 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, winged 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 hog's head 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, of the hundred other impertences of that nature. None of your free and easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the fire-dogs 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 properties 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. Though 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 periwagon pig-tail. 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 least a fortnight to have noted what has here sat down. But it happened that the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump pigeons which were skimming and curtsying about it, or with the tall maypole on the top of which a weather-cock, 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. Once 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. "'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'm 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, the Hugh!' "'Rod, 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 gypsy, as I think, "'always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in the straw in wintertime, sir. "'Hugh!' "'Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman await in 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 aard,' said the distracted host, "'that if you were a fire-off cannon-balls in his ears it wouldn't wake him, sir.' The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for driziness, 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 a bridal 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, and 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. "'Brisky-naf when he is awake,' said the guest. "'Brisky-naf, 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, but it shone into his chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and colors from their pride. But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it would, telling the plain bear 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 of something to be bought and sold, a very courtesan. 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 waist, 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 was drew to hold grave counsel 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 burned 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 mantel shelf 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, in 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 in what he had written and folding it, conveyed there, without loss of time, and an answer brought back here. Have your 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 go quickest is a sort of natural, as one might say, sir, and though quicker 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, and cried 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 forever 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 chase, and sometimes riding double. He comes and goes through wind, rain, snow, and ale, 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. He's father, sir, was murdered in their alse. Sir, I've 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 in a far off, that this might, by possibility, be a cool way of treating the subject. All the circumstances, after a murder, said the guest, so little acquising, 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 downstairs intolerable. I wouldn't have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account, to be enough to wear one's life out. And you were going to say, friend? He added, turning to John again. Only that Mrs. Raj leaves 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 I do your errand, sir? Oh, yes, replied the guest. Oh, certainly. Let him do it by all means. Pleased to bring him here, that I may charge him to be quick. If he objects to come, he may tell him it's Mr. Chester. He will remember my name, I daresay. 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 Herdale. 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 had the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman, pretend 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 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. Herdale's own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to be here. If you should find that Mr. Herdale 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, will it, I suppose? O 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 Harry in mystery, come here, here. With that he put his hand very much to John Woolett'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 gamble, delighted with the mischief they've been plotting. Look at him 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 were, hanging on those lines to dry and fluttering in the wind. Clothes! echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling quickly back. 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. 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. Willard, very slowly, and after a long silence. That's what he wants. I've tried to instill it into him, many and many's the time. But John added this in confidence. He ain't made for it. That's the fact. To record Mr. Chester's smile 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 Willard 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. Haerdale, 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, where 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 drew dusk, became quite dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet though John Willard was full of wondered 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 light, John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of tarnished candlesticks seven 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 daresay. John coughed, and raked the fire together. As your roads bear no very good character, 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 tonight. I think you said you had a bed to spare. Such a bed, sir, replied John bullet, I, such a bed, as few, even of the gentry's houses own. A fixture here, sir, I would 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, my recommendation, said the guest, shrugging his shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire, I see that it be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighter there at once. This house is something damp and chilly. John raked the faggards up again, more from habit than presence of mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw when a bungling 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, had just come home, but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eaten and drank to meet his loving friend. Was that his message? asked the visitor, looking up, 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 won, me, two, Hugh, three. The dog, the goat, the cat's. 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 did they go to, when they spring so fast up there? asked Barnaby. Eh? Why did they tread so closely on each other's heels, and why are they always in the hurry? Which is what you blame me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me. More of them, catching to each other's skirts. And as fast as they go, others come. What a merry dance it is! Ah, 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. cried a horse voice. Here's money, said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand. Money for a treat, Grip. replied the raven. 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. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 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 11 There was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers, to each of whom, as he struggled in to occupy his allotted seat in the chimney-corner, John, with the 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 Haerdale, 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 the 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 alderspatch, 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 ruddy of red. The fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the hearthstone chirped with a more than won'ted satisfaction. They were present, too, 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 hail 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 maple-customers who knew him well, and caused long-parks 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. Hare down's horse. That's it, sir, replied John Willett. He's not often in the house, you know. He's more at his ease among horses than men, all upon him as an 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 these faculties about him, waddled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres or another. Very good, said Parks nodding his head. A very good expression, Johnny. You'll be tackling somebody presently. You're in twig tonight, I see. Take care, said Mr. Willett, 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 saiyan, though he has all these faculties about him, somewheres or another, waddled up and corked down, as 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, though he 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 saiyan of, gentlemen? Ah, we mind you, cried Parks, go on improving others, Johnny. Consequently, then, said Mr. Willett, that chap, whose mother was hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing bad notes, and it a blessed thing to think, how many people are hung in batches every six weeks for that, and such like offences, are showing how wide awake our government is. That chap, that was then turned loose and had to mind cows, and frightened birds away, and what not, for a few pents to live on, and so got on by degrees to mind horses, and asleep in course of time, in lofts and litter, instead of under-a-stacks and edges. Till it last, he come to be the Osler at the Maypole, for his boarding, lodging, and annual trifle. That chap 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. Willett, arriving at his logical conclusion, is to be treated accordingly. Willett, said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting theme. When Mr. Chester came this morning, did he order a 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. Eddile are going to fight a duel in it. Everybody looked at Mr. Willett, after this alarming suggestion. Mr. Willett 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'm sure. I remember, when I went up last, he Edd put the lights upon the mental shelf. It's his plane, returned Solomon, has a nose on Parks' face. Mr. Parks, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he considered this a personal illusion. 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 them will be wounded, or perhaps killed, in this house. That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh? said John. Enclosing a slip of paper with a majorly sword upon it, I'll beg any. answered the little man. We know what sort a gentleman Mr. Eddile is. You've 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. Even knows. Perhaps both. returned Solomon. The gentleman wears swords, and might 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, thinking 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. Eddile wins, depend upon it, it'll be a deep one. Or if he loses, it will perhaps be deeper still, for he never give in unless he's beaten down. We know him better, eh? Better indeed, they whispered all together. As to it ever being got out again, said Solomon, I tell you it never will, or can be. Why do you know that it's been tried at a certain house we are acquainted with? The Warren, cried John, now 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, Harky, drawn nearer, Mr. Jeffery 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 we 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. You! You! 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 stowed into the room, clanking his heavy boots upon the floor, and looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hand in acknowledgement of their profound respect. You have a stranger ear, will it, who sent to me, he said, in a voice which sounded naturally stern and deep. Where is he? In the great room upstairs, 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. Willow to his 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. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 12 There was a brief pause in the stateroom of the maypole, as Mr. Haerdale tried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the door securely, and, striding up the dark chamber to where the screen enclosed 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 newcomer, 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. Here, Dale, 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. We turn 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. We turn 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 his breadth. You ask me to give you a meeting? I say, I am here. Our meeting, here, Dale, 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, return the other, at your desire, hoarding 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 list to combat with gentle compliments and maths faces is Mr Chester. I do assure you, I am not his match at such weapons, and I have reason to believe that few men are. You do me a great deal of honour, Herr Dale. We turn the other, most composedly. And I thank you. I will be frank with you. I beg your pardon. Will be what? A frank, open, perfectly candid. Ha! cried Mr Herr Dale, drawing his breath, but don't let me interrupt you. So resolved am I to hold this course, return 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 Herr Dale, 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. And do you drink? With me, friends, returned the other. At least, said Mr Chester, you will be seated. I will stand. Returned Mr Herr Dale impatiently. On this dismantled, beggared hearth, and not polluted, fallen as it is with mockeries, go on. You are wrong, Herr Dale, 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, and 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, Herr Dale, 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 too, 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 Herr Dale, 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, Herr Dale, 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 Herr Dale, fiercely. I have said I love my niece. Do you think that loving her would have a flinger art 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'm amazingly attached to Ned, quite doubt upon him indeed, and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that very objection would be quite insuperable. I wish you take some wine. Mark me, said Mr Herr Dale, 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 Herr Dale's favouring the suit of anyone who was akin to you, in any way, I care not what. He lies. He lies, and dubs me grievous wrong in the mere thought. Herr Dale, returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as innocent 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, the which should cause her death, said Mr Herr Dale, 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 tonight, almost for the first time. I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you. We joined Mr Chester with the utmost blanness, to find my own impressions 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 Herr Dale, have Edid, Emma, or your son. Who are their go-betweens and agents, do you know? All the good people hear about, the neighbourhood in general, I think, return the other with his most affable smile. The messenger I sent to you today, 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 today, and hold a parley with you on this neutral ground. You are stout of the news to be Herr Dale, but you look extremely well. Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end, said Mr Herr Dale, 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 a woman's art, 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 great 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 gentile provision for myself and 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, at 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 breaker art as speedily as possible, said Mr Haerdale, 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 Haerdale, 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. Jester, said Mr Haerdale, after a short silence, during which he had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently. You have the head and art of an evil spirit in all matters of deception. Your health, said the other with a nod, but I've interrupted you. If now, pursued Mr Haerdale, 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 sub-diffusions 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 in lying, said Mr Haerdale. Oh dear, no, five-five, 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 Haerdale, moving to and fro and stopping and moving on again like one who is 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, put 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, dryly. 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 Heardale come down without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride away thoughtfully at a foot pace. After some consideration, it was decided that he had left the gentleman above for dead, and had adopted the stratagem to divert suspicion of 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 pretense of clearing away the glasses. Under this protection, a 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 lent his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to look very hard into his boots as he pulled him 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 more 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, fainter or dead from some internal wound, the room's as warm as any toast in a tankard. Barnaby, tight 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. Now, 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 is a tendon's 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 knots since that he calls his prayers, sir, pretend old John officiously. I'm afraid there aren't much good in him. And Hugh, said Mr Chester, turning to him, nod I, he answered. I know his, pointing to Barnaby. There well enough, he sings them sometimes in the straw. I listen. He's quite an 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, but it don't signify what he does or doesn't in that way. Good night, sir. The guest rejoined. God bless you, the 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. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Barnaby Rudge, a tale of the riots of 80. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, a tale of the riots of 80, by Charles Dickens. Chapter 13. If Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of Prentice's, 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 chance 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 advisor. 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, and to 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 the 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 25th 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 25th of March it was John Willett'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 gray 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 horse flesh, you! said John, when he had recovered enough self-command to appear at the door again. There's a cumbly creature. There's a metal. 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 bridal rain, salted up and down on the little green before the door. Mind you, tight good care-reverser! said John, appealing from this insensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared fully equipped and ready. Don't you ride odd! 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 time for you, would he, eh, sir? You'd like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn't you, sir, eh, sir? How'd 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 cockiness act to such an extent. Are you going to kill the witness, sir? No, said Joe tartly. I'm not. Now your mind's at ease, Father. With a millen terrier, too, said Mr. Willet, surveying him from top to toe, with a swaggering, fire-eating, barling water-drinking sort of way with him. And what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snow-drops, eh, sir? It's only a little nose-gay, said Joe reddening. There's no harm in that, I hope. You're a boy, business you answer, said Mr. Willet disdainfully, to go supposing that witness care for nose-gays. 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, eh, mine, 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 mayor a long rest. Do you mind? Aye, I mind, returned Joe. She'll need it, heaven knows. Aye, 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, and 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 mayor casting a shoe or the light 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 be stride. 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 dose. The unfortunate grey mare, who is 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 by-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 enclosure 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 cops there about, she suffered her rider to dismount with right good will, 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 browse upon such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within the length of her tether, and passing through a wicked 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 somber 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 full-awn 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 at 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 somber 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 bow 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 Willard had objected, and the spring-nose gay all betoken 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 Ten 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 and White Chapel, 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, will it! 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 chig well 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? Does she, Joe? Eh? Oh, what have we there, Joe? A nose-gay? A very poor one, sir. I thought Miss Dolly. No, no! said Gabriel, dropping his voice and shaking his head. Not Dolly. Give him to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give him to her mother. Would you mind giving him to Mrs. Varden, Joe? Oh, eh, 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 him, Joe. Not a bit, sir. Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat. Come in, said Gabriel. I've just been called to tea. She's in the parlour. She, thought, Joe, whichever my wonder, misses or miss. The locksmith settled it out as neatly as if it had been expressed aloud, by leading him to the door and saying, Martha, my dear, here's young Mr. Willett. 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 and holy writ were veritable, licensed vitulas, was far from being favourably disposed towards her visitor. Wherefore she was taken faint directly, and being duly presented with the crocuses and snow-drops, divine 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 the window? Joe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account, and smiled feebly as he saw them deposited on the sillard side. 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 said people at Chigwell, Mr. Joseph, said Mrs. V. I hope not, ma'am, returned Joe. You're the cruelest and most inconsiderate people in the world, said Mrs. Varden, bridling. I wonder, old Mr. Willett, having been a married man himself doesn't know better than to conduct himself as he does. He's 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 sort. Come, Arthur, my dear, said the locksmith cheerly. Let us have tea, and don't let us talk about sorts. There are on 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 subject, 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, excuse me, sir, can be expected to know what a woman suffers when she's waiting at home under such circumstances. If you don't believe me, as I know you don't, here's Miggs, who's only too often a witness of it. Ask her. Oh, she was very bad the other night, so indeed she were, said Miggs. If you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, Mim, I don't think you could have bear it or rally down. Miggs, said Mrs. Varden, your profane. Picking 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 a 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 grovelers, as we are. I did not intend, Mim, if you please, to give a fence, 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 a 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 am 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 spoiled 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, whatever 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 snow-drops would have become that delicate bodice, and how they were lying neglected outside the parlour window. To see how Megs looked down 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 torment 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, however, 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, meme! sighed Miggs, begging your pardon for the interruption, there aren't many like you. Take away, Miggs," said Mrs. Varden, rising. Take away, pray! I know I must 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? The Joe started and said, certainly. Thank you, Varden, my dear, returned his wife, but I know your wish is 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 a window, my love. Good night, Mr. Joseph! I am 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 crowed a pluck with him. Good night! Having uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good lady dropped a curtsy remarkable for its condescension, and serenely withdrew. And it was for this Joe had looked forward to the 25th 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 toss-pot. 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 a 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. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of 80. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of 80 by Charles Dickens. Chapter 14. Joe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the locksmith's daughter going down long country dances and put setting 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 at doors again. The gentleman smiled and nodded. What gay doings have been going on today, Joe? Is she as pretty as ever? Hey, 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 Evan is. Well, Joe, I hope that's not altogether beyond it, said Edward, good-humidly. Eh? Ah, sigh, Joe. It's all very fine to talk in, 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 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 tranquility which gives to evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the trees softened as if reflected in still water through 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 hostility was visible. Brilliant indeed, sir! returned Joe, rising in his strips to get a better view. Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bed-chamber. Why, what company can this be for, I wonder? Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from going on tonight 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 canted forward at his brisker pace as Joe's charger could attain, and presently stopped in the little cops 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 such-like 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. Hairdale 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. Hairdale. Leave it, sir, and return no more. Mr. Hairdale'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. Hairdale calmly, your trusty go-between, and waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy's part, sir. A chance to see you past the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission. Had you been less swift afoot, or lingered in the garden, please withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me, and distressedful to my niece. As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waste 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. Hairdale, said Edward, your arm encircles her and 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 lighter steam, and give me these discourteous words? You have done that, sir, answered Mr. Hairdale, which must be undone. You have tied a lover knot here, which must be cut us under. 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 art. 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 naught. I leave her with the 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. Haerdale's steady look with Jew. 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 smiley-nest, affable-est gentleman I ever had to do with. Who will it? 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 today, and Mr. Airdale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn't been gone an hour. My father, will it? 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 willowts, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.