 31 Pondering on his unhappy lot, Joe sat and listened for a long time, expecting every moment to hear their creaking footsteps on the stairs, or to be greeted by his worthy father with the summons to capitulate unconditionally and deliver himself up straightway. But neither voice nor footstep came, and though some distant echoes, as of closing doors and people hurrying in and out of rooms, resounding from time to time through the great passages and penetrating to his remote seclusion, gave note of unusual commotion downstairs. No nearer sound disturbed his place of retreat, which seemed quieter for these far-off noises, and was as dull and full of gloom as any hermit's cell. It came on darker and darker. The old-fashioned furniture of the chamber, which was a kind of hospital for all the invalided moveables in the house, grew indistinct and shadowy in its many shapes. Chairs and tables, which by day were as honest cripples as need be, assumed a doubtful and mysterious character, and one old leprous screen of faded India leather and gold binding, which had kept out many a cold breath of air in days of yore and shut in many a jolly face, frowned on him with a spectral aspect, and stood at full height in its allotted corner, like some gaunt ghost who waited to be questioned. A portrait opposite the window, a queer old grey-eyed general in an oval frame, seemed to wink and doze as the light decayed, and at length, when the last faint glimmering speck of day went out, to shut its eyes in good earnest and full sound asleep. There was such a hush and mystery about everything, that Joe could not help following its example, and so went off into a slumber likewise, and dreamed of Dolly, till the clock of Chigwell Church struck two. Still nobody came. The distant noises in the house had ceased, and out of doors all was quiet, save for the occasional barking of some deep-mouthed dog, and the shaking of the branches by the night wind. He gazed mournfully out of window at each well-known object as it lay sleeping in the dim light of the moon, and creeping back to his former seat, thought about the late uproar until, with long thinking of, it seemed to have occurred a month ago. Thus, between dozing and thinking, and walking to the window and looking out, the night wore away. The grim old screen and the kindred chairs and tables began slowly to reveal themselves in their accustomed forms. The grey-eyed general seemed to wink and yawn and rouse himself, and at last he was brought awake again, and very uncomfortable and cold and haggard he looked in the dull grey light of morning. The sun had begun to peep above the forest trees, and already flung across the curling mist bright bars of gold, when Joe dropped from his window on the ground below, a little bundle and his trusty stick, and prepared to descend himself. It was not a very difficult task, for there were so many projections and gable ends in the way that they formed a series of clumsy steps, with no greater obstacle than a jump of some few feet at last. Joe with a stick and bundle on his shoulder quickly stood on the firm earth and looked up at the old maypole, it might be for the last time. He didn't apostrophise it, for he was no great scholar. He didn't curse it, for he had little ill will to give to anything on earth. He felt more affectionate and kind to it than ever he had done in all his life before. So said with all his heart, God bless you, as a parting wish, and turned away. He walked along at a brisk pace, big with great thoughts of going for a soldier and dying in some foreign country where it was very hot and sandy, and leaving God knows what unheard of wealth in prize money to Dolly, who would be very much affected when she came to know of it. And full of such youthful visions, which were sometimes sanguine and sometimes melancholy, but always had her for their main point and centre, pushed on vigorously until the noise of London sounded in his ears and the black lion hove in sight. It was only eight o'clock then, and very much astonished the black lion was to see him come walking in with dust upon his feet at that early hour, with no grey mare to bear him company. But as he ordered breakfast to be got ready with all speed, and on its being set before him gave indisputable tokens of a hearty appetite, the lion received him, as usual, with a hospitable welcome, and treated him with those marks of distinction, which, as a regular customer, and one within the freemasonry of the trade, he had a right to claim. This lion, or landlord, for he was called both man and beast, by reason of his having instructed the artist who painted his sign, to convey into the features of the lordly brute whose effigy it bore, as near a counterpart of his own face as his skill could compass and devise, was a gentleman almost as quick of apprehension and of almost as subtle a wit as the mighty John himself. But the difference between them lay in this, that whereas Mr. Willet's extreme sagacity and acuteness were the efforts of unassisted nature, the lion stood indebted in no small amount to beer, of which he swigged such copious draughts that most of his faculties were utterly drowned and washed away, except the one great faculty of sleep, which he retained in surprising perfection. The creaking lion over the house door was, therefore, to say the truth, rather a drowsy, tame and feeble lion. And as the social representatives of a savage class are usually of a conventional character, being depicted for the most part in impossible attitudes and of unearthly colours, he was frequently supposed by the more ignorant and uninformed among the neighbours to be the veritable fortress of the host as he appeared on the occasion of some great funeral ceremony or public mourning. What noisy fellow is that in the next room? said Joe when he had disposed of his breakfast and had washed and brushed himself. A recruiting sergeant replied the lion. Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming of all the way along. And I wish, said the lion, he was anywhere else but here. The party make noise enough, but don't call for much. There's great cry there, Mr. Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn't like him, I know. Perhaps not much under any circumstances, perhaps if he could have known what was passing at that moment in Joe's mind he would have liked them still less. Is he recruiting for a fine regiment? said Joe, glancing at a little round mirror that hung in the bar. I believe he is. replied the host. It's much the same thing, whatever regiment he's recruiting for. I'm told there aren't a deal of difference between a fine man and another one when they're shot through and through. They're not all shot, said Joe. No, the lion answered. Not all. Those that are, supposing it's done easy are the best off in my opinion. Ah, retorted Joe, but you don't care for glory. For what, said the lion, glory. No, he turns a lion with supreme indifference. I doubt. You're right in that, Mr. Willet. When glory comes here and calls for anything to drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I'll give it him for nothing. It's my belief, sir, that the glory's arms wouldn't do a very strong business. These remarks were not at all comforting. Joe walked out, stopped at the door of the next room, and listened. The sergeant was describing a military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that there were frequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the finest thing in the world when your side won it, and Englishmen always did that. Supposing you should be killed, sir, said a timid voice in one corner. Well, sir, supposing you should be, said the sergeant. What then? Your country loves you, sir. His Majesty King George III loves you. Your memory is honoured, revered, respected. Everybody's fond of you and grateful to you. Your names wrote down at full length in a book in the war office. Damn, gentlemen, we must all die some time or another, eh? The voice coughed and said no more. Joe walked into the room. A group of half a dozen fellows had gathered together in the taproom, and were listening with greedy ears. One of them, a carter in a smock frock, seemed wavering and disposed to enlist. The rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so, according to the custom of mankind, backed the sergeant's arguments and grinned amongst themselves. I say nothing, boys, said the sergeant, who sat a little apart, drinking his liquor. For lads of spirit, here he cast an eye on Joe. This is the time. I don't want to inveigle you. The king's not come to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we want, not milk and water. We won't take five men out of six. We want dropsoy as we do. I'm not going to tell the tales out of school. But damn, if every gentleman's son that carries arms in our core, through being under a cloud and having little differences of vigilations, was counted up, here his eye fell on Joe again. And so good and naturedly, that Joe beckoned him out. He came directly. You're a gentleman by God, was his first remark, as he slapped him on the back. You're a gentleman in disguise, so am I. Let's swear a friendship. Joe didn't exactly do that, but he shook hands with him and thanked him for his good opinion. You want a serve, said his new friend. You shall. You were made for it. You're one of us by nature. What'll you take to drink? Nothing just now, replied Joe, smiling faintly. I haven't quite made up my mind. I'm a battlesome fellow like you. Not made up his mind, cried the sergeant. Here, let me give the bell a pull, and you'll make up your mind in half a minute, and I know. You're right so far, answered Joe. For if you pull the bell here, where I'm known, there'll be an end of my soldiering inclinations in no time. Look in my face. You see me, do you? I do, replied the sergeant with an oath, and a finer young fellow, or one better qualified to serve his king and country. I never sit mine. He used an adjective in this place. Eyes on. Thank you, said Joe. I didn't ask you for want of a compliment, but thank you all the same. Do I look like a sneaking fellow or a liar? The sergeant rejoined with many choice of separations that he didn't, and that if his, the sergeant's own father were to say he did, he would run the old gentleman through the body cheerfully and consider it a meritorious action. Joe expressed his obligations and continued, You can trust me, then, and credit what I say. I believe I shall enlist in your regiment tonight. The reason I don't do so now is because I don't want, until tonight, to do what I can't recall. Where shall I find you this evening? His friend replied, with some unwillingness, and after much ineffectual entreaty, having for its object the immediate settlement of the business, that his quarters would be at the crooked billet in Tower Street, where he would be found waking until midnight and sleeping until breakfast time tomorrow. And if I do come, which is a million-to-one-hour shell, when will you take me out of London? Demanded Joe. Tomorrow morning, at half-after-eight o'clock, replied the sergeant, You go abroad, I can't be where it's all sunshine and plunder, the finest climate in the world. To go abroad, said Joe, shaking hands with him, is the very thing I want. You may expect me. You're the kind of lad for us, cried the sergeant, holding Joe's hand in his and the excess of his admiration. You're the boy to push your fortune. I don't say it because I'll bear you any envy, or will take away from the credit of the rise you'll make. But if I had been bred and taught like you, I'd have been a colonel by this time. Man, said Joe, I'm not so young as that. Needs must when the devil drives, and the devil that drives me is an empty pocket in an unhappy home. For the present, goodbye. For king and country, cried the sergeant, flourishing his cap. For bread and meat, cried Joe, snapping his fingers. And so they parted. He had very little money in his pocket, so little indeed that after paying for his breakfast, which he was too honest and perhaps too proud to score up to his father's charge, he had but a penny left. He had courage, notwithstanding, to resist all the affectionate importunities of the sergeant, who were laid him at the door with many protestations of eternal friendship, and did in particular request that he would do him the favour to accept of only one shilling as a temporary accommodation. Rejecting his offers, both of cash and credit, Joe walked away with stick and bundle as before, bent upon getting through the day as best he could, and going down to the locksmiths in the dusk of the evening, for it should go hard he had resolved, but he would have a parting word with charming Dolly Varden. He went out by Islington and so on to Higat, and sat on many stones and gates, but there were no voices in the bells to bid him turn. Since the time of Noble Whittington, fair flower of merchants, bells have come to have less sympathy with humankind. They only ring for money and on state occasions. Wanderers have increased in number. Ships leave the Thames for distant regions, carrying from stem to stern no other cargo. The bells are silent. They ring out no entreaties or regrets. They are used to it and have grown worldly. Joe bought a roll, and reduced his purse to the condition with the difference of that celebrated purse of Fortunatus, which whatever were its favoured owner's necessities, had one unvarying amount in it. In these real times, when all the fairies are dead and buried, there are still a great many purses which possess that quality. The sum total they contain is expressed in arithmetic by a circle, and whether it be added to or multiplied by its own amount, the result of the problem is more easily stated than any known in figures. Evening drew on at last, with a desolate and solitary feeling of one who had no home or shelter, and was alone utterly in the world for the first time. He bent his steps towards the locksmith's house. He had delayed till now, knowing that Mrs. Varden sometimes went out alone, or with migs, for her sole attendant, to lectures in the evening, and devoutly hoping that this might be one of her nights of moral culture. He had walked up and down before the house, on the opposite side of the way, two or three times, when, as he returned to it again, he caught a glimpse of a fluttering skirt at the door. It was Dolly's, to whom else could it belong. No dress but hers had such a flow as that. He plucked up his spirits, and followed it into the workshop of the Golden Key. His darkening the door caused her to look around. Oh, that face! If it hadn't been for that, thought Joe, I should never have walked into poor Tom Cobb. She's twenty times handsomer than ever. She might marry a lord. He didn't say this. He only thought it. Perhaps looked it also. Dolly was glad to see him, and was so sorry her father and mother were away from home. Joe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account. Dolly hesitated to lead the way into the parlor, for there it was nearly dark. At the same time she hesitated to stand talking in the workshop, which was yet light and open to the street. They had got by some means, too, before the little forge, and Joe, having her hand in his, which he had no right to have, for Dolly only gave it to him to shake. It was so like standing before some homely altar being married, that it was the most embarrassing state of things in the world. I have come, said Joe, to say good-bye, to say good-bye for I don't know how many years, perhaps forever, I am going abroad. Now this was exactly what he should not have said. Here he was, talking like a gentleman at large, who was free to come and go and roam about the world at pleasure, when that gallant coach-maker had vowed but the night before that Miss Varden held him bound and adamantine chains, and had positively stated in so many words that she was killing him by inches, and that in a fortnight more or thereabouts he expected to make a decent end and leave the business to his mother. Dolly released her hand and said, Indeed! she remarked in the same breath that it was a fine night, and in short betrayed no more emotion than the forge itself. I couldn't go, said Joe, without coming to see you, I hadn't the heart to. Dolly was more sorry than she could tell that he should have taken so much trouble. It was such a long way, and he must have such a deal to do, and how was, Mr. Willet, that dear old gentleman? Is this all you say?" cried Joe. All! Good gracious! what did the man expect? She was obliged to take her apron in her hand and run her eyes along the hem from corner to corner to keep herself from laughing in his face, not because his gaze confused her, not at all. Joe had small experience in love affairs, and had no notion how different young ladies are at different times. He had expected to take Dolly up again at the very point where he had left her after that delicious evening ride, and was no more prepared for such an alteration, and to see the sun and moon change places. He had buoyed himself up all day with an indistinct idea that she would certainly say, Don't go, or Don't leave us, or Why do you go, or Why do you leave us, or would give him some little encouragement of that sort. He had even entertained the possibility of her bursting into tears, of her throwing herself into his arms, of her falling down in a fainting fit without previous word or sign, but any approach to such a line of conduct as this had been so far from his thought that he could only look at her in silent wonder. Dolly in the meanwhile turned to the corners of her apron and measured the sides and smoothed out the wrinkles, and was as silent as he. At last, after a long pause, Joe said, Goodbye. Goodbye! said Dolly, with his pleasant smile as if you were going to the next street, and were coming back to supper. Goodbye! Come! said Joe, putting out both hands. Dolly! dear Dolly, don't, don't let us part like this. I love you dearly, with all my heart and soul, with as much truth and earnestness as ever, man-loved woman in this world, I do believe. I am a poor fellow, as you know, poorer and now than ever, for I have fled from home, not being able to bear it any longer, and must fight my own way without help. You are beautiful, admired, loved by everybody, are well often happy, and may you ever be so. Heaven forbid I should ever make you otherwise, but give me a word of comfort. Say something kind to me. I have no right to expect it of you, I know, but I ask it because I love you, and shall treasure the slightest word from you all through my life. Dolly, dearest, have you nothing to say to me? No. Nothing. Dolly was a cooket by nature and a spoiled child. She had no notion of being carried by storm in this way. The coach-maker would have been dissolved in tears, and would have knelt down, and called himself names, and clasped his hands, and beat his breast, and tugged wildly at his cravat, and done all kinds of poetry. Joe had no business to be going abroad. He had no right to be able to do it. If he was in adamantine chains, he couldn't. I have said good-bye, said Dolly, twice. Take your arm away directly, Mr. Joseph, or I'll call Miggs. I'll not reproach you," answered Joe. It's my fault, no doubt. I have thought sometimes that you didn't quite despise me, but I was a fool to think so. Everyone must, who has seen the life I have led, knew most of all. God bless you. He was gone. Actually gone. Dolly waited a little while, thinking he would return. Peeped out at the door, looked up the street, and down as well as the increasing darkness would allow, came in again, waited a little longer, went upstairs, humming a tune, bolted herself in, laid her head down in her bed, and cried as if her heart would break. And yet such natures are made up of so many contradictions, that if Joe Willet had come back that night, next day, next week, next month, the odds are a hundred to one, she would have treated him in the very same manner, and have wept for it afterwards with the very same distress. She had no sooner left the workshop, and there cautiously peered out from behind the chimney of the forge, a face which had already emerged from the same concealment twice or thrice, unseen, and which, after satisfying himself that it was now alone, was followed by a leg, a shoulder, and so on by degrees, until the form of Mr. Tappetit stood confessed, with a brown paper cup stuck negligently on one side of its head, and its arms very much a kimbo. Have my ears deceive me? said the apprentice, or do I dream? Am I to thank thee fortune, or an acassi, which? He gravely descended from his elevation, took down his piece of looking-glass, planted it against the wall upon the usual bench, twisted his head round, and looked closely at his legs. If they're a dream, said Sim, let sculptures have such visions, and chisel them out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs as them. Tremble will it and despair. She's mine. She's mine. With these triumphant expressions he seized a hammer and dealt a heavyblower device, which in his mind's eye represented the sconce or head of Joseph Willett. That done he burst into a peel of laughter which startled Miss Miggs even in her distant kitchen, and dipping his head into a bowl of water had recourse to a jack-towel inside the closet door, which served the double purpose of smothering his feelings and drying his face. Joe, disconsolate and downhearted, but full of courage, too, and leaving the locksmith's house, made the best of his way to the crooked billet, and there inquired for his friend the sergeant, who, expecting no man less, received him with open arms. In the course of five minutes after his arrival at that house of entertainment, he was enrolled among the gallant defenders of his native land, and within half an hour was regaled with the steaming supper of boiled tripe and onions, prepared as his friend assured him more than once, at the express command of his most sacred majesty the king. To this meal, which tasted very savoury after his long fasting, he did ample justice, and when he had followed it up or down with a variety of loyal and patriotic toasts, he was conducted to a straw mattress in a loft over the stable and locked in there for the night. The next morning he found that the obliging care of his marshal friend had decorated his hat with sundry, party-coloured streamers, which made a very lively appearance, and in company with that officer and three other military gentlemen newly enrolled who were under a cloud so dense that it only left three shoes, a boot and a coat and a half, visible among them, repaired to the riverside. Here they were joined by a corporal and four more heroes, of whom two were drunk and daring, and two sober and penitent, but each of whom, like Joe, had his dusty stick and bundle. The party embarked in a passage-boat bound for Gravesend, once they were to proceed on foot to Chatham. The wind was in their favour, and they soon left London behind them, a mere dark mist, a giant phantom in the air. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of Barnaby-Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Libremox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby-Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 32 This Fortunes, set the adage, never come singly. There is little doubt that troubles are exceedingly gregarious in their nature, and flying in flocks are apt to perch capriciously, crowding on the heads of some poor whites, until there is not an inch of room left on their unlucky crowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as good resting places for the souls at their feet than if they had no existence. It may have happened that a flight of troubles brooding over London, and looking out for Joseph Willet, whom they couldn't find, darted down haphazard on the first young man that caught their fancy, and settled on him instead. However this may be, certain it is that on the very day of Joe's departure they swarmed about the ears of Edward Chester, and did so buzz and flap their wings and persecute him that he was most profoundly wretched. It was evening, and just eight o'clock, when he and his father having wine and dessert set before them, were left to themselves for the first time that day. They had dined together, but a third person had been present during the meal, and until they met at table they had not seen each other since the previous night. Edward was reserved and silent. Mr. Chester was more than usually gay, but not caring as it seemed to open a conversation with one whose humour was so different, he vented the lightness of his spirit in smiles and sparkling looks, and made no effort to awaken his attention. So they remained for some time. The father lying on a sofa with his accustomed air of graceful negligence. The son seated opposite to him, with downcast eyes, busied it was plain, with painful and uneasy thoughts. My dear Edward, said Mr. Chester at length, with the most engaging laugh, do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer that to circulate, let your spirits be never so stagnant. Edward begged his pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state. You do wrong not to fill your glass, said Mr. Chester, holding up his own before the light. Wine, in moderation, not in excess, for that makes men ugly, has a thousand pleasant influences. It brightens the eye, improves the voice, imparts a new vivacity to one's thoughts and conversation. You should try it, Ned. Oh, Father, cried his son, if my good fellow, interposed the parent hastily, as he set down his glass and raised his eyebrows with the startled and horrified expression, for heaven's sake, don't call me by that obsolete and ancient name. Have some regard for delicacy. Am I gray or wrinkled? Do I go on crutches? Have I lost my teeth? Would you adopt such a mode of address? Good God, how very coarse! I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir," returned Edward, in the confidence which should subsist between us, and you check me in the outset. Now, do, Ned, do not," said Mr. Chester, raising his delicate hand imploringly, talk in that monstrous manner about to speak from your heart. Don't you know that the heart is an ingenious part of our formation, the centre of the blood vessels and all that sort of thing, which has no more to do with what you say or think than your knees have? How can you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomical illusions should be left to gentlemen of the medical profession. They are really not agreeable in society. You quite surprised me, Ned. Well, there are no such things to wound or heal or have regard for. I know your creed, sir, and will say no more," returned his son. There again, said Mr. Chester, sipping his wine, you are wrong. I distinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts of animals, of bullocks, sheep, and so forth, are cooked and devoured, as I am told by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men are sometimes stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart. But as to speaking from the heart or to the heart, or being warm-hearted, or cold-hearted, or broken-hearted, or being all-heart, or having no heart—perf!—these things are nonsense, Ned. No doubt, sir, returned his son, seeing that he paused for him to speak. No doubt. There's Hedale's niece, your late flame, said Mr. Chester, was a careless illustration of his meaning. No doubt in your mind, she was all heart once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned, exactly. She is a changed person, sir, cried Edward, reddening, and changed by vile means, I believe. You have had a coldest missile, have you? said his father. Poor Ned! I told you last night what would happen. May I ask you for the nutcrackers? She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived. Cried Edward, rising from his seat. I never will believe that the knowledge of my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I know she is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, and broken past all redemption, though I charge upon her want of firmness and want of truth, both through herself and me, I do not now and never will believe that any sordid motive, or her own unbiased will, has led her to this course. Never! You make me blush! returned his father gaily, for the folly of your nature, in which, but we never know ourselves, I devoutly hope there is no reflection of my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she has done what is very natural and proper, my dear fellow, what you yourself proposed, as I learned from Hairedale, and what I predicted, with no great exercise of sagacity, she would do. She supposed you to be rich, or at least quite rich enough, unfound you poor. Marriage is a civil contract. People marry to better their worldly condition, and improve appearances. It is an affair of house and furniture, of liveries, servants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor, and you poor also, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon these considerations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. I drink her health in this glass, and respect and honour her for her extreme good sense. It is a lesson to you, fill yours, Ned. It is a lesson, returned his son, by which I hope I may never profit, and if years and experience impress it on, don't say on the heart, interposed his father. On men whom the world and its hypocrisy have spoiled, said Edward warmly, heaven keep me from its knowledge. Accom, sir, returned his father, raising himself a little on the sofa, and looking straight towards him. We have had enough of this. Remember if you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, your filial affections, and all of that sort of thing, which it is so very delightful and charming to reflect upon, or you will repent it. I shall never repent the preservation of my self-respect, sir, said Edward. Forgive me, if I say, that I will not sacrifice it at your bidding, and that I will not pursue the track which you would have me take, and to which the secret share you have had in this separation tends. His father rose a little higher still, and looking at him as though curious to know if you were quite resolved and earnest, dropped gently down again, and said in the calmest voice, eating his nuts meanwhile. Edward, my father, had a son, who, being a fool like you, and like you, entertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and cursed one morning after breakfast. The circumstance cursed to me with a singular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eating muffins at the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life, the son, I mean, and died early. It was a happy release in all accounts. He degraded the family very much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when a father finds it necessary to resort to such strong measures. It is, replied Edward, and it is sad when a son, proffering him his love and duty in their best and truest sense, finds himself repelled at every turn and forced to disobey, dear father. He added more earnestly, though in a gentler tone, I have reflected many times on what occurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there be a confidence between us, not in terms but truth. Hear what I have to say. As I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward, returned his father coldly, I decline. I couldn't possibly. I am sure it would put me out of temper, which is a state of mind I can't endure. If you intend to mar my plans for your establishment in life, and the preservation of that gentility and becoming pride, which our family have so long sustained, if in short you are resolved to take your own course, you must take it, and my curse with it. I am very sorry, but there is really no alternative. The curse may pass your lips, said Edward, but it will be by empty breath. I do not believe that any man on earth has greater power to call one down upon his fellow, least of all upon his own child, than he has to make one drop of rain or flake of snow fall from the clouds above us at his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you do. You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horribly profane, rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, and cracking another nut, that I positively must interrupt you here. It is quite impossible we could continue to go on, upon such terms as these. If you will do me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show you to the door. Return to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, since you have no moral sense remaining, and go to the devil at my express desire. Good day! Edward left the room without another word or look, and turned his back upon the house for ever. The father's face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner was quite unchanged as he rang the bell again and addressed the servant on his entrance. Peak, if that gentleman who has just gone out, I beg your pardon, sir, Mr. Edward, were there more than one dot that you ask the question? If that gentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have it. Do you hear? If he should call himself at any time, I am not at home. You tell him so, and shut the door. So it soon got whispered about that Mr. Chester was very unfortunate in his son, who had occasioned him great grief and sorrow, and the good people who heard this and told it again marveled the more at his equanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature that man must have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and so calm. And when Edward's name was spoken, society shook its head and laid its finger on its lip, and sighed and looked very grave, and those who had sons about his age waxed wrathful and indignant and hoped for virtue's sake that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, as usual, for five years, concerning which this narrative is silent. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 of Barnaby Ranch, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Barnaby Ranch, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter 33 One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord 1780, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp, dense, and icy cold, swept the wet streets and rattled on the trembling windows. Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the pavement. Old, tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast, and many a steeple rocked again that night, as though the earth were troubled. It was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth to brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each other with the secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by the water-side had its group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked of vessels foundering at sea, and all hands lost, related many a dismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt. In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze, listening with timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad in white, standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old churches, and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the dead hour of the night, until they shuddered at the thought of the dark rooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan, too, and hoped it would continue bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to listen, or one held up his finger, and cried, Hark! And then, above the rumbling and the chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant's hand were on them, then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen, then such a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad, and then, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment's interval of rest. Cheerily, though they were none abroad to see it, shone the maypole light that evening, blessings on the red, deep ruby glowing red old curtain of the window, blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire and candle, meat, drink and company, and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors. Within, what carpet, like its crunching sand, what music, merry as its crackling logs, what perfume, like its kitchen's dainty breath, what weather, genial as its hearty warmth, blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood. How did the vexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof? How did it pant and strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its face? How, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous to extinguish that cheerful glow which would not be put down and seemed the brighter for the conflict? The profusion, too, the rich and lavish bounty of that goodly tavern. It was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled at its spacious hearth, in the tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires burned brightly also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the wild night out and shed its cheerful influence on the room, in every saucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass, or tin that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, at the eye wonder where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The old oak wainscotting, the beams, the chairs, the seats reflected it in a deep dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they smoked. Mr. Willard sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before, with his eyes on the eternal boiler, and had sat there since the clock struck eight, giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud and constant snore, though he was wide awake, and from time to time putting his glass to his lips, or knocking the ashes out of his pipe and filling it anew. It was now half-past ten. Mr. Cobb and long-fill parks were his companions as of old, and for two mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word. Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the same relative positions and doing exactly the same things for a great many years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing each other, which serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy to settle. But certain it is that old John Willard, Mr. Parks and Mr. Cobb were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly companions, rather choice spirits than otherwise, that they looked at each other every now and then as if there were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on among them, that no man considered himself or his neighbour by any means silent, and that each of them nodded occasionally when he caught the eye of another as if he would say, you have expressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I quite agree with you. The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so very soothing, that Mr. Willard, by degrees, began to doze. But as he had perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his sleep, and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep, saving that in the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight difficulty in respiration, such as the carpenter meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot. Neither of his companions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one of these impediments, and was obliged to try again. Johnny's dropped off, said Mr. Parks in a whisper. Vast is atop, said Mr. Cobb. Neither of them said any more until Mr. Willard came to another knot, one of surpassing obituacy, which bade fair to throw him into convulsions, but which he got over at last without waking by an effort quite a superhuman. He sleeps uncommon hard, said Mr. Cobb. Mr. Parks, who was possibly a hard sleeper himself, replied with some disdain, not a bit on it, and directed his eyes towards a hen-bill pastored over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a wood-cut, representing a youth of tender years running away very fast, with a bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and, to carry out the idea, a finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr. Cobb likewise turned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if that were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document which Mr. Willard had himself indicted on the disappearance of his son Joseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general with the circumstances of his having left his home, describing his dress and appearance, and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or persons who would pack him up and return him safely to the maypole at Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty's jails until such time as his father should come and claim him. In this advertisement, Mr. Willard had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and treatise of his friends, in describing his son as a young boy, and furthermore as being from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really was, two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its never having been productive of any other effect than the transmission to Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense of some five and forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve. Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parks looked mysteriously at this composition. From the time he had pasted it up with his own hands, Mr. Willard had never by word or sign alluded to the subject or encouraged anyone else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his thoughts or opinions were, connected with it, whether he remembered it or forgot it, whether he had any idea that such an event had ever taken place. Therefore, even while he slept, no one ventured to refer to it in his presence, and for such sufficient reasons these his chosen friends were silent now. Mr. Willard had got by this time into such a complication of knots that it was perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former alternative and opened his eyes. If he don't come in five minutes, said John, I shall have supper without him. The antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time at eight o'clock. Messrs. Parks and Cobb, being used to this style of conversation, replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was very late, and they wondered what had happened to detain him. He aren't blown away, I suppose, said Parks. It's enough to carry a man of his figure off his legs and easy to. Do you hear it? It blows great guns indeed. There'll be many a crash in the forest tonight, I reckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground tomorrow. It won't break anything in the maypole, I take it, sir. Returned old John, let it try. I give it leave. What's that? The wind, cried Parks, it howling like a Christian and has been all night long. Teach you ever, sir, asked John, after a minute's contemplation. Hear the wind say, my pole. Why, what man ever did, said Parks. Nor a hoi, perhaps, added John. No, nor that neither. Very good, sir, said Mr. Willard, perfectly unmoved. Then, if that was the wind just now, and you wait a little time without speaking, you'll hear it say both words, very plain. Mr. Willard was right. After listening for a few moments, they could clearly hear above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout repeated, and that were the shrillness and energy which denoted that it came from some person in great distress or terror. They looked at each other, turned pale, and held their breath. No man stirred. It was in this emergency that Mr. Willard displayed something of that strength of mind and plenitude of mental resource which rendered him the admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking at Mrs. Parks and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two hands to his cheeks and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance and rafters ring, a long sustained discordant bellow that rolled onward with the wind and startling every echo made the night a hundred times more boisterous, a deep, loud, dismal bray that sounded like a human gong. Then with every vein in his head and face swollen with the great exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he drew a little nearer to the fire and turning his back upon its head with dignity. If that's any comfort to anybody, they welcome to it. If it aren't, I'm sorry for him. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and see what's the matter, you can. I'm not curious myself. While he spoke, the cry drew nearer and nearer. Footsteps passed the window. The latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut again, and Solomon Daisy with a lighted lantern in his hand and the rain streaming from his disordered dress dashed into the room. A more complete picture of terror than the little man presented it would be difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his face, his knees knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power of articulation was quite gone, and there he stood, panting for breath, gazing on them with such livid, ashy looks that they were infected with his fear, though ignorant of its occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed and horror-stricken visage, stared back again without venturing to question him, until old John Willet, in a fit of temporary insanity, made a dive at his cravat, and, ceasing him by that portion of his dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in his head. Tell us what's the matter, sir, said John, or I'll kill you. Tell us what's the matter, sir, or in another second I'll have your head under the baler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a following of you? What do you mean? Say something, or I'll be the death of you. I will. Mr. Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very letter, Solomon Daisy's eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming manner, and certain guttural sounds as of a choking man to issue from his throat, that the two bystanders, recovering in some degree, plucked him off his victim by main force, and placed the little clerk of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a fearful gaze all round the room, he implored them in a faint voice to give him some drink, and above all to lock the house door, and close and bar the shutters of the room without a moment's loss of time. The latter requested not tend to reassure his hearers or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations, they complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition, and having handed him a bumper of brandy and water, nearly boiling hot, waited to hear what he might have to tell them. How, Johnny! said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. How, Parks! How, Tommy Cobb! Why did I leave this house to-night, on the nineteenth of March, of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March? They all drew closer to the fire. Parks, who was nearest to the door, started and looked over his shoulder. Mr. Willet, with great indignation, inquired what the devil he meant by that, and then said, God, forgive me! and glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer. When I left here to-night, said Solomon Daisy, Ah, little fort! What day of the month it was! I've never gone alone into the church after dark on this day for seven and twenty years! I've heard it said that as we keep our birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of dead people who are not easy in their graves keep the day they died upon. How the wind roars! Nobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon. I might have known, he said, what night it was, by the foul weather! There's no such night now year round as this is, always! I never sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March. Go on, said Tom Carbon, a low voice, nor I neither. Solomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips, put it down upon the floor with such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little bell, and continued thus. Have we ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in some strange way when the night-end of this month comes round? Do you suppose it was by accident? I forgot to wind up the church clock. Oh, I never forgot it any other time, though it is such a clumsy thing that it has to be wound up every day. Why should it escape my memory on this day of all others? I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but I had to go home first for the keys, and the wind and rain being dead against me all the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at times to keep my legs. I got there at last, opened the church door and went in. I ate not a soul all the way, and you may judge whether it was dull or not. Neither of you would bear me company. If you could have known what was to come, you'd have been in the right. The wind was so strong that it was as much as I could do to shut the church door by putting my whole weight against it, and even as it was, it burst wide open twice with such strength that any of you would have sworn if you'd been leaning against it as I was that somebody was pushing it on the other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the belfry, and wound up the clock, which was very near run down and would have stood stock still in half an hour. As I took up Millenton again to leave the church, it came upon me all at once, this was the 19th of March. It came upon me with a kind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon me forehead. At the very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower, rising from above the graves. Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if Mr. Parks, who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over his head, saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr. Parks apologised and remarked that he was only listening, to which Mr. Willard angrily retorted that his listening with that kind of expression in his face was not agreeable, and that if he couldn't look like other people, he had better put his pocket handkerchief over his head. Mr. Parks, with great submission, pledged himself to do so, if again required, and John Willard, turning to Solomon, desired him to proceed. After waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which seemed to shake even that sturdy house to its foundation had passed away, the little man complied. Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I mistook for that, I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and fro, and I heard that voice. What did it say? asked Tom Cobb. I don't know what. I don't know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any one of us might do if something dreadful followed us in a dream and came upon us unawares. And then it died off, seeming to pass quite round the church. I don't see much in that, said John, drawing a long breath, and looking round him like a man who felt relieved. Perhaps not, returned his friend, but that's not all. What more do you mean to say, sirs, to come? asked John, pausing on the act of wiping his face upon his apron. What all you were done to tell us of next? What I saw! saw! echoed all three, bending forward. When I opened the church door to come out, said the little man with an expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his conviction. When I opened the church door to come out, which I did suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind came up, they crossed me. So close! that by stretching out my finger, I could have touched it. Something in the likeness of a man. It was buried to the stone. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed its eyes on mine. He was a ghost, a spirit. Who's? they all tried together. In the excess of his emotion, for he fell back trembling in his chair, and waved his hand as if in treating them to question him no further, his answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be seated close beside him. Who? cried Parks and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon Daisy and Mr. Willet. Who was it? Gentlemen! said Mr. Willet, after a long pause. You needn't ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the 19th of March. A profound silence ensued. If you'll take my advice, said John, we had better, one and all, keep this a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep it to ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into trouble, and Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he says, or whether it wasn't, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would believe him. As to the probabilities, I don't myself think, said Mr. Willet, eyeing the corners of the room in a manner which showed that, like some other philosopher who is not quite easy in his theory, that a ghost has had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would be able to walk in in such weather. I only know that Arl wouldn't, if Arl was one. But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three, who quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very time for such appearances, and Mr. Parks, who had had a ghost in his family by the mother's side, argued the matter with so much ingenuity and force of illustration that John was only saved from having to retract his opinion by the opportune appearance of supper, to which they applied themselves with a dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself, by dint of the elevating influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good company, so far recovered as to handle his knife and fork in a highly creditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and drinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting injury from his fright. Supper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on such occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated to surround a story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy, notwithstanding these temptations, adhered so steadily to his original account, and repeated it so often, with such slight variations, and with such solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that his hearers were, with good reason, more astonished than at first. As he took John Willett's view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not brooding the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which case it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman, it was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet. And, as most men like to have a secret to tell, which may exalt their own importance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity. As it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour of separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a fresh candle in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long-fill parks and Mr. Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr. Willett, after seeing them to the door, returned to collect his thoughts with the assistance of the boiler, and to listen to the storm of wind and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its fury. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty By Charles Dickens Chapter 34 Before old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty minutes, he got his ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon Daisy's story. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with the sense of his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr. Hairdale should be impressed with it likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain a principal and important character in the affair, and might have the start of Solomon and his two friends, through whose means he knew the adventure with a variety of exaggerations would be known to at least a score of people, and most likely to Mr. Hairdale himself, by breakfast time tomorrow, he determined to repair to the Warren before going to bed. He is my landlord, thought John, as he took a candle in his hand, and setting it down in a corner out of the wind's way, opened a casement in the rear of the house, looking towards the stables. We haven't met of late years so often as we used to do. Changes are taking place in the family. It's desirable that I should stand as well with them, in point of dignity, as possible. The whispering about of this here tale will anger him. It's good to have confidences with a gentleman of his nature, and set oneself right besides. When he had repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon from its slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened, and a rough voice demanded what was amiss now that a man couldn't even have his sleep in quiet. What? Haven't you sleep enough, growler, that you're not to be knocked up for once? Said John. Now replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook himself, not half enough. I don't know how you can sleep, with the winder bellows in and roaring about you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards. Said John. But no matter for that, wrap yourself up in something or another, and come here, for you must go as far as the Warren with me, and look sharp about it. Hugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his lair, and presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped from head to foot in an old, frowsy, slouching horse-cloth. Mr. Willet received this figure at the back door, and ushered him into the bar, while he wrapped himself in sundry great coats and capes, and so tired and not at his face and shores, and handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a mystery. You don't take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather, without putting some heart into him, do you, master? said Hugh. Yes, I do, sir, returned Mr. Willet. I put the heart, as you call it, into him, when he has brought me safe home again, and he's standing steady on his legs, and of so much consequence. So hold that light up, if you please, and go on a step or two before to show the way. Hugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, at a longing glance at the bottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook, to keep the doors locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on pain of dismissal, followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors. The way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr. Willet had been his own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horse pond within a few hundred yards of his own house, and would certainly have terminated his career in that ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who had a sight as keen as any hawks, and, apart from that endowment, could have found his way blindfold to any place within a dozen miles, dragged Old John along, quite deaf to his remonstrances, and took his own course without the slightest reference to, or notice of, his master. So they made head against the wind, as they best could. Hugh crushing the wet grass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his ordinary, savage fashion. John Willet, following at arm's length, picking his steps, and looking about him now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray ghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and uneasiness as his removable face was capable of expressing. At length they stood upon the broad gravel walk before the Warren House. The building was profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save themselves. From one solitary turret chamber, however, there shone a ray of light. And towards the speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless, silent scene, Mr. Willet bait his pilot lead him. The old room, said John, looking timidly upward, Mr. Reuben's own apartment, God be with us! I wonder, his brother likes to sit there, so late at night, on this night too. Why, where else should he sit? asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his breast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers. It's snug enough, ain't it? Snug, said John indignantly. You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian? Why, what is it the worse for that? cried Hugh, looking into John's fat face. Does it keep out the rain, snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Never believe it, master, one man's no such matter as that comes to. Mr. Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began, by a species of inspiration, to think it just barely possible that he was something of a dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid of him one of these days. He was too prudent to say anything with the journey home before him, and therefore turned to the iron gate before which this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled a handle of the bell that hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at one corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of the garden walks upon which this gate opened, Mr. Heardale threw up the window directly, and demanded who was there. Pigging pardons, sir, said John, I knew you sat up late, and may bold come round, I, in a word, say to you. Willet, is it not? O'er the May Powell, at your service, sir. Mr. Heardale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden walk, unlocked the gate, and let them in. You're a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter? Nothing to speak of, sir, said John, in idle tale, I thought you ought to know of, nothing more. Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend, you swing it like a sensor. Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and ascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on the steps. Mr. Heardale, following next, eyed his lowering face with no great favour, and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest as they climbed the winding stairs. It terminated in a little anti-room, adjoining that from which they had seen the light. Mr. Heardale entered first, and led the way through it into the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from which he had arisen when they had rung the bell. Come in, he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door. Not you, friend, he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. Willet, why do you bring that fellow here? Why, sir? returned John, elevating his eyebrows and lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him. He's a good guard, you see. Don't be too sure of that, said Mr. Heardale, looking towards him as he spoke. I doubt it. He has an evil eye. There is no imagination in his eye, returned Mr. Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the organ in question. Certainly. There is no good there, be assured, said Mr. Heardale. Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us. Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of the whispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr. Heardale turned to John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick ears yonder. Thus cautioned, Mr. Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard, and said that night, laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr. Heardale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr. Willet was surprised. You did quite right, he said at the end of a long conversation, to bid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition, but Miss Heardale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears. It is too nearly connected with the subject very painful to us all to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much. This was equal to John's most sanguine expectations, but he would have preferred Mr. Heardale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did. This, however, was his manner, and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr. Heardale stared at him for a moment, as though he had quite forgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the anti-chamber floor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs. Stay, said Mr. Heardale. Will this man drink? Drink? He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir. Replied John will it. He'll have something when he gets home. He's better without it now, sir. Nay, off the distance he's done, said Hugh, what odd master you are! I should go home, the better, for one glassful, half-way. Come! As John made no reply, Mr. Heardale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor. What do you mean by spashing your drink about a gentleman's house, sir? Said John. On drinking a toast, Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr. Heardale's face. A toast to this house and its master. With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word. John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr. Heardale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold a light, while Mr. Heardale locked it on the inner, and then John saw with wonder, as he often afterwards related, that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much, and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man. They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what he had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past. The nearest brushed his shoulder even then, who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter 35 When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen, and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss and place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king's highway at that late hour of night. The man whom he addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when he was checked by the horsemen in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice, Pray, is this the London Road? If you follow it right it is, replied Hugh roughly, Nay, brother, said the same person, You're but a cherlish Englishman, if Englishman you be, which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say, you friend? I say it is the London Road, sir. Answered John. And I wish, he added in a subdued voice as he turned to Hugh, that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir? That you go a try and to provoke three great net or nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back hurts and forage till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind them and drown us ten miles off. How far is it to London? Enquired the same speaker. Why for me, sir? answered John persuasively. It's thirteen very easy mile. The adjective was thrown in as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed. But instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person the remark, Thirteen miles, that's a long distance, which was followed by a short pause of indecision. Pray, said the gentleman, are there any inns hereabouts? At the word inns, John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner. His fears rolled off like smoke, all the landlord stirred within him. There are no inns, rejoined Mr. Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number, but there is a in, one in, the maypole in. That's a in indeed. You won't see the light of that in often. You keep it perhaps, said the horseman smiling. I do, sir, replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out. And how far is the maypole from here? About a mile. John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed. And have you won excellent bed, landlord, a bed that you can recommend, a bed that you are sure is well-eared, a bed that has been slept in by some perfectly respectable and unacceptable person? We don't, I in now, tag-rag and bob-tail at our house, answered John, and, as to the bed itself, say as to three beds, interposed the gentleman who had spoken before, for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one. No, no, my lord, you are too good, you are too kind, but your life is of far too much importance to the nation, and these portentous times to be placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, our mighty cause depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let me sleep on a chair, the carpet anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever. Let John Drew be past the night beneath the open sky. No one will repine for him. But forty thousand men of this hour island in the wave, exclusive of women and children, rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George Gordon, and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the same, pray for his health and vigor, my lord," said the speaker, rising in his stirrups. It is a glorious cause and must not be forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause and must not be deserted. It is a holy cause," exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with great solemnity. Amen. John Drew be," said the long-winded gentleman in a tone of mild reproof. His lordship said, Amen. I heard my lord, sir," said the man sitting like a statue on his horse. And do not you say Amen likewise? To which John Drew be made no reply at all, but sat looking straight before him. You surprise me, Groobie," said the gentleman, at a crisis like the present, and Queen Elizabeth that maiden monarch weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary with a brow gloom and shadow stalks triumphant. Oh, sir," cried the man gruffly, where is the use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord's wet through and tired with hard riding? Let's either go on to London, sir, or put up at once, or that unfortunate Bloody Mary will have more to answer for, and she's done a deal more harm in a grave than she ever did in a lifetime, I believe. By this time Mr. Willet, who had never heard so many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman, and whose brain, being wholly unable to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost, recovered so far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Bay Pole for all the party—good beds, neat wines, excellent entertainment for man and beast, private rooms for large and small parties, dinners dressed upon the shortest notice, choice-stabling, and a lock-up coach-house, and in short to run over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learned to repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman who had spoken first, turning to him of the long-winded, exclaimed, What say you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward? You shall decide. I would submit, my lord, then, returned the person he appealed to in a silky tone, that your health and spirits, so important under providence to our great cause, are pure and truthful cause—here his lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard—require refreshment and repose. Go on before, landlord, and sure the we, said Lord George Gordon, we will follow at a foot-piece. If you'll give me leave, my lord, said John Groobie in a low voice, I'll change my proper place and ride before you. The looks of the landlord's friend are not over-honest, and it may be as well to be cautious with him. John Groobie's quite right, interposed Mr. Gashford, falling back hastily. My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out. John made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on and follow close behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr. Willard at his bridal reign, and last of all his lordship secretary, for that it seemed, was Gashford's office. Hugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his bolster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow of the two English breed, and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh, regarding him, meanwhile, with a look of bluff-dustain. He was much older than the Maypole man, being to all appearance five and forty, but it was one of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on coolly till they win. If I led you wrong now, said Hugh tauntingly, you'd, you'd shoot me through the head, I suppose. John Groobie took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb, but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon. Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young master? said Hugh. Can you make any play at single-stick? John Groobie looked at him sideways, with the same contented air, but deigned not a word in answer. Like this! said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. Whoop! Or that! returned John Groobie, beating down his guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt-end. Yes, I played a little once. You wear your hair too long, or should have cracked your crown if it had been a little shorter. It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, an evidently astonished Hugh, who for the moment seemed disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face, betokening neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence, his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly, Hugh was so puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural toughness, that he merely laughed and cried, Well done! Then, shearing off a little, led the way in silence. Before the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the maple door. Lord George and his secretary, quickly dismounting, gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed Mr. Willet into the common-room, and stood warming themselves and drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with such orders and preparations as his guests' high quality required. As he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom as yet he knew nothing but the voice. The Lord, the great personage, who did the maypole so much honour, was about the middle height of a slender make and shallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish-brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired under his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lengthness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the fire, it was striking to observe his very bright, large eye, which portrayed a restless sense of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied composure and sobriety of his mean, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression, neither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy. But it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness, which infected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity for the man, though why it did so, they would have had some trouble to explain. Gashford, the Secretary, was taller, angularly made, high-shouldered, bony and ungraceful. His dress, in imitation of his superior, was demure and stayed in the extreme, his manner formal and constrained. This gentleman had an overhanging brow, great hands and feet and ears, and a pair of eyes that seemed to have made an unnatural retreat into his head, and who had dug themselves a cave to hide in. His manner was smooth and humble, but very sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a man who was always lying in wait for something that wouldn't come to pass. But he looked patient, very patient, and formed like a spaniel dog. Even now, while he warmed and rubbed his hands before the blaze, he had the air of one who only presumed to enjoy it in his degree as a commoner, and though he knew his lord was not regarding him, he looked into his face from time to time, and with a meek and deferential manner, smiled as if for practice. Such were the guests, whom old John Willet, with a fixed and ledden eye, surveyed a hundred times, and to whom he now advanced with the state candlestick in each hand, perceaching them to follow him into a worthier chamber. For my lord, said John, it is odd enough, but certain people seem to have as great a pleasure in pronouncing titles as their owners have in wearing them. This room, my lord, isn't at all a sort of place for your lordship, and I have to beg your lordships pardon for keeping you here, my lord, warn beneath. With this address John ushered them upstairs into the State Department, which, like many other things of state, was cold and comfortless. Their own footsteps reverberating through the spacious room struck upon their hearing with a hollow sound, and its damp and chilly atmosphere was rendered doubly cheerless by contrast with the homely warmth they had deserted. It was of no use, however, to propose a return to the place they had quitted, for the preparations went on so briskly that there was no time to stop them. John, with the tall candlesticks in his hands, bowed them up to the fireplace. Hugh, striding in with a lighted brand and pile of firewood, cast it down upon the hearth, and set it in a blaze. John Groobie, who had a great blue cockade in his hat, which he appeared to despise mightily, brought in the portmento he had carried on his horse, and placed it on the floor. And presently all three were busily engaged in drawing out the screen, laying the cloth, inspecting the beds, lighting fires in the bedrooms, expediting the supper, and making everything as cosy and snug as might be on so short a notice. In less than an hour's time supper had been served, and ate, and cleared away, and Lord George and his secretary, with slippered feet and legs stretched out before the fire, sat over some hot mulled wine together. So ends my lord, said Gashford, filling his glass with great complacency, the blessed work of a most blessed day. And of a blessed yesterday, said his lordship, raising his head. Ah! and here the secretary clasped his hands. A blessed yesterday indeed. The Protestants of Suffolk are godly men, and true, though others of our countrymen have lost their way in darkness, even as we, my lord, did lose our road to night. Theirs is the light and glory. Dead I move them, Gashford, said Lord George. Move them, my lord, move them. They cry to be led on against the papists. They vowed a dreadful vengeance on their heads. They roared, like men possessed. But not by devils, said his lord. By devils, my lord, by angels. Yes, oh surely, by angels, no doubt. Said Lord George, thrusting his hands into his pockets, taking them out again to bite his nails, and looking uncomfortably at the fire. Of course, by angels, eh, Gashford? You do not doubt it, my lord, said the secretary. No, no, returned his lord. No, why should I? I suppose it would be decidedly a religious to doubt it, wouldn't it, Gashford? Though there certainly were, he added without waiting for an answer, some pliggie ill-looking characters among them. When you warmed, said the secretary, looking sharply at the other's downcast eyes, which brightened slowly as he spoke, when you warmed into that noble outbreak, when you told them that you were never of the lukewarm or the timid tribe, and bade them take heed that they were prepared to follow one who would lead them on, though to the very death, when you spoke of a hundred and twenty thousand men across the Scottish border, who would take their own redress at any time if it were not conceded. When you cried, perish the pope and all his base adherents, the penal laws against them shall never be repealed while Englishmen have hearts and hands, and waved your own and touched your sword, and when they cried, no, popery, and you cried, no, not even if we weighed in blood, and they threw up their hats and cried, not even if we weighed in blood, no, popery, Lord George, down with the papists, vengeance on their heads, when this was said and done, and a word from you, my Lord, could raise or still the tumult, then I felt what greatness was indeed, and thought, when was there ever a power like this of Lord George Gordon's? It's a great power, you're right, it is a great power, he cried with sparkling eyes, but, dear Gershford, did I really see all that? And how much more? cried the secretary, looking upwards. Ah, how much more! And I told him what you see about the one hundred and forty thousand men in Scotland, did I? He asked with evident delight, that was bold, her cause is boldness, truth is always bold, certainly, Sue's religion, she's bold, Gershford, the true religion is, my Lord, and that's ours, he rejoined, moving uneasily in his seat and biting his nails as though he would pair them to the quick, there can be no doubt of ours being the true one, you feel a certain of that as I do, Gershford, don't you? Does my Lord ask me, wind Gershford, drawing his chair nearer with an injured air, and laying his broad flat hand upon the table, me, he repeated, bending the dark hollows of his eyes upon him with an unwholesome smile, who, stricken by the magic of his eloquence in Scotland, but a year ago, abjured the errors of the Romish church, and clung to him as one whose timely hand had plucked me from a pit, true, no, no, no, no, I didn't mean it, replied the other, shaking him by the hand, rising from his seat and pacing restlessly about the room, it's a proud thing to lead the people, Gershford, he added, as he made a sudden halt, by force of reason too, returned the pliant secretary, I, to be sure, they may cough in jeer, and groan in parliament, and call me fool and madman, but which of them can raise this human sea and make it swell and roar at pleasure, not one? Not one, repeated Gershford, which of them can say for his honesty, what I can say for mine, which of them has refused a minister's bribe of one thousand pounds a year to resign his seat in favour of another, not one? Not one, repeated Gershford again, taking the lion's share of the mulled wine between wiles, and as we are honest, true, and in a sacred cause, Gershford, said Lord George with a heightened colour and in a louder voice as he laid his fevered hand upon his shoulder, and are the only men who regard the massive people out of doors, or are regarded by them, we will uphold them to the last, and will raise a cry against these un-English papists, which shall re-echo through the country, and rule with a noise like thunder. I will be worthy of the motto on my coat of arms, called and chosen and faithful, called, said the Secretary, by heaven. I am chosen by the people, yes, faithful to both, to the bloc. It will be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner in which he gave these answers to the Secretary's promptings, of the rapidity of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture, in which struggling through his Puritan's demeanour was something wild and ungovernable, which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he walked rapidly up and down the room, and stopping suddenly exclaimed, Gashford, you moved them yesterday, too. Oh, yes, you did. I shone with a reflected light, my lord, replied the humble Secretary, laying his hand upon his heart. I did my best. You did well, said his master, and are a great and worthy instrument. If you will ring for John Groobie to carry the portmento into my room, and we'll wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as usual, if you're not too tired. Too tired, my lord. But this is his consideration, Christian from head to foot, with which, Sir Lilliquy, the Secretary, tilted the jug, and looked very hard into the mild wine to see how much remained. John Willet and John Groobie appeared together, the one bearing the great candlesticks, and the other the portmento, showed the deluded lord into his chamber, and left the Secretary alone to yawn and shake himself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire. Now, Mr. Gashford, sir, said John Groobie in his ear, after what appeared to him a moment of unconsciousness, my lord's a bed. Oh, very good, John, was his mild reply. Thank you, John. Nobody needs it up. I know my room. I hope you're not are going to trouble your head tonight, or my lord's head neither, with any more about Bloody Mary, said John. I wish the blessed old creature had never been born. I said you might go to bed, John, returned the Secretary, and you didn't hear me, I think. Between Bloody Mary's and blue cockades and glorious queen-besses and no poperies and Protestant associations and making of speeches, pursued John Groobie, looking as usual a long way off and taking no notice of this hint, my lord's half off his head. When we go out the doors, such a set of ragamuffins comes to shout in after us, gordon forever, that I'm ashamed of myself and don't know where to look. When we're indoors they come a roaring and screaming about the house like so many devils. My lord, instead of ordering them to be drove away, goes out into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to him and calls them Men of England and fellow countrymen, as if he was fond of them and thanked them for coming. I can't make it out, but they're all mixed up somehow or another with an unfortunate Bloody Mary and call her name out till they're all s. They're all Protestants too, every man and boy among them, and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and silver plate in general whenever area gates is left open accidentally. I wish that was the worst of it and that no more arm might be to come, but if you don't stop these ugly customers in time, Mr. Gashford, and I know you, you're the man that blows the fire, you find them grow a little bit too strong for you. One of these evenings, when the weather gets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, I'll be pulling London down, and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as that. Gashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks have been bestowed on empty air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Groobie fixed his hat on, wrong side foremost, that he might be unconscious of the shadow of the obnoxious cockade, and was due to bed, shaking his head in a very gloomy and prophetic manner until he reached his chamber.