man yet,' resumed the locksmith.  'Take care,  when we are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn't put us to the  blush, that's all.  But our other friend,' he added, looking under  the table and about the floor--'sharpest and cunningest of all the  sharp and cunning ones--where's he?'

 

'In Barnaby's room,' rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.

 

'Ah!  He's a knowing blade!' said Varden, shaking his head.  'I  should be sorry to talk secrets before him.  Oh!  He's a deep  customer.  I've no doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts  if he chooses.  What was that?  Him tapping at the door?'

 

'No,' returned the widow.  'It was in the street, I think.  Hark!   Yes.  There again!  'Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter.   Who can it be!'

 

They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead,  and the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound  of their voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber.  The  party without, whoever it was, could have stood close to the  shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing the light  through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been  persuaded that only one person was there.

 

'Some thief or ruffian maybe,' said the locksmith.  'Give me the  light.'

 

'No, no,' she returned hastily.  'Such visitors have never come to  this poor dwelling.  Do you stay here.  You're within call, at the  worst.  I would rather go myself--alone.'

 

'Why?' said the locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he  had caught up from the table.

 

'Because--I don't know why--because the wish is so strong upon me,'  she rejoined.  'There again--do not detain me, I beg of you!'

 

Gabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually  so mild and quiet thus agitated, and with so little cause.  She  left the room and closed the door behind her.  She stood for a  moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock.  In this  short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the  window--a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some  disagreeable association with--whispered 'Make haste.'

 

The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its  way so readily to sleepers' ears, and wakes them in a fright.  For  a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew  back from the window, and listened.

 

The wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what  passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was  the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment's  silence--broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek,  or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all  three; and the words 'My God!' uttered in a voice it chilled him to  hear.

 

He rushed out upon the instant.  There, at last, was that dreadful  look--the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen  before--upon her face.  There she stood, frozen to the ground,  gazing with starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature  fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last  night.  His eyes met those of the locksmith.  It was but a flash,  an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.

 

The locksmith was upon him--had the skirts of his streaming garment  almost in his grasp--when his arms were tightly clutched, and the  widow flung herself upon the ground before him.

 

'The other way--the other way,' she cried.  'He went the other way.   Turn--turn!'

 

'The other way!  I see him now,' rejoined the locksmith, pointing--'yonder--there--there is his shadow passing by that light.  What--who is this?  Let me go.'

 

'Come back, come back!' exclaimed the woman, clasping him; 'Do not  touch him on your life.  I charge you, come back.  He carries other  lives besides his own.  Come back!'

 

'What does this mean?' cried the locksmith.

 

'No matter what it means, don't ask, don't speak, don't think about  it.  He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped.  Come back!'

 

The old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about  him; and, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into  the house.  It was not until she had chained and double-locked the  door, fastened every bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a  maniac, and drawn him back into the room, that she turned upon him,  once again, that stony look of horror, and, sinking down into a  chair, covered her face, and shuddered, as though the hand of death  were on her.

 


Chapter 6

 

Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had  passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon  the shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and  would have gazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by  compassion and humanity.

 

'You are ill,' said Gabriel.  'Let me call some neighbour in.'

 

'Not for the world,' she rejoined, motioning to him with her  trembling hand, and holding her face averted.  'It is enough that  you have been by, to see this.'

 

'Nay, more than enough--or less,' said Gabriel.

 

'Be it so,' she returned.  'As you like.  Ask me no questions, I  entreat you.'

 

'Neighbour,' said the locksmith, after a pause.  'Is this fair, or  reasonable, or just to yourself?  Is it like you, who have known me  so long and sought my advice in all matters--like you, who from a  girl have had a strong mind and a staunch heart?'

 

'I have need of them,' she replied.  'I am growing old, both in  years and care.  Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them  weaker than they used to be.  Do not speak to me.'

 

'How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!' returned the  locksmith.  'Who was that man, and why has his coming made this  change in you?'

 

She was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself  from falling on the ground.

 

'I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,' said the  locksmith, 'who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has  tried to prove it when he could.  Who is this ill-favoured man, and  what has he to do with you?  Who is this ghost, that is only seen  in the black nights and bad weather?  How does he know, and why  does he haunt, this house, whispering through chinks and crevices,  as if there was that between him and you, which neither durst so  much as speak aloud of?  Who is he?'

 

'You do well to say he haunts this house,' returned the widow,  faintly.  'His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and  darkness, at noonday and midnight.  And now, at last, he has come  in the body!'

 

'But he wouldn't have gone in the body,' returned the locksmith  with some irritation, 'if you had left my arms and legs at liberty.   What riddle is this?'

 

'It is one,' she answered, rising as she spoke, 'that must remain  for ever as it is.  I dare not say more than that.'

 

'Dare not!' repeated the wondering locksmith.

 

'Do not press me,' she replied.  'I am sick and faint, and every  faculty of life seems dead within me.--No!--Do not touch me,  either.'

 

Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell  back as she made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent  wonder.

 

'Let me go my way alone,' she said in a low voice, 'and let the  hands of no honest man touch mine to-night.'  When she had  tottered to the door, she turned, and added with a stronger effort,  'This is a secret, which, of necessity, I trust to you.  You are a  true man.  As you have ever been good and kind to me,--keep it.  If  any noise was heard above, make some excuse--say anything but what  you really saw, and never let a word or look between us, recall  this circumstance.  I trust to you.  Mind, I trust to you.  How  much I trust, you never can conceive.'

 

Casting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left  him there alone.

 

Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with  a countenance full of surprise and dismay.  The more he pondered on  what had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable  interpretation.  To find this widow woman, whose life for so many  years had been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and  who, in her quiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion  and respect of all who knew her--to find her linked mysteriously  with an ill-omened man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet  favouring his escape, was a discovery that pained as much as  startled him.  Her reliance on his secrecy, and his tacit  acquiescence, increased his distress of mind.  If he had spoken  boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her when she rose to  leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of silently  compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have been  more at ease.

 

'Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!'  said Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with  greater ease, and looking ruefully at the fire.  'I have no more  readiness than old John himself.  Why didn't I say firmly, "You  have no right to such secrets, and I demand of you to tell me what  this means," instead of standing gaping at her, like an old moon-calf as I am!  But there's my weakness.  I can be obstinate enough  with men if need be, but women may twist me round their fingers at  their pleasure.'

 

He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and,  warming his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his  bald head with it, until it glistened again.

 

'And yet,' said the locksmith, softening under this soothing  process, and stopping to smile, 'it MAY be nothing.  Any drunken  brawler trying to make his way into the house, would have alarmed a  quiet soul like her.  But then'--and here was the vexation--'how  came it to be that man; how comes he to have this influence over  her; how came she to favour his getting away from me; and, more  than all, how came she not to say it was a sudden fright, and  nothing more?  It's a sad thing to have, in one minute, reason to  mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old sweetheart into  the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon my mind!--Is that Barnaby outside there?'

 

'Ay!' he cried, looking in and nodding.  'Sure enough it's  Barnaby--how did you guess?'

 

'By your shadow,' said the locksmith.

 

'Oho!' cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, 'He's a merry  fellow, that shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly.  We  have such pranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass!   Sometimes he'll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes  no bigger than a dwarf.  Now, he goes on before, and now behind,  and anon he'll be stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping  whenever I stop, and thinking I can't see him, though I have my eye  on him sharp enough.  Oh! he's a merry fellow.  Tell me--is he  silly too?  I think he is.'

 

'Why?' asked Gabriel.

 

'Because be never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.--Why don't you come?'

 

'Where?'

 

'Upstairs.  He wants you.  Stay--where's HIS shadow?  Come.  You're  a wise man; tell me that.'

 

'Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,' returned the locksmith.

 

'No!' he replied, shaking his head.  'Guess again.'

 

'Gone out a walking, maybe?'

 

'He has changed shadows with a woman,' the idiot whispered in his  ear, and then fell back with a look of triumph.  'Her shadow's  always with him, and his with her.  That's sport I think, eh?'

 

'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, with a grave look; 'come hither,  lad.'

 

'I know what you want to say.  I know!' he replied, keeping away  from him.  'But I'm cunning, I'm silent.  I only say so much to  you--are you ready?'  As he spoke, he caught up the light, and  waved it with a wild laugh above his head.

 

'Softly--gently,' said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to  keep him calm and quiet.  'I thought you had been asleep.'

 

'So I HAVE been asleep,' he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes.   'There have been great faces coming and going--close to my face,  and then a mile away--low places to creep through, whether I would  or no--high churches to fall down from--strange creatures crowded  up together neck and heels, to sit upon the bed--that's sleep, eh?'

 

'Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,' said the locksmith.

 

'Dreams!' he echoed softly, drawing closer to him.  'Those are not  dreams.'

 

'What are,' replied the locksmith, 'if they are not?'

 

'I dreamed,' said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden's, and  peering close into his face as he answered in a whisper, 'I dreamed  just now that something--it was in the shape of a man--followed me--came softly after me--wouldn't let me be--but was always hiding  and crouching, like a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should  pass; when it crept out and came softly after me.--Did you ever see  me run?'

 

'Many a time, you know.'

 

'You never saw me run as I did in this dream.  Still it came  creeping on to worry me.  Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--leaped--sprung out of bed, and to the window--and there, in the  street below--but he is waiting for us.  Are you coming?'

 

'What in the street below, Barnaby?' said Varden, imagining that he  traced some connection between this vision and what had actually  occurred.

 

Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the  light above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith's  arm more tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.

 

They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with  chairs, whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture  of very little worth; but clean and neatly kept.  Reclining in an  easy-chair before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was  Edward Chester, the young gentleman who had been the first to quit  the Maypole on the previous night, and who, extending his hand to  the locksmith, welcomed him as his preserver and friend.

 

'Say no more, sir, say no more,' said Gabriel.  'I hope I would  have done at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most  of all for you, sir.  A certain young lady,' he added, with some  hesitation, 'has done us many a kind turn, and we naturally feel--I  hope I give you no offence in saying this, sir?'

 

The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in  his chair as if in pain.

 

'It's no great matter,' he said, in answer to the locksmith's  sympathising look, 'a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from  being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the

 

loss of blood.  Be seated, Mr Varden.'

 

'If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,'  returned the locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and  bending over him, 'I'll stand here for the convenience of speaking  low.  Barnaby is not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such  times talking never does him good.'

 

They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a  seat on the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was  making puzzles on his fingers with a skein of string.

 

'Pray, tell me, sir,' said Varden, dropping his voice still lower,  'exactly what happened last night.  I have my reason for inquiring.   You left the Maypole, alone?'

 

'And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place  where you found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.'

 

'Behind you?' said the locksmith.

 

'Indeed, yes--behind me.  It was a single rider, who soon overtook  me, and checking his horse, inquired the way to London.'

 

'You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are,  scouring the roads in all directions?' said Varden.

 

'I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols  in their holster-case with the landlord's son.  I directed him as  he desired.  Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me  furiously, as if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse's  hoofs.  In starting aside, I slipped and fell.  You found me with  this stab and an ugly bruise or two, and without my purse--in which  he found little enough for his pains.  And now, Mr Varden,' he  added, shaking the locksmith by the hand, 'saving the extent of my  gratitude to you, you know as much as I.'

 

'Except,' said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking  cautiously towards their silent neighhour, 'except in respect of  the robber himself.  What like was he, sir?  Speak low, if you  please.  Barnaby means no harm, but I have watched him oftener than  you, and I know, little as you would think it, that he's listening  now.'

 

It required a strong confidence in the locksmith's veracity to  lead any one to this belief, for every sense and faculty that  Barnahy possessed, seemed to be fixed upon his game, to the  exclusion of all other things.  Something in the young man's face  expressed this opinion, for Gabriel repeated what he had just said,  more earnestly than before, and with another glance towards  Barnaby, again asked what like the man was.

 

'The night was so dark,' said Edward, 'the attack so sudden, and  he so wrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say.  It seems  that--'

 

'Don't mention his name, sir,' returned the locksmith, following  his look towards Barnaby; 'I know HE saw him.  I want to know what  YOU saw.'

 

'All I remember is,' said Edward, 'that as he checked his horse his  hat was blown off.  He caught it, and replaced it on his head,  which I observed was bound with a dark handkerchief.  A stranger  entered the Maypole while I was there, whom I had not seen--for I  had sat apart for reasons of my own--and when I rose to leave the  room and glanced round, he was in the shadow of the chimney and  hidden from my sight.  But, if he and the robber were two different  persons, their voices were strangely and most remarkably alike; for  directly the man addressed me in the road, I recognised his speech  again.'

 

'It is as I feared.  The very man was here to-night,' thought the  locksmith, changing colour.  'What dark history is this!'

 

'Halloa!' cried a hoarse voice in his ear.  'Halloa, halloa,  halloa!  Bow wow wow.  What's the matter here!  Hal-loa!'

 

The speaker--who made the locksmith start as if he had been some  supernatural agent--was a large raven, who had perched upon the top  of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a  polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of  comprehending every word, to all they had said up to this point;  turning his head from one to the other, as if his office were to  judge between them, and it were of the very last importance that he  should not lose a word.

 

'Look at him!' said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird  and a kind of fear of him.  'Was there ever such a knowing imp as  that!  Oh he's a dreadful fellow!'

 

The raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye  shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few  seconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it  seemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his  mouth.

 

'Halloa, halloa, halloa!  What's the matter here!  Keep up your  spirits.  Never say die.  Bow wow wow.  I'm a devil, I'm a devil,  I'm a devil.  Hurrah!'--And then, as if exulting in his infernal  character, he began to whistle.

 

'I more than half believe he speaks the truth.  Upon my word I do,'  said Varden.  'Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I  was saying?'

 

To which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it were, and  moving his body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined,  'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil,' and flapped his wings  against his sides as if he were bursting with laughter.  Barnaby  clapped his hands, and fairly rolled upon the ground in an ecstasy  of delight.

 

'Strange companions, sir,' said the locksmith, shaking his head,  and looking from one to the other.  'The bird has all the wit.'

 

'Strange indeed!' said Edward, holding out his forefinger to the  raven, who, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive at it  immediately with his iron bill.  'Is he old?'

 

'A mere boy, sir,' replied the locksmith.  'A hundred and twenty,  or thereabouts.  Call him down, Barnaby, my man.'

 

'Call him!' echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and  staring vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his  face.  'But who can make him come!  He calls me, and makes me go  where he will.  He goes on before, and I follow.  He's the master,  and I'm the man.  Is that the truth, Grip?'

 

The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;--a  most expressive croak, which seemed to say, 'You needn't let these  fellows into our secrets.  We understand each other.  It's all  right.'

 

'I make HIM come?' cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird.  'Him, who  never goes to sleep, or so much as winks!--Why, any time of night,  you may see his eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks.  And  every night, and all night too, he's broad awake, talking to  himself, thinking what he shall do to-morrow, where we shall go,  and what he shall steal, and hide, and bury.  I make HIM come!   Ha ha ha!'

 

On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself.   After a short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the  ceiling and at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the  floor, and went to Barnaby--not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a  pace like that of a very particular gentleman with exceedingly  tight boots on, trying to walk fast over loose pebbles.  Then,  stepping into his extended hand, and condescending to be held out  at arm's length, he gave vent to a succession of sounds, not unlike  the drawing of some eight or ten dozen of long corks, and again  asserted his brimstone birth and parentage with great distinctness.

 

The locksmith shook his head--perhaps in some doubt of the  creature's being really nothing but a bird--perhaps in pity for  Bamaby, who by this time had him in his arms, and was rolling  about, with him, on the ground.  As he raised his eyes from the  poor fellow he encountered those of his mother, who had entered the  room, and was looking on in silence.

 

She was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but had wholly  subdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look.  Varden fancied  as he glanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she  busied herself about the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better.

 

It was time he went to bed, she said.  He was to be removed to his  own home on the morrow, and he had already exceeded his time for  sitting up, by a full hour.  Acting on this hint, the locksmith  prepared to take his leave.

 

'By the bye,' said Edward, as he shook him by the hand, and looked  from him to Mrs Rudge and back again, 'what noise was that below?   I heard your voice in the midst of it, and should have inquired  before, but our other conversation drove it from my memory.  What  was it?'

 

The locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip.  She leant  against the chair, and bent her eyes upon the ground.  Barnaby too--he was listening.

 

--'Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,' Varden at length made answer,  looking steadily at the widow as he spoke.  'He mistook the house,  and tried to force an entrance.'

 

She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless.  As the  locksmith said 'Good night,' and Barnaby caught up the candle to  light him down the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him--with more haste and earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared  to warrant--not to stir.  The raven followed them to satisfy  himself that all was right below, and when they reached the street-door, stood on the bottom stair drawing corks out of number.

 

With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and  turned the key.  As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith  said in a low voice,

 

'I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake  of bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so  for my own.  I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none.  I  can't help the suspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I  tell you plainly, to leave Mr Edward here.  Take care he comes to  no hurt.  I doubt the safety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it  so soon.  Now, let me go.'

 

For a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting  the strong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the  door--no wider than was sufficient for the passage of his body--and motioned him away.  As the locksmith stood upon the step, it  was chained and locked behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of  these precautions, barked like a lusty house-dog.

 

'In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from  a gibbet--he listening and hiding here--Barnaby first upon the spot  last night--can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty  of such crimes in secret!' said the locksmith, musing.  'Heaven  forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is  poor, the temptation may be great, and we daily hear of things as  strange.--Ay, bark away, my friend.  If there's any wickedness  going on, that raven's in it, I'll be sworn.'

Chapter 7

 

Mrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain  temper--a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper  tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable.   Thus it generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs  Varden was dull; and that when other people were dull, Mrs Varden  was disposed to be amazingly cheerful.  Indeed the worthy housewife  was of such a capricious nature, that she not only attained a  higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her ability to  be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an  instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and  forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short quarter of  an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major on the  peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and  rapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.

 

It had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for  personal attractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like  her fair daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this  uncertainty of disposition strengthened and increased with her  temporal prosperity; and divers wise men and matrons, on friendly  terms with the locksmith and his family, even went so far as to  assert, that a tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the world's  ladder--such as the breaking of the bank in which her husband kept  his money, or some little fall of that kind--would be the making  of her, and could hardly fail to render her one of the most  agreeable companions in existence.  Whether they were right or  wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like bodies,  will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from mere  excess of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by  remedies in themselves very nauseous and unpalatable.

 

Mrs Varden's chief aider and abettor, and at the same time her  principal victim and object of wrath, was her single domestic  servant, one Miss Miggs; or as she was called, in conformity with  those prejudices of society which lop and top from poor hand-maidens all such genteel excrescences--Miggs.  This Miggs was a  tall young lady, very much addicted to pattens in private life;  slender and shrewish, of a rather uncomfortable figure, and though  not absolutely ill-looking, of a sharp and acid visage.  As a  general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs held the male sex  to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice; to be fickle,  false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly undeserving.   When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal said,  was when Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to  wish with great emphasis that the whole race of women could but die  off, in order that the men might be brought to know the real value  of the blessings by which they set so little store; nay, her  feeling for her order ran so high, that she sometimes declared, if  she could only have good security for a fair, round number--say ten  thousand--of young virgins following her example, she would, to  spite mankind, hang, drown, stab, or poison herself, with a joy  past all expression.

 

It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he  knocked at his own house, with a shrill cry of 'Who's there?'

 

'Me, girl, me,' returned Gabriel.

 

What, already, sir!' said Miggs, opening the door with a look of  surprise.  'We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,--me  and mistress.  Oh, she has been SO bad!'

 

Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but  the parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew  for whose ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but  an approving look as he passed in.

 

'Master's come home, mim,' cried Miggs, running before him into the  parlour.  'You was wrong, mim, and I was right.  I thought he  wouldn't keep us up so late, two nights running, mim.  Master's  always considerate so far.  I'm so glad, mim, on your account.  I'm  a little'--here Miggs simpered--'a little sleepy myself; I'll own  it now, mim, though I said I wasn't when you asked me.  It ain't of  no consequence, mim, of course.'

 

'You had better,' said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that  Barnaby's raven was at Miggs's ankles, 'you had better get to bed  at once then.'

 

'Thanking you kindly, sir,' returned Miggs, 'I couldn't take my  rest in peace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than  that I knew mistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by  rights she ought to have been there, hours ago.'

 

'You're talkative, mistress,' said Varden, pulling off his  greatcoat, and looking at her askew.

 

'Taking the hint, sir,' cried Miggs, with a flushed face, 'and  thanking you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I  give offence by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask  your pardon, but am content to get myself into trouble and to be in  suffering.'

 

Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large  nightcap, had been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual,  looked round, and acknowledged Miggs's championship by commanding  her to hold her tongue.

 

Every little bone in Miggs's throat and neck developed itself with  a spitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, 'Yes, mim, I will.'

 

'How do you find yourself now, my dear?' said the locksmith,  taking a chair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and  rubbing his knees hard as he made the inquiry.

 

'You're very anxious to know, an't you?' returned Mrs Varden, with  her eyes upon the print.  'You, that have not been near me all day,  and wouldn't have been if I was dying!'

 

'My dear Martha--' said Gabriel.

 

Mrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to  the bottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and  then went on reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and  study.

 

'My dear Martha,' said the locksmith, 'how can you say such things,  when you know you don't mean them?  If you were dying!  Why, if  there was anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn't I  be in constant attendance upon you?'

 

'Yes!' cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, 'yes, you would.  I  don't doubt it, Varden.  Certainly you would.  That's as much as to  tell me that you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting  till the breath was out of my body, that you might go and marry  somebody else.'

 

Miggs groaned in sympathy--a little short groan, checked in its  birth, and changed into a cough.  It seemed to say, 'I can't help  it.  It's wrung from me by the dreadful brutality of that monster  master.'

 

'But you'll break my heart one of these days,' added Mrs Varden,  with more resignation, 'and then we shall both be happy.  My only  desire is to see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you  may settle ME as soon as you like.'

 

'Ah!' cried Miggs--and coughed again.

 

Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and  then said mildly, 'Has Dolly gone to bed?'

 

'Your master speaks to you,' said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over  her shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.

 

'No, my dear, I spoke to you,' suggested the locksmith.

 

'Did you hear me, Miggs?' cried the obdurate lady, stamping her  foot upon the ground.  'YOU are beginning to despise me now, are  you?  But this is example!'

 

At this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for  large or small parties, on the shortest notice and the most  reasonable terms, fell a crying violently; holding both her hands  tight upon her heart meanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent  its splitting into small fragments.  Mrs Varden, who likewise  possessed that faculty in high perfection, wept too, against Miggs;  and with such effect that Miggs gave in after a time, and, except  for an occasional sob, which seemed to threaten some remote  intention of breaking out again, left her mistress in possession of  the field.  Her superiority being thoroughly asserted, that lady  soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.

 

The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last  night so completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in  his chair, and would doubtless have slept there all night, but for  the voice of Mrs Varden, which, after a pause of some five minutes,  awoke him with a start.

 

'If I am ever,' said Mrs V.--not scolding, but in a sort of  monotonous remonstrance--'in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I  am ever more than usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable,  this is the way I am treated.'

 

'Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!' cried  Miggs.  'I never see such company!'

 

'Because,' said Mrs Varden, 'because I never interfere or  interrupt; because I never question where anybody comes or goes;  because my whole mind and soul is bent on saving where I can save,  and labouring in this house;--therefore, they try me as they do.'

 

'Martha,' urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as  possible, 'what is it you complain of?  I really came home with  every wish and desire to be happy.  I did, indeed.'

 

'What do I complain of!' retorted his wife.  'Is it a chilling  thing to have one's husband sulking and falling asleep directly he  comes home--to have him freezing all one's warm-heartedness, and  throwing cold water over the fireside?  Is it natural, when I know  he went out upon a matter in which I am as much interested as  anybody can be, that I should wish to know all that has happened,  or that he should tell me without my begging and praying him to do  it?  Is that natural, or is it not?'

 

'I am very sorry, Martha,' said the good-natured locksmith.  'I was  really afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I'll tell  you everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.'

 

'No, Varden,' returned his wife, rising with dignity.  'I dare say--thank you!  I'm not a child to be corrected one minute and petted  the next--I'm a little too old for that, Varden.  Miggs, carry the  light.--YOU can be cheerful, Miggs, at least'

 

Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of  compassionate despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest  state conceivable, and tossing her head as she glanced towards the  locksmith, bore off her mistress and the light together.

 

'Now, who would think,' thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and  drawing his chair nearer to the fire, 'that that woman could ever  be pleasant and agreeable?  And yet she can be.  Well, well, all of  us have our faults.  I'll not be hard upon hers.  We have been man  and wife too long for that.'

 

He dozed again--not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty  temper.  While his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper  stairs was partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight  of him, hastily drew back again.

 

'I wish,' murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round  the room, 'I wish somebody would marry Miggs.  But that's  impossible!  I wonder whether there's any madman alive, who would  marry Miggs!'

 

This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again,  and slept until the fire was quite burnt out.  At last he roused  himself; and having double-locked the street-door according to  custom, and put the key in his pocket, went off to bed.

 

He had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head  again appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a  little lamp.

 

'What the devil business has he to stop up so late!' muttered Sim,  passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge.   'Here's half the night gone already.  There's only one good that  has ever come to me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade,  and that's this piece of ironmongery, upon my soul!'

 

As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg  pocket of his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted  cautiously in the lock his master had secured, and softly opened  the door.  That done, he replaced his piece of secret workmanship  in his pocket; and leaving the lamp burning, and closing the door  carefully and without noise, stole out into the street--as little  suspected by the locksmith in his sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby  himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.

 


Chapter 8

 

Clear of the locksmith's house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his  cautious manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling,  swaggering, roving blade, who would rather kill a man than  otherwise, and eat him too if needful, made the best of his way  along the darkened streets.

 

Half pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and  assure himself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to  Barbican, and turning into one of the narrowest of the narrow  streets which diverged from that centre, slackened his pace and  wiped his heated brow, as if the termination of his walk were near  at hand.

 

It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in  truth one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance  by no means inviting.  From the main street he had entered, itself  little better than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind  court, or yard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant  odours.  Into this ill-favoured pit, the locksmith's vagrant  'prentice groped his way; and stopping at a house from whose  defaced and rotten front the rude effigy of a bottle swung to and  fro like some gibbeted malefactor, struck thrice upon an iron  grating with his foot.  After listening in vain for some response  to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and struck the  grating thrice again.

 

A further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration.  The  ground seemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.

 

'Is that the captain?' said a voice as ragged as the head.

 

'Yes,' replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, 'who  should it be?'

 

'It's so late, we gave you up,' returned the voice, as its owner  stopped to shut and fasten the grating.  'You're late, sir.'

 

'Lead on,' said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, 'and make  remarks when I require you.  Forward!'

 

This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and  unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep,  and slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from  the beaten track must have ended in a yawning water-butt.  But Mr  Tappertit being, like some other great commanders, favourable to  strong effects, and personal display, cried 'Forward!' again, in  the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with folded  arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a  small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table,  a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged  patchwork rug.

 

'Welcome, noble captain!' cried a lanky figure, rising as from a  nap.

 

The captain nodded.  Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood  composed in all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.

 

'What news to-night?' he asked, when he had looked into his very  soul.

 

'Nothing particular,' replied the other, stretching himself--and he  was so long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it--'how come you to be so late?'

 

'No matter,' was all the captain deigned to say in answer.  'Is the  room prepared?'

 

'It is,' replied the follower.

 

'The comrade--is he here?'

 

'Yes.  And a sprinkling of the others--you hear 'em?'

 

'Playing skittles!' said the captain moodily.  'Light-hearted  revellers!'

 

There was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which  these heedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and  stifling atmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant  thunder.  It certainly appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to  choose, for that or any other purpose of relaxation, if the other  cellars answered to the one in which this brief colloquy took  place; for the floors were of sodden earth, the walls and roof of  damp bare brick tapestried with the tracks of snails and slugs; the  air was sickening, tainted, and offensive.  It seemed, from one  strong flavour which was uppermost among the various odours of the  place, that it had, at no very distant period, been used as a  storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it accounted  for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably  suggestive of rats.  It was naturally damp besides, and little  trees of fungus sprung from every mouldering corner.

 

The proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged  head before mentioned--for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and  frowzy as a stunted hearth-broom--had by this time joined them; and  stood a little apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled  chin, and smiling in silence.  His eyes were closed; but had they  been wide open, it would have been easy to tell, from the attentive  expression of the face he turned towards them--pale and unwholesome  as might be expected in one of his underground existence--and from  a certain anxious raising and quivering of the lids, that he was  blind.

 

'Even Stagg hath been asleep,' said the long comrade, nodding  towards this person.

 

'Sound, captain, sound!' cried the blind man; 'what does my noble  captain drink--is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh?  Is it soaked  gunpowder, or blazing oil?  Give it a name, heart of oak, and we'd  get it for you, if it was wine from a bishop's cellar, or melted  gold from King George's mint.'

 

'See,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily, 'that it's something strong,  and comes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may  bring it from the devil's cellar, if you like.'

 

'Boldly said, noble captain!' rejoined the blind man.  'Spoken like  the 'Prentices' Glory.  Ha, ha!  From the devil's cellar!  A brave  joke!  The captain joketh.  Ha, ha, ha!'

 

'I'll tell you what, my fine feller,' said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the  host over as he walked to a closet, and took out a bottle and glass  as carelessly as if he had been in full possession of his sight,  'if you make that row, you'll find that the captain's very far from  joking, and so I tell you.'

 

'He's got his eyes on me!' cried Stagg, stopping short on his way  back, and affecting to screen his face with the bottle.  'I feel  'em though I can't see 'em.  Take 'em off, noble captain.  Remove  'em, for they pierce like gimlets.'

 

Mr Tappertit smiled grimly at his comrade; and twisting out one  more look--a kind of ocular screw--under the influence of which the  blind man feigned to undergo great anguish and torture, bade him,  in a softened tone, approach, and hold his peace.

 

'I obey you, captain,' cried Stagg, drawing close to him and  filling out a bumper without spilling a drop, by reason that he  held his little finger at the brim of the glass, and stopped at the  instant the liquor touched it, 'drink, noble governor.  Death to  all masters, life to all 'prentices, and love to all fair damsels.   Drink, brave general, and warm your gallant heart!'

 

Mr Tappertit condescended to take the glass from his outstretched  hand.  Stagg then dropped on one knee, and gently smoothed the  calves of his legs, with an air of humble admiration.

 

'That I had but eyes!' he cried, 'to behold my captain's  symmetrical proportions!  That I had but eyes, to look upon these  twin invaders of domestic peace!'

 

'Get out!' said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his favourite  limbs.  'Go along, will you, Stagg!'

 

'When I touch my own afterwards,' cried the host, smiting them  reproachfully, 'I hate 'em.  Comparatively speaking, they've no  more shape than wooden legs, beside these models of my noble  captain's.'

 

'Yours!' exclaimed Mr Tappertit.  'No, I should think not.  Don't  talk about those precious old toothpicks in the same breath with  mine; that's rather too much.  Here.  Take the glass.  Benjamin.   Lead on.  To business!'

 

With these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a  sullen majesty, passed with his companion through a little door at  the upper end of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his  private meditations.

 

The vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was  between the outer one from which they had just come, and that in  which the skittle-players were diverting themselves; as was  manifested by the increased noise and clamour of tongues, which was  suddenly stopped, however, and replaced by a dead silence, at a  signal from the long comrade.  Then, this young gentleman, going to  a little cupboard, returned with a thigh-bone, which in former  times must have been part and parcel of some individual at least as  long as himself, and placed the same in the hands of Mr Tappertit;  who, receiving it as a sceptre and staff of authority, cocked his  three-cornered hat fiercely on the top of his head, and mounted a  large table, whereon a chair of state, cheerfully ornamented with a  couple of skulls, was placed ready for his reception.

 

He had no sooner assumed this position, than another young  gentleman appeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who  made him a profound obeisance, and delivering it to the long  comrade, advanced to the table, and turning his back upon it, stood  there Atlas-wise.  Then, the long comrade got upon the table too;  and seating himself in a lower chair than Mr Tappertit's, with much  state and ceremony, placed the large book on the shoulders of their  mute companion as deliberately as if he had been a wooden desk, and  prepared to make entries therein with a pen of corresponding size.

 

When the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked  towards Mr Tappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone,  knocked nine times therewith upon one of the skulls.  At the ninth  stroke, a third young gentleman emerged from the door leading to  the skittle ground, and bowing low, awaited his commands.

 

'Prentice!' said the mighty captain, 'who waits without?'

 

The 'prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who  claimed admission into that secret society of 'Prentice Knights,  and a free participation in their rights, privileges, and  immunities.  Thereupon Mr Tappertit flourished the bone again, and  giving the other skull a prodigious rap on the nose, exclaimed  'Admit him!'  At these dread words the 'prentice bowed once more,  and so withdrew as he had come.

 

There soon appeared at the same door, two other 'prentices, having  between them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was attired  in a bag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished  lace; and who was girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws  of the Institution regulating the introduction of candidates, which  required them to assume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly  in lavender, for their convenience.  One of the conductors of this  novice held a rusty blunderbuss pointed towards his ear, and the  other a very ancient sabre, with which he carved imaginary  offenders as he came along in a sanguinary and anatomical manner.

 

As this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his  head.  The novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent  before him.  When he had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain  ordered the bandage to be removed, and proceeded to eye him over.

 

'Ha!' said the captain, thoughtfully, when he had concluded this  ordeal.  'Proceed.'

 

The long comrade read aloud as follows:--'Mark Gilbert.  Age,  nineteen.  Bound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden Fleece, Aldgate.   Loves Curzon's daughter.  Cannot say that Curzon's daughter loves  him.  Should think it probable.  Curzon pulled his ears last  Tuesday week.'

 

'How!' cried the captain, starting.

 

'For looking at his daughter, please you,' said the novice.

 

'Write Curzon down, Denounced,' said the captain.  'Put a black  cross against the name of Curzon.'

 

'So please you,' said the novice, 'that's not the worst--he calls  his 'prentice idle dog, and stops his beer unless he works to his  liking.  He gives Dutch cheese, too, eating Cheshire, sir, himself;  and Sundays out, are only once a month.'

 

'This,' said Mr Tappert;t gravely, 'is a flagrant case.  Put two  black crosses to the name of Curzon.'

 

'If the society,' said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-sided, shambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his  head--'if the society would burn his house down--for he's not  insured--or beat him as he comes home from his club at night, or  help me to carry off his daughter, and marry her at the Fleet,  whether she gave consent or no--'

 

Mr Tappertit waved his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him  not to interrupt, and ordered three black crosses to the name of  Curzon.

 

'Which means,' he said in gracious explanation, 'vengeance,  complete and terrible.  'Prentice, do you love the Constitution?'

 

To which the novice (being to that end instructed by his attendant  sponsors) replied 'I do!'

 

'The Church, the State, and everything established--but the  masters?' quoth the captain.

 

Again the novice said 'I do.'

 

Having said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an  address prepared for such occasions, told him how that under that  same Constitution (which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but  where exactly he could not find out, or he would have endeavoured  to procure a copy of it), the 'prentices had, in times gone by,  had frequent holidays of right, broken people's heads by scores,  defied their masters, nay, even achieved some glorious murders in  the streets, which privileges had gradually been wrested from them,  and in all which noble aspirations they were now restrained; how  the degrading checks imposed upon them were unquestionably  attributable to the innovating spirit of the times, and how they  united therefore to resist all change, except such change as would  restore those good old English customs, by which they would stand  or fall.  After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by  reference to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent  practice of the mule and donkey, he described their general  objects; which were briefly vengeance on their Tyrant Masters (of  whose grievous and insupportable oppression no 'prentice could  entertain a moment's doubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid, of  their ancient rights and holidays; for neither of which objects  were they now quite ripe, being barely twenty strong, but which  they pledged themselves to pursue with fire and sword when needful.   Then he described the oath which every member of that small remnant  of a noble body took, and which was of a dreadful and impressive  kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief, to resist and  obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to despise the  authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen as  nought; but not on any account, in case the fulness of time should  bring a general rising of 'prentices, to damage or in any way  disfigure Temple Bar, which was strictly constitutional and always  to be approached with reverence.  Having gone over these several  heads with great eloquence and force, and having further informed  the novice that this society had its origin in his own teeming  brain, stimulated by a swelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr  Tappertit demanded whether he had strength of heart to take the  mighty pledge required, or whether he would withdraw while retreat  was yet in his power.

 

To this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow,  though it should choke him; and it was accordingly administered  with many impressive circumstances, among which the lighting up of  the two skulls with a candle-end inside of each, and a great many  flourishes with the bone, were chiefly conspicuous; not to mention  a variety of grave exercises with the blunderbuss and sabre, and  some dismal groaning by unseen 'prentices without.  All these dark  and direful ceremonies being at length completed, the table was put  aside, the chair of state removed, the sceptre locked up in its  usual cupboard, the doors of communication between the three  cellars thrown freely open, and the 'Prentice Knights resigned  themselves to merriment.

 

But Mr Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on  account of his greatness, could only afford to be merry now and  then, threw himself on a bench with the air of a man who was faint  with dignity.  He looked with an indifferent eye, alike on  skittles, cards, and dice, thinking only of the locksmith's  daughter, and the base degenerate days on which he had fallen.

 

'My noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,' said his  host, taking a seat beside him.  'Drink, gallant general!'

 

Mr Tappertit drained the proffered goblet to the dregs; then thrust  his hands into his pockets, and with a lowering visage walked among  the skittles, while his followers (such is the influence of  superior genius) restrained the ardent ball, and held his little  shins in dumb respect.

 

'If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand, genteel  highwayman or patriot--and they're the same thing,' thought Mr  Tappertit, musing among the nine-pins, 'I should have been all  right.  But to drag out a ignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in  general--patience!  I will be famous yet.  A voice within me keeps  on whispering Greatness.  I shall burst out one of these days, and  when I do, what power can keep me down?  I feel my soul getting  into my head at the idea.  More drink there!'

 

'The novice,' pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of  thunder, for his tones, to say the truth were rather cracked and  shrill--but very impressively, notwithstanding--'where is he?'

 

'Here, noble captain!' cried Stagg.  'One stands beside me who I  feel is a stranger.'

 

'Have you,' said Mr Tappertit, letting his gaze fall on the party  indicated, who was indeed the new knight, by this time restored to  his own apparel; 'Have you the impression of your street-door key  in wax?'

 

The long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing it from the  shelf on which it had been deposited.

 

'Good,' said Mr Tappertit, scrutinising it attentively, while a  breathless silence reigned around; for he had constructed secret  door-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed something of his  influence to that mean and trivial circumstance--on such slight  accidents do even men of mind depend!--'This is easily made.  Come  hither, friend.'

 

With that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the  pattern in his pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side.

 

'And so,' he said, when they had taken a few turns up and down,  you--you love your master's daughter?'

 

'I do,' said the 'prentice.  'Honour bright.  No chaff, you know.'

 

'Have you,' rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and  giving him a look which would have been expressive of the most  deadly malevolence, but for an accidental hiccup that rather  interfered with it; 'have you a--a rival?'

 

'Not as I know on,' replied the 'prentice.

 

'If you had now--' said Mr Tappertit--'what would you--eh?--'

 

The 'prentice looked fierce and clenched his fists.

 

'It is enough,' cried Mr Tappertit hastily, 'we understand each  other.  We are observed.  I thank you.'

 

So saying, he cast him off again; and calling the long comrade  aside after taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade him  immediately write and post against the wall, a notice, proscribing  one Joseph Willet (commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding  all 'Prentice Knights to succour, comfort, or hold communion with  him; and requiring them, on pain of excommunication, to molest,  hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick quarrels with the said Joseph,  whensoever and wheresoever they, or any of them, should happen to  encounter him.

 

Having relieved his mind by this energetic proceeding, he  condescended to approach the festive board, and warming by degrees,  at length deigned to preside, and even to enchant the company with  a song.  After this, he rose to such a pitch as to consent to  regale the society with a hornpipe, which be actually performed to  the music of a fiddle (played by an ingenious member) with such  surpassing agility and brilliancy of execution, that the spectators  could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in their admiration; and  their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that he had never  truly felt his blindness until that moment.

 

But the host withdrawing--probably to weep in secret--soon returned  with the information that it wanted little more than an hour of  day, and that all the cocks in Barbican had already begun to crow,  as if their lives depended on it.  At this intelligence, the  'Prentice Knights arose in haste, and marshalling into a line,  filed off one by one and dispersed with all speed to their several  homes, leaving their leader to pass the grating last.

 

'Good night, noble captain,' whispered the blind man as he held it  open for his passage out; 'Farewell, brave general.  Bye, bye,  illustrious commander.  Good luck go with you for a--conceited,  bragging, empty-headed, duck-legged idiot.'

 

With which parting words, coolly added as he listened to his  receding footsteps and locked the grate upon himself, he descended  the steps, and lighting the fire below the little copper,  prepared, without any assistance, for his daily occupation; which  was to retail at the area-head above pennyworths of broth and soup,  and savoury puddings, compounded of such scraps as were to be  bought in the heap for the least money at Fleet Market in the  evening time; and for the sale of which he had need to have  depended chiefly on his private connection, for the court had no  thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which many people  were likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable  promenade.

 


Chapter 9

 

Chronicler's are privileged to enter where they list, to come and  go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their  soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time, and place.   Thrice blessed be this last consideration, since it enables us to  follow the disdainful Miggs even into the sanctity of her chamber,  and to hold her in sweet companionship through the dreary watches  of the night!

 

Miss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as she phrased it (which  means, assisted to undress her), and having seen her comfortably to  bed in the back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own  apartment, in the attic story.  Notwithstanding her declaration in  the locksmith's presence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting  her light upon the table and withdrawing the little window curtain,  she gazed out pensively at the wild night sky.

 

Perhaps she wondered what star was destined for her habitation when  she had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which of  those glimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit;  perhaps marvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious  creature, man, and not sicken and turn green as chemists' lamps;  perhaps thought of nothing in particular.  Whatever she thought  about, there she sat, until her attention, alive to anything  connected with the insinuating 'prentice, was attracted by a noise  in the next room to her own--his room; the room in which he slept,  and dreamed--it might be, sometimes dreamed of her.

 

That he was not dreaming now, unless he was taking a walk in his  sleep, was clear, for every now and then there came a shuffling  noise, as though he were engaged in polishing the whitewashed wall;  then a gentle creaking of his door; then the faintest indication of  his stealthy footsteps on the landing-place outside.  Noting this  latter circumstance, Miss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as  mistrusting his intentions; and more than once exclaimed, below her  breath, 'Oh! what a Providence it is, as I am bolted in!'--which,  owing doubtless to her alarm, was a confusion of ideas on her part  between a bolt and its use; for though there was one on the door,  it was not fastened.

 

Miss Miggs's sense of hearing, however, having as sharp an edge as  her temper, and being of the same snappish and suspicious kind,  very soon informed her that the footsteps passed her door, and  appeared to have some object quite separate and disconnected from  herself.  At this discovery she became more alarmed than ever, and  was about to give utterance to those cries of 'Thieves!' and  'Murder!' which she had hitherto restrained, when it occurred to  her to look softly out, and see that her fears had some good  palpable foundation.

 

Looking out accordingly, and stretching her neck over the handrail,  she descried, to her great amazement, Mr Tappertit completely  dressed, stealing downstairs, one step at a time, with his shoes in  one hand and a lamp in the other.  Following him with her eyes, and  going down a little way herself to get the better of an intervening  angle, she beheld him thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw  it back again with great swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat  upstairs with all possible expedition.

 

'Here's mysteries!' said the damsel, when she was safe in her own  room again, quite out of breath.  'Oh, gracious, here's mysteries!'

 

The prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept  Miss Miggs awake under the influence of henbane.  Presently, she  heard the step again, as she would have done if it had been that of  a feather endowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe.  Then  gliding out as before, she again beheld the retreating figure of  the 'prentice; again he looked cautiously in at the parlour-door,  but this time instead of retreating, he passed in and disappeared.

 

Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window,  before an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from  it.  Out he came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him,  tried it with his knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his  pocket as he went along.  At this spectacle Miggs cried 'Gracious!'  again, and then 'Goodness gracious!' and then 'Goodness gracious  me!' and then, candle in hand, went downstairs as he had done.   Coming to the workshop, she saw the lamp burning on the forge, and  everything as Sim had left it.

 

'Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried  decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn't been  and made a key for his own self!' cried Miggs.  'Oh the little  villain!'

 

This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much  peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the  recollection that she had on several occasions come upon the  'prentice suddenly, and found him busy at some mysterious  occupation.  Lest the fact of Miss Miggs calling him, on whom she  stooped to cast a favourable eye, a boy, should create surprise in  any breast, it may be observed that she invariably affected to  regard all male bipeds under thirty as mere chits and infants;  which phenomenon is not unusual in ladies of Miss Miggs's temper,  and is indeed generally found to be the associate of such  indomitable and savage virtue.

 

Miss Miggs deliberated within herself for some little time, looking  hard at the shop-door while she did so, as though her eyes and  thoughts were both upon it; and then, taking a sheet of paper from  a drawer, twisted it into a long thin spiral tube.  Having filled  this instrument with a quantity of small coal-dust from the forge,  she approached the door, and dropping on one knee before it,  dexterously blew into the keyhole as much of these fine ashes as  the lock would hold.  When she had filled it to the brim in a very  workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept upstairs again, and  chuckled as she went.

 

'There!' cried Miggs, rubbing her hands, 'now let's see whether you  won't be glad to take some notice of me, mister.  He, he, he!   You'll have eyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I think.  A  fat-faced puss she is, as ever I come across!'

 

As she uttered this criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small  mirror, as who should say, I thank my stars that can't be said of  me!--as it certainly could not; for Miss Miggs's style of beauty  was of that kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not inaptly termed,  in private, 'scraggy.'

 

'I don't go to bed this night!' said Miggs, wrapping herself in a  shawl, and drawing a couple of chairs near the window, flouncing  down upon one, and putting her feet upon the other, 'till you come  home, my lad.  I wouldn't,' said Miggs viciously, 'no, not for  five-and-forty pound!'

 

With that, and with an expression of face in which a great number  of opposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice,  triumph, and patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a  kind of physiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait  and listen, like some fair ogress who had set a trap and was  watching for a nibble from a plump young traveller.

 

She sat there, with perfect composure, all night.  At length, just  upon break of day, there was a footstep in the street, and  presently she could hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door.  Then she  could make out that he tried his key--that he was blowing into it--that he knocked it on the nearest post to beat the dust out--that  he took it under a lamp to look at it--that he poked bits of stick  into the lock to clear it--that he peeped into the keyhole, first  with one eye, and then with the other--that he tried the key again--that he couldn't turn it, and what was worse, couldn't get it out--that he bent it--that then it was much less disposed to come out  than before--that he gave it a mighty twist and a great pull, and  then it came out so suddenly that he staggered backwards--that he  kicked the door--that he shook it--finally, that he smote his  forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.

 

When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted  with terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out  her nightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.

 

Mr Tappertit cried 'Hush!' and, backing to the road, exhorted her  in frenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.

 

'Tell me one thing,' said Miggs.  'Is it thieves?'

 

'No--no--no!' cried Mr Tappertit.

 

'Then,' said Miggs, more faintly than before, 'it's fire.  Where  is it, sir?  It's near this room, I know.  I've a good conscience,  sir, and would much rather die than go down a ladder.  All I wish  is, respecting my love to my married sister, Golden Lion Court,  number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post.'

 

'Miggs!' cried Mr Tappertit, 'don't you know me?  Sim, you know--Sim--'

 

'Oh!  what about him!' cried Miggs, clasping her hands.  'Is he in  any danger?  Is he in the midst of flames and blazes!  Oh gracious,  gracious!'

 

'Why I'm here, an't I?' rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking himself on  the breast.  'Don't you see me?  What a fool you are, Miggs!'

 

'There!' cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment.  'Why--so it--Goodness, what is the meaning of--If you please, mim, here's--'

 

'No, no!' cried Mr Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that  means he, in the street, were any nearer being able to stop the  mouth of Miggs in the garret.  'Don't!--I've been out without  leave, and something or another's the matter with the lock.  Come  down, and undo the shop window, that I may get in that way.'

 

'I dursn't do it, Simmun,' cried Miggs--for that was her  pronunciation of his Christian name.  'I dursn't do it, indeed.   You know as well as anybody, how particular I am.  And to come  down in the dead of night, when the house is wrapped in slumbers  and weiled in obscurity.'  And there she stopped and shivered, for  her modesty caught cold at the very thought.

 

'But Miggs,' cried Mr Tappertit, getting under the lamp, that she  might see his eyes.  'My darling Miggs--'

 

Miggs screamed slightly.

 

'--That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,' and it is  impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said  this--'do--for my sake, do.'

 

'Oh Simmun,' cried Miggs, 'this is worse than all.  I know if I  come down, you'll go, and--'

 

'And what, my precious?' said Mr Tappertit.

 

'And try,' said Miggs, hysterically, 'to kiss me, or some such  dreadfulness; I know you will!'

 

'I swear I won't,' said Mr Tappertit, with remarkable earnestness.   'Upon my soul I won't.  It's getting broad day, and the watchman's  waking up.  Angelic Miggs!  If you'll only come and let me in, I  promise you faithfully and truly I won't.'

 

Miss Miggs, whose gentle heart was touched, did not wait for the  oath (knowing how strong the temptation was, and fearing he might  forswear himself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and with  her own fair hands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop  window.  Having helped the wayward 'prentice in, she faintly  articulated the words 'Simmun is safe!' and yielding to her woman's

 

nature, immediately became insensible.

 

'I knew I should quench her,' said Sim, rather embarrassed by this  circumstance.  'Of course I was certain it would come to this, but  there was nothing else to be done--if I hadn't eyed her over, she  wouldn't have come down.  Here.  Keep up a minute, Miggs.  What a  slippery figure she is!  There's no holding her, comfortably.  Do  keep up a minute, Miggs, will you?'

 

As Miggs, however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant  her against the wall as one might dispose of a walking-stick or  umbrella, until he had secured the window, when he took her in his  arms again, and, in short stages and with great difficulty--arising  from her being tall and his being short, and perhaps in some degree  from that peculiar physical conformation on which he had already  remarked--carried her upstairs, and planting her, in the same  umbrella and walking-stick fashion, just inside her own door, left  her to her repose.

 

'He may be as cool as he likes,' said Miss Miggs, recovering as  soon as she was left alone; 'but I'm in his confidence and he can't  help himself, nor couldn't if he was twenty Simmunses!'

 


Chapter 10

 

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the  year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created  things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or  forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the one  and now to the other, and now to both at once--wooing summer in the  sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade--it was, in  short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and  dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial,  in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was  dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was roused by the sound of  a horse's feet, and glancing out at window, beheld a traveller of  goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door.

 

He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a  tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if  they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young  swaggerers, who would even penetrate into the bar--that solemn  sanctuary--and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire if there  was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little  chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature;  none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their  boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all  particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable  blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles  for granted.  He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something  past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that,  and slim as a greyhound.  He was well-mounted upon a sturdy  chestnut cob, and had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman;  while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then  in vogue, was handsome and well chosen.  He wore a riding-coat of a  somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the  taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet cape,  and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion; his  linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the  wrists and throat, and scrupulously white.  Although he seemed,  judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from  London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey  periwig and pigtail.  Neither man nor beast had turned a single  hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this  gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered  dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an  elaborate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait  at old John Willet's gate.

 

It must not be supposed that John observed these several  characteristics by other than very slow degrees, or that he took in  more than half a one at a time, or that he even made up his mind  upon that, without a great deal of very serious consideration.   Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by  questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a  fortnight to have noted what is here set down; but it happened that  the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump  pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with the  tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out  of order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music  of its own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in  silence.  Hence John, standing with his hand upon the horse's  bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing  to divert his thoughts, had really got some of these little  circumstances into his brain by the time he was called upon to  speak.

 

'A quaint place this,' said the gentleman--and his voice was as  rich as his dress.  'Are you the landlord?'

 

'At your service, sir,' replied John Willet.

 

'You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early  dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be cleanly served),  and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this great  mansion,' said the stranger, again running his eyes over the  exterior.

 

'You can have, sir,' returned John with a readiness quite  surprising, 'anything you please.'

 

'It's well I am easily satisfied,' returned the other with a smile,  'or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.'  And saying so, he  dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a  twinkling.

 

'Halloa there!  Hugh!' roared John.  'I ask your pardon, sir, for  keeping you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on  business, and the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me,  I'm rather put out when he's away.  Hugh!--a dreadful idle vagrant  fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think--always sleeping in the sun  in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir--Hugh!  Dear Lord,  to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!--Hugh!  I wish that  chap was dead, I do indeed.'

 

'Possibly he is,' returned the other.  'I should think if he were  living, he would have heard you by this time.'

 

'In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,' said the  distracted host, 'that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into  his ears, it wouldn't wake him, sir.'

 

The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and  recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind  him, stood in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the  bridle in his hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon  the animal to his fate, and a half disposition to lead him into the  house, and shut him up in the parlour, while he waited on his  master.

 

'Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!' cried John, in the very  height and zenith of his distress.  'Did you hear me a calling,  villain?'

 

The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon  the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse's head  towards the stable, and was gone in an instant.

 

'Brisk enough when he is awake,' said the guest.

 

'Brisk enough, sir!' replied John, looking at the place where the  horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become  of him.  'He melts, I think.  He goes like a drop of froth.  You  look at him, and there he is.  You look at him again, and--there he  isn't.'

 

Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to  what he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the  whole life and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led  the gentleman up his wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole's  best apartment.

 

It was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth  of the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large  as many modern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass,  emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and  patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their  presence, that the former owner had made the very light subservient  to his state, and pressed the sun itself into his list of  flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his chamber, reflect the  badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and colours from  their pride.

 

But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as  it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth.  Although the  best room of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in  decay, and was much too vast for comfort.  Rich rustling hangings,  waving on the walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and  beauty's dress; the light of women's eyes, outshining the tapers  and their own rich jewels; the sound of gentle tongues, and music,  and the tread of maiden feet, had once been there, and filled it  with delight.  But they were gone, and with them all its gladness.   It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there;  the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be bought and  sold--a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave  it, it was still the same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had  equal warmth and smiles for all.  God help the man whose heart ever  changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!

 

No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before  the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on  a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with  figures, grinning and grotesque.  After lighting with his own hands  the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to  hold grave council with his cook, touching the stranger's  entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing small comfort in  the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant window, and  basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.

 

Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs  together, or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it  when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest  chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet.

 

'Sir,' said John.

 

He wanted pen, ink, and paper.  There was an old standish on the  mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three.  Having set  this before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to  stay.

 

'There's a house not far from here,' said the guest when he had  written a few lines, 'which you call the Warren, I believe?'

 

As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked  the question as a thing of course, John contented himself with  nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one  hand out of his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in  again.

 

'I want this note'--said the guest, glancing on what he had  written, and folding it, 'conveyed there without loss of time, and  an answer brought back here.  Have you a messenger at hand?'

 

John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.

 

'Let me see him,' said the guest.

 

This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in  rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand,  Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who,  so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious  business, would go anywhere.

 

'Why the truth is,' said John after a long pause, 'that the person  who'd go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and  though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post  itself, he's not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.'

 

'You don't,' said the guest, raising his eyes to John's fat face,  'you don't mean--what's the fellow's name--you don't mean Barnaby?'

 

'Yes, I do,' returned the landlord, his features turning quite  expressive with surprise.

 

'How comes he to be here?' inquired the guest, leaning back in his  chair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never  varied; and with the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile  upon his face.  'I saw him in London last night.'

 

'He's, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,' returned old  John, after the usual pause to get the question in his mind.   'Sometimes he walks, and sometimes runs.  He's known along the road  by everybody, and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and  sometimes riding double.  He comes and goes, through wind, rain,  snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights.  Nothing hurts HIM.'

 

'He goes often to the Warren, does he not?' said the guest  carelessly.  'I seem to remember his mother telling me something to  that effect yesterday.  But I was not attending to the good woman  much.'

 

'You're right, sir,' John made answer, 'he does.  His father, sir,  was murdered in that house.'

 

'So I have heard,' returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick  from his pocket with the same sweet smile.  'A very disagreeable  circumstance for the family.'

 

'Very,' said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him,  dimly and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of  treating the subject.

 

'All the circumstances after a murder,' said the guest  soliloquising, 'must be dreadfully unpleasant--so much bustle and  disturbance--no repose--a constant dwelling upon one subject--and  the running in and out, and up and down stairs, intolerable.  I  wouldn't have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly  interested in, on any account.  'Twould be enough to wear one's  life out.--You were going to say, friend--' he added, turning to  John again.

 

'Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and  that Barnaby's as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,'  answered John.  'Shall he do your errand, sir?'

 

'Oh yes,' replied the guest.  'Oh certainly.  Let him do it by all  means.  Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick.   If he objects to come you may tell him it's Mr Chester.  He will  remember my name, I dare say.'

 

John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that  he could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but  left the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of  all possible conditions.  It has been reported that when he got  downstairs, he looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by  the clock, and all that time never once left off shaking his head;  for which statement there would seem to be some ground of truth and  feasibility, inasmuch as that interval of time did certainly  elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest's apartment.

 

'Come hither, lad,' said Mr Chester.  'You know Mr Geoffrey  Haredale?'

 

Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say,  'You hear him?'  John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of  decorum, clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute  remonstrance.

 

'He knows him, sir,' said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, 'as well  as you or I do.'

 

'I haven't the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,'  returned his guest.  'YOU may have.  Limit the comparison to  yourself, my friend.'

 

Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same  smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at  Barnaby's door, determined to kick his raven, on the very first  opportunity.

 

'Give that,' said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note,  and who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, 'into Mr  Haredale's own hands.  Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me  here.  If you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now,  tell him--can he remember a message, landlord?'

 

'When he chooses, sir,' replied John.  'He won't forget this one.'

 

'How are you sure of that?'

 

John merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward,  and his earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner's face; and  nodded sagely.

 

'Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,' said Mr Chester,  'that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him  (if he will call) at any time this evening.--At the worst I can  have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?'

 

Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in  this familiar form of address, answered, with something like a  knowing look, 'I should believe you could, sir,' and was turning  over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of  selecting one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when  his ideas were put to flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the  letter, and bidding him make all speed away.

 

'Speed!' said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast,  'Speed!  If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here.  Here!'

 

With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet's horror, on  the guest's fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the  back window.

 

'Look down there,' he said softly; 'do you mark how they whisper in  each other's ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in  sport?  Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think  there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and  then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they've  been plotting?  Look at 'em now.  See how they whirl and plunge.   And now they stop again, and whisper, cautiously together--little  thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the grass and watched  them.  I say what is it that they plot and hatch?  Do you know?'

 

'They are only clothes,' returned the guest, 'such as we wear;  hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.'

 

'Clothes!' echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling  quickly back.  'Ha ha!  Why, how much better to be silly, than as  wise as you!  You don't see shadowy people there, like those that  live in sleep--not you.  Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass,  nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the  air, nor see men stalking in the sky--not you!  I lead a merrier  life than you, with all your cleverness.  You're the dull men.   We're the bright ones.  Ha! ha!  I'll not change with you, clever  as you are,--not I!'

 

With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off.

 

'A strange creature, upon my word!' said the guest, pulling out a  handsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.

 

'He wants imagination,' said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a  long silence; 'that's what he wants.  I've tried to instil it into  him, many and many's the time; but'--John added this in confidence--'he an't made for it; that's the fact.'

 

To record that Mr Chester smiled at John's remark would be little  to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant  look at all times.  He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as  a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having  no reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself.

 

Very thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was  preparing; and if his brain were ever less clear at one time than  another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled it in no  slight degree by shaking his head so much that day.  That Mr  Chester, between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the  neighbourhood, a deep and bitter animosity existed, should come  down there for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and  should choose the Maypole for their place of meeting, and should  send to him express, were stumbling blocks John could not overcome.   The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and wait  impatiently for Barnaby's return.

 

But Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent.  The visitor's dinner was  served, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished, the hearth  clean swept; the light waned without, it grew dusk, became quite  dark, and still no Barnaby appeared.  Yet, though John Willet was  full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the  easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as  in his dress--the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care  or thought beyond his golden toothpick.

 

'Barnaby's late,' John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of  tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and  snuffed the lights they held.

 

'He is rather so,' replied the guest, sipping his wine.  'He will  not be much longer, I dare say.'

 

John coughed and raked the fire together.

 

'As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my  son's mishap, though,' said Mr Chester, 'and as I have no fancy to  be knocked on the head--which is not only disconcerting at the  moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with  respect to the people who chance to pick one up--I shall stop here  to-night.  I think you said you had a bed to spare.'

 

'Such a bed, sir,' returned John Willet; 'ay, such a bed as few,  even of the gentry's houses, own.  A fixter here, sir.  I've heard  say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age.  Your noble  son--a fine young gentleman--slept in it last, sir, half a year  ago.'

 

'Upon my life, a recommendation!' said the guest, shrugging his  shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire.  'See that it  be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there  at once.  This house is something damp and chilly.'

 

John raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of  mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw,  when a bounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came  panting in.

 

'He'll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour's time,' he cried,  advancing.  'He has been riding hard all day--has just come home--but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to  meet his loving friend.'

 

'Was that his message?' asked the visitor, looking up, but without  the smallest discomposure--or at least without the show of any.

 

'All but the last words,' Barnaby rejoined.  'He meant those.  I  saw that, in his face.'

 

'This for your pains,' said the other, putting money in his hand,  and glancing at him steadfastly.'   This for your pains, sharp  Barnaby.'

 

'For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,' he rejoined,  putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers.  'Grip  one, me two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats--well, we  shall spend it pretty soon, I warn you.  Stay.--Look.  Do you wise  men see nothing there, now?'

 

He bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke,  which was rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud.  John  Willet, who appeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly  referred to under the term wise men, looked that way likewise, and  with great solidity of feature.

 

'Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,'  asked Barnaby; 'eh?  Why do they tread so closely on each other's  heels, and why are they always in a hurry--which is what you blame  me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me?  More  of 'em! catching to each other's skirts; and as fast as they go,  others come!  What a merry dance it is!  I would that Grip and I  could frisk like that!'

 

'What has he in that basket at his back?' asked the guest after a  few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look  higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.

 

'In this?' he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply--shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen.  'In  this!  What is there here?  Tell him!'

 

'A devil, a devil, a devil!' cried a hoarse voice.

 

'Here's money!' said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, 'money for a  treat, Grip!'

 

'Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!' replied the raven, 'keep up your  spirits.  Never say die.  Bow, wow, wow!'

 

Mr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a  customer in a laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have  any acquaintance even with the existence of such unpolite gentry as  the bird claimed to belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture,  with the view of preventing any other improper declarations, and  quitted the room with his very best bow.

 


Chapter 11

 

There was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers,  to each of whom, as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in  the chimney-corner, John, with a most impressive slowness of  delivery, and in an apoplectic whisper, communicated the fact that  Mr Chester was alone in the large room upstairs, and was waiting  the arrival of Mr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a letter  (doubtless of a threatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then  and there present.

 

For a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom any  new topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend.  Here was a  good, dark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof--brought home to the fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the  smallest pains or trouble.  It is extraordinary what a zest and  relish it gave to the drink, and how it heightened the flavour of  the tobacco.  Every man smoked his pipe with a face of grave and  serious delight, and looked at his neighbour with a sort of quiet  congratulation.  Nay, it was felt to be such a holiday and special  night, that, on the motion of little Solomon Daisy, every man  (including John himself) put down his sixpence for a can of flip,  which grateful beverage was brewed with all despatch, and set down  in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that it might simmer  and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising up  among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes,  might shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut  out all the world.  The very furniture of the room seemed to  mellow and deepen in its tone; the ceiling and walls looked  blacker and more highly polished, the curtains of a ruddier red;  the fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the hearthstone  chirped with a more than wonted satisfaction.

 

There were present two, however, who showed but little interest in  the general contentment.  Of these, one was Barnaby himself, who  slept, or, to avoid being beset with questions, feigned to sleep,  in the chimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who, sleeping too, lay  stretched upon the bench on the opposite side, in the full glare of  the blazing fire.

 

The light that fell upon this slumbering form, showed it in all its  muscular and handsome proportions.  It was that of a young man, of  a hale athletic figure, and a giant's strength, whose sunburnt face  and swarthy throat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have  served a painter for a model.  Loosely attired, in the coarsest and  roughest garb, with scraps of straw and hay--his usual bed--clinging here and there, and mingling with his uncombed locks, he  had fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his dress.  The  negligence and disorder of the whole man, with something fierce and  sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque appearance, that  attracted the regards even of the Maypole customers who knew him  well, and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like a  poaching rascal to-night than ever he had seen him yet.

 

'He's waiting here, I suppose,' said Solomon, 'to take Mr  Haredale's horse.'

 

'That's it, sir,' replied John Willet.  'He's not often in the  house, you know.  He's more at his ease among horses than men.  I  look upon him as a animal himself.'

 

Following up this opinion with a shrug that seemed meant to say,  'we can't expect everybody to be like us,' John put his pipe into  his mouth again, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over  the general run of mankind.

 

'That chap, sir,' said John, taking it out again after a time, and  pointing at him with the stem, 'though he's got all his faculties  about him--bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres  or another--'

 

'Very good!' said Parkes, nodding his head.  'A very good  expression, Johnny.  You'll be a tackling somebody presently.   You're in twig to-night, I see.'

 

'Take care,' said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the  compliment, 'that I don't tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly  endeavour to do, if you interrupt me when I'm making observations.--That chap, I was a saying, though he has all his faculties about  him, somewheres or another, bottled up and corked down, has no more  imagination than Barnaby has.  And why hasn't he?'

 

The three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that  action, without the trouble of opening their lips, 'Do you observe  what a philosophical mind our friend has?'

 

'Why hasn't he?' said John, gently striking the table with his open  hand.  'Because they was never drawed out of him when he was a  boy.  That's why.  What would any of us have been, if our fathers  hadn't drawed our faculties out of us?  What would my boy Joe have  been, if I hadn't drawed his faculties out of him?--Do you mind  what I'm a saying of, gentlemen?'

 

'Ah!  we mind you,' cried Parkes.  'Go on improving of us, Johnny.'

 

'Consequently, then,' said Mr Willet, 'that chap, whose mother was  hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing  bad notes--and it's a blessed thing to think how many people are  hung in batches every six weeks for that, and such like offences,  as showing how wide awake our government is--that chap that was  then turned loose, and had to mind cows, and frighten birds away,  and what not, for a few pence to live on, and so got on by degrees  to mind horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts and litter,  instead of under haystacks and hedges, till at last he come to be  hostler at the Maypole for his board and lodging and a annual  trifle--that chap that can't read nor write, and has never had much  to do with anything but animals, and has never lived in any way but  like the animals he has lived among, IS a animal.  And,' said Mr  Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion, 'is to be treated  accordingly.'

 

'Willet,' said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at  the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting  theme, 'when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the large  room?'

 

'He signified, sir,' said John, 'that he wanted a large apartment.   Yes.  Certainly.'

 

'Why then, I'll tell you what,' said Solomon, speaking softly and  with an earnest look.  'He and Mr Haredale are going to fight a  duel in it.'

 

Everybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming suggestion.  Mr  Willet looked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect  which such an occurrence would be likely to have on the establishment.

 

'Well,' said John, 'I don't know--I am sure--I remember that when I  went up last, he HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.'

 

'It's as plain,' returned Solomon, 'as the nose on Parkes's face'--Mr Parkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he  considered this a personal allusion--'they'll fight in that room.   You know by the newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen  to fight in coffee-houses without seconds.  One of 'em will be  wounded or perhaps killed in this house.'

 

'That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh?' said John.

 

'--Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword upon it,  I'll bet a guinea,' answered the little man.  'We know what sort of  gentleman Mr Haredale is.  You have told us what Barnaby said about  his looks, when he came back.  Depend upon it, I'm right.  Now,  mind.'

 

The flip had had no flavour till now.  The tobacco had been of mere  English growth, compared with its present taste.  A duel in that  great old rambling room upstairs, and the best bed ordered already  for the wounded man!

 

'Would it be swords or pistols, now?' said John.

 

'Heaven knows.  Perhaps both,' returned Solomon.  'The gentlemen  wear swords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets--most  likely have, indeed.  If they fire at each other without effect,  then they'll draw, and go to work in earnest.'

 

A shade passed over Mr Willet's face as he thought of broken  windows and disabled furniture, but bethinking himself that one of  the parties would probably be left alive to pay the damage, he  brightened up again.

 

'And then,' said Solomon, looking from face to face, 'then we shall  have one of those stains upon the floor that never come out.  If Mr  Haredale wins, depend upon it, it'll be a deep one; or if he loses,  it will perhaps be deeper still, for he'll never give in unless  he's beaten down.  We know him better, eh?'

 

'Better indeed!' they whispered all together.

 

'As to its ever being got out again,' said Solomon, 'I tell you it  never will, or can be.  Why, do you know that it has been tried, at  a certain house we are acquainted with?'

 

'The Warren!' cried John.  'No, sure!'

 

'Yes, sure--yes.  It's only known by very few.  It has been  whispered about though, for all that.  They planed the board away,  but there it was.  They went deep, but it went deeper.  They put  new boards down, but there was one great spot that came through  still, and showed itself in the old place.  And--harkye--draw  nearer--Mr Geoffrey made that room his study, and sits there,  always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it; and he believes,  through thinking of it long and very much, that it will never fade  until he finds the man who did the deed.'

 

As this recital ended, and they all drew closer round the fire, the  tramp of a horse was heard without.

 

'The very man!' cried John, starting up.  'Hugh!  Hugh!'

 

The sleeper staggered to his feet, and hurried after him.  John  quickly returned, ushering in with great attention and deference  (for Mr Haredale was his landlord) the long-expected visitor, who  strode into the room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and  looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hat in  acknowledgment of their profound respect.

 

'You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,' he said, in a  voice which sounded naturally stern and deep.  'Where is he?'

 

'In the great room upstairs, sir,' answered John.

 

'Show the way.  Your staircase is dark, I know.  Gentlemen, good  night.'

 

With that, he signed to the landlord to go on before; and went  clanking out, and up the stairs; old John, in his agitation,  ingeniously lighting everything but the way, and making a stumble  at every second step.

 

'Stop!' he said, when they reached the landing.  'I can announce  myself.  Don't wait.'

 

He laid his hand upon the door, entered, and shut it heavily.  Mr  Willet was by no means disposed to stand there listening by  himself, especially as the walls were very thick; so descended,  with much greater alacrity than he had come up, and joined his  friends below.

 


Chapter 12

 

There was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr  Haredale tried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the  door securely, and, striding up the dark chamber to where the  screen inclosed a little patch of light and warmth, presented  himself, abruptly and in silence, before the smiling guest.

 

If the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in  their outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem  likely to prove a very calm or pleasant one.  With no great  disparity between them in point of years, they were, in every other  respect, as unlike and far removed from each other as two men could  well be.  The one was soft-spoken, delicately made, precise, and  elegant; the other, a burly square-built man, negligently dressed,  rough and abrupt in manner, stern, and, in his present mood,  forbidding both in look and speech.  The one preserved a calm and  placid smile; the other, a distrustful frown.  The new-comer,  indeed, appeared bent on showing by his every tone and gesture his  determined opposition and hostility to the man he had come to meet.   The guest who received him, on the other hand, seemed to feel that  the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to derive a  quiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.

 

'Haredale,' said this gentleman, without the least appearance of  embarrassment or reserve, 'I am very glad to see you.'

 

'Let us dispense with compliments.  They are misplaced between us,'  returned the other, waving his hand, 'and say plainly what we have  to say.  You have asked me to meet you.  I am here.  Why do we  stand face to face again?'

 

'Still the same frank and sturdy character, I see!'

 

'Good or bad, sir, I am,' returned the other, leaning his arm upon  the chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of  the easy-chair, 'the man I used to be.  I have lost no old likings  or dislikings; my memory has not failed me by a hair's-breadth.   You ask me to give you a meeting.  I say, I am here.'

 

'Our meeting, Haredale,' said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box,  and following with a smile the impatient gesture he had made--perhaps unconsciously--towards his sword, 'is one of conference and  peace, I hope?'

 

'I have come here,' returned the other, 'at your desire, holding  myself bound to meet you, when and where you would.  I have not  come to bandy pleasant speeches, or hollow professions.  You are a  smooth man of the world, sir, and at such play have me at a  disadvantage.  The very last man on this earth with whom I would  enter the lists to combat with gentle compliments and masked faces,  is Mr Chester, I do assure you.  I am not his match at such  weapons, and have reason to believe that few men are.'

 

'You do me a great deal of honour Haredale,' returned the other,  most composedly, 'and I thank you.  I will be frank with you--'

 

'I beg your pardon--will be what?'

 

'Frank--open--perfectly candid.'

 

'Hab!' cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath.  'But don't let me  interrupt you.'

 

'So resolved am I to hold this course,' returned the other, tasting  his wine with great deliberation; 'that I have determined not to  quarrel with you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or  a hasty word.'

 

'There again,' said Mr Haredale, 'you have me at a great advantage.   Your self-command--'

 

'Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose, you would  say'--rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same  complacency.  'Granted.  I allow it.  And I have a purpose to serve  now.  So have you.  I am sure our object is the same.  Let us  attain it like sensible men, who have ceased to be boys some time.--Do you drink?'

 

'With my friends,' returned the other.

 

'At least,' said Mr Chester, 'you will be seated?'

 

'I will stand,' returned Mr Haredale impatiently, 'on this  dismantled, beggared hearth, and not pollute it, fallen as it is,  with mockeries.  Go on.'

 

'You are wrong, Haredale,' said the other, crossing his legs, and  smiling as he held his glass up in the bright glow of the fire.   'You are really very wrong.  The world is a lively place enough, in  which we must accommodate ourselves to circumstances, sail with the  stream as glibly as we can, be content to take froth for substance,  the surface for the depth, the counterfeit for the real coin.  I  wonder no philosopher has ever established that our globe itself is  hollow.  It should be, if Nature is consistent in her works.'

 

'YOU think it is, perhaps?'

 

'I should say,' he returned, sipping his wine, 'there could be no  doubt about it.  Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have  had the ill-luck to jostle and fall out.  We are not what the world  calls friends; but we are as good and true and loving friends for  all that, as nine out of every ten of those on whom it bestows the  title.  You have a niece, and I a son--a fine lad, Haredale, but  foolish.  They fall in love with each other, and form what this  same world calls an attachment; meaning a something fanciful and  false like the rest, which, if it took its own free time, would  break like any other bubble.  But it may not have its own free  time--will not, if they are left alone--and the question is, shall  we two, because society calls us enemies, stand aloof, and let them  rush into each other's arms, when, by approaching each other  sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?'

 

'I love my niece,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence.  'It  may sound strangely in your ears; but I love her.'

 

'Strangely, my good fellow!' cried Mr Chester, lazily filling his  glass again, and pulling out his toothpick.  'Not at all.  I like  Ned too--or, as you say, love him--that's the word among such near  relations.  I'm very fond of Ned.  He's an amazingly good fellow,  and a handsome fellow--foolish and weak as yet; that's all.  But  the thing is, Haredale--for I'll be very frank, as I told you I  would at first--independently of any dislike that you and I might  have to being related to each other, and independently of the  religious differences between us--and damn it, that's important--I  couldn't afford a match of this description.  Ned and I couldn't do  it.  It's impossible.'

 

'Curb your tongue, in God's name, if this conversation is to last,'  retorted Mr Haredale fiercely.  'I have said I love my niece.  Do  you think that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away  on any man who had your blood in his veins?'

 

'You see,' said the other, not at all disturbed, 'the advantage of  being so frank and open.  Just what I was about to add, upon my  honour!  I am amazingly attached to Ned--quite doat upon him,  indeed--and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that  very objection would be quite insuperable.--I wish you'd take some  wine?'

 

'Mark me,' said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his  hand upon it heavily.  'If any man believes--presumes to think--that I, in word or deed, or in the wildest dream, ever entertained  remotely the idea of Emma Haredale's favouring the suit of any one  who was akin to you--in any way--I care not what--he lies.  He  lies, and does me grievous wrong, in the mere thought.'

 

'Haredale,' returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in  assent, and nodding at the fire, 'it's extremely manly, and really  very generous in you, to meet me in this unreserved and handsome  way.  Upon my word, those are exactly my sentiments, only  expressed with much more force and power than I could use--you know  my sluggish nature, and will forgive me, I am sure.'

 

'While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son,  and sever their intercourse here, though it should cause her  death,' said Mr Haredale, who had been pacing to and fro, 'I would  do it kindly and tenderly if I can.  I have a trust to discharge,  which my nature is not formed to understand, and, for this reason,  the bare fact of there being any love between them comes upon me  to-night, almost for the first time.'

 

'I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you,' rejoined Mr  Chester with the utmost blandness, 'to find my own impression so  confirmed.  You see the advantage of our having met.  We understand  each other.  We quite agree.  We have a most complete and thorough  explanation, and we know what course to take.--Why don't you taste  your tenant's wine?  It's really very good.'

 

'Pray who,' said Mr Haredale, 'have aided Emma, or your son?  Who  are their go-betweens, and agents--do you know?'

 

'All the good people hereabouts--the neighbourhood in general, I  think,' returned the other, with his most affable smile.  'The  messenger I sent to you to-day, foremost among them all.'

 

'The idiot?  Barnaby?'

 

'You are surprised?  I am glad of that, for I was rather so myself.   Yes.  I wrung that from his mother--a very decent sort of woman--from whom, indeed, I chiefly learnt how serious the matter had  become, and so determined to ride out here to-day, and hold a  parley with you on this neutral ground.--You're stouter than you  used to be, Haredale, but you look extremely well.'

 

'Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end,' said Mr Haredale,  with an expression of impatience he was at no pains to conceal.   'Trust me, Mr Chester, my niece shall change from this time.  I  will appeal,' he added in a lower tone, 'to her woman's heart, her  dignity, her pride, her duty--'

 

'I shall do the same by Ned,' said Mr Chester, restoring some  errant faggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his  boot.  'If there is anything real in this world, it is those  amazingly fine feelings and those natural obligations which must  subsist between father and son.  I shall put it to him on every  ground of moral and religious feeling.  I shall represent to him  that we cannot possibly afford it--that I have always looked  forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for myself in  the autumn of life--that there are a great many clamorous dogs to  pay, whose claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be  paid out of his wife's fortune.  In short, that the very highest  and most honourable feelings of our nature, with every  consideration of filial duty and affection, and all that sort of  thing, imperatively demand that he should run away with an  heiress.'

 

'And break her heart as speedily as possible?' said Mr Haredale,  drawing on his glove.

 

'There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,' returned the other,  sipping his wine; 'that's entirely his affair.  I wouldn't for the  world interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point.  The  relationship between father and son, you know, is positively quite  a holy kind of bond.--WON'T you let me persuade you to take one  glass of wine?  Well! as you please, as you please,' he added,  helping himself again.

 

'Chester,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence, during which he  had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently, 'you have the  head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception.'

 

'Your health!' said the other, with a nod.  'But I have interrupted  you--'

 

'If now,' pursued Mr Haredale, 'we should find it difficult to  separate these young people, and break off their intercourse--if,  for instance, you find it difficult on your side, what course do  you intend to take?'

 

'Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,' returned the  other, shrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more  comfortably before the fire.  'I shall then exert those powers on  which you flatter me so highly--though, upon my word, I don't  deserve your compliments to their full extent--and resort to a few  little trivial subterfuges for rousing jealousy and resentment.   You see?'

 

'In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a last  resource for tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and--and  lying,' said Mr Haredale.

 

'Oh dear no.  Fie, fie!' returned the other, relishing a pinch of  snuff extremely.  'Not lying.  Only a little management, a little  diplomacy, a little--intriguing, that's the word.'

 

'I wish,' said Mr Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and  moving on again, like one who was ill at ease, 'that this could  have been foreseen or prevented.  But as it has gone so far, and it  is necessary for us to act, it is of no use shrinking or  regretting.  Well! I shall second your endeavours to the utmost of  my power.  There is one topic in the whole wide range of human  thoughts on which we both agree.  We shall act in concert, but  apart.  There will be no need, I hope, for us to meet again.'

 

'Are you going?' said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful indolence.   'Let me light you down the stairs.'

 

'Pray keep your seat,' returned the other drily, 'I know the way.   So, waving his hand slightly, and putting on his hat as he turned  upon his heel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut the door  behind him, and tramped down the echoing stairs.

 

'Pah!  A very coarse animal, indeed!' said Mr Chester, composing  himself in the easy-chair again.  'A rough brute.  Quite a human  badger!'

 

John Willet and his friends, who had been listening intently for  the clash of swords, or firing of pistols in the great room, and  had indeed settled the order in which they should rush in when  summoned--in which procession old John had carefully arranged that  he should bring up the rear--were very much astonished to see Mr  Haredale come down without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride  away thoughtfully at a footpace.  After some consideration, it was  decided that he had left the gentleman above, for dead, and had  adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion or pursuit.

 

As this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs  forthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed  upon, when a smart ringing at the guest's bell, as if he had pulled  it vigorously, overthrew all their speculations, and involved them  in great uncertainty and doubt.  At length Mr Willet agreed to go  upstairs himself, escorted by Hugh and Barnaby, as the strongest  and stoutest fellows on the premises, who were to make their  appearance under pretence of clearing away the glasses.

 

Under this protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly  entered the room, half a foot in advance, and received an order for  a boot-jack without trembling.  But when it was brought, and he  leant his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to  look very hard into his boots as he pulled them off, and, by  opening his eyes much wider than usual, to appear to express some  surprise and disappointment at not finding them full of blood.  He  took occasion, too, to examine the gentleman as closely as he  could, expecting to discover sundry loopholes in his person,  pierced by his adversary's sword.  Finding none, however, and  observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and  unruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day,  old John at last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had  been fought that night.

 

'And now, Willet,' said Mr Chester, 'if the room's well aired, I'll  try the merits of that famous bed.'

 

'The room, sir,' returned John, taking up a candle, and nudging  Barnaby and Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman should  unexpectedly drop down faint or dead from some internal wound, 'the  room's as warm as any toast in a tankard.  Barnaby, take you that  other candle, and go on before.  Hugh!  Follow up, sir, with the  easy-chair.'

 

In this order--and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his  candle very close to the guest; now making him feel extremely warm  about the legs, now threatening to set his wig on fire, and  constantly begging his pardon with great awkwardness and  embarrassment--John led the party to the best bedroom, which was  nearly as large as the chamber from which they had come, and held,  drawn out near the fire for warmth, a great old spectral bedstead,  hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top of each carved  post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white, but with  dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.

 

'Good night, my friends,' said Mr Chester with a sweet smile,  seating himself, when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in  the easy-chair which his attendants wheeled before the fire.  'Good  night!  Barnaby, my good fellow, you say some prayers before you go  to bed, I hope?'

 

Barnaby nodded.  'He has some nonsense that he calls his prayers,  sir,' returned old John, officiously.  'I'm afraid there an't much  good in em.'

 

'And Hugh?' said Mr Chester, turning to him.

 

'Not I,' he answered.  'I know his'--pointing to Barnaby--'they're  well enough.  He sings 'em sometimes in the straw.  I listen.'

 

'He's quite a animal, sir,' John whispered in his ear with dignity.   'You'll excuse him, I'm sure.  If he has any soul at all, sir, it  must be such a very small one, that it don't signify what he does  or doesn't in that way.  Good night, sir!'

 

The guest rejoined 'God bless you!' with a fervour that was quite  affecting; and John, beckoning his guards to go before, bowed  himself out of the room, and left him to his rest in the Maypole's  ancient bed.

 


Chapter 13

 

If Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of 'prentices, had  happened to be at home when his father's courtly guest presented  himself before the Maypole door--that is, if it had not perversely  chanced to be one of the half-dozen days in the whole year on which  he was at liberty to absent himself for as many hours without  question or reproach--he would have contrived, by hook or crook, to  dive to the very bottom of Mr Chester's mystery, and to come at his  purpose with as much certainty as though he had been his  confidential adviser.  In that fortunate case, the lovers would  have had quick warning of the ills that threatened them, and the  aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot; for all Joe's  readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good  wishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were  staunch in devotion to their cause.  Whether this disposition arose  out of his old prepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose  history had surrounded her in his mind, almost from his cradle,  with circumstances of unusual interest; or from his attachment  towards the young gentleman, into whose confidence he had, through  his shrewdness and alacrity, and the rendering of sundry important  services as a spy and messenger, almost imperceptibly glided;  whether they had their origin in either of these sources, or in the  habit natural to youth, or in the constant badgering and worrying  of his venerable parent, or in any hidden little love affair of his  own which gave him something of a fellow-feeling in the matter, it  is needless to inquire--especially as Joe was out of the way, and  had no opportunity on that particular occasion of testifying to his  sentiments either on one side or the other.

 

It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people  know to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those  unpleasant epochs termed quarter-days.  On this twenty-fifth of  March, it was John Willet's pride annually to settle, in hard cash,  his account with a certain vintner and distiller in the city of  London; to give into whose hands a canvas bag containing its exact  amount, and not a penny more or less, was the end and object of a  journey for Joe, so surely as the year and day came round.

 

This journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom  John had an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the  effect that she could win a plate or cup if she tried.  She never  had tried, and probably never would now, being some fourteen or  fifteen years of age, short in wind, long in body, and rather the  worse for wear in respect of her mane and tail.  Notwithstanding  these slight defects, John perfectly gloried in the animal; and  when she was brought round to the door by Hugh, actually retired  into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of lemons, laughed with  pride.

 

'There's a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!' said John, when he had  recovered enough self-command to appear at the door again.   'There's a comely creature!  There's high mettle!  There's bone!'

 

There was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to  think, as he sat sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his  chin nearly touching his knees; and heedless of the dangling  stirrups and loose bridle-rein, sauntered up and down on the little  green before the door.

 

'Mind you take good care of her, sir,' said John, appealing from  this insensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared, fully  equipped and ready.  'Don't you ride hard.'

 

'I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,' Joe replied,  casting a disconsolate look at the animal.

 

'None of your impudence, sir, if you please,' retorted old John.   'What would you ride, sir?  A wild ass or zebra would be too tame  for you, wouldn't he, eh sir?  You'd like to ride a roaring lion,  wouldn't you, sir, eh sir?  Hold your tongue, sir.'  When Mr  Willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the  questions that occurred to him, and Joe had said nothing at all in  answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue.

 

'And what does the boy mean,' added Mr Willet, after he had stared  at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, 'by cocking  his hat, to such an extent!  Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?'

 

'No,' said Joe, tartly; 'I'm not.  Now your mind's at ease,  father.'

 

'With a milintary air, too!' said Mr Willet, surveying him from top  to toe; 'with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking  sort of way with him!  And what do you mean by pulling up the  crocuses and snowdrops, eh sir?'

 

'It's only a little nosegay,' said Joe, reddening.  'There's no  harm in that, I hope?'

 

'You're a boy of business, you are, sir!' said Mr Willet,  disdainfully, 'to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays.'

 

'I don't suppose anything of the kind,' returned Joe.  'Let them  keep their red noses for bottles and tankards.  These are going to  Mr Varden's house.'

 

'And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?' demanded  John.

 

'I don't know, and to say the truth, I don't care,' said Joe.   'Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let  me go.'

 

'There it is, sir,' replied John; 'and take care of it; and mind  you don't make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.--Do you mind?'

 

'Ay, I mind,' returned Joe.  'She'll need it, Heaven knows.'

 

'And don't you score up too much at the Black Lion,' said John.   'Mind that too.'

 

'Then why don't you let me have some money of my own?' retorted  Joe, sorrowfully; 'why don't you, father?  What do you send me into  London for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the  Black Lion, which you're to pay for next time you go, as if I was  not to be trusted with a few shillings?  Why do you use me like  this?  It's not right of you.  You can't expect me to be quiet  under it.'

 

'Let him have money!' cried John, in a drowsy reverie.  'What does  he call money--guineas?  Hasn't he got money?  Over and above the  tolls, hasn't he one and sixpence?'

 

'One and sixpence!' repeated his son contemptuously.

 

'Yes, sir,' returned John, 'one and sixpence.  When I was your age,  I had never seen so much money, in a heap.  A shilling of it is in  case of accidents--the mare casting a shoe, or the like of that.   The other sixpence is to spend in the diversions of London; and the  diversion I recommend is going to the top of the Monument, and  sitting there.  There's no temptation there, sir--no drink--no  young women--no bad characters of any sort--nothing but imagination.   That's the way I enjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.'

 

To this, Joe made no answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the  saddle and rode away; and a very stalwart, manly horseman he  looked, deserving a better charger than it was his fortune to  bestride.  John stood staring after him, or rather after the grey  mare (for he had no eyes for her rider), until man and beast had  been out of sight some twenty minutes, when he began to think they  were gone, and slowly re-entering the house, fell into a gentle doze.

 

The unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe's life,  floundered along at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was  no longer visible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a  puppet would have been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward  imitation of a canter, mended her pace all at once, and did it of  her own accord.  The acquaintance with her rider's usual mode of  proceeding, which suggested this improvement in hers, impelled her  likewise to turn up a bye-way, leading--not to London, but through  lanes running parallel with the road they had come, and passing  within a few hundred yards of the Maypole, which led finally to an  inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick mansion--the same of  which mention was made as the Warren in the first chapter of this  history.  Coming to a dead stop in a little copse thereabout, she  suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and to tie her  to the trunk of a tree.

 

'Stay there, old girl,' said Joe, 'and let us see whether there's  any little commission for me to-day.'  So saying, he left her to  browze upon such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within  the length of her tether, and passing through a wicket gate,  entered the grounds on foot.

 

The pathway, after a very few minutes' walking, brought him close  to the house, towards which, and especially towards one particular  window, he directed many covert glances.  It was a dreary, silent  building, with echoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and  whole suites of rooms shut up and mouldering to ruin.

 

The terrace-garden, dark with the shade of overhanging trees, had  an air of melancholy that was quite oppressive.  Great iron gates,  disused for many years, and red with rust, drooping on their hinges  and overgrown with long rank grass, seemed as though they tried to  sink into the ground, and hide their fallen state among the  friendly weeds.  The fantastic monsters on the walls, green with  age and damp, and covered here and there with moss, looked grim and  desolate.  There was a sombre aspect even on that part of the  mansion which was inhabited and kept in good repair, that struck  the beholder with a sense of sadness; of something forlorn and  failing, whence cheerfulness was banished.  It would have been  difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull and darkened  rooms, or to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that the  frowning walls shut in.  It seemed a place where such things had  been, but could be no more--the very ghost of a house, haunting the  old spot in its old outward form, and that was all.

 

Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to  the death of its former master, and the temper of its present  occupant; but remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it  seemed the very place for such a deed, and one that might have been  its predestined theatre years upon years ago.  Viewed with  reference to this legend, the sheet of water where the steward's  body had been found appeared to wear a black and sullen character,  such as no other pool might own; the bell upon the roof that had  told the tale of murder to the midnight wind, became a very phantom  whose voice would raise the listener's hair on end; and every  leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy whispering  of the crime.

 

Joe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected  contemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning  against a tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference,  but always keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at  first.  After some quarter of an hour's delay, a small white hand  was waved to him for an instant from this casement, and the young  man, with a respectful bow, departed; saying under his breath as he  crossed his horse again, 'No errand for me to-day!'

 

But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet  had objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little  errand of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner  or even a locksmith.  So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had  settled with the vintner--whose place of business was down in some  deep cellars hard by Thames Street, and who was as purple-faced an  old gentleman as if he had all his life supported their arched roof  on his head--when he had settled the account, and taken the  receipt, and declined tasting more than three glasses of old  sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the purple-faced vintner,  who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon at least a score  of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally gimleted as it  were, to his own wall--when he had done all this, and disposed  besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel;  spurning the Monument and John's advice, he turned his steps  towards the locksmith's house, attracted by the eyes of blooming  Dolly Varden.

 

Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he  got to the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he  could by no means make up his mind to walk straight to the house.   First, he resolved to stroll up another street for five minutes,  then up another street for five minutes more, and so on until he  had lost full half an hour, when he made a bold plunge and found  himself with a red face and a beating heart in the smoky workshop.

 

'Joe Willet, or his ghost?' said Varden, rising from the desk at  which he was busy with his books, and looking at him under his  spectacles.  'Which is it?  Joe in the flesh, eh?  That's hearty.   And how are all the Chigwell company, Joe?'

 

'Much as usual, sir--they and I agree as well as ever.'

 

'Well, well!' said the locksmith.  'We must be patient, Joe, and  bear with old folks' foibles.  How's the mare, Joe?  Does she do  the four miles an hour as easily as ever?  Ha, ha, ha! Does she,  Joe?  Eh!--What have we there, Joe--a nosegay!'

 

'A very poor one, sir--I thought Miss Dolly--'

 

'No, no,' said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head,  'not Dolly.  Give 'em to her mother, Joe.  A great deal better give  'em to her mother.  Would you mind giving 'em to Mrs Varden, Joe?'

 

'Oh no, sir,' Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the  greatest possible success, to hide his disappointment.  'I shall be  very glad, I'm sure.'

 

'That's right,' said the locksmith, patting him on the back.  'It  don't matter who has 'em, Joe?'

 

'Not a bit, sir.'--Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!

 

'Come in,' said Gabriel.  'I have just been called to tea.  She's  in the parlour.'

 

'She,' thought Joe.  'Which of 'em I wonder--Mrs or Miss?'  The  locksmith settled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed  aloud, by leading him to the door, and saying, 'Martha, my dear,  here's young Mr Willet.'

 

Now, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap,  or decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided  and abetted him, in the light of so many poachers among Christian  men; and believing, moreover, that the publicans coupled with  sinners in Holy Writ were veritable licensed victuallers; was far  from being favourably disposed towards her visitor.  Wherefore she  was taken faint directly; and being duly presented with the  crocuses and snowdrops, divined on further consideration that they  were the occasion of the languor which had seized upon her spirits.   'I'm afraid I couldn't bear the room another minute,' said the good  lady, 'if they remained here.  WOULD you excuse my putting them out  of window?'

 

Joe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account, and smiled  feebly as he saw them deposited on the sill outside.  If anybody  could have known the pains he had taken to make up that despised  and misused bunch of flowers!--

 

'I feel it quite a relief to get rid of them, I assure you,' said  Mrs Varden.  'I'm better already.'  And indeed she did appear to  have plucked up her spirits.

 

Joe expressed his gratitude to Providence for this favourable  dispensation, and tried to look as if he didn't wonder where  Dolly was.

 

'You're sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,' said Mrs V.

 

'I hope not, ma'am,' returned Joe.

 

'You're the cruellest and most inconsiderate people in the world,'  said Mrs Varden, bridling.  'I wonder old Mr Willet, having been a  married man himself, doesn't know better than to conduct himself as  he does.  His doing it for profit is no excuse.  I would rather  pay the money twenty times over, and have Varden come home like a  respectable and sober tradesman.  If there is one character,' said  Mrs Varden with great emphasis, 'that offends and disgusts me more  than another, it is a sot.'

 

'Come, Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith cheerily, 'let us have  tea, and don't let us talk about sots.  There are none here, and  Joe don't want to hear about them, I dare say.'

 

At this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast.

 

'I dare say he does not,' said Mrs Varden; 'and I dare say you do  not, Varden.  It's a very unpleasant subiect, I have no doubt,  though I won't say it's personal'--Miggs coughed--'whatever I may  be forced to think'--Miggs sneezed expressively.  'You never will  know, Varden, and nobody at young Mr Willet's age--you'll excuse  me, sir--can be expected to know, what a woman suffers when she is  waiting at home under such circumstances.  If you don't believe me,  as I know you don't, here's Miggs, who is only too often a witness  of it--ask her.'

 

'Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said  Miggs.  'If you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I  don't think you could abear it, I raly don't.'

 

'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, 'you're profane.'

 

'Begging your pardon, mim,' returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity,  'such was not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character,  though I am but a servant.'

 

'Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,' retorted her  mistress, looking round with dignity, 'is one and the same thing.   How dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful  fellow-beings--mere'--said Mrs Varden, glancing at herself in a  neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more  becoming fashion--'mere worms and grovellers as we are!'

 

'I did not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,' said  Miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing  strongly in the throat as usual, 'and I did not expect it would be  took as such.  I hope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate  and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable  Christian should.'

 

'You'll have the goodness, if you please,' said Mrs Varden,  loftily, 'to step upstairs and see if Dolly has finished dressing,  and to tell her that the chair that was ordered for her will be  here in a minute, and that if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it  away that instant.--I'm sorry to see that you don't take your tea,  Varden, and that you don't take yours, Mr Joseph; though of course  it would be foolish of me to expect that anything that can be had  at home, and in the company of females, would please YOU.'

 

This pronoun was understood in the plural sense, and included both  gentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and undeserved,  for Gabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising  appetite, until it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as  great a liking for the female society of the locksmith's house--or  for a part of it at all events--as man could well entertain.

 

But he had no opportunity to say anything in his own defence, for  at that moment Dolly herself appeared, and struck him quite dumb  with her beauty.  Never had Dolly looked so handsome as she did  then, in all the glow and grace of youth, with all her charms  increased a hundredfold by a most becoming dress, by a thousand  little coquettish ways which nobody could assume with a better  grace, and all the sparkling expectation of that accursed party.   It is impossible to tell how Joe hated that party wherever it was,  and all the other people who were going to it, whoever they were.

 

And she hardly looked at him--no, hardly looked at him.  And when  the chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the  workshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go.   But Joe gave her his arm--there was some comfort in that--and  handed her into it.  To see her seat herself inside, with her  laughing eyes brighter than diamonds, and her hand--surely she had  the prettiest hand in the world--on the ledge of the open window,  and her little finger provokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it  wondered why Joe didn't squeeze or kiss it!  To think how well one  or two of the modest snowdrops would have become that delicate  bodice, and how they were lying neglected outside the parlour  window!  To see how Miggs looked on with a face expressive of  knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and of being in the  secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and of saying it  ain't half as real as you think, and I could look quite as well  myself if I took the pains!  To hear that provoking precious little  scream when the chair was hoisted on its poles, and to catch that  transient but not-to-be-forgotten vision of the happy face within--what torments and aggravations, and yet what delights were these!   The very chairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her down the  street.

 

There never was such an alteration in a small room in a small time  as in that parlour when they went back to finish tea.  So dark, so  deserted, so perfectly disenchanted.  It seemed such sheer nonsense  to be sitting tamely there, when she was at a dance with more  lovers than man could calculate fluttering about her--with the  whole party doting on and adoring her, and wanting to marry her.   Miggs was hovering about too; and the fact of her existence, the  mere circumstance of her ever having been born, appeared, after  Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke.  It was impossible to  talk.  It couldn't be done.  He had nothing left for it but to stir  his tea round, and round, and round, and ruminate on all the  fascinations of the locksmith's lovely daughter.

 

Gabriel was dull too.  It was a part of the certain uncertainty of  Mrs Varden's temper, that when they were in this condition, she  should be gay and sprightly.

 

'I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,' said the smiling  housewife, 'to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I can  scarcely tell.'

 

'Ah, mim,' sighed Miggs, 'begging your pardon for the interruption,  there an't a many like you.'

 

'Take away, Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, rising, 'take away, pray.  I  know I'm a restraint here, and as I wish everybody to enjoy  themselves as they best can, I feel I had better go.'

 

'No, no, Martha,' cried the locksmith.  'Stop here.  I'm sure we  shall be very sorry to lose you, eh Joe!'  Joe started, and said  'Certainly.'

 

'Thank you, Varden, my dear,' returned his wife; 'but I know your  wishes better.  Tobacco and beer, or spirits, have much greater  attractions than any I can boast of, and therefore I shall go and  sit upstairs and look out of window, my love.  Good night, Mr  Joseph.  I'm very glad to have seen you, and I only wish I could  have provided something more suitable to your taste.  Remember me  very kindly if you please to old Mr Willet, and tell him that  whenever he comes here I have a crow to pluck with him.  Good  night!'

 

Having uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good  lady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its condescension, and  serenely withdrew.

 

And it was for this Joe had looked forward to the twenty-fifth of  March for weeks and weeks, and had gathered the flowers with so  much care, and had cocked his hat, and made himself so smart!  This  was the end of all his bold determination, resolved upon for the  hundredth time, to speak out to Dolly and tell her how he loved  her!  To see her for a minute--for but a minute--to find her going  out to a party and glad to go; to be looked upon as a common pipe-smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-guzzler, and tosspot!  He bade  farewell to his friend the locksmith, and hastened to take horse at  the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home, as many another  Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to all his  hopes--that the thing was impossible and never could be--that she  didn't care for him--that he was wretched for life--and that the  only congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a  sailor, and get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as  soon as possible.

 


Chapter 14

 

Joe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing  the locksmith's daughter going down long country-dances, and  poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers--which was almost too  much to bear--when he heard the tramp of a horse's feet behind him,  and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a  smart canter.  As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and  called him of the Maypole by his name.  Joe set spurs to the grey  mare, and was at his side directly.

 

'I thought it was you, sir,' he said, touching his hat.  'A fair  evening, sir.  Glad to see you out of doors again.'

 

The gentleman smiled and nodded.  'What gay doings have been going  on to-day, Joe?  Is she as pretty as ever?  Nay, don't blush, man.'

 

'If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,' said Joe, 'which I didn't know I  did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have  any hope of her.  She's as far out of my reach as--as Heaven is.'

 

'Well, Joe, I hope that's not altogether beyond it,' said Edward,  good-humouredly.  'Eh?'

 

'Ah!' sighed Joe.  'It's all very fine talking, sir.  Proverbs are  easily made in cold blood.  But it can't be helped.  Are you bound  for our house, sir?'

 

'Yes.  As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night,  and ride home coolly in the morning.'

 

'If you're in no particular hurry,' said Joe after a short silence,  'and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to  ride on with you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when you  dismount.  It'll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there  and back again.  I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.'

 

'And so am I,' returned Edward, 'though I was unconsciously riding  fast just now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts,  which were travelling post.  We will keep together, Joe, willingly,  and be as good company as may be.  And cheer up, cheer up, think of  the locksmith's daughter with a stout heart, and you shall win her  yet.'

 

Joe shook his head; but there was something so cheery in the  buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under  its influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse  even to the grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a  gentle trot, emulated the pace of Edward Chester's horse, and  appeared to flatter herself that he was doing his very best.

 

It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was  then just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which  gives to evening time its most delicious charm.  The lengthened  shadows of the trees, softened as if reflected in still water,  threw their carpet on the path the travellers pursued, and the  light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as though it were  soothing Nature in her sleep.  By little and little they ceased  talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence.

 

'The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,' said Edward, as they  rode along the lane from which, while the intervening trees were  bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.

 

'Brilliant indeed, sir,' returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to  get a better view.  'Lights in the large room, and a fire  glimmering in the best bedchamber?  Why, what company can this be  for, I wonder!'

 

'Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from  going on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the  highwayman, I suppose,' said Edward.

 

'He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations.   Your bed too, sir--!'

 

'No matter, Joe.  Any other room will do for me.  But come--there's  nine striking.  We may push on.'

 

They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe's charger could  attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left  her in the morning.  Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his  companion, and walked with a light step towards the house.

 

A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and  admitted him without delay.  He hurried along the terrace-walk, and  darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy  hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour,  antlers, weapons of the chase, and suchlike garniture.  Here he  paused, but not long; for as he looked round, as if expecting the  attendant to have followed, and wondering she had not done so, a  lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his  breast.  Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her  arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr Haredale stood between  them.

 

He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with  one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held  his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door.  The young man drew  himself up, and returned his gaze.

 

'This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter  my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!' said Mr Haredale.   'Leave it, sir, and return no more.'

 

'Miss Haredale's presence,' returned the young man, 'and your  relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave  man, you will not abuse.  You have compelled me to this course,  and the fault is yours--not mine.'

 

'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true  man, sir,' retorted the other, 'to tamper with the affections of a  weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from  her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day.   More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this  house, and require you to be gone.'

 

'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man  to play the spy,' said Edward.  'Your words imply dishonour, and I  reject them with the scorn they merit.'

 

'You will find,' said Mr Haredale, calmly, 'your trusty go-between  in waiting at the gate by which you entered.  I have played no  spy's part, sir.  I chanced to see you pass the gate, and  followed.  You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you  been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden.  Please to  withdraw.  Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to  my niece.'  As he said these words, he passed his arm about the  waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to  him; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely  changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness  and sympathy for her distress.

 

'Mr Haredale,' said Edward, 'your arm encircles her on whom I have  set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute's  happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is  the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence.  Your  niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to  her.  What have I done that you should hold me in this light  esteem, and give me these discourteous words?'

 

'You have done that, sir,' answered Mr Haredale, 'which must he  undone.  You have tied a lover'-knot here which must be cut  asunder.  Take good heed of what I say.  Must.  I cancel the bond  between ye.  I reject you, and all of your kith and kin--all the  false, hollow, heartless stock.'

 

'High words, sir,' said Edward, scornfully.

 

'Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,' replied the  other.  'Lay them to heart.'

 

'Lay you then, these,' said Edward.  'Your cold and sullen temper,  which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into  fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret  course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign,  sir, to us than you.  I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless  man; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious  terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded  you just now.  You shall not cancel the bond between us.  I will  not abandon this pursuit.  I rely upon your niece's truth and  honour, and set your influence at nought.  I leave her with a  confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with  no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.'

 

With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more  encountering and returning Mr Haredale's steady look, withdrew.

 

A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained  what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman's despondency  with tenfold aggravation.  They rode back to the Maypole without  exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.

 

Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode  up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great  importance as he held the young man's stirrup,

 

'He's comfortable in bed--the best bed.  A thorough gentleman; the  smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.'

 

'Who, Willet?' said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.

 

'Your worthy father, sir,' replied John.  'Your honourable,  venerable father.'

 

'What does he mean?' said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm  and doubt, at Joe.

 

'What DO you mean?' said Joe.  'Don't you see Mr Edward doesn't  understand, father?'

 

'Why, didn't you know of it, sir?' said John, opening his eyes  wide.  'How very singular!  Bless you, he's been here ever since  noon to-day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him,  and hasn't been gone an hour.'

 

'My father, Willet!'

 

'Yes, sir, he told me so--a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in  green-and-gold.  In your old room up yonder, sir.  No doubt you  can go in, sir,' said John, walking backwards into the road and  looking up at the window.  'He hasn't put out his candles yet, I  see.'

 

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he  had changed his mind--forgotten something--and must return to  London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets,  father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

 


Chapter 15

 

At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his  breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts,  which left the Maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of  accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested  comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that  venerable tavern.

 

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modern  sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in  the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester  lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table.  He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for  the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the  aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually  forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent  night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency,  indolence, and satisfaction.

 

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly  favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the  lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional  sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place  of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in  these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days  of yore.

 

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day,  for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade.  There is yet  a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and  gardens; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the  echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its  gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street,  'Who enters here leaves noise behind.'  There is still the plash of  falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and  corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty  garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the  tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger's  form.  There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish  atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and  even legal firms have failed to scare away.  In summer time, its  pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more  sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the  spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the  freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and  think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.

 

It was in a room in Paper Buildings--a row of goodly tenements,  shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon  the Temple Gardens--that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up  again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with  the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick,  and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the  trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing  to and fro.  Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up;  there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than  her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a  string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on  that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with  like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't know she was  no longer young.  Apart from all these, on the river's margin two  or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in  earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a  bench, alone.

 

'Ned is amazingly patient!' said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-named person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden  toothpick, 'immensely patient!  He was sitting yonder when I began  to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since.  A most  eccentric dog!'

 

As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid  pace.

 

'Really, as if he had heard me,' said the father, resuming his  newspaper with a yawn.  'Dear Ned!'

 

Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom  his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.

 

'Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?' said Edward.

 

'Surely, Ned.  I am always at leisure.  You know my constitution.--Have you breakfasted?'

 

'Three hours ago.'

 

'What a very early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from  behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.

 

'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating  himself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was  glad to rise.  The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to  you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to speak.'

 

'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide in me, I beg.  But you  know my constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.'

 

'I will be plain, and brief,' said Edward.

 

'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing  his legs, 'or you certainly will not.  You are going to tell me'--

 

'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern,  'that I know where you were last night--from being on the spot,  indeed--and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.'

 

'You don't say so!' cried his father.  'I am delighted to hear it.   It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long  explanation, and is a great relief for both.  At the very house!   Why didn't you come up?  I should have been charmed to see you.'

 

'I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's  reflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son.

 

''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the father, 'I was cool enough last  night.  That detestable Maypole!  By some infernal contrivance of  the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh.  You remember  the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago?  I give you  my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out  of doors there was a dead calm.  But you were saying'--

 

'I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that  you have made me wretched, sir.  Will you hear me gravely for a  moment?'

 

'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will hear you with the patience  of an anchorite.  Oblige me with the milk.'

 

'I saw Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had  complied with this request; 'her uncle, in her presence,  immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in  consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of  indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to  leave it on the instant.'

 

'For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not  accountable,' said his father.  'That you must excuse.  He is a  mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a  fly in the jug.  The first I have seen this year.'

 

Edward rose, and paced the room.  His imperturbable parent sipped  his tea.

 

'Father,' said the young man, stopping at length before him, 'we  must not trifle in this matter.  We must not deceive each other, or  ourselves.  Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and  do not repel me by this unkind indifference.'

 

'Whether I am indifferent or no,' returned the other, 'I leave you,  my dear boy, to judge.  A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles,  through miry roads--a Maypole dinner--a tete-a-tete with Haredale,  which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business--a  Maypole bed--a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots  and centaurs;--whether the voluntary endurance of these things  looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety,  and devotion, and all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall  determine for yourself.'

 

'I wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, 'in what a cruel  situation I am placed.  Loving Miss Haredale as I do'--

 

'My dear fellow,' interrupted his father with a compassionate  smile, 'you do nothing of the kind.  You don't know anything about  it.  There's no such thing, I assure you.  Now, do take my word for  it.  You have good sense, Ned,--great good sense.  I wonder you  should be guilty of such amazing absurdities.  You really surprise  me.'

 

'I repeat,' said his son firmly, 'that I love her.  You have  interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told  you of, succeeded.  May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more  favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your  fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?'

 

'My dear Ned,' returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and  pushing his box towards him, 'that is my purpose most undoubtedly.'

 

'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son, 'since I began to  know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have  hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position.  What is it?   From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness,  and have been bred as though my fortune were large, and my  expectations almost without a limit.  The idea of wealth has been  familiarised to me from my cradle.  I have been taught to look upon  those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and  distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care.  I  have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for  nothing.  I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no  resource but in your favour.  In this momentous question of my life  we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree.  I have shrunk  instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay  court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have  rendered them in your eyes visible objects for my suit.  If there  never has been thus much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the  fault has not been mine, indeed.  If I seem to speak too plainly  now, it is, believe me father, in the hope that there may be a  franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence  between us in time to come.'

 

'My good fellow,' said his smiling father, 'you quite affect me.   Go on, my dear Edward, I beg.  But remember your promise.  There is  great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you  say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to  prose.'

 

'I am very sorry, sir.'

 

'I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind  for any long period upon one subject.  If you'll come to the point  at once, I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it  said.  Oblige me with the milk again.  Listening, invariably makes  me feverish.'

 

'What I would say then, tends to this,' said Edward.  'I cannot  bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you.  Time has been  lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may  retrieve it.  Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities  and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit?  Will you let me  try to make for myself an honourable path in life?  For any term  you please to name--say for five years if you will--I will pledge  myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without  your fall concurrence.  During that period, I will endeavour  earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for  myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become if I  married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments.  Will  you do this, sir?  At the expiration of the term we agree upon, let  us discuss this subject again.  Till then, unless it is revived by  you, let it never be renewed between us.'

 

'My dear Ned,' returned his father, laying down the newspaper at  which he had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in  the window-seat, 'I believe you know how very much I dislike what  are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian  Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our  condition.  But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned--altogether upon a mistake--I will conquer my repugnance to entering  on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer,  if you will do me the favour to shut the door.'

 

Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his  pocket, and paring his nails, continued:

 

'You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your  mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and  so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to  become immortal--had nothing to boast of in that respect.'

 

'Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward.

 

'Quite right, Ned; perfectly so.  He stood high at the bar, had a  great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing--I have  always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its  contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his  business did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to marry  his daughter into a good family.  He had his heart's desire, Ned.   I was a younger son's younger son, and I married her.  We each had  our object, and gained it.  She stepped at once into the politest  and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you  was very necessary to my comfort--quite indispensable.  Now, my  good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been.  It  is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how old are you?  I always  forget.'

 

'Seven-and-twenty, sir.'

 

'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising his eyelids in a  languishing surprise.  'So much!  Then I should say, Ned, that as  nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge,  about eighteen or nineteen years ago.  It was about that time when  I came to live in these chambers (once your grandfather's, and  bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me), and  commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity and my past  reputation.'

 

'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.

 

'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father  with great composure.  'These family topics are so extremely dry,  that I am sorry to say they don't admit of any such relief.  It is  for that reason, and because they have an appearance of business,  that I dislike them so very much.  Well!  You know the rest.  A  son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion--that is to  say, unless he is some two or three and twenty--is not the kind of  thing to have about one.  He is a restraint upon his father, his  father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually  uncomfortable.  Therefore, until within the last four years or so--I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct  me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a distance, and  picked up a great variety of accomplishments.  Occasionally we  passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as  only such near relations can.  At last you came home.  I candidly  tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown,  I should have exported you to some distant part of the world.'

 

'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said Edward.

 

'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I  assure you.  I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant  fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command.   Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided  for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for  me in return.'

 

'I do not understand your meaning, sir.'

 

'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream-jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first,  for their walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful  and disagreeable--my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that  you must marry well and make the most of yourself.'

 

'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.

 

'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father.   'All men are fortune-hunters, are they not?  The law, the church,  the court, the camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit.  The stock-exchange,  the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the  senate,--what but fortune-hunters are they filled with?  A fortune-hunter!  Yes.  You ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear  Ned, if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator,  prelate, or merchant, in existence.  If you are squeamish and  moral, Ned, console yourself with the reflection that at the very  worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person miserable or  unhappy.  How many people do you suppose these other kinds of  huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at a step?  Or  thousands?'

 

The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.

 

'I am quite charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to  and fro--stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror,  or survey a picture through his glass, with the air of a  connoisseur, 'that we have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising  as it was.  It establishes a confidence between us which is quite  delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever  have mistaken our positions and designs, I confess I cannot  understand.  I conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl,  that all these points were tacitly agreed upon between us.'

 

'I knew you were embarrassed, sir,' returned the son, raising his  head for a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, 'but  I had no idea we were the beggared wretches you describe.  How  could I suppose it, bred as I have been; witnessing the life you  have always led; and the appearance you have always made?'

 

'My dear child,' said the father--'for you really talk so like a  child that I must call you one--you were bred upon a careful  principle; the very manner of your education, I assure you,  maintained my credit surprisingly.  As to the life I lead, I must  lead it, Ned.  I must have these little refinements about me.  I  have always been used to them, and I cannot exist without them.   They must surround me, you observe, and therefore they are here.   With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you may set your mind at  rest upon that score.  They are desperate.  Your own appearance is  by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours  our income.  That's the truth.'

 

'Why have I never known this before?  Why have you encouraged me,  sir, to an expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right  or title?'

 

'My good fellow,' returned his father more compassionately than  ever, 'if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in  the pursuit for which I destined you?  As to our mode of life,  every man has a right to live in the best way he can; and to make  himself as comfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel.   Our debts, I grant, are very great, and therefore it the more  behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to pay them  off as speedily as possible.'

 

'The villain's part,' muttered Edward, 'that I have unconsciously  played!  I to win the heart of Emma Haredale!  I would, for her  sake, I had died first!'

 

'I am glad you see, Ned,' returned his father, 'how perfectly self-evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter.  But apart  from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself  on another (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish  you'd look upon it pleasantly.  In a religious point of view alone,  how could you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless  she was amazingly rich?  You ought to be so very Protestant,  coming of such a Protestant family as you do.  Let us be moral,  Ned, or we are nothing.  Even if one could set that objection  aside, which is impossible, we come to another which is quite  conclusive.  The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was  killed, like meat!  Good God, Ned, how disagreeable!  Consider the  impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law under  such unpleasant circumstances--think of his having been "viewed" by  jurors, and "sat upon" by coroners, and of his very doubtful  position in the family ever afterwards.  It seems to me such an  indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have  been put to death by the state to prevent its happening.  But I  tease you perhaps.  You would rather be alone?  My dear Ned, most  willingly.  God bless you.  I shall be going out presently, but we  shall meet to-night, or if not to-night, certainly to-morrow.   Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both our sakes.  You  are a person of great consequence to me, Ned--of vast consequence  indeed.  God bless you!'

 

With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in  the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner,  withdrew, humming a tune as he went.  The son, who had appeared so  lost in thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite  still and silent.  After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder  Chester, gaily dressed, went out.  The younger still sat with his  head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.

 


Chapter 16

 

A series of pictures representing the streets of London in the  night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would  present to the eye something so very different in character from  the reality which is witnessed in these times, that it would be  difficult for the beholder to recognise his most familiar walks in  the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago.

 

They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest  and least frequented, very dark.  The oil and cotton lamps, though  regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt  feebly at the best; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted  by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of  doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and  house-fronts in the deepest gloom.  Many of the courts and lanes  were left in total darkness; those of the meaner sort, where one  glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favoured in  no slight degree.  Even in these places, the inhabitants had often  good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted;  and the watch being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent  them, they did so at their pleasure.  Thus, in the lightest  thoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous  spot whither a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to  follow; and the city being belted round by fields, green lanes,  waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the  suburbs that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit  was hot, was rendered easy.

 

It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and  constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel  wounds, and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of  nightly occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks  should have had great dread of traversing its streets after the  shops were closed.  It was not unusual for those who wended home  alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the better to  guard against surprise from lurking footpads; few would venture to  repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to  Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended; while he who had  been loudest and most valiant at the supper-table or the tavern,  and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to fee a link-boy to  escort him home.

 

There were many other characteristics--not quite so disagreeable--about the thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been  long familiar.  Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward  of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a  sign; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their iron  frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournfal concert for  the ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the  streets.  Long stands of hackney-chairs and groups of chairmen,  compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite,  obstructed the way and filled the air with clamour; night-cellars,  indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement, and  stretching out half-way into the road, and by the stifled roar of  voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of  the most abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and bulk small  groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day; or one more  weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his  torch fall hissing on the puddled ground.

 

Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour,  and the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and  turned them round in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed,  or blew, or froze, for very comfort's sake.  The solitary passenger  was startled by the chairmen's cry of 'By your leave there!' as two  came trotting past him with their empty vehicle--carried backwards  to show its being disengaged--and hurried to the nearest stand.   Many a private chair, too, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously  hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running-footmen bearing  flambeaux--for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the  doors of a few houses of the better sort--made the way gay and  light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had  passed.  It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried  it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall while  waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows  either there or in the street without, to strew the place of  skirmish with hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered  nosegays.  Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes  (the fashion being of course set by the upper), was generally the  cause of these disputes; for cards and dice were as openly used,  and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below  stairs, as above.  While incidents like these, arising out of drums  and masquerades and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west  end of the town, heavy stagecoaches and scarce heavier waggons were  lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and  passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach--a day or so perhaps  behind its time, but that was nothing--despoiled by highwaymen; who  made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan  of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were  sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be.  On the morrow,  rumours of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a  few hours' conversation through the town, and a Public Progress of  some fine gentleman (half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest  fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and  grace, furnished to the populace, at once a pleasant excitement and  a wholesome and profound example.

 

Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society,  prowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man  from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an  involuntary dread.  Who he was, or whence he came, was a question  often asked, but which none could answer.  His name was unknown, he  had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts,  and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts  he ventured fearlessly, as to the young.  He could be no spy, for  he never removed his slouched hat to look about him, entered into  conversation with no man, heeded nothing that passed, listened to  no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went.  But so surely as  the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the midst of  the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every  grade resorted; and there he sat till morning.

 

He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something  in the midst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted  them; but out of doors he was the same.  Directly it was dark, he  was abroad--never in company with any one, but always alone; never  lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so  they said who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time,  and as he did so quickening his pace.  In the fields, the lanes,  the roads, in all quarters of the town--east, west, north, and  south--that man was seen gliding on like a shadow.  He was always  hurrying away.  Those who encountered him, saw him steal past,  caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the  darkness.

 

This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to  strange stories.  He was seen in such distant and remote places, at  times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether  there were not two of them, or more--some, whether he had not  unearthly means of travelling from spot to spot.  The footpad  hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a ghost along its  brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the beggar  had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and  then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons  could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him  glide away among the tombs on their approach.  And as they told  these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would  pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.

 

At last, one man--he was one of those whose commerce lay among the  graves--resolved to question this strange companion.  Next night,  when he had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do  that, they had observed, as though he had no other in the day),  this fellow sat down at his elbow.

 

'A black night, master!'

 

'It is a black night.'

 

'Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too.  Didn't I pass you  near the turnpike in the Oxford Road?'

 

'It's like you may.  I don't know.'

 

'Come, come, master,' cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of  his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; 'be more  companionable and communicative.  Be more the gentleman in this  good company.  There are tales among us that you have sold yourself  to the devil, and I know not what.'

 

'We all have, have we not?' returned the stranger, looking up.  'If  we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.'

 

'It goes rather hard with you, indeed,' said the fellow, as the  stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes.   'What of that?  Be merry, master.  A stave of a roaring song now'--

 

'Sing you, if you desire to hear one,' replied the other, shaking  him roughly off; 'and don't touch me if you're a prudent man; I  carry arms which go off easily--they have done so, before now--and  make it dangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of them,  to lay hands upon me.'

 

'Do you threaten?' said the fellow.

 

'Yes,' returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking  fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.

 

His voice, and look, and bearing--all expressive of the wildest  recklessness and desperation--daunted while they repelled the  bystanders.  Although in a very different sphere of action now,  they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the  Maypole Inn.

 

'I am what you all are, and live as you all do,' said the man  sternly, after a short silence.  'I am in hiding here like the  rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the  best of ye.  If it's my humour to be left to myself, let me have  it.  Otherwise,'--and here he swore a tremendous oath--'there'll be  mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a score  against me.'

 

A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and  the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on  the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient  precedent to meddle too curiously with a gentleman's private  affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who  had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no  further.  After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench  to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was  gone.

 

Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and  traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith's house more  than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut.  This  night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark.  As he  glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm,  turned into it at the other end.  Directly he observed her, he  sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had  passed.  Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and  followed.

 

She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household  necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered  like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared.  It was  nigh eleven o'clock, and the passengers in the streets were  thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home.  The phantom  still followed her.

 

She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first,  which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark.  She  quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped,  and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her.  He  crept along on the other side of the road.  Had she been gifted  with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would  have tracked her down.

 

At length the widow--for she it was--reached her own door, and,  panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket.  In a  flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of  being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her  head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of  a dream.

 

His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue  clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone.  'I have  been looking for you many nights.  Is the house empty?  Answer me.   Is any one inside?'

 

She could only answer by a rattle in her throat.

 

'Make me a sign.'

 

She seemed to indicate that there was no one there.  He took the  key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully  behind them.

 


Chapter 17

 

It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had  burnt low.  Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and  stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them  together and fanned them with his hat.  From time to time he  glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of  her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart; and that done,  busied himself about the fire again.

 

It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress  was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he  shivered from head to foot.  It had rained hard during the previous  night and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been  fine.  Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness, his  condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent  beneath the open sky.  Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes  clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven,  his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,--a  more miserable wretch could hardly be, than this man who now  cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watched the struggling  flame with bloodshot eyes.

 

She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to  look towards him.  So they remained for some short time in silence.   Glancing round again, he asked at length:

 

'Is this your house?'

 

'It is.  Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?'

 

'Give me meat and drink,' he answered sullenly, 'or I dare do more  than that.  The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and  hunger.  I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here.'

 

'You were the robber on the Chigwell road.'

 

'I was.'

 

'And nearly a murderer then.'

 

'The will was not wanting.  There was one came upon me and raised  the hue-and-cry', that it would have gone hard with, but for his  nimbleness.  I made a thrust at him.'

 

'You thrust your sword at HIM!' cried the widow, looking upwards.   'You hear this man! you hear and saw!'

 

He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands  tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of  appeal.  Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced  towards her.

 

'Beware!' she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped  him midway.  'Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are  lost; body and soul, you are lost.'

 

'Hear me,' he replied, menacing her with his hand.  'I, that in the  form of a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am  a spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures  shrink, save those curst beings of another world, who will not  leave me;--I am, in my desperation of this night, past all fear but  that of the hell in which I exist from day to day.  Give the  alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me.  I will not hurt you.  But I  will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above  your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor.  The blood with which  I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit  that tempts men to their ruin!'

 

As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched  it in his hand.

 

'Remove this man from me, good Heaven!' cried the widow.  'In thy  grace and mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him  dead!'

 

'It has no such purpose,' he said, confronting her.  'It is deaf.   Give me to eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing,  and will not do for you.'

 

'Will you leave me, if I do thus much?  Will you leave me and  return no more?'

 

'I will promise nothing,' he rejoined, seating himself at the  table, 'nothing but this--I will execute my threat if you betray  me.'

 

She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room,  brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on  the table.  He asked for brandy, and for water.  These she produced  likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a famished  hound.  All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost  distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her  face towards him.  She never turned her back upon him once; and  although when she passed him (as she was obliged to do in going to  and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her garment about  her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think  of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her  face towards his own, and watched his every movement.

 

His repast ended--if that can be called one, which was a mere  ravenous satisfying of the calls of hunger--he moved his chair  towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze which  had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more.

 

'I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an  uncommon luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate  fare.  You live here at your ease.  Do you live alone?'

 

'I do not,' she made answer with an effort.

 

'Who dwells here besides?'

 

'One--it is no matter who.  You had best begone, or he may find you  here.  Why do you linger?'

 

'For warmth,' he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire.   'For warmth.  You are rich, perhaps?'

 

'Very,' she said faintly.  'Very rich.  No doubt I am very rich.'

 

'At least you are not penniless.  You have some money.  You were  making purchases to-night.'

 

'I have a little left.  It is but a few shillings.'

 

'Give me your purse.  You had it in your hand at the door.  Give it  to me.'

 

She stepped to the table and laid it down.  He reached across, took  it up, and told the contents into his hand.  As he was counting  them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him.

 

'Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go  before it is too late.  I have heard a wayward step without, I know  full well.  It will return directly.  Begone.'

 

'What do you mean?'

 

'Do not stop to ask.  I will not answer.  Much as I dread to touch  you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength,  rather than you should lose an instant.  Miserable wretch! fly from  this place.'

 

'If there are spies without, I am safer here,' replied the man,  standing aghast.  'I will remain here, and will not fly till the  danger is past.'

 

'It is too late!' cried the widow, who had listened for the step,  and not to him.  'Hark to that foot upon the ground.  Do you  tremble to hear it!  It is my son, my idiot son!'

 

As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door.   He looked at her, and she at him.

 

'Let him come in,' said the man, hoarsely.  'I fear him less than  the dark, houseless night.  He knocks again.  Let him come in!'

 

'The dread of this hour,' returned the widow, 'has been upon me all  my life, and I will not.  Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye  to eye.  My blighted boy!  Oh! all good angels who know the truth--hear a poor mother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of  this man!'

 

'He rattles at the shutters!' cried the man.  'He calls you.  That  voice and cry!  It was he who grappled with me in the road.  Was it  he?'

 

She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips,  but uttering no sound.  As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do  or where to turn, the shutters flew open.  He had barely time to  catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his  coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning's speed,  when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash  exultingly.

 

'Why, who can keep out Grip and me!' he cried, thrusting in his  head, and staring round the room.  'Are you there, mother?  How  long you keep us from the fire and light.'

 

She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand.  But Barnaby  sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about  her neck, kissed her a hundred times.

 

'We have been afield, mother--leaping ditches, scrambling through  hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on.   The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing  and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards--and  Grip--ha ha ha!--brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the  wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it--Grip,  bold Grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig--thinking,  he told me, that it mocked him--and has worried it like a bulldog.   Ha ha ha!'

 

The raven, in his little basket at his master's back, hearing this  frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his  sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his  various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many  varieties of hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a  crowd of people.

 

'He takes such care of me besides!' said Barnaby.  'Such care,  mother!  He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes  and make-believe to slumber, he practises new learning softly; but  he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though  never so little, stops directly.  He won't surprise me till he's  perfect.'

 

The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said,  'Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in  them.'  In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it,  and coming to the fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet.  But his mother prevented this, by hastily taking  that side herself, and motioning him towards the other.

 

'How pale you are to-night!' said Barnaby, leaning on his stick.   'We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!'

 

Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart!  The listener held the  door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched  her son.  Grip--alive to everything his master was unconscious of--had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him  intently with his glistening eye.

 

'He flaps his wings,' said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough  to catch the retreating form and closing door, 'as if there were  strangers here, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that.  Jump then!'

 

Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the  bird hopped up on his master's shoulder, from that to his extended  hand, and so to the ground.  Barnaby unstrapping the basket and  putting it down in a corner with the lid open, Grip's first care  was to shut it down with all possible despatch, and then to stand  upon it.  Believing, no doubt, that he had now rendered it utterly  impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut him up in  it any more, he drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a  corresponding number of hurrahs.

 

'Mother!' said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and  returning to the chair from which he had risen, 'I'll tell you  where we have been to-day, and what we have been doing,--shall I?'

 

She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she  could not speak.

 

'You mustn't tell,' said Barnaby, holding up his finger, 'for it's  a secret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh.  We had  the dog with us, but he's not like Grip, clever as he is, and  doesn't guess it yet, I'll wager.--Why do you look behind me so?'

 

'Did I?' she answered faintly.  'I didn't know I did.  Come nearer  me.'

 

'You are frightened!' said Barnaby, changing colour.  'Mother--you  don't see'--

 

'See what?'

 

'There's--there's none of this about, is there?' he answered in a  whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his  wrist.  'I am afraid there is, somewhere.  You make my hair stand  on end, and my flesh creep.  Why do you look like that?  Is it in  the room as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and  the walls with red?  Tell me.  Is it?'

 

He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting  out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it  had passed away.  After a time, he raised his head and looked about  him.

 

'Is it gone?'

 

'There has been nothing here,' rejoined his mother, soothing him.   'Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby.  Look!  You see there are but you  and me.'

 

He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst  into a wild laugh.

 

'But let us see,' he said, thoughtfully.  'Were we talking?  Was it  you and me?  Where have we been?'

 

'Nowhere but here.'

 

'Aye, but Hugh, and I,' said Barnaby,--'that's it.  Maypole Hugh,  and I, you know, and Grip--we have been lying in the forest, and  among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night  came on, and the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came  by.'

 

'What man?'

 

'The robber; him that the stars winked at.  We have waited for him  after dark these many nights, and we shall have him.  I'd know him  in a thousand.  Mother, see here!  This is the man.  Look!'

 

He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his  brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like  the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out  behind him might have passed for his own shadow.

 

'Ha ha ha!  We shall have him,' he cried, ridding himself of the  semblance as hastily as he had assumed it.  'You shall see him,  mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-girth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck.   So Hugh says.  You're pale again, and trembling.  And why DO you  look behind me so?'

 

'It is nothing,' she answered.  'I am not quite well.  Go you to  bed, dear, and leave me here.'

 

'To bed!' he answered.  'I don't like bed.  I like to lie before  the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals--the rivers,  hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces.  I  am hungry too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon.  Let us  to supper.  Grip!  To supper, lad!'

 

The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped  to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for  snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him.  Of these he  received about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest  discomposure.

 

'That's all,' said Barnaby.

 

'More!' cried Grip.  'More!'

 

But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he  retreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one  from his pouch, hid them in various corners--taking particular  care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden  man's propensities and power of resisting temptation.  When he had  concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room  with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but  with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time), and then, and  not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it  with the utmost relish.

 

Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain,  made a hearty supper too.  Once during the progress of his meal, he  wanted more bread from the closet and rose to get it.  She  hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost  fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself.

 

'Mother,' said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down  beside him after doing so; 'is to-day my birthday?'

 

'To-day!' she answered.  'Don't you recollect it was but a week or  so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it  comes again?'

 

'I remember that it has been so till now,' said Barnaby.  'But I  think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.'

 

She asked him why?  'I'll tell you why,' he said.  'I have always  seen you--I didn't let you know it, but I have--on the evening of  that day grow very sad.  I have seen you cry when Grip and I were  most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have touched  your hand, and felt that it was cold--as it is now.  Once, mother  (on a birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we  went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one  o'clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well.  You  were on your knees.  I forget what it was you said.  Grip, what was  it we heard her say that night?'

 

'I'm a devil!' rejoined the raven promptly.

 

'No, no,' said Barnaby.  'But you said something in a prayer; and  when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever  since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now.  I  have found that out, you see, though I am silly.  So I say you're  wrong; and this must be my birthday--my birthday, Grip!'

 

The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as  a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind,  might usher in the longest day with.  Then, as if he had well  considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays,  he cried, 'Never say die!' a great many times, and flapped his  wings for emphasis.

 

The widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured  to divert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all  times, as she knew.  His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her  entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip  perched upon his leg, and divided his time between dozing in the  grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to  recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day.

 

A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of  position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open  and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection  on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to  time, 'Polly put the ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the  remainder, and go off in a doze again.

 

After a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and  regular, and his eyes were closed.  But even then the unquiet  spirit of the raven interposed.  'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip,  and his master was broad awake again.

 

At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk  upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable  alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,  really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose.  Now and then  he muttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very  drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.

 

The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat.  The  man glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.

 

'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much  excited.  '--tle on.  Hurrah!  Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all  have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.  Hurrah,  hurrah, hurrah!  I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep  up your spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a  ket-tle, I'm a--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'

 

They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from  the grave.

 

But even this failed to awaken the sleeper.  He turned over towards  the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily  upon it.  The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at  each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the  door.

 

'Stay,' he whispered.  'You teach your son well.'

 

'I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night.  Depart  instantly, or I will rouse him.'

 

'You are free to do so.  Shall I rouse him?'

 

'You dare not do that.'

 

'I dare do anything, I have told you.  He knows me well, it seems.   At least I will know him.'

 

'Would you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing  herself between them.

 

'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside,  'I would see him nearer, and I will.  If you want one of us to kill  the other, wake him.'

 

With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form,  softly turned back the head and looked into the face.  The light of  the fire was upon it, and its every lineament was revealed  distinctly.  He contemplated it for a brief space, and hastily  uprose.

 

'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear: 'In him, of whose  existence I was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power.   Be careful how you use me.  Be careful how you use me.  I am  destitute and starving, and a wanderer upon the earth.  I may take  a sure and slow revenge.'

 

'There is some dreadful meaning in your words.  I do not fathom it.'

 

'There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very  depth.  You have anticipated it for years; you have told me as  much.  I leave you to digest it.  Do not forget my warning.'

 

He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthily  withdrawing, made his way into the street.  She fell on her knees  beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone,  until the tears which fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her  relief.

 

'Oh Thou,' she cried, 'who hast taught me such deep love for this  one remnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose  affliction, even, perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a  relying, loving child to me--never growing old or cold at heart,  but needing my care and duty in his manly strength as in his  cradle-time--help him, in his darkened walk through this sad world,  or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!'

 


Chapter 18

 

Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they  were darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow's  house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into  the backways, lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield;  with no more fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their  windings, and baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.

 

It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet.  Now and then  a drowsy watchman's footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the  lamplighter on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a  little track of smoke mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red  link.  He hid himself even from these partakers of his lonely walk,  and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, issued  forth again when they were gone and so pursued his solitary way.

 

To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind  moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to  listen to the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee  of some old barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal  things--but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where  shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a houseless  rejected creature.  To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour,  counting the dull chimes of the clocks; to watch the lights  twinkling in chamber windows, to think what happy forgetfulness  each house shuts in; that here are children coiled together in  their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth, all  equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common  with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven's gift to  all its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by  the wretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly  alone and cast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of  suffering, on which the rivers of great cities close full many a  time, and which the solitude in crowds alone awakens.

 

The miserable man paced up and down the streets--so long, so  wearisome, so like each other--and often cast a wistful look  towards the east, hoping to see the first faint streaks of day.   But obdurate night had yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed  and restless walk found no relief.

 

One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of  lights; there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of  dancers, and there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of  laughter.  To this place--to be near something that was awake and  glad--he returned again and again; and more than one of those who  left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check upon  their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy  ghost.  At last the guests departed, one and all; and then the  house was close shut up, and became as dull and silent as the rest.

 

His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail.  Instead  of hastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause  to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin  upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though  even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes.  He paced it round and  round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again.  He did this  often, and once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men  were watching in the prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps  as though determined to accost them.  But looking round, he saw  that the day began to break, and failing in his purpose, turned and  fled.

 

He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to  and fro again as he had done before.  He was passing down a mean  street, when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry  arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping  and calling to each other, who, parting noisily, took different  ways and dispersed in smaller groups.

 

Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him  a safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when  they were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or  lighted window, or other indication of the place whence they had  come.  It was so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured,  that he concluded they had but turned up there, missing their way,  and were pouring out again when he observed them.  With this  impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he  had entered, he was about to turn, when from a grating near his  feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound of talking  came.  He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers were,  and to listen to them.

 

The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a  man ascended, bearing in his hand a torch.  This figure unlocked  and held open the grating as for the passage of another, who  presently appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and  uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy  fashion.

 

'Good night, noble captain,' said he with the torch.  'Farewell,  commander.  Good luck, illustrious general!'

 

In return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue,  and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar  injunctions, with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.

 

'Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,' returned the torch-bearer in a lower voice.  'My captain flies at higher game than  Miggses.  Ha, ha, ha!  My captain is an eagle, both as respects his  eye and soaring wings.  My captain breaketh hearts as other  bachelors break eggs at breakfast.'

 

'What a fool you are, Stagg!' said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the  pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had  contracted in his passage upward.

 

'His precious limbs!' cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles.   'Shall a Miggs aspire to these proportions!  No, no, my captain.   We will inveigle ladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern.   We will unite ourselves with blooming beauties, captain.'

 

'I'll tell you what, my buck,' said Mr Tappertit, releasing his  leg; 'I'll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach  certain questions unless certain questions are broached to you.   Speak when you're spoke to on particular subjects, and not  otherways.  Hold the torch up till I've got to the end of the  court, and then kennel yourself, do you hear?'

 

'I hear you, noble captain.'

 

'Obey then,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily.  'Gentlemen, lead on!'   With which word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or  retinue) he folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity  down the court.

 

His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and  then the observer saw for the first time, from his place of  concealment, that he was blind.  Some involuntary motion on his  part caught the quick ear of the blind man, before he was conscious  of having moved an inch towards him, for he turned suddenly and  cried, 'Who's there?'

 

'A man,' said the other, advancing.  'A friend.'

 

'A stranger!' rejoined the blind man.  'Strangers are not my  friends.  What do you do there?'

 

'I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone.   I want a lodging.'

 

'A lodging at this time!' returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn  as though he saw it.  'Do you know the day is breaking?'

 

'I know it,' rejoined the other, 'to my cost.  I have been  traversing this iron-hearted town all night.'

 

'You had better traverse it again,' said the blind man, preparing  to descend, 'till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste.  I  don't let any.'

 

'Stay!' cried the other, holding him by the arm.

 

'I'll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog  it is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood  besides, if you detain me,' said the blind man.  'Let me go.  Do  you hear?'

 

'Do YOU hear!' returned the other, chinking a few shillings  together, and hurriedly pressing them into his hand.  'I beg  nothing of you.  I will pay for the shelter you give me.  Death!   Is it much to ask of such as you!  I have come from the country,  and desire to rest where there are none to question me.  I am  faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead.  Let me lie down, like a  dog, before your fire.  I ask no more than that.  If you would be  rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.'

 

'If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,' muttered Stagg,  yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a  footing on the steps--'and can pay for his accommodation--'

 

'I will pay you with all I have.  I am just now past the want of  food, God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter.  What companion  have you below?'

 

'None.'

 

'Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way.  Quick!'

 

The blind man complied after a moment's hesitation, and they  descended together.  The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the  words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before  he had had time to recover from his first surprise.

 

'May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?' said the  man, glancing keenly round.  'You will not mind that?'

 

'I will show you myself.  Follow me, or go before.  Take your  choice.'

 

He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his  conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars  narrowly.  Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he  lived there alone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in  which a fire was burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon  the ground before it.

 

His host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him  any further.  But directly he fell asleep--and he noted his falling  into a slumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have  done--he knelt down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but  carefully over his face and person.

 

His sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a  muttered word or two.  His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and  his mouth firmly set.  All this, the blind man accurately marked;  and as if his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already  some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression  may be used, and listening, until it was broad day.

 


Chapter 19

 

Dolly Varden's pretty little head was yet bewildered by various  recollections of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by  a crowd of images, dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams,  among which the effigy of one partner in particular did especially  figure, the same being a young coachmaker (a master in his own  right) who had given her to understand, when he handed her into the  chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his  business from that time, and die slowly for the love of her--Dolly's head, and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses, were all in  a state of flutter and confusion for which the party was  accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as she was  sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes  (that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the  grounds of her teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr  Edward Chester was descried through the glass door, standing among  the rusty locks and keys, like love among the roses--for which apt  comparison the historian may by no means take any credit to  himself, the same being the invention, in a sentimental mood, of  the chaste and modest Miggs, who, beholding him from the doorsteps  she was then cleaning, did, in her maiden meditation, give  utterance to the simile.

 

The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown  upward and his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby,  did not see his visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the  rest, had desired Sim Tappertit to open the glass door and give him  admission--from which untoward circumstance the good lady argued  (for she could deduce a precious moral from the most trifling  event) that to take a draught of small ale in the morning was to  observe a pernicious, irreligious, and Pagan custom, the relish  whereof should be left to swine, and Satan, or at least to Popish  persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin  and evil.  She would no doubt have pursued her admonition much  further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious  precepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman  standing by in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner  while she read her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it  to a premature conclusion.

 

'I'm sure you'll excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Varden, rising and  curtseying.  'Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much  reminding--Sim, bring a chair here.'

 

Mr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so,  under protest.

 

'And you can go, Sim,' said the locksmith.

 

Mr Tappertit obeyed again, still under protest; and betaking  himself to the workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find  it necessary to poison his master, before his time was out.

 

In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs Varden's  courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he  accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was  perfectly agreeable.

 

'I am sure if there's anything we can do,--Varden, or I, or Dolly  either,--to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it,  and it shall be done,' said Mrs V.

 

'I am much obliged to you, I am sure,' returned Edward.  'You  encourage me to say that I have come here now, to beg your good  offices.'

 

Mrs Varden was delighted beyond measure.

 

'It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going  to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,' said Edward, glancing  at Dolly; 'and if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this  letter, ma'am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you.  The  truth is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its  destination, I have particular reasons for not trusting it to any  other conveyance; so that without your help, I am wholly at a loss.'

 

'She was not going that way, sir, either to-day, or to-morrow, nor  indeed all next week,' the lady graciously rejoined, 'but we shall  be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account, and  if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day.  You might  suppose,' said Mrs Varden, frowning at her husband, 'from Varden's  sitting there so glum and silent, that he objected to this  arrangement; but you must not mind that, sir, if you please.  It's  his way at home.  Out of doors, he can be cheerful and talkative  enough.'

 

Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his  stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting  with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all  expression.  Wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by  surprise.

 

'My dear Martha--' he said.

 

'Oh yes, I dare say,' interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile of  mingled scorn and pleasantry.  'Very dear!  We all know that.'

 

'No, but my good soul,' said Gabriel, 'you are quite mistaken.  You  are indeed.  I was delighted to find you so kind and ready.  I  waited, my dear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would  say.'

 

'You waited anxiously,' repeated Mrs V.  'Yes!  Thank you, Varden.   You waited, as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any  came of it.  But I am used to it,' said the lady with a kind of  solemn titter, 'and that's my comfort!'

 

'I give you my word, Martha--' said Gabriel.

 

'Let me give you MY word, my dear,' interposed his wife with a  Christian smile, 'that such discussions as these between married  people, are much better left alone.  Therefore, if you please,  Varden, we'll drop the subject.  I have no wish to pursue it.  I  could.  I might say a great deal.  But I would rather not.  Pray  don't say any more.'

 

'I don't want to say any more,' rejoined the goaded locksmith.

 

'Well then, don't,' said Mrs Varden.

 

'Nor did I begin it, Martha,' added the locksmith, good-humouredly,  'I must say that.'

 

'You did not begin it, Varden!' exclaimed his wife, opening her  eyes very wide and looking round upon the company, as though she  would say, You hear this man!  'You did not begin it, Varden!  But  you shall not say I was out of temper.  No, you did not begin it,  oh dear no, not you, my dear!'

 

'Well, well,' said the locksmith.  'That's settled then.'

 

'Oh yes,' rejoined his wife, 'quite.  If you like to say Dolly  began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you.  I know my duty.  I  need know it, I am sure.  I am often obliged to bear it in mind,  when my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it.   Thank you, Varden.'  And so, with a mighty show of humility and  forgiveness, she folded her hands, and looked round again, with a  smile which plainly said, 'If you desire to see the first and  foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on view!'

 

This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden's  extraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to  check the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that  excellent lady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until  Edward withdrew; which he presently did, thanking the lady of the  house a great many times for her condescension, and whispering in  Dolly's ear that he would call on the morrow, in case there should  happen to be an answer to the note--which, indeed, she knew without  his telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the  previous night to prepare her for the visit which was then  terminating.

 

Gabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his  hands in his pockets; and, after fidgeting about the room in a very  uneasy manner, and casting a great many sidelong looks at Mrs  Varden (who with the calmest countenance in the world was five  fathoms deep in the Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how she  meant to go.  Dolly supposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her  lady mother, who finding herself silently appealed to, dived down  at least another fathom into the Manual, and became unconscious of  all earthly things.

 

'Martha--' said the locksmith.

 

'I hear you, Varden,' said his wife, without rising to the surface.

 

'I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the Maypole and  old John, for otherways as it's a very fine morning, and Saturday's  not a busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in  the chaise, and had quite a happy day of it.'

 

Mrs Varden immediately closed the Manual, and bursting into tears,  requested to be led upstairs.

 

'What is the matter now, Martha?' inquired the locksmith.

 

To which Martha rejoined, 'Oh! don't speak to me,' and protested in  agony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn't have believed  it.

 

'But, Martha,' said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was  moving off with the aid of Dolly's shoulder, 'wouldn't have  believed what?  Tell me what's wrong now.  Do tell me.  Upon my  soul I don't know.  Do you know, child?  Damme!' cried the  locksmith, plucking at his wig in a kind of frenzy, 'nobody does  know, I verily believe, but Miggs!'

 

'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching  incoherence, 'is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw  down hatred upon her in this house.  She is a comfort to me,  whatever she may be to others.'

 

'She's no comfort to me,' cried Gabriel, made bold by despair.   'She's the misery of my life.  She's all the plagues of Egypt in  one.'

 

'She's considered so, I have no doubt,' said Mrs Varden.  'I was  prepared for that; it's natural; it's of a piece with the rest.   When you taunt me as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you  taunt her behind her back!'  And here the incoherence coming on  very strong, Mrs Varden wept, and laughed, and sobbed, and  shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and said she knew it was very  foolish but she couldn't help it; and that when she was dead and  gone, perhaps they would be sorry for it--which really under the  circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she seemed to  think--with a great deal more to the same effect.  In a word, she  passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to  such occasions; and being supported upstairs, was deposited in a  highly spasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly  afterwards flung herself upon the body.

 

The philosophy of all this was, that Mrs Varden wanted to go to  Chigwell; that she did not want to make any concession or  explanation; that she would only go on being implored and entreated  so to do; and that she would accept no other terms.  Accordingly,  after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs, and much  damping of foreheads, and vinegaring of temples, and hartshorning  of noses, and so forth; and after most pathetic adjurations from  Miggs, assisted by warm brandy-and-water not over-weak, and divers  other cordials, also of a stimulating quality, administered at  first in teaspoonfuls and afterwards in increasing doses, and of  which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure (for  fainting is infectious); after all these remedies, and many more  too numerous to mention, but not to take, had been applied; and  many verbal consolations, moral, religious, and miscellaneous, had  been super-added thereto; the locksmith humbled himself, and the  end was gained.

 

'If it's only for the sake of peace and quietness, father,' said  Dolly, urging him to go upstairs.

 

'Oh, Doll, Doll,' said her good-natured father.  'If you ever have  a husband of your own--'

 

Dolly glanced at the glass.

 

'--Well, WHEN you have,' said the locksmith, 'never faint, my  darling.  More domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting,  Doll, than from all the greater passions put together.  Remember  that, my dear, if you would be really happy, which you never can  be, if your husband isn't.  And a word in your ear, my precious.   Never have a Miggs about you!'

 

With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and  slowly repaired to Mrs Varden's room; where that lady, lying all  pale and languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight  of her last new bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her  scattered spirits, displayed to the best advantage at her bedside.

 

'Here's master, mim,' said Miggs.  'Oh, what a happiness it is  when man and wife come round again!  Oh gracious, to think that him  and her should ever have a word together!'  In the energy of these  sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in  general, Miss Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head,  and folding her hands, turned on her tears.

 

'I can't help it,' cried Miggs.  'I couldn't, if I was to be  drownded in 'em.  She has such a forgiving spirit!  She'll forget  all that has passed, and go along with you, sir--Oh, if it was to  the world's end, she'd go along with you.'

 

Mrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her attendant for  this enthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was far  too unwell to venture out that day.

 

'Oh no, you're not, mim, indeed you're not,' said Miggs; 'I repeal  to master; master knows you're not, mim.  The hair, and motion of  the shay, will do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you  must not raly.  She must keep up, mustn't she, sir, for all out  sakes?  I was a telling her that, just now.  She must remember us,  even if she forgets herself.  Master will persuade you, mim, I'm  sure.  There's Miss Dolly's a-going you know, and master, and you,  and all so happy and so comfortable.  Oh!' cried Miggs, turning on  the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great emotion, 'I  never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her  spirit, I never, never, never did.  Not more did master neither;  no, nor no one--never!'

 

For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed  to all her husband's prayers that she would oblige him by taking a  day's pleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be  persuaded, and granting him her free forgiveness (the merit  whereof, she meekly said, rested with the Manual and not with her),  desired that Miggs might come and help her dress.  The handmaid  attended promptly, and it is but justice to their joint exertions  to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of  time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as  if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best health  imaginable.

 

As to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good  looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of  the same drawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood, a  little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the  merest trifle on one side--just enough in short to make it the  wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious  milliner devised.  And not to speak of the manner in which these  cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her  lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such a cruel little  muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and was so  surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds,  that when Mr Tappettit, holding the horse's head, saw her come out  of the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into  the chaise and drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably  have done it, but for certain uneasy doubts besetting him as to the  shortest way to Gretna Green; whether it was up the street or  down, or up the right-hand turning or the left; and whether,  supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith  in the end would marry them on credit; which by reason of his  clerical office appeared, even to his excited imagination, so  unlikely, that he hesitated.  And while he stood hesitating, and  looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came his master and his  mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity was gone for  ever.  For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs Varden  was inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the  locksmith was inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat  lightly, and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and its place  was empty, and he and that dreary Miggs were standing in the street  together.

 

The hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had  occurred for the last twelve months to put him out of his way,  Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable  beyond all precedent.  As they jogged through the streets talking  of this thing and of that, who should be descried upon the pavement  but that very coachmaker, looking so genteel that nobody would have  believed he had ever had anything to do with a coach but riding in  it, and bowing like any nobleman.  To be sure Dolly was confused  when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-coloured ribbons  trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed to  say, 'I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is going to  the devil, and you're the cause of it.'  There he stood, rooted to  the ground: as Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said,  like a pump; till they turned the corner: and when her father  thought it was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he  meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very hood was pale.

 

But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the  locksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart 'pulling-up' at  all manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance  with all the taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the  landladies, with whom, indeed, the little horse was on equally  friendly terms, for he kept on stopping of his own accord.  Never  were people so glad to see other people as these landlords and  landladies were to behold Mr Varden and Mrs Varden and Miss Varden;  and wouldn't they get out, said one; and they really must walk  upstairs, said another; and she would take it ill and be quite  certain they were proud if they wouldn't have a little taste of  something, said a third; and so on, that it was really quite a  Progress rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality  from beginning to end.  It was pleasant enough to be held in such  esteem, not to mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said nothing  at the time, and was all affability and delight--but such a body of  evidence as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that  day, to be used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got  together for matrimonial purposes.

 

In course of time--and in course of a pretty long time too, for  these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,--they  arrived upon the skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on  among the trees, came at last to the Maypole, where the locksmith's  cheerful 'Yoho!' speedily brought to the porch old John, and after  him young Joe, both of whom were so transfixed at sight of the  ladies, that for a moment they were perfectly unable to give them  any welcome, and could do nothing but stare.

 

It was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for  speedily reviving he thrust his drowsy father aside--to Mr Willet's  mighty and inexpressible indignation--and darting out, stood ready  to help them to alight.  It was necessary for Dolly to get out  first.  Joe had her in his arms;--yes, though for a space of time  no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his arms.   Here was a glimpse of happiness!

 

It would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace  affair the helping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it,  and did it too with the best grace in the world.  Then old John,  who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden  wasn't fond of him, had been in some doubt whether she might not  have come for purposes of assault and battery, took courage, hoped  she was well, and offered to conduct her into the house.  This  tender being amicably received, they marched in together; Joe and  Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and Varden brought  up the rear.

 

Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody  objecting, into the bar they went.  All bars are snug places, but  the Maypole's was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar,  that ever the wit of man devised.  Such amazing bottles in old  oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at  about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their  lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so  many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant  grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly  loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised  beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such  drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in  hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables,  drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as  typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its  defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous  cheese!

 

It is a poor heart that never rejoices--it must have been the  poorest, weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat, which would  not have warmed towards the Maypole bar.  Mrs Varden's did  directly.  She could no more have reproached John Willet among  those household gods, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and  cheese, than she could have stabbed him with his own bright  carving-knife.  The order for dinner too--it might have soothed a  savage.  'A bit of fish,' said John to the cook, 'and some lamb  chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and a good salad, and a  roast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes,  or something of that sort.'  Something of that sort!  The resources  of these inns!  To talk carelessly about dishes, which in  themselves were a first-rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to  one's wedding-day, as something of that sort: meaning, if you can't  get a spring chicken, any other trifle in the way of poultry will  do--such as a peacock, perhaps!  The kitchen too, with its great  broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen, where nothing in the way of  cookery seemed impossible; where you could believe in anything to  eat, they chose to tell you of.  Mrs Varden returned from the  contemplation of these wonders to the bar again, with a head quite  dizzy and bewildered.  Her housekeeping capacity was not large  enough to comprehend them.  She was obliged to go to sleep.  Waking  was pain, in the midst of such immensity.

 

Dolly in the meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other  matters, passed out at the garden door, and glancing back now and  then (but of course not wondering whether Joe saw her), tripped  away by a path across the fields with which she was well  acquainted, to discharge her mission at the Warren; and this  deponent hath been informed and verily believes, that you might  have seen many less pleasant objects than the cherry-coloured  mantle and ribbons, as they went fluttering along the green meadows  in the bright light of the day, like giddy things as they were.

 


Chapter 20

 

The proud consciousness of her trust, and the great importance she  derived from it, might have advertised it to all the house if she  had had to run the gauntlet of its inhabitants; but as Dolly had  played in every dull room and passage many and many a time, when a  child, and had ever since been the humble friend of Miss Haredale,  whose foster-sister she was, she was as free of the building as the  young lady herself.  So, using no greater precaution than holding  her breath and walking on tiptoe as she passed the library door,  she went straight to Emma's room as a privileged visitor.

 

It was the liveliest room in the building.  The chamber was sombre  like the rest for the matter of that, but the presence of youth and  beauty would make a prison cheerful (saving alas! that confinement  withers them), and lend some charms of their own to the gloomiest  scene.  Birds, flowers, books, drawing, music, and a hundred such  graceful tokens of feminine loves and cares, filled it with more of  life and human sympathy than the whole house besides seemed made to  hold.  There was heart in the room; and who that has a heart, ever  fails to recognise the silent presence of another!

 

Dolly had one undoubtedly, and it was not a tough one either,  though there was a little mist of coquettishness about it, such as  sometimes surrounds that sun of life in its morning, and slightly  dims its lustre.  Thus, when Emma rose to greet her, and kissing  her affectionately on the cheek, told her, in her quiet way, that  she had been very unhappy, the tears stood in Dolly's eyes, and she  felt more sorry than she could tell; but next moment she happened  to raise them to the glass, and really there was something there so  exceedingly agreeable, that as she sighed, she smiled, and felt  surprisingly consoled.

 

'I have heard about it, miss,' said Dolly, 'and it's very sad  indeed, but when things are at the worst they are sure to mend.'

 

'But are you sure they are at the worst?' asked Emma with a smile.

 

'Why, I don't see how they can very well be more unpromising than  they are; I really don't,' said Dolly.  'And I bring something to  begin with.'

 

'Not from Edward?'

 

Dolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her pockets (there were  pockets in those days) with an affectation of not being able to  find what she wanted, which greatly enhanced her importance, at  length produced the letter.  As Emma hastily broke the seal and  became absorbed in its contents, Dolly's eyes, by one of those  strange accidents for which there is no accounting, wandered to the  glass again.  She could not help wondering whether the coach-maker  suffered very much, and quite pitied the poor man.

 

It was a long letter--a very long letter, written close on all four  sides of the sheet of paper, and crossed afterwards; but it was not  a consolatory letter, for as Emma read it she stopped from time to  time to put her handkerchief to her eyes.  To be sure Dolly  marvelled greatly to see her in so much distress, for to her  thinking a love affair ought to be one of the best jokes, and the  slyest, merriest kind of thing in life.  But she set it down in her  own mind that all this came from Miss Haredale's being so constant,  and that if she would only take on with some other young gentleman--just in the most innocent way possible, to keep her first lover up  to the mark--she would find herself inexpressibly comforted.

 

'I am sure that's what I should do if it was me,' thought Dolly.   'To make one's sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite right,  but to be made miserable one's self is a little too much!'

 

However it wouldn't do to say so, and therefore she sat looking on  in silence.  She needed a pretty considerable stretch of patience,  for when the long letter had been read once all through it was read  again, and when it had been read twice all through it was read  again.  During this tedious process, Dolly beguiled the time in the  most improving manner that occurred to her, by curling her hair on  her fingers, with the aid of the looking-glass before mentioned,  and giving it some killing twists.

 

Everything has an end.  Even young ladies in love cannot read their  letters for ever.  In course of time the packet was folded up, and  it only remained to write the answer.

 

But as this promised to be a work of time likewise, Emma said she  would put it off until after dinner, and that Dolly must dine with  her.  As Dolly had made up her mind to do so beforehand, she  required very little pressing; and when they had settled this  point, they went to walk in the garden.

 

They strolled up and down the terrace walks, talking incessantly--at least, Dolly never left off once--and making that quarter of the  sad and mournful house quite gay.  Not that they talked loudly or  laughed much, but they were both so very handsome, and it was such  a breezy day, and their light dresses and dark curls appeared so  free and joyous in their abandonment, and Emma was so fair, and  Dolly so rosy, and Emma so delicately shaped, and Dolly so plump,  and--in short, there are no flowers for any garden like such  flowers, let horticulturists say what they may, and both house and  garden seemed to know it, and to brighten up sensibly.

 

After this, came the dinner and the letter writing, and some more  talking, in the course of which Miss Haredale took occasion to  charge upon Dolly certain flirtish and inconstant propensities,  which accusations Dolly seemed to think very complimentary indeed,  and to be mightily amused with.  Finding her quite incorrigible in  this respect, Emma suffered her to depart; but not before she had  confided to her that important and never-sufficiently-to-be-taken-care-of answer, and endowed her moreover with a pretty little  bracelet as a keepsake.  Having clasped it on her arm, and again  advised her half in jest and half in earnest to amend her roguish  ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart (which Dolly  stoutly denied, with a great many haughty protestations that she  hoped she could do better than that indeed! and so forth), she bade  her farewell; and after calling her back to give her more  supplementary messages for Edward, than anybody with tenfold the  gravity of Dolly Varden could be reasonably expected to remember,  at length dismissed her.

 

Dolly bade her good bye, and tripping lightly down the stairs  arrived at the dreaded library door, and was about to pass it again  on tiptoe, when it opened, and behold! there stood Mr Haredale.   Now, Dolly had from her childhood associated with this gentleman  the idea of something grim and ghostly, and being at the moment  conscience-stricken besides, the sight of him threw her into such a  flurry that she could neither acknowledge his presence nor run  away, so she gave a great start, and then with downcast eyes stood  still and trembled.

 

'Come here, girl,' said Mr Haredale, taking her by the hand.  'I  want to speak to you.'

 

'If you please, sir, I'm in a hurry,' faltered Dolly, 'and--you  have frightened me by coming so suddenly upon me, sir--I would  rather go, sir, if you'll be so good as to let me.'

 

'Immediately,' said Mr Haredale, who had by this time led her into  the room and closed the door.  You shall go directly.  You have  just left Emma?'

 

'Yes, sir, just this minute.--Father's waiting for me, sir, if  you'll please to have the goodness--'

 

I know.  I know,' said Mr Haredale.  'Answer me a question.  What  did you bring here to-day?'

 

'Bring here, sir?' faltered Dolly. 

 

'You will tell me the truth, I am sure.  Yes.'

 

Dolly hesitated for a little while, and somewhat emboldened by his  manner, said at last, 'Well then, sir.  It was a letter.'

 

'From Mr Edward Chester, of course.  And you are the bearer of the  answer?'

 

Dolly hesitated again, and not being able to decide upon any other  course of action, burst into tears.

 

'You alarm yourself without cause,' said Mr Haredale.  'Why are you  so foolish?  Surely you can answer me.  You know that I have but  to put the question to Emma and learn the truth directly.  Have you  the answer with you?'

 

Dolly had what is popularly called a spirit of her own, and being  now fairly at bay, made the best of it.

 

'Yes, sir,' she rejoined, trembling and frightened as she was.   'Yes, sir, I have.  You may kill me if you please, sir, but I won't  give it up.  I'm very sorry,--but I won't.  There, sir.'

 

'I commend your firmness and your plain-speaking,' said Mr  Haredale.  'Rest assured that I have as little desire to take your  letter as your life.  You are a very discreet messenger and a good  girl.'

 

Not feeling quite certain, as she afterwards said, whether he might  not be 'coming over her' with these compliments, Dolly kept as far  from him as she could, cried again, and resolved to defend her  pocket (for the letter was there) to the last extremity.

 

'I have some design,' said Mr Haredale after a short silence,  during which a smile, as he regarded her, had struggled through  the gloom and melancholy that was natural to his face, 'of  providing a companion for my niece; for her life is a very lonely  one.  Would you like the office?  You are the oldest friend she  has, and the best entitled to it.'

 

'I don't know, sir,' answered Dolly, not sure but he was bantering  her; 'I can't say.  I don't know what they might wish at home.  I  couldn't give an opinion, sir.'

 

'If your friends had no objection, would you have any?' said Mr  Haredale.  'Come.  There's a plain question; and easy to answer.'

 

'None at all that I know of sir,' replied Dolly.  'I should be very  glad to be near Miss Emma of course, and always am.'

 

'That's well,' said Mr Haredale.  'That is all I had to say.  You  are anxious to go.  Don't let me detain you.'

 

Dolly didn't let him, nor did she wait for him to try, for the  words had no sooner passed his lips than she was out of the room,  out of the house, and in the fields again.

 

The first thing to be done, of course, when she came to herself and  considered what a flurry she had been in, was to cry afresh; and  the next thing, when she reflected how well she had got over it,  was to laugh heartily.  The tears once banished gave place to the  smiles, and at last Dolly laughed so much that she was fain to lean  against a tree, and give vent to her exultation.  When she could  laugh no longer, and was quite tired, she put her head-dress to  rights, dried her eyes, looked back very merrily and triumphantly  at the Warren chimneys, which were just visible, and resumed her  walk.

 

The twilight had come on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the  path was so familiar to her from frequent traversing that she  hardly thought of this, and certainly felt no uneasiness at being  left alone.  Moreover, there was the bracelet to admire; and when  she had given it a good rub, and held it out at arm's length, it  sparkled and glittered so beautifully on her wrist, that to look at  it in every point of view and with every possible turn of the arm,  was quite an absorbing business.  There was the letter too, and it  looked so mysterious and knowing, when she took it out of her  pocket, and it held, as she knew, so much inside, that to turn it  over and over, and think about it, and wonder how it began, and how  it ended, and what it said all through, was another matter of  constant occupation.  Between the bracelet and the letter, there  was quite enough to do without thinking of anything else; and  admiring each by turns, Dolly went on gaily.

 

As she passed through a wicket-gate to where the path was narrow,  and lay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she  heard a rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop.   She listened.  All was very quiet, and she went on again--not  absolutely frightened, but a little quicker than before perhaps,  and possibly not quite so much at her ease, for a check of that  kind is startling.

 

She had no sooner moved on again, than she was conscious of the  same sound, which was like that of a person tramping stealthily  among bushes and brushwood.  Looking towards the spot whence it  appeared to come, she almost fancied she could make out a crouching  figure.  She stopped again.  All was quiet as before.  On she went  once more--decidedly faster now--and tried to sing softly to  herself.  It must he the wind.

 

But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when  she stood still?  She stopped involuntarily as she made the  reflection, and the rustling noise stopped likewise.  She was  really frightened now, and was yet hesitating what to do, when the  bushes crackled and snapped, and a man came plunging through them,  close before her.

 


Chapter 21

 

It was for the moment an inexpressible relief to Dolly, to  recognise in the person who forced himself into the path so  abruptly, and now stood directly in her way, Hugh of the Maypole,  whose name she uttered in a tone of delighted surprise that came  from her heart.

 

'Was it you?' she said, 'how glad I am to see you! and how could  you terrify me so!'

 

In answer to which, he said nothing at all, but stood quite still,  looking at her.

 

'Did you come to meet me?' asked Dolly.

 

Hugh nodded, and muttered something to the effect that he had been  waiting for her, and had expected her sooner.

 

'I thought it likely they would send,' said Dolly, greatly  reassured by this.

 

'Nobody sent me,' was his sullen answer.  'I came of my own  accord.'

 

The rough bearing of this fellow, and his wild, uncouth appearance,  had often filled the girl with a vague apprehension even when other  people were by, and had occasioned her to shrink from him  involuntarily.  The having him for an unbidden companion in so  solitary a place, with the darkness fast gathering about them,  renewed and even increased the alarm she had felt at first.

 

If his manner had been merely dogged and passively fierce, as  usual, she would have had no greater dislike to his company than  she always felt--perhaps, indeed, would have been rather glad to  have had him at hand.  But there was something of coarse bold  admiration in his look, which terrified her very much.  She glanced  timidly towards him, uncertain whether to go forward or retreat,  and he stood gazing at her like a handsome satyr; and so they  remained for some short time without stirring or breaking silence.   At length Dolly took courage, shot past him, and hurried on.

 

'Why do you spend so much breath in avoiding me?' said Hugh,  accommodating his pace to hers, and keeping close at her side.

 

'I wish to get back as quickly as I can, and you walk too near me,  answered Dolly.'

 

'Too near!' said Hugh, stooping over her so that she could feel his  breath upon her forehead.  'Why too near?  You're always proud to  ME, mistress.'

 

'I am proud to no one.  You mistake me,' answered Dolly.  'Fall  back, if you please, or go on.'

 

'Nay, mistress,' he rejoined, endeavouring to draw her arm through  his, 'I'll walk with you.'

 

She released herself and clenching her little hand, struck him with  right good will.  At this, Maypole Hugh burst into a roar of  laughter, and passing his arm about her waist, held her in his  strong grasp as easily as if she had been a bird.

 

'Ha ha ha!  Well done, mistress!  Strike again.  You shall beat my  face, and tear my hair, and pluck my beard up by the roots, and  welcome, for the sake of your bright eyes.  Strike again, mistress.   Do.  Ha ha ha!  I like it.'

 

'Let me go,' she cried, endeavouring with both her hands to push  him off.  'Let me go this moment.'

 

'You had as good be kinder to me, Sweetlips,' said Hugh.  'You had,  indeed.  Come.  Tell me now.  Why are you always so proud?  I  don't quarrel with you for it.  I love you when you're proud.  Ha  ha ha!  You can't hide your beauty from a poor fellow; that's a  comfort!'

 

She gave him no answer, but as he had not yet checked her progress,  continued to press forward as rapidly as she could.  At length,  between the hurry she had made, her terror, and the tightness of  his embrace, her strength failed her, and she could go no further.

 

'Hugh,' cried the panting girl, 'good Hugh; if you will leave me I  will give you anything--everything I have--and never tell one word  of this to any living creature.'

 

'You had best not,' he answered.  'Harkye, little dove, you had  best not.  All about here know me, and what I dare do if I have a  mind.  If ever you are going to tell, stop when the words are on  your lips, and think of the mischief you'll bring, if you do, upon  some innocent heads that you wouldn't wish to hurt a hair of.   Bring trouble on me, and I'll bring trouble and something more on  them in return.  I care no more for them than for so many dogs; not  so much--why should I?  I'd sooner kill a man than a dog any day.   I've never been sorry for a man's death in all my life, and I have  for a dog's.'

 

There was something so thoroughly savage in the manner of these  expressions, and the looks and gestures by which they were  accompanied, that her great fear of him gave her new strength, and  enabled her by a sudden effort to extricate herself and run fleetly  from him.  But Hugh was as nimble, strong, and swift of foot, as  any man in broad England, and it was but a fruitless expenditure of  energy, for he had her in his encircling arms again before she had  gone a hundred yards.

 

'Softly, darling--gently--would you fly from rough Hugh, that loves  you as well as any drawing-room gallant?'

 

'I would,' she answered, struggling to free herself again.  'I  will.  Help!'

 

'A fine for crying out,' said Hugh.  'Ha ha ha!  A fine, pretty  one, from your lips.  I pay myself!  Ha ha ha!'

 

'Help! help! help!'  As she shrieked with the utmost violence she  could exert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and another.

 

'Thank Heaven!' cried the girl in an ecstasy.  'Joe, dear Joe, this  way.  Help!'

 

Her assailant paused, and stood irresolute for a moment, but the  shouts drawing nearer and coming quick upon them, forced him to a  speedy decision.  He released her, whispered with a menacing look,  'Tell HIM: and see what follows!' and leaping the hedge, was gone  in an instant.  Dolly darted off, and fairly ran into Joe Willet's  open arms.

 

'What is the matter? are you hurt? what was it? who was it? where  is he? what was he like?' with a great many encouraging expressions  and assurances of safety, were the first words Joe poured forth.   But poor little Dolly was so breathless and terrified that for some  time she was quite unable to answer him, and hung upon his  shoulder, sobbing and crying as if her heart would break.

 

Joe had not the smallest objection to have her hanging on his  shoulder; no, not the least, though it crushed the cherry-coloured  ribbons sadly, and put the smart little hat out of all shape.  But  he couldn't bear to see her cry; it went to his very heart.  He  tried to console her, bent over her, whispered to her--some say  kissed her, but that's a fable.  At any rate he said all the kind  and tender things he could think of and Dolly let him go on and  didn't interrupt him once, and it was a good ten minutes before she  was able to raise her head and thank him.

 

'What was it that frightened you?' said Joe.

 

A man whose person was unknown to her had followed her, she  answered; he began by begging, and went on to threats of robbery,  which he was on the point of carrying into execution, and would  have executed, but for Joe's timely aid.  The hesitation and  confusion with which she said this, Joe attributed to the fright  she had sustained, and no suspicion of the truth occurred to him  for a moment.

 

'Stop when the words are on your lips.'  A hundred times that  night, and very often afterwards, when the disclosure was rising  to her tongue, Dolly thought of that, and repressed it.  A deeply  rooted dread of the man; the conviction that his ferocious nature,  once roused, would stop at nothing; and the strong assurance that  if she impeached him, the full measure of his wrath and vengeance  would be wreaked on Joe, who had preserved her; these were  considerations she had not the courage to overcome, and inducements  to secrecy too powerful for her to surmount.

 

Joe, for his part, was a great deal too happy to inquire very  curiously into the matter; and Dolly being yet too tremulous to  walk without assistance, they went forward very slowly, and in his  mind very pleasantly, until the Maypole lights were near at hand,  twinkling their cheerful welcome, when Dolly stopped suddenly and  with a half scream exclaimed,

 

'The letter!'

 

'What letter?' cried Joe.

 

'That I was carrying--I had it in my hand.  My bracelet too,' she  said, clasping her wrist.  'I have lost them both.'

 

'Do you mean just now?' said Joe.

 

'Either I dropped them then, or they were taken from me,' answered  Dolly, vainly searching her pocket and rustling her dress.  'They  are gone, both gone.  What an unhappy girl I am!'  With these words  poor Dolly, who to do her justice was quite as sorry for the loss  of the letter as for her bracelet, fell a-crying again, and  bemoaned her fate most movingly.

 

Joe tried to comfort her with the assurance that directly he had  housed her in the Maypole, he would return to the spot with a  lantern (for it was now quite dark) and make strict search for the  missing articles, which there was great probability of his finding,  as it was not likely that anybody had passed that way since, and  she was not conscious that they had been forcibly taken from her.   Dolly thanked him very heartily for this offer, though with no  great hope of his quest being successful; and so with many  lamentations on her side, and many hopeful words on his, and much  weakness on the part of Dolly and much tender supporting on the  part of Joe, they reached the Maypole bar at last, where the  locksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival.

 

Mr Willet received the intelligence of Dolly's trouble with that  surprising presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he  was so eminently distinguished above all other men.  Mrs Varden  expressed her sympathy for her daughter's distress by scolding her  roundly for being so late; and the honest locksmith divided himself  between condoling with and kissing Dolly, and shaking hands  heartily with Joe, whom he could not sufficiently praise or thank.

 

In reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing  with his friend; for besides that he by no means approved of an  adventurous spirit in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his  son and heir had been seriously damaged in a scuffle, the  consequences would assuredly have been expensive and inconvenient,  and might perhaps have proved detrimental to the Maypole business.   Wherefore, and because he looked with no favourable eye upon young  girls, but rather considered that they and the whole female sex  were a kind of nonsensical mistake on the part of Nature, he took  occasion to retire and shake his head in private at the boiler;  inspired by which silent oracle, he was moved to give Joe various  stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental reproof and gentle  admonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of himself.

 

Joe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it; and arming  himself with a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable.

 

'He's lying asleep before the kitchen fire, sir,' said Mr Willet.   'What do you want him for?'

 

'I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and  letter,' answered Joe.  'Halloa there!  Hugh!'

 

Dolly turned pale as death, and felt as if she must faint  forthwith.  After a few moments, Hugh came staggering in,  stretching himself and yawning according to custom, and presenting  every appearance of having been roused from a sound nap.

 

'Here, sleepy-head,' said Joe, giving him the lantern.  'Carry  this, and bring the dog, and that small cudgel of yours.  And woe  betide the fellow if we come upon him.'

 

'What fellow?' growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself.

 

'What fellow?' returned Joe, who was in a state of great valour and  bustle; 'a fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about.   It's well for the like of you, lazy giant that you are, to be  snoring your time away in chimney-corners, when honest men's  daughters can't cross even our quiet meadows at nightfall without  being set upon by footpads, and frightened out of their precious  lives.'

 

'They never rob me,' cried Hugh with a laugh.  'I have got nothing  to lose.  But I'd as lief knock them at head as any other men.  How  many are there?'

 

'Only one,' said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her.

 

'And what was he like, mistress?' said Hugh with a glance at young  Willet, so slight and momentary that the scowl it conveyed was lost  on all but her.  'About my height?'

 

'Not--not so tall,' Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said.

 

'His dress,' said Hugh, looking at her keenly, 'like--like any of  ours now?  I know all the people hereabouts, and maybe could give a  guess at the man, if I had anything to guide me.'

 

Dolly faltered and turned paler yet; then answered that he was  wrapped in a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief  and that she could give no other description of him.

 

'You wouldn't know him if you saw him then, belike?' said Hugh with  a malicious grin.

 

'I should not,' answered Dolly, bursting into tears again.  'I  don't wish to see him.  I can't bear to think of him.  I can't talk  about him any more.  Don't go to look for these things, Mr Joe,  pray don't.  I entreat you not to go with that man.'

 

'Not to go with me!' cried Hugh.  'I'm too rough for them all.   They're all afraid of me.  Why, bless you mistress, I've the  tenderest heart alive.  I love all the ladies, ma'am,' said Hugh,  turning to the locksmith's wife.

 

Mrs Varden opined that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of  himself; such sentiments being more consistent (so she argued) with  a benighted Mussulman or wild Islander than with a stanch  Protestant.  Arguing from this imperfect state of his morals, Mrs  Varden further opined that he had never studied the Manual.  Hugh  admitting that he never had, and moreover that he couldn't read,  Mrs Varden declared with much severity, that he ought to he even  more ashamed of himself than before, and strongly recommended him  to save up his pocket-money for the purchase of one, and further to  teach himself the contents with all convenient diligence.  She was  still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh, somewhat  unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master out,  and left her to edify the rest of the company.  This she proceeded  to do, and finding that Mr Willet's eyes were fixed upon her with  an appearance of deep attention, gradually addressed the whole of  her discourse to him, whom she entertained with a moral and  theological lecture of considerable length, in the conviction that  great workings were taking place in his spirit.  The simple truth  was, however, that Mr Willet, although his eyes were wide open and  he saw a woman before him whose head by long and steady looking at  seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it filled the whole bar, was  to all other intents and purposes fast asleep; and so sat leaning  back in his chair with his hands in his pockets until his son's  return caused him to wake up with a deep sigh, and a faint  impression that he had been dreaming about pickled pork and greens--a vision of his slumbers which was no doubt referable to the  circumstance of Mrs Varden's having frequently pronounced the word  'Grace' with much emphasis; which word, entering the portals of Mr  Willet's brain as they stood ajar, and coupling itself with the  words 'before meat,' which were there ranging about, did in time  suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description of  vegetable which is usually its companion.

 

The search was wholly unsuccessful.  Joe had groped along the path  a dozen times, and among the grass, and in the dry ditch, and in  the hedge, but all in vain.  Dolly, who was quite inconsolable for  her loss, wrote a note to Miss Haredale giving her the same account  of it that she had given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to  deliver as soon as the family were stirring next day.  That done,  they sat down to tea in the bar, where there was an uncommon  display of buttered toast, and--in order that they might not grow  faint for want of sustenance, and might have a decent halting-place or halfway house between dinner and supper--a few savoury  trifles in the shape of great rashers of broiled ham, which being  well cured, done to a turn, and smoking hot, sent forth a tempting  and delicious fragrance.

 

Mrs Varden was seldom very Protestant at meals, unless it happened  that they were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything  occurred to put her out of humour.  Her spirits rose considerably  on beholding these goodly preparations, and from the nothingness of  good works, she passed to the somethingness of ham and toast with  great cheerfulness.  Nay, under the influence of these wholesome  stimulants, she sharply reproved her daughter for being low and  despondent (which she considered an unacceptable frame of mind),  and remarked, as she held her own plate for a fresh supply, that it  would be well for Dolly, who pined over the loss of a toy and a  sheet of paper, if she would reflect upon the voluntary sacrifices  of the missionaries in foreign parts who lived chiefly on salads.

 

The proceedings of such a day occasion various fluctuations in the  human thermometer, and especially in instruments so sensitively and  delicately constructed as Mrs Varden.  Thus, at dinner Mrs V. stood  at summer heat; genial, smiling, and delightful.  After dinner, in  the sunshine of the wine, she went up at least half-a-dozen  degrees, and was perfectly enchanting.  As its effect subsided, she  fell rapidly, went to sleep for an hour or so at temperate, and  woke at something below freezing.  Now she was at summer heat  again, in the shade; and when tea was over, and old John, producing  a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases, insisted on her  sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she stood steadily  at ninety for one hour and a quarter.  Profiting by experience, the  locksmith took advantage of this genial weather to smoke his pipe  in the porch, and in consequence of this prudent management, he was  fully prepared, when the glass went down again, to start homewards  directly.

 

The horse was accordingly put in, and the chaise brought round to  the door.  Joe, who would on no account be dissuaded from escorting  them until they had passed the most dreary and solitary part of the  road, led out the grey mare at the same time; and having helped  Dolly into her seat (more happiness!) sprung gaily into the saddle.   Then, after many good nights, and admonitions to wrap up, and  glancing of lights, and handing in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise  rolled away, and Joe trotted beside it--on Dolly's side, no doubt,  and pretty close to the wheel too.

 


Chapter 22

 

It was a fine bright night, and for all her lowness of spirits  Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and  SHE knew it!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly  showed that if ever a man were--not to say over head and ears, but  over the Monument and the top of Saint Paul's in love, that man was  himself.  The road was a very good one; not at all a jolting road,  or an uneven one; and yet Dolly held the side of the chaise with  one little hand, all the way.  If there had been an executioner  behind him with an uplifted axe ready to chop off his head if he  touched that hand, Joe couldn't have helped doing it.  From putting  his own hand upon it as if by chance, and taking it away again  after a minute or so, he got to riding along without taking it off  at all; as if he, the escort, were bound to do that as an important  part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose.  The most  curious circumstance about this little incident was, that Dolly  didn't seem to know of it.  She looked so innocent and unconscious  when she turned her eyes on Joe, that it was quite provoking.

 

She talked though; talked about her fright, and about Joe's coming  up to rescue her, and about her gratitude, and about her fear that  she might not have thanked him enough, and about their always being  friends from that time forth--and about all that sort of thing.   And when Joe said, not friends he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised,  and said not enemies she hoped; and when Joe said, couldn't they be  something much better than either, Dolly all of a sudden found out  a star which was brighter than all the other stars, and begged to  call his attention to the same, and was ten thousand times more  innocent and unconscious than ever.

 

In this manner they travelled along, talking very little above a  whisper, and wishing the road could be stretched out to some dozen  times its natural length--at least that was Joe's desire--when, as  they were getting clear of the forest and emerging on the more  frequented road, they heard behind them the sound of a horse's feet  at a round trot, which growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer,  elicited a scream from Mrs Varden, and the cry 'a friend!' from the  rider, who now came panting up, and checked his horse beside them.

 

'This man again!' cried Dolly, shuddering.

 

'Hugh!' said Joe.  'What errand are you upon?'

 

'I come to ride back with you,' he answered, glancing covertly at  the locksmith's daughter.  'HE sent me.

 

'My father!' said poor Joe; adding under his breath, with a very  unfilial apostrophe, 'Will he never think me man enough to take  care of myself!'

 

'Aye!' returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry.  'The roads  are not safe just now, he says, and you'd better have a companion.'

 

'Ride on then,' said Joe.  'I'm not going to turn yet.'

 

Hugh complied, and they went on again.  It was his whim or humour  to ride immediately before the chaise, and from this position he  constantly turned his head, and looked back.  Dolly felt that he  looked at her, but she averted her eyes and feared to raise them  once, so great was the dread with which he had inspired her.

 

This interruption, and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs Varden,  who had been nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a  minute or two at a time, when she roused herself to scold the  locksmith for audaciously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding  herself out of the chaise, put a restraint upon the whispered  conversation, and made it difficult of resumption.  Indeed, before  they had gone another mile, Gabriel stopped at his wife's desire,  and that good lady protested she would not hear of Joe's going a  step further on any account whatever.  It was in vain for Joe to  protest on the other hand that he was by no means tired, and would  turn back presently, and would see them safely past such a point,  and so forth.  Mrs Varden was obdurate, and being so was not to be  overcome by mortal agency.

 

'Good night--if I must say it,' said Joe, sorrowfully.

 

'Good night,' said Dolly.  She would have added, 'Take care of that  man, and pray don't trust him,' but he had turned his horse's head,  and was standing close to them.  She had therefore nothing for it  but to suffer Joe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the  chaise had gone on for some distance, to look back and wave it, as  he still lingered on the spot where they had parted, with the tall  dark figure of Hugh beside him.

 

What she thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker  held as favourable a place in her meditations as he had occupied in  the morning, is unknown.  They reached home at last--at last, for  it was a long way, made none the shorter by Mrs Varden's grumbling.   Miggs hearing the sound of wheels was at the door immediately.

 

'Here they are, Simmun!  Here they are!' cried Miggs, clapping her  hands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight.  'Bring a  chair, Simmun.  Now, an't you the better for it, mim?  Don't you  feel more yourself than you would have done if you'd have stopped  at home?  Oh, gracious! how cold you are!  Goodness me, sir, she's  a perfect heap of ice.'

 

'I can't help it, my good girl.  You had better take her in to the  fire,' said the locksmith.

 

'Master sounds unfeeling, mim,' said Miggs, in a tone of  commiseration, 'but such is not his intentions, I'm sure.  After  what he has seen of you this day, I never will believe but that he  has a deal more affection in his heart than to speak unkind.  Come  in and sit yourself down by the fire; there's a good dear--do.'

 

Mrs Varden complied.  The locksmith followed with his hands in his  pockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a  neighbouring stable.

 

'Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith, when they reached the  parlour, 'if you'll look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do  it, perhaps it will be only kind and reasonable.  She has been  frightened, you know, and is not at all well to-night.'

 

In fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite regardless  of all the little finery of which she had been so proud in the  morning, and with her face buried in her hands was crying very  much.

 

At first sight of this phenomenon (for Dolly was by no means  accustomed to displays of this sort, rather learning from her  mother's example to avoid them as much as possible) Mrs Varden  expressed her belief that never was any woman so beset as she; that  her life was a continued scene of trial; that whenever she was  disposed to be well and cheerful, so sure were the people around  her to throw, by some means or other, a damp upon her spirits; and  that, as she had enjoyed herself that day, and Heaven knew it was  very seldom she did enjoy herself so she was now to pay the  penalty.  To all such propositions Miggs assented freely.  Poor  Dolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but  rather worse, indeed; and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs  Varden and Miggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in  earnest.

 

But even then, their very kindness shaped itself into their usual  course of policy, and though Dolly was in a swoon, it was rendered  clear to the meanest capacity, that Mrs Varden was the sufferer.   Thus when Dolly began to get a little better, and passed into that  stage in which matrons hold that remonstrance and argument may be  successfully applied, her mother represented to her, with tears in  her eyes, that if she had been flurried and worried that day, she  must remember it was the common lot of humanity, and in especial of  womankind, who through the whole of their existence must expect no  less, and were bound to make up their minds to meek endurance and  patient resignation.  Mrs Varden entreated her to remember that one  of these days she would, in all probability, have to do violence to  her feelings so far as to be married; and that marriage, as she  might see every day of her life (and truly she did) was a state  requiring great fortitude and forbearance.  She represented to her  in lively colours, that if she (Mrs V.) had not, in steering her  course through this vale of tears, been supported by a strong  principle of duty which alone upheld and prevented her from  drooping, she must have been in her grave many years ago; in which  case she desired to know what would have become of that errant  spirit (meaning the locksmith), of whose eye she was the very  apple, and in whose path she was, as it were, a shining light and  guiding star?

 

Miss Miggs also put in her word to the same effect.  She said that  indeed and indeed Miss Dolly might take pattern by her blessed  mother, who, she always had said, and always would say, though she  were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for it next minute, was  the mildest, amiablest, forgivingest-spirited, longest-sufferingest  female as ever she could have believed; the mere narration of whose  excellencies had worked such a wholesome change in the mind of her  own sister-in-law, that, whereas, before, she and her husband lived  like cat and dog, and were in the habit of exchanging brass  candlesticks, pot-lids, flat-irons, and other such strong  resentments, they were now the happiest and affectionatest couple  upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at Golden  Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand doorpost.  After glancing at herself as a comparatively  worthless vessel, but still as one of some desert, she besought her  to bear in mind that her aforesaid dear and only mother was of a  weakly constitution and excitable temperament, who had constantly  to sustain afflictions in domestic life, compared with which  thieves and robbers were as nothing, and yet never sunk down or  gave way to despair or wrath, but, in prize-fighting phraseology,  always came up to time with a cheerful countenance, and went in to  win as if nothing had happened.  When Miggs finished her solo, her  mistress struck in again, and the two together performed a duet to  the same purpose; the burden being, that Mrs Varden was persecuted  perfection, and Mr Varden, as the representative of mankind in that  apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal habits, utterly  insensible to the blessings he enjoyed.  Of so refined a character,  indeed, was their talent of assault under the mask of sympathy,  that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly, as in  vindication of his goodness, Mrs Varden expressed her solemn hope  that this would be a lesson to him for the remainder of his life,  and that he would do some little justice to a woman's nature ever  afterwards--in which aspiration Miss Miggs, by divers sniffs and  coughs, more significant than the longest oration, expressed her  entire concurrence.

 

But the great joy of Miggs's heart was, that she not only picked up  a full account of what had happened, but had the exquisite delight  of conveying it to Mr Tappertit for his jealousy and torture.  For  that gentleman, on account of Dolly's indisposition, had been  requested to take his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed  thither by Miss Miggs's own fair hands.

 

'Oh Simmun!' said the young lady, 'such goings on to-day!  Oh,  gracious me, Simmun!'

 

Mr Tappertit, who was not in the best of humours, and who  disliked Miss Miggs more when she laid her hand on her heart and  panted for breath than at any other time, as her deficiency of  outline was most apparent under such circumstances, eyed her over  in his loftiest style, and deigned to express no curiosity  whatever.

 

'I never heard the like, nor nobody else,' pursued Miggs.  'The  idea of interfering with HER.  What people can see in her to make  it worth their while to do so, that's the joke--he he he!'

 

Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily  requested his fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know  what she meant by 'her.'

 

'Why, that Dolly,' said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on  the name.  'But, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is  a brave one; and he do deserve her, that he do.'

 

'Woman!' said Mr Tappertit, jumping off the counter on which he was  seated; 'beware!'

 

'My stars, Simmun!' cried Miggs, in affected astonishment.  'You  frighten me to death!  What's the matter?'

 

'There are strings,' said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-cheese knife in the air, 'in the human heart that had better not be  wibrated.  That's what's the matter.'

 

'Oh, very well--if you're in a huff,' cried Miggs, turning away.

 

'Huff or no huff,' said Mr Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist.   'What do you mean, Jezebel?  What were you going to say?  Answer  me!'

 

Notwithstanding this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she  was required; and told him how that their young mistress, being  alone in the meadows after dark, had been attacked by three or four  tall men, who would have certainly borne her away and perhaps  murdered her, but for the timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who with  his own single hand put them all to flight, and rescued her; to the  lasting admiration of his fellow-creatures generally, and to the  eternal love and gratitude of Dolly Varden.

 

'Very good,' said Mr Tappertit, fetching a long breath when the  tale was told, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and  straight on end all over his head.  'His days are numbered.'

 

'Oh, Simmun!'

 

'I tell you,' said the 'prentice, 'his days are numbered.  Leave  me.  Get along with you.'

 

Miggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than  because she desired to chuckle in secret.  When she had given vent  to her satisfaction, she returned to the parlour; where the  locksmith, stimulated by quietness and Toby, had become talkative,  and was disposed to take a cheerful review of the occurrences of  the day.  But Mrs Varden, whose practical religion (as is not  uncommon) was usually of the retrospective order, cut him short by  declaiming on the sinfulness of such junketings, and holding that  it was high time to go to bed.  To bed therefore she withdrew, with  an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the Maypole's own state  couch; and to bed the rest of the establishment soon afterwards  repaired.

 


Chapter 23

 

Twilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon  in those quarters of the town in which 'the world' condescended to  dwell--the world being then, as now, of very limited dimensions and  easily lodged--when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in his  dressing-room in the Temple, entertaining himself with a book.

 

He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed  half the journey was taking a long rest.  Completely attired as to  his legs and feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet  the remainder of his toilet to perform.  The coat was stretched,  like a refined scarecrow, on its separate horse; the waistcoat was  displayed to the best advantage; the various ornamental articles of  dress were severally set out in most alluring order; and yet he lay  dangling his legs between the sofa and the ground, as intent upon  his book as if there were nothing but bed before him.

 

'Upon my honour,' he said, at length raising his eyes to the  ceiling with the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what  he had read; 'upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the  most delicate thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most  gentlemanly sentiments in the universe!  Ah Ned, Ned, if you would  but form your mind by such precepts, we should have but one common  feeling on every subject that could possibly arise between us!'

 

This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to  empty air: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite  alone.

 

'My Lord Chesterfield,' he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon  the book as he laid it down, 'if I could but have profited by your  genius soon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left  to all wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men.   Shakespeare was undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good,  though prosy; Lord Bacon deep, and decidedly knowing; but the  writer who should be his country's pride, is my Lord Chesterfield.'

 

He became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition.

 

'I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world,' he  continued, 'I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all  those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world  from boors and peasants, and separate their character from those  intensely vulgar sentiments which are called the national  character.  Apart from any natural prepossession in my own favour,  I believed I was.  Still, in every page of this enlightened writer,  I find some captivating hypocrisy which has never occurred to me  before, or some superlative piece of selfishness to which I was  utterly a stranger.  I should quite blush for myself before this  stupendous creature, if remembering his precepts, one might blush  at anything.  An amazing man! a nobleman indeed! any King or Queen  may make a Lord, but only the Devil himself--and the Graces--can  make a Chesterfield.'

 

Men who are thoroughly false and hollow, seldom try to hide those  vices from themselves; and yet in the very act of avowing them,  they lay claim to the virtues they feign most to despise.  'For,'  say they, 'this is honesty, this is truth.  All mankind are like  us, but they have not the candour to avow it.'  The more they  affect to deny the existence of any sincerity in the world, the  more they would be thought to possess it in its boldest shape; and  this is an unconscious compliment to Truth on the part of these  philosophers, which will turn the laugh against them to the Day of  Judgment.

 

Mr Chester, having extolled his favourite author, as above recited,  took up the book again in the excess of his admiration and was  composing himself for a further perusal of its sublime morality,  when he was disturbed by a noise at the outer door; occasioned as  it seemed by the endeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance  of some unwelcome visitor.

 

'A late hour for an importunate creditor,' he said, raising his  eyebrows with as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise  were in the street, and one with which he had not the smallest  possible concern.  'Much after their accustomed time.  The usual  pretence I suppose.  No doubt a heavy payment to make up tomorrow.   Poor fellow, he loses time, and time is money as the good proverb  says--I never found it out though.  Well.  What now?  You know I am  not at home.'

 

'A man, sir,' replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and  negligent in his way as his master, 'has brought home the riding-whip you lost the other day.  I told him you were out, but he said  he was to wait while I brought it in, and wouldn't go till I did.'

 

'He was quite right,' returned his master, 'and you're a blockhead,  possessing no judgment or discretion whatever.  Tell him to come  in, and see that he rubs his shoes for exactly five minutes first.'

 

The man laid the whip on a chair, and withdrew.  The master, who  had only heard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the  trouble to turn round and look at him, shut his book, and pursued  the train of ideas his entrance had disturbed.

 

'If time were money,' he said, handling his snuff-box, 'I would  compound with my creditors, and give them--let me see--how much a  day?  There's my nap after dinner--an hour--they're extremely  welcome to that, and to make the most of it.  In the morning,  between my breakfast and the paper, I could spare them another  hour; in the evening before dinner say another.  Three hours a day.   They might pay themselves in calls, with interest, in twelve  months.  I think I shall propose it to them.  Ah, my centaur, are  you there?'

 

'Here I am,' replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog, as rough  and sullen as himself; 'and trouble enough I've had to get here.   What do you ask me to come for, and keep me out when I DO come?'

 

'My good fellow,' returned the other, raising his head a little  from the cushion and carelessly surveying him from top to toe, 'I  am delighted to see you, and to have, in your being here, the very  best proof that you are not kept out.  How are you?'

 

'I'm well enough,' said Hugh impatiently.

 

'You look a perfect marvel of health.  Sit down.'

 

'I'd rather stand,' said Hugh.

 

'Please yourself my good fellow,' returned Mr Chester rising,  slowly pulling off the loose robe he wore, and sitting down before  the dressing-glass.  'Please yourself by all means.'

 

Having said this in the politest and blandest tone possible, he  went on dressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who  stood in the same spot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him  sulkily from time to time.

 

'Are you going to speak to me, master?' he said, after a long  silence.

 

'My worthy creature,' returned Mr Chester, 'you are a little  ruffled and out of humour.  I'll wait till you're quite yourself  again.  I am in no hurry.'

 

This behaviour had its intended effect.  It humbled and abashed the  man, and made him still more irresolute and uncertain.  Hard words  he could have returned, violence he would have repaid with  interest; but this cool, complacent, contemptuous, self-possessed  reception, caused him to feel his inferiority more completely than  the most elaborate arguments.  Everything contributed to this  effect.  His own rough speech, contrasted with the soft persuasive  accents of the other; his rude bearing, and Mr Chester's polished  manner; the disorder and negligence of his ragged dress, and the  elegant attire he saw before him; with all the unaccustomed  luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that gave him  leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they made  him; all these influences, which have too often some effect on  tutored minds and become of almost resistless power when brought to  bear on such a mind as his, quelled Hugh completely.  He moved by  little and little nearer to Mr Chester's chair, and glancing over  his shoulder at the reflection of his face in the glass, as if  seeking for some encouragement in its expression, said at length,  with a rough attempt at conciliation,

 

'ARE you going to speak to me, master, or am I to go away?'

 

'Speak you,' said Mr Chester, 'speak you, good fellow.  I have  spoken, have I not?  I am waiting for you.'

 

'Why, look'ee, sir,' returned Hugh with increased embarrassment,  'am I the man that you privately left your whip with before you  rode away from the Maypole, and told to bring it back whenever he  might want to see you on a certain subject?'

 

'No doubt the same, or you have a twin brother,' said Mr Chester,  glancing at the reflection of his anxious face; 'which is not  probable, I should say.'

 

'Then I have come, sir,' said Hugh, 'and I have brought it back,  and something else along with it.  A letter, sir, it is, that I  took from the person who had charge of it.'  As he spoke, he laid  upon the dressing-table, Dolly's lost epistle.  The very letter  that had cost her so much trouble.

 

'Did you obtain this by force, my good fellow?' said Mr Chester,  casting his eye upon it without the least perceptible surprise or  pleasure.

 

'Not quite,' said Hugh.  'Partly.'

 

'Who was the messenger from whom you took it?'

 

'A woman.  One Varden's daughter.'

 

'Oh indeed!' said Mr Chester gaily.  'What else did you take from  her?'

 

'What else?'

 

'Yes,' said the other, in a drawling manner, for he was fixing a  very small patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near  the corner of his mouth.  'What else?'

 

'Well a kiss,' replied Hugh, after some hesitation.

 

'And what else?'

 

'Nothing.'

 

'I think,' said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and smiling  twice or thrice to try if the patch adhered--'I think there was  something else.  I have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of--a  mere trifle--a thing of such little value, indeed, that you may  have forgotten it.  Do you remember anything of the kind--such as a  bracelet now, for instance?'

 

Hugh with a muttered oath thrust his hand into his breast, and  drawing the bracelet forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to  lay it on the table likewise, when his patron stopped his hand and  bade him put it up again.

 

'You took that for yourself my excellent friend,' he said, 'and may  keep it.  I am neither a thief nor a receiver.  Don't show it to  me.  You had better hide it again, and lose no time.  Don't let me  see where you put it either,' he added, turning away his head.

 

'You're not a receiver!' said Hugh bluntly, despite the increasing  awe in which he held him.  'What do you call THAT, master?'  striking the letter with his heavy hand.

 

'I call that quite another thing,' said Mr Chester coolly.  'I  shall prove it presently, as you will see.  You are thirsty, I  suppose?'

 

Hugh drew his sleeve across his lips, and gruffly answered yes.

 

'Step to that closet and bring me a bottle you will see there, and  a glass.'

 

He obeyed.  His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his  back was turned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside  the mirror.  On his return he filled the glass, and bade him drink.   That dram despatched, he poured him out another, and another.

 

'How many can you bear?' he said, filling the glass again.

 

'As many as you like to give me.  Pour on.  Fill high.  A bumper  with a bead in the middle!  Give me enough of this,' he added, as  he tossed it down his hairy throat, 'and I'll do murder if you ask  me!'

 

'As I don't mean to ask you, and you might possibly do it without  being invited if you went on much further,' said Mr Chester with  great composure, we will stop, if agreeable to you, my good friend,  at the next glass.  You were drinking before you came here.'

 

'I always am when I can get it,' cried Hugh boisterously, waving  the empty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude  dancing attitude.  'I always am.  Why not?  Ha ha ha!  What's so  good to me as this?  What ever has been?  What else has kept away  the cold on bitter nights, and driven hunger off in starving times?   What else has given me the strength and courage of a man, when men  would have left me to die, a puny child?  I should never have had a  man's heart but for this.  I should have died in a ditch.  Where's  he who when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs and  fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this did?  I never knew him; not  I.  I drink to the drink, master.  Ha ha ha!'

 

'You are an exceedingly cheerful young man,' said Mr Chester,  putting on his cravat with great deliberation, and slightly moving  his head from side to side to settle his chin in its proper place.   'Quite a boon companion.'

 

'Do you see this hand, master,' said Hugh, 'and this arm?' baring  the brawny limb to the elbow.  'It was once mere skin and bone, and  would have been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but for  the drink.'

 

'You may cover it,' said Mr Chester, 'it's sufficiently real in  your sleeve.'

 

'I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud  little beauty, master, but for the drink,' cried Hugh.  'Ha ha ha!   It was a good one.  As sweet as honeysuckle, I warrant you.  I  thank the drink for it.  I'll drink to the drink again, master.   Fill me one more.  Come.  One more!'

 

'You are such a promising fellow,' said his patron, putting on his  waistcoat with great nicety, and taking no heed of this request,  'that I must caution you against having too many impulses from the  drink, and getting hung before your time.  What's your age?'

 

'I don't know.'

 

'At any rate,' said Mr Chester, 'you are young enough to escape  what I may call a natural death for some years to come.  How can  you trust yourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance, with a  halter round your neck?  What a confiding nature yours must be!'

 

Hugh fell back a pace or two and surveyed him with a look of  mingled terror, indignation, and surprise.  Regarding himself in  the glass with the same complacency as before, and speaking as  smoothly as if he were discussing some pleasant chit-chat of the  town, his patron went on:

 

'Robbery on the king's highway, my young friend, is a very  dangerous and ticklish occupation.  It is pleasant, I have no  doubt, while it lasts; but like many other pleasures in this  transitory world, it seldom lasts long.  And really if in the  ingenuousness of youth, you open your heart so readily on the  subject, I am afraid your career will be an extremely short one.'

 

'How's this?' said Hugh.  'What do you talk of master?  Who was it  set me on?'

 

'Who?' said Mr Chester, wheeling sharply round, and looking full  at him for the first time.  'I didn't hear you.  Who was it?'

 

Hugh faltered, and muttered something which was not audible.

 

'Who was it?  I am curious to know,' said Mr Chester, with  surpassing affability.  'Some rustic beauty perhaps?  But be  cautious, my good friend.  They are not always to be trusted.  Do  take my advice now, and be careful of yourself.'  With these words  he turned to the glass again, and went on with his toilet.

 

Hugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself had  set him on, but the words stuck in his throat.  The consummate art  with which his patron had led him to this point, and managed the  whole conversation, perfectly baffled him.  He did not doubt that  if he had made the retort which was on his lips when Mr Chester  turned round and questioned him so keenly, he would straightway  have given him into custody and had him dragged before a justice  with the stolen property upon him; in which case it was as certain  he would have been hung as it was that he had been born.  The  ascendency which it was the purpose of the man of the world to  establish over this savage instrument, was gained from that time.   Hugh's submission was complete.  He dreaded him beyond description;  and felt that accident and artifice had spun a web about him, which  at a touch from such a master-hand as his, would bind him to the  gallows.

 

With these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet wondering at  the very same time how he who came there rioting in the confidence  of this man (as he thought), should be so soon and so thoroughly  subdued, Hugh stood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily  from time to time, while he finished dressing.  When he had done  so, he took up the letter, broke the seal, and throwing himself  back in his chair, read it leisurely through.

 

'Very neatly worded upon my life!  Quite a woman's letter, full of  what people call tenderness, and disinterestedness, and heart, and  all that sort of thing!'

 

As he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at Hugh as  though he would say 'You see this?' held it in the flame of the  candle.  When it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate,  and there it smouldered away.

 

'It was directed to my son,' he said, turning to Hugh, 'and you did  quite right to bring it here.  I opened it on my own  responsibility, and you see what I have done with it.  Take this,  for your trouble.'

 

Hugh stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to  him.  As he put it in his hand, he added:

 

'If you should happen to find anything else of this sort, or to  pick up any kind of information you may think I would like to have,  bring it here, will you, my good fellow?'

 

This was said with a smile which implied--or Hugh thought it did--'fail to do so at your peril!'  He answered that he would.

 

'And don't,' said his patron, with an air of the very kindest  patronage, 'don't be at all downcast or uneasy respecting that  little rashness we have been speaking of.  Your neck is as safe in  my hands, my good fellow, as though a baby's fingers clasped it, I  assure you.--Take another glass.  You are quieter now.'

 

Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his  smiling face, drank the contents in silence.

 

'Don't you--ha, ha!--don't you drink to the drink any more?' said  Mr Chester, in his most winning manner.

 

'To you, sir,' was the sullen answer, with something approaching to  a bow.  'I drink to you.'

 

'Thank you.  God bless you.  By the bye, what is your name, my good  soul?  You are called Hugh, I know, of course--your other name?'

 

'I have no other name.'

 

'A very strange fellow!  Do you mean that you never knew one, or  that you don't choose to tell it?  Which?'

 

'I'd tell it if I could,' said Hugh, quickly.  'I can't.  I have  been always called Hugh; nothing more.  I never knew, nor saw, nor  thought about a father; and I was a boy of six--that's not very  old--when they hung my mother up at Tyburn for a couple of thousand  men to stare at.  They might have let her live.  She was poor  enough.'

 

'How very sad!' exclaimed his patron, with a condescending smile.   'I have no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman.'

 

'You see that dog of mine?' said Hugh, abruptly.

 

'Faithful, I dare say?' rejoined his patron, looking at him through  his glass; 'and immensely clever?  Virtuous and gifted animals,  whether man or beast, always are so very hideous.'

 

'Such a dog as that, and one of the same breed, was the only living  thing except me that howled that day,' said Hugh.  'Out of the two  thousand odd--there was a larger crowd for its being a woman--the  dog and I alone had any pity.  If he'd have been a man, he'd have  been glad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him  lean and half-starved; but being a dog, and not having a man's  sense, he was sorry.'

 

'It was dull of the brute, certainly,' said Mr Chester, 'and very  like a brute.'

 

Hugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at  the sound and came jumping and sporting about him, bade his  sympathising friend good night.

 

'Good night; he returned.  'Remember; you're safe with me--quite  safe.  So long as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you  always will, you have a friend in me, on whose silence you may  rely.  Now do be careful of yourself, pray do, and consider what  jeopardy you might have stood in.  Good night! bless you!'

 

Hugh truckled before the hidden meaning of these words as much as  such a being could, and crept out of the door so submissively and  subserviently--with an air, in short, so different from that with  which he had entered--that his patron on being left alone, smiled  more than ever.

 

'And yet,' he said, as he took a pinch of snuff, 'I do not like  their having hanged his mother.  The fellow has a fine eye, and I  am sure she was handsome.  But very probably she was coarse--red-nosed perhaps, and had clumsy feet.  Aye, it was all for the best,  no doubt.'

 

With this comforting reflection, he put on his coat, took a  farewell glance at the glass, and summoned his man, who promptly  attended, followed by a chair and its two bearers.

 

'Foh!' said Mr Chester.  'The very atmosphere that centaur has  breathed, seems tainted with the cart and ladder.  Here, Peak.   Bring some scent and sprinkle the floor; and take away the chair he  sat upon, and air it; and dash a little of that mixture upon me.  I  am stifled!'

 

The man obeyed; and the room and its master being both purified,  nothing remained for Mr Chester but to demand his hat, to fold it  jauntily under his arm, to take his seat in the chair and be  carried off; humming a fashionable tune.

 


Chapter 24

 

How the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a  dazzling and brilliant circle; how he enchanted all those with  whom he mingled by the grace of his deportment, the politeness of  his manner, the vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of  his voice; how it was observed in every corner, that Chester was a  man of that happy disposition that nothing ruffled him, that he was  one on whom the world's cares and errors sat lightly as his dress,  and in whose smiling face a calm and tranquil mind was constantly  reflected; how honest men, who by instinct knew him better,  bowed down before him nevertheless, deferred to his every word, and  courted his favourable notice; how people, who really had good in  them, went with the stream, and fawned and flattered, and approved,  and despised themselves while they did so, and yet had not the  courage to resist; how, in short, he was one of those who are  received and cherished in society (as the phrase is) by scores who  individually would shrink from and be repelled by the object of  their lavish regard; are things of course, which will suggest  themselves.  Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and  there an end.

 

The despisers of mankind--apart from the mere fools and mimics, of  that creed--are of two sorts.  They who believe their merit  neglected and unappreciated, make up one class; they who receive  adulation and flattery, knowing their own worthlessness, compose  the other.  Be sure that the coldest-hearted misanthropes are ever  of this last order.

 

Mr Chester sat up in bed next morning, sipping his coffee, and  remembering with a kind of contemptuous satisfaction how he had  shone last night, and how he had been caressed and courted, when  his servant brought in a very small scrap of dirty paper, tightly  sealed in two places, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty  large text these words: 'A friend.  Desiring of a conference.   Immediate.  Private.  Burn it when you've read it.'

 

'Where in the name of the Gunpowder Plot did you pick up this?'  said his master.

 

It was given him by a person then waiting at the door, the man  replied.

 

'With a cloak and dagger?' said Mr Chester.

 

With nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a  leather apron and a dirty face.  'Let him come in.'  In he came--Mr  Tappertit; with his hair still on end, and a great lock in his  hand, which he put down on the floor in the middle of the chamber  as if he were about to go through some performances in which it was  a necessary agent.

 

'Sir,' said Mr Tappertit with a low bow, 'I thank you for this  condescension, and am glad to see you.  Pardon the menial office in  which I am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to one, who,  humble as his appearance is, has inn'ard workings far above his  station.'

 

Mr Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him  with a vague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only  broken open the door of his place of confinement, but had brought  away the lock.  Mr Tappertit bowed again, and displayed his legs to  the best advantage.

 

'You have heard, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his  breast, 'of G. Varden Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly  executed in town and country, Clerkenwell, London?'

 

'What then?' asked Mr Chester.

 

'I'm his 'prentice, sir.'

 

'What THEN?'

 

'Ahem!' said Mr Tappertit.  'Would you permit me to shut the door,  sir, and will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that  what passes between us is in the strictest confidence?'

 

Mr Chester laid himself calmly down in bed again, and turning a  perfectly undisturbed face towards the strange apparition, which  had by this time closed the door, begged him to speak out, and to  be as rational as he could, without putting himself to any very  great personal inconvenience.

 

'In the first place, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, producing a small  pocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the folds, 'as I have not  a card about me (for the envy of masters debases us below that  level) allow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances  will admit of.  If you will take that in your own hand, sir, and  cast your eye on the right-hand corner,' said Mr Tappertit,  offering it with a graceful air, 'you will meet with my  credentials.'

 

'Thank you,' answered Mr Chester, politely accepting it, and  turning to some blood-red characters at one end.  '"Four.  Simon  Tappertit.  One."  Is that the--'

 

'Without the numbers, sir, that is my name,' replied the 'prentice.   'They are merely intended as directions to the washerwoman, and  have no connection with myself or family.  YOUR name, sir,' said Mr  Tappertit, looking very hard at his nightcap, 'is Chester, I  suppose?  You needn't pull it off, sir, thank you.  I observe E. C.  from here.  We will take the rest for granted.'

 

'Pray, Mr Tappertit,' said Mr Chester, 'has that complicated piece  of ironmongery which you have done me the favour to bring with you,  any immediate connection with the business we are to discuss?'

 

'It has not, sir,' rejoined the 'prentice.  'It's going to be  fitted on a ware'us-door in Thames Street.'

 

'Perhaps, as that is the case,' said Mr Chester, 'and as it has a  stronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my bedroom with, you  will oblige me so far as to put it outside the door?'

 

'By all means, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the  word.

 

'You'll excuse my mentioning it, I hope?'

 

'Don't apologise, sir, I beg.  And now, if you please, to  business.'

 

During the whole of this dialogue, Mr Chester had suffered nothing  but his smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear upon  his face.  Sim Tappertit, who had far too good an opinion of  himself to suspect that anybody could be playing upon him, thought  within himself that this was something like the respect to which he  was entitled, and drew a comparison from this courteous demeanour  of a stranger, by no means favourable to the worthy locksmith.

 

'From what passes in our house,' said Mr Tappertit, 'I am aware,  sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your  inclinations.  Sir, your son has not used me well.'

 

'Mr Tappertit,' said the other, 'you grieve me beyond description.'

 

'Thank you, sir,' replied the 'prentice.  'I'm glad to hear you say  so.  He's very proud, sir, is your son; very haughty.'

 

'I am afraid he IS haughty,' said Mr Chester.  'Do you know I was  really afraid of that before; and you confirm me?'

 

'To recount the menial offices I've had to do for your son, sir,'  said Mr Tappertit; 'the chairs I've had to hand him, the coaches  I've had to call for him, the numerous degrading duties, wholly  unconnected with my indenters, that I've had to do for him, would  fill a family Bible.  Besides which, sir, he is but a young man  himself and I do not consider "thank'ee Sim," a proper form of  address on those occasions.'

 

'Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years.  Pray go on.'

 

'I thank you for your good opinion, sir,' said Sim, much gratified,  'and will endeavour so to do.  Now sir, on this account (and  perhaps for another reason or two which I needn't go into) I am on  your side.  And what I tell you is this--that as long as our people  go backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and down, to that there  jolly old Maypole, lettering, and messaging, and fetching and  carrying, you couldn't help your son keeping company with that  young lady by deputy,--not if he was minded night and day by all  the Horse Guards, and every man of 'em in the very fullest  uniform.'

 

Mr Tappertit stopped to take breath after this, and then started  fresh again.

 

'Now, sir, I am a coming to the point.  You will inquire of me,  "how is this to he prevented?"  I'll tell you how.  If an honest,  civil, smiling gentleman like you--'

 

'Mr Tappertit--really--'

 

'No, no, I'm serious,' rejoined the 'prentice, 'I am, upon my soul.   If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, was to talk but  ten minutes to our old woman--that's Mrs Varden--and flatter her up  a bit, you'd gain her over for ever.  Then there's this point got--that her daughter Dolly,'--here a flush came over Mr Tappertit's  face--'wouldn't be allowed to be a go-between from that time  forward; and till that point's got, there's nothing ever will  prevent her.  Mind that.'

 

'Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature--'

 

'Wait a minute,' said Sim, folding his arms with a dreadful  calmness.  'Now I come to THE point.  Sir, there is a villain at  that Maypole, a monster in human shape, a vagabond of the deepest  dye, that unless you get rid of and have kidnapped and carried off  at the very least--nothing less will do--will marry your son to  that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the  Archbishop of Canterbury himself.  He will, sir, for the hatred and  malice that he bears to you; let alone the pleasure of doing a bad  action, which to him is its own reward.  If you knew how this chap,  this Joseph Willet--that's his name--comes backwards and forwards  to our house, libelling, and denouncing, and threatening you, and  how I shudder when I hear him, you'd hate him worse than I do,--worse than I do, sir,' said Mr Tappertit wildly, putting his hair  up straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; 'if  sich a thing is possible.'

 

'A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?'

 

'Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined--destroy him,' said Mr Tappertit.  'Miggs says so too.  Miggs and me  both say so.  We can't bear the plotting and undermining that takes  place.  Our souls recoil from it.  Barnaby Rudge and Mrs Rudge are  in it likewise; but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader.   Their plottings and schemes are known to me and Miggs.  If you want  information of 'em, apply to us.  Put Joseph Willet down, sir.   Destroy him.  Crush him.  And be happy.'

 

With these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect no reply, and  to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his  hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, and overwhelmed,  folded his arms so that the palm of each hand rested on the  opposite shoulder, and disappeared after the manner of those  mysterious warners of whom he had read in cheap story-books.

 

'That fellow,' said Mr Chester, relaxing his face when he was  fairly gone, 'is good practice.  I HAVE some command of my  features, beyond all doubt.  He fully confirms what I suspected,  though; and blunt tools are sometimes found of use, where sharper  instruments would fail.  I fear I may be obliged to make great  havoc among these worthy people.  A troublesome necessity!  I  quite feel for them.'

 

With that he fell into a quiet slumber:--subsided into such a  gentle, pleasant sleep, that it was quite infantine.

 


Chapter 25

 

Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the  world; him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself  by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to  lie smilingly asleep--for even sleep, working but little change in  his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional  hypocrisy--we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot,  making towards Chigwell.

 

Barnaby and his mother.  Grip in their company, of course.

 

The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last,  toiled wearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant  impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now  lingering far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path  and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily  emerged again and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as  his wayward and capricious nature prompted.  Now he would call to  her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside; now  using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come flying over ditch or  hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising swiftness for a  mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport upon a patch  of grass with Grip till she came up.  These were his delights; and  when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his  flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad  word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering  in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure.

 

It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and  wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of  an idiot.  It is something to know that Heaven has left the  capacity of gladness in such a creature's breast; it is something  to be assured that, however lightly men may crush that faculty in  their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his  despised and slighted work.  Who would not rather see a poor idiot  happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in a darkened jail!

 

Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite  Benevolence with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book,  wide open to your view, the lesson it would teach.  Its pictures  are not in black and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its  music--save when ye drown it--is not in sighs and groans, but songs  and cheerful sounds.  Listen to the million voices in the summer  air, and find one dismal as your own.  Remember, if ye can, the  sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens  in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their nature;  and learn some wisdom even from the witless, when their hearts are  lifted up they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it  brings.

 

The widow's breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret  dread and sorrow; but her boy's gaiety of heart gladdened her, and  beguiled the long journey.  Sometimes he would bid her lean upon  his arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short distance;  but it was more his nature to be rambling to and fro, and she  better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near  her, because she loved him better than herself.

 

She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly  after the event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twenty years had never had courage to revisit it.  It was her  native village.  How many recollections crowded on her mind when it  appeared in sight!

 

Two-and-twenty years.  Her boy's whole life and history.  The last  time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried  him in her arms, an infant.  How often since that time had she sat  beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never  came; how had she feared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after  conviction forced itself upon her!  The little stratagems she had  devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish  way--not of dulness but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly  and unchildlike in its cunning--came back as vividly as if but  yesterday had intervened.  The room in which they used to be; the  spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like in face, but  ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and  crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; every  circumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most  trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly.

 

His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror  of certain senseless things--familiar objects he endowed with life;  the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which,  before his birth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst  of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unlike  another child, and had gone on almost believing in the slow  development of his mind until he grew a man, and then his childhood  was complete and lasting; one after another, all these old thoughts  sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber and bitterer  than ever.

 

She took his arm and they hurried through the village street.  It  was the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too,  and wore another air.  The change was in herself, not it; but she  never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration, and where it  lay, and what it was.

 

The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came  flocking round him--as she remembered to have done with their  fathers and mothers round some silly beggarman, when a child  herself.  None of them knew her; they passed each well-remembered  house, and yard, and homestead; and striking into the fields, were  soon alone again.

 

The Warren was the end of their journey.  Mr Haredale was walking  in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate,  unlocked it, and bade them enter that way.

 

'At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,' he said  to the widow.  'I am glad you have.'

 

'For the first time, and the last, sir,' she replied.

 

'The first for many years, but not the last?'

 

'The very last.'

 

'You mean,' said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise,  'that having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere  and are determined to relapse?  This is unworthy of you.  I have  often told you, you should return here.  You would be happier here  than elsewhere, I know.  As to Barnaby, it's quite his home.'

 

'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket open.  The raven  hopped gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing  himself to Mr Haredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some  temperate refreshment would be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle  on, we'll all have tea!'

 

'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to  walk with him towards the house.  'Your life has been an example of  patience and fortitude, except in this one particular which has  often given me great pain.  It is enough to know that you were  cruelly involved in the calamity which deprived me of an only  brother, and Emma of her father, without being obliged to suppose  (as I sometimes am) that you associate us with the author of our  joint misfortunes.'

 

'Associate you with him, sir!' she cried.

 

'Indeed,' said Mr Haredale, 'I think you do.  I almost believe  that because your husband was bound by so many ties to our  relation, and died in his service and defence, you have come in  some sort to connect us with his murder.'

 

'Alas!' she answered.  'You little know my heart, sir.  You little  know the truth!'

 

'It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may,  without being conscious of it,' said Mr Haredale, speaking more to  himself than her.  'We are a fallen house.  Money, dispensed with  the most lavish hand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings  like yours; and thinly scattered by hands so pinched and tied as  ours, it becomes a miserable mockery.  I feel it so, God knows,' he  added, hastily.  'Why should I wonder if she does!'

 

'You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,' she rejoined with great  earnestness; 'and yet when you come to hear what I desire your  leave to say--'

 

'I shall find my doubts confirmed?' he said, observing that she  faltered and became confused.  'Well!'

 

He quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her  side, and said:

 

'And have you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?'

 

She answered, 'Yes.'

 

'A curse,' he muttered, 'upon the wretched state of us proud  beggars, from whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the  one being forced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other  condescending to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more  aloof, the nearer they approach us.--Why, if it were pain to you  (as it must have been) to break for this slight purpose the chain  of habit forged through two-and-twenty years, could you not let me  know your wish, and beg me to come to you?'

 

'There was not time, sir,' she rejoined.  'I took my resolution  but last night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day--a  day! an hour--in having speech with you.'

 

They had by this time reached the house.  Mr Haredale paused for a  moment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her  manner.  Observing, however, that she took no heed of him, but  glanced up, shuddering, at the old walls with which such horrors  were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into his  library, where Emma was seated in a window, reading.

 

The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside  her book, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her  a warm and earnest welcome.  But the widow shrunk from her embrace  as though she feared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.

 

'It is the return to this place after so long an absence,' said  Emma gently.  'Pray ring, dear uncle--or stay--Barnaby will run  himself and ask for wine--'

 

'Not for the world,' she cried.  'It would have another taste--I  could not touch it.  I want but a minute's rest.  Nothing but  that.'

 

Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent  pity.  She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and  turned to Mr Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was  contemplating her with fixed attention.

 

The tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed, as  has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had  known.  The room in which this group were now assembled--hard by  the very chamber where the act was done--dull, dark, and sombre;  heavy with worm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded  hangings, muffling every sound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose  rustling boughs gave ever and anon a spectral knocking at the  glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy air.   Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants of the spot.   The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr  Haredale stern and despondent ever; his niece beside him, like, yet  most unlike, the picture of her father, which gazed reproachfully  down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby, with his vacant  look and restless eye; were all in keeping with the place, and  actors in the legend.  Nay, the very raven, who had hopped upon the  table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to be  profoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk,  was strictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied  spirit of evil biding his time of mischief.

 

'I scarcely know,' said the widow, breaking silence, 'how to begin.   You will think my mind disordered.'

 

'The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were  last here,' returned Mr Haredale, mildly, 'shall bear witness for  you.  Why do you fear to awaken such a suspicion?  You do not speak  to strangers.  You have not to claim our interest or consideration  for the first time.  Be more yourself.  Take heart.  Any advice or  assistance that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and  freely yours.'

 

'What if I came, sir,' she rejoined, 'I who have but one other  friend on earth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say  that henceforth I launch myself upon the world, alone and  unassisted, to sink or swim as Heaven may decree!'

 

'You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,' said Mr  Haredale calmly, 'some reason to assign for conduct so  extraordinary, which--if one may entertain the possibility of  anything so wild and strange--would have its weight, of course.'

 

'That, sir,' she answered, 'is the misery of my distress.  I can  give no reason whatever.  My own bare word is all that I can offer.   It is my duty, my imperative and bounden duty.  If I did not  discharge it, I should be a base and guilty wretch.  Having said  that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no more.'

 

As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved  herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with  a firmer voice and heightened courage.

 

'Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is--and yours, dear young  lady, will speak for me, I know--that I have lived, since that time  we all have bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and  gratitude to this family.  Heaven is my witness that go where I  may, I shall preserve those feelings unimpaired.  And it is my  witness, too, that they alone impel me to the course I must take,  and from which nothing now shall turn me, as I hope for mercy.'

 

'These are strange riddles,' said Mr Haredale.

 

'In this world, sir,' she replied, 'they may, perhaps, never be  explained.  In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own  good time.  And may that time,' she added in a low voice, 'be far  distant!'

 

'Let me be sure,' said Mr Haredale, 'that I understand you, for I  am doubtful of my own senses.  Do you mean that you are resolved  voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you have  received from us so long--that you are determined to resign the  annuity we settled on you twenty years ago--to leave house, and  home, and goods, and begin life anew--and this, for some secret  reason or monstrous fancy which is incapable of explanation, which  only now exists, and has been dormant all this time?  In the name  of God, under what delusion are you labouring?'

 

'As I am deeply thankful,' she made answer, 'for the kindness of  those, alive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would  not have its roof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip  blood, my name being spoken in their hearing; I never will again  subsist upon their bounty, or let it help me to subsistence.  You  do not know,' she added, suddenly, 'to what uses it may be applied;  into what hands it may pass.  I do, and I renounce it.'

 

'Surely,' said Mr Haredale, 'its uses rest with you.'

 

'They did.  They rest with me no longer.  It may be--it IS--devoted  to purposes that mock the dead in their graves.  It never can  prosper with me.  It will bring some other heavy judgement on the  head of my dear son, whose innocence will suffer for his mother's  guilt.'

 

'What words are these!' cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with  wonder.  'Among what associates have you fallen?  Into what guilt  have you ever been betrayed?'

 

'I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in  intention, though constrained to shield and aid the bad.  Ask me no  more questions, sir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than  condemned.  I must leave my house to-morrow, for while I stay  there, it is haunted.  My future dwelling, if I am to live in  peace, must be a secret.  If my poor boy should ever stray this  way, do not tempt him to disclose it or have him watched when he  returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again.  And now this  load is off my mind, I beseech you--and you, dear Miss Haredale,  too--to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you have  been used to do.  If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (for  that may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in  that hour for this day's work; and on that day, and every day until  it comes, I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no  more.

 

With that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and  with many soothing words and kind entreaties, besought her to  consider what she did, and above all to repose more freely upon  them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind.  Finding her deaf  to their persuasions, Mr Haredale suggested, as a last resource,  that she should confide in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one  of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself.   From this proposal, however, she recoiled with the same  indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met.  The  utmost that could be wrung from her was, a promise that she would  receive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean  time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions--though any  change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless.  This  condition made at last, they reluctantly suffered her to depart,  since she would neither eat nor drink within the house; and she,  and Barnaby, and Grip, accordingly went out as they had come, by  the private stair and garden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one  by the way.

 

It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he  had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly  human rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was  listening to everything.  He still appeared to have the  conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when they  were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of  innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and  rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with  any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly  called good company.

 

They were to return by the coach.  As there was an interval of  full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some  refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole.  But  his mother, who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who  had known her long ago, and who feared besides that Mr Haredale  might, on second thoughts, despatch some messenger to that place of  entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard  instead.  As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither such  humble viands as they required, he cheerfully assented, and in the  churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner.

 

Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up  and down when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency  which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his  coat-tails; and appearing to read the tombstones with a very  critical taste.  Sometimes, after a long inspection of an epitaph,  he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and  cry in his hoarse tones, 'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!'  but whether he addressed his observations to any supposed person  below, or merely threw them off as a general remark, is matter of  uncertainty.

 

It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for  Mr Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes  rested, was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief  inscription recording how and when he had lost his life.  She sat  here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the  distant horn told that the coach was coming.

 

Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at  the sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well,  walked into his basket straightway, entreating society in general  (as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection  with churchyards) never to say die on any terms.  They were soon on  the coach-top and rolling along the road.

 

It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door.  Joe was  from home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that  it called for.  There was no fear of old John coming out.  They  could see him from the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar.  It  was a part of John's character.  He made a point of going to sleep  at the coach's time.  He despised gadding about; he looked upon  coaches as things that ought to be indicted; as disturbers of the  peace of mankind; as restless, bustling, busy, horn-blowing  contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to  giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and go a-shopping.  'We  know nothing about coaches here, sir,' John would say, if any  unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles; 'we  don't book for 'em; we'd rather not; they're more trouble than  they're worth, with their noise and rattle.  If you like to wait  for 'em you can; but we don't know anything about 'em; they may  call and they may not--there's a carrier--he was looked upon as  quite good enough for us, when I was a boy.'

 

She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind,  and talked to Barnaby in whispers.  But neither he nor any other  person spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about  her; and so, an alien, she visited and left the village where she  had been born, and had lived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy  wife--where she had known all her enjoyment of life, and had  entered on its hardest sorrows.

 


Chapter 26

 

'And you're not surprised to hear this, Varden?' said Mr Haredale.   'Well!  You and she have always been the best friends, and you  should understand her if anybody does.'

 

'I ask your pardon, sir,' rejoined the locksmith.  'I didn't say I  understood her.  I wouldn't have the presumption to say that of any  woman.  It's not so easily done.  But I am not so much surprised,  sir, as you expected me to be, certainly.'

 

'May I ask why not, my good friend?'

 

'I have seen, sir,' returned the locksmith with evident reluctance,  'I have seen in connection with her, something that has filled me  with distrust and uneasiness.  She has made bad friends, how, or  when, I don't know; but that her house is a refuge for one robber  and cut-throat at least, I am certain.  There, sir!  Now it's out.'

 

'Varden!'

 

'My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would be  willingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of  mistrusting 'em.  I have kept the secret till now, and it will go  no further than yourself, I know; but I tell you that with my own  eyes--broad awake--I saw, in the passage of her house one evening  after dark, the highwayman who robbed and wounded Mr Edward  Chester, and on the same night threatened me.'

 

'And you made no effort to detain him?' said Mr Haredale quickly.

 

'Sir,' returned the locksmith, 'she herself prevented me--held me,  with all her strength, and hung about me until he had got clear  off.'  And having gone so far, he related circumstantially all that  had passed upon the night in question.

 

This dialogue was held in a low tone in the locksmith's little  parlour, into which honest Gabriel had shown his visitor on his  arrival.  Mr Haredale had called upon him to entreat his company to  the widow's, that he might have the assistance of his persuasion  and influence; and out of this circumstance the conversation had  arisen.

 

'I forbore,' said Gabriel, 'from repeating one word of this to  anybody, as it could do her no good and might do her great harm.  I  thought and hoped, to say the truth, that she would come to me, and  talk to me about it, and tell me how it was; but though I have  purposely put myself in her way more than once or twice, she has  never touched upon the subject--except by a look.  And indeed,'  said the good-natured locksmith, 'there was a good deal in the  look, more than could have been put into a great many words.  It  said among other matters "Don't ask me anything" so imploringly,  that I didn't ask her anything.  You'll think me an old fool, I  know, sir.  If it's any relief to call me one, pray do.'

 

'I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,' said Mr Haredale,  after a silence.  'What meaning do you attach to it?'

 

The locksmith shook his head, and looked doubtfully out of window  at the failing light.

 

'She cannot have married again,' said Mr Haredale.

 

'Not without our knowledge surely, sir.'

 

'She may have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to  some objection or estrangement.  Suppose she married incautiously--it is not improbable, for her existence has been a lonely and  monotonous one for many years--and the man turned out a ruffian,  she would be anxious to screen him, and yet would revolt from his  crimes.  This might be.  It bears strongly on the whole drift of  her discourse yesterday, and would quite explain her conduct.  Do  you suppose Barnaby is privy to these circumstances?'

 

'Quite impossible to say, sir,' returned the locksmith, shaking his  head again: 'and next to impossible to find out from him.  If what  you suppose is really the case, I tremble for the lad--a notable  person, sir, to put to bad uses--'

 

'It is not possible, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, in a still lower  tone of voice than he had spoken yet, 'that we have been blinded  and deceived by this woman from the beginning?  It is not possible  that this connection was formed in her husband's lifetime, and led  to his and my brother's--'

 

'Good God, sir,' cried Gabriel, interrupting him, 'don't entertain  such dark thoughts for a moment.  Five-and-twenty years ago, where  was there a girl like her?  A gay, handsome, laughing, bright-eyed  damsel!  Think what she was, sir.  It makes my heart ache now, even  now, though I'm an old man, with a woman for a daughter, to think  what she was and what she is.  We all change, but that's with Time;  Time does his work honestly, and I don't mind him.  A fig for Time,  sir.  Use him well, and he's a hearty fellow, and scorns to have  you at a disadvantage.  But care and suffering (and those have  changed her) are devils, sir--secret, stealthy, undermining devils--who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do more havoc in  a month than Time does in a year.  Picture to yourself for one  minute what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh heart  and face--do her that justice--and say whether such a thing is  possible.'

 

'You're a good fellow, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, 'and are quite  right.  I have brooded on that subject so long, that every breath  of suspicion carries me back to it.  You are quite right.'

 

'It isn't, sir,' cried the locksmith with brightened eyes, and  sturdy, honest voice; 'it isn't because I courted her before Rudge,  and failed, that I say she was too good for him.  She would have  been as much too good for me.  But she WAS too good for him; he  wasn't free and frank enough for her.  I don't reproach his memory  with it, poor fellow; I only want to put her before you as she  really was.  For myself, I'll keep her old picture in my mind; and  thinking of that, and what has altered her, I'll stand her friend,  and try to win her back to peace.  And damme, sir,' cried Gabriel,  'with your pardon for the word, I'd do the same if she had married  fifty highwaymen in a twelvemonth; and think it in the Protestant  Manual too, though Martha said it wasn't, tooth and nail, till  doomsday!'

 

If the dark little parlour had been filled with a dense fog, which,  clearing away in an instant, left it all radiance and brightness,  it could not have been more suddenly cheered than by this outbreak  on the part of the hearty locksmith.  In a voice nearly as full and  round as his own, Mr Haredale cried 'Well said!' and bade him come  away without more parley.  The locksmith complied right willingly;  and both getting into a hackney coach which was waiting at the  door, drove off straightway.

 

They alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their  conveyance, walked to the house.  To their first knock at the door  there was no response.  A second met with the like result.  But in  answer to the third, which was of a more vigorous kind, the parlour  window-sash was gently raised, and a musical voice cried:

 

'Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you.  How  very much you have improved in your appearance since our last  meetin