 Chapter 15 of Barnaby-Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of 80 At noon next day John Willet's guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts which left the maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern. In the broad old-fashioned window-seat, as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee in the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning gown, his boots for slippers, had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage, and having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence and satisfaction. The situation in which he found himself indeed was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings, for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it even in these times when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore. There are still worse places than the temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dullness in its trees and gardens. Those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding-stones, and read upon its gates in passing from the tumult of the strand or fleet-street, who enters here leaves noise behind. There is still the plash of falling water in fair fountain-court, and there are yet nooks and corners where done-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger's form. There is yet, in the temple, something of a clerically monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summertime its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells, and as they trace the spillings of full pitches on the heated ground they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent. It was in a room in paper-buildings, a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking at the back upon the temple gardens, that this our idler lounged. Now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times, now trifling with the fragments of his meal, now pulling forth his golden toothpick and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up. There a dark-eyed nursery maid had better eyes for tempers than her charge. On this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both anormities with scornful side-long looks. On that a wheezing old gentleman ogling the nursery maid looked with like-scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't know she was no longer young. Out of all these, on the river's margin, two or three couple of business talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation, and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench alone. "'Nead is amazingly patient,' said Mr. Chester, glancing at this last-named person, as he sat down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick. Immensely patient. He was sitting yonder, and I began to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog. As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace. "'Really? Was if he had heard me,' said the father, presuming his newspaper with a yawn, "'Dear Ned.'" Suddenly the room door opened, and the young man entered, to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled. "'Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?' said Edward. "'Surely, Ned, I am always at leisure. You know my constitution. Have you breakfasted? Three hours ago.' "'What a very early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick with a languid smile. "'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward and seating himself near the table, that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir, and it is upon that I wish to speak. "'My dear boy,' returned his father, "'confide in me I beg. Let you know, my constitution, don't be prosy, Ned. I will be plain and brief,' said Edward. "'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing his legs, "'or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me.' "'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern, "'that I know where you were last night, from being on the spot indeed, and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.' "'You don't say so,' cried his father, "'I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great leaf for both. At the very house, why didn't you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.' I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's reflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son. "'Forget, Ned,' rejoined the father. I was cool enough last night. That detestable maple, by some infernal contrivance of the builder, that holds the wind and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharpest wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour. It was rampant in that old house last night. Though out of doors there was a dead calm. And what you were saying?' "'I was about to say, heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?' "'My dear Ned,' said his father, "'I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite,' obliged me with the milk. I saw Miss Hairdale last night.' Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request. Her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and with circumstances of indignity which are of your creation, I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant. For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned. I am not accountable,' said his father. "'That you must excuse. He is a mere bore, a log, a brute, with no address in life. Positively a fly in the jug, the first I have seen this year.' Edward rose and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his tea. "'Father,' said the young man, stopping at length before him, "'we must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me by this unkind indifference. Whether I am indifferent or no,' returned the other, "'I leave you, my dear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles through myry roads, a maypole dinner, a tate-a-tate with hair-dail, which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business, a maypole bed, a maypole landlord, and a maypole retenue of idiots and centaurs. Whether the voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety and devotion and all that sort of thing of apparent, you shall determine for yourself.' "'I wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, "'in what a cruel situation I am placed. Loving Miss Hairdail, as I do, my dear fellow,' interrupted his father with a compassionate smile. "'You do nothing of the kind. You don't know anything about it. There's no such thing, I assure you. Now do take my word for it. You have good sense, Ned. Great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.' "'I repeat,' said his son firmly, "'that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have to the extent I have just now told you I have succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favorably of our attachment? Or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us asunder, if you can?' "'My dear Ned,' returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him. That is my purpose, most undoubtedly.' "'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son, since I began to know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it?' "'From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarized to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction as being beyond my heeding and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you with no resource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike, from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the motive's interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyes visible objects of my suit. If there never has been thus much plain speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me, father, in the hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence between us in time to come. My good fellow! said his smiling father. You quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, and manifest sincerity in all you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose. I am very sorry, sir. I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you come to the point at once, I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and concluded, said. Oblides me with the milk again. Listening invariably makes me feverish. What I would say, then, tends to this, said Edward. I cannot bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself an honourable path in life? For any term you please to name, say for five years, if you will, I will pledge myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without your full concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become, if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we agree upon, let us discuss the subject again, till then, unless it is revived by you, let it never be renewed between us. My dear Ned, returned his father, laying down the newspaper at which he had been glancing carelessly and throwing himself back in the window-seat. I believe you know how very much I dislike what are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our condition. But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned, altogether upon a mistake, I will conquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut the door. Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his pocket, and pairing his nails continued. You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family, for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted and so forth as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal, had nothing to boast of in that respect. Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir, said Edward, and quite right, Ned, perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing, I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance, and steadily resisted its contemplation. But I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages. He wished to marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned. I was a younger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune, which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort, quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone. How old are you? I always forget. Seven and twenty, sir. Are you indeed? Right his father, raising his eyelids in a languishing surprise. So much. Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge about eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in these chambers, once your grandfather's, and bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me, and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity, and my past reputation. You are jesting with me, sir," said Edward. Not in the slightest degree, I assure you, returned his father with great composure. These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am sorry to say they don't admit of any such relief. It is for that reason, because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so very much. Well, you know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion, that is to say, unless he is son two, or three, and twenty, is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraint upon his father. His father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four years or so, I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct me in your own mind. You pursued your studies at a distance, and picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you to some distant part of the world. I wish with all my soul you had, sir," said Edward. No, you don't, Ned," said his father coolly. You are mistaken, I assure you. I found you a hensen, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for me in return. I do not understand your meaning, sir. My meaning, Ned, is obvious. I observe another fly in the cream-jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for their walk, when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and disagreeable. My meaning is that you must do as I did, that you must marry well and make the most of yourself. A mere fortune-hunter, cried the sun indignantly. What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be? returned the father. All men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the courts, the camp. See how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit. The stock exchange, the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate. What but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter? Yes. You are one, and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelet, or merchant in existence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself for the reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these other kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport? Hundreds at a step, or thousands? The young man lent his head upon his hand and made no answer. I am quite charmed, said the father, rising and walking slowly to and fro, stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey a picture through his glass with the air of a connoisseur. That we have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishes a confidence between us, which is quite delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever have mistaken our positions and designs I confess I cannot understand. I conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl, that all these points were tacitly agreed upon between us. I knew you were embarrassed, sir, returned the son, raising his head for a moment, and then falling into his former attitude. But I had no idea, we were the beggard wretches you describe. How could I suppose it, bred as I have been, witnessing the life you have always led, and the appearance you have always made? My dear child, said the father, for you really talk so like a child that I must call you one. You were bred upon a careful principle. The very manner of your education, I assure you, maintained my credit surprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must lead it. Ned. They must have these little refinements about me. I have always been used to them, and I cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you observe, and therefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you may set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own appearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours our income. That is the truth. Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me, sir, to an expenditure and mode of life, to which we have no right or title? My good fellow, returned his father more compassionately than ever, if you may know appearance, how could you possibly succeed in the pursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every man has a right to live in the best way he can, and to make himself as comfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, I grant, are very great, and therefore it is the more behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to pay them off as speedily as possible. In the villain's part, muttered Edward, that I have unconsciously played, I to win the heart of Emma Heddale. I would for her sake I had died first. I am glad you see, Ned, returned his father, how perfectly self-evident it is that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apart from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself on another, as you know you could tomorrow, if you chose, I wish you'd look upon it pleasantly. In religious point of view alone, how could you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she was amazingly rich? You ought to be so very protestant, coming of such a protestant family as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing. Even if one could set that objection aside, which is impossible, we come to another, which is quite conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was killed, like meat, good God Ned, how disagreeable. Consider the impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law under such unpleasant circumstances. Think of his having been viewed by jurors, and set upon by coroners, and of his very doubtful position in the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put to death by the state to prevent its happening. But I tease you, perhaps. You would rather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly, God bless you, I shall be going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night certainly to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the meantime, for both are six. You are a person of great consequence to me, Ned, a vast consequence indeed. God bless you. With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected, careless manner, withdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lost in thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite still and silent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder chester, gaily dressed, went out. The younger still sat with his head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty A series of pictures representing the streets of London in the night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present to the eye something so very different in character from the reality which is witnessed in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder to recognise his most familiar walks and the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago. They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the best. And at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and house fronts in the deepest gloom. Many of the courts and lanes were left in total darkness, those of the mean assault, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favoured in no slight degree. Even in these places the inhabitants had often good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted. And the watch, being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent them, they did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous spot whether a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to follow. And the city being belted round by fields, green lanes, waste grounds and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have joined it since, escape even where the pursuit was hot, was rendered easy. It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds, and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of nightly occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks should have great dread of traversing its streets after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for those who wended home alone at midnight to keep the middle of the road, the better to guard against surprise from lurking foot-pads. Few would venture to repair at a late hour to Kentish town or Hempstead, or even to Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended. While he who had been loudest and most valiant at the supper table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to fee a link-boy to escort him home. There were many other characteristics, not quite so disagreeable, about the thoroughfares of London then with which they had been long familiar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a sign, and the creaking and swinging of these boards in the iron frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournful concert for the ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the streets. Long stands of hackney chairs and groups of chairmen, compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite, obstructed the way and filled the air with clamour. Night-sellers, indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement and stretching out halfway into the road, and by the stifled roar of voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of the most abandoned of both sexes. Under every shed and bulk, small groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day, or one more weary than the rest gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall hissing on the puddled ground. Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour, and the kind of weather, and those who woke up at his voice and turned them round in bed were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blue, or froze, for very comfort's sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the chairman's cry of, Buy or leave there, as two came trotting past him with their empty vehicle, carried backwards to show its being disengaged, and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a private chair, too, enclosing some fine lady monstrously hooped and furball-oed, and proceeded by running footmen bearing flambeau, for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better sort, made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servant's hall while waiting for their masters and mistresses, and, falling to blows, either there or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish with hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered nose-gays. Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes, the fashion being, of course, set by the upper, were generally the cause of these disputes, for cards and dice were as openly used, and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below stairs as above. While incidents like these are rising out of drums and masquerades and parties at quadrill, were passing at the west end of the town, heavy-stage coaches and scarce, heavier wagons were lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and passengers armed to the teeth, and the coach, a day or so perhaps behind its time, but that was nothing, despoiled by highwaymen, who made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed a whole caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow, rumours of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours' conversation through the town, and a public progress of some fine gentleman, half-drunk, to tie-burn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, furnished to the populace at once a pleasant excitement and a wholesome and profound example. Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society, prowled and sculpted in the metropolis at night, there was one man from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown. He had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians upon whose haunts he ventured fearlessly as to the young. He could be no spy, for he never removed his slouched hat to look about him. Entered into conversation with no man, he did nothing that passed, listened to no discourse regarded nobody that came or went. But so surely is the dead of night set in. So surely this man was in the midst of the loose concourse in the night-seller, where outcasts of every grade resorted, and there he sat till morning. He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts, a something in the midst of their reverie and riot that chilled and haunted them, but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he was abroad, never in company with anyone but always alone, never lingering or loitering but always walking swiftly, and looking, so they said who had seen him, over his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of the town, east, west, north and south, that man was seen gliding on like a shadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him saw him still past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the darkness. This constant restlessness and flitting to and fro gave rise to strange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were not two of them, or more, some, whether he had not an earthly means of travelling from spot to spot. The foot-pad, hiding in a ditch, had marked him passing like a ghost along its brink. The vagrant had met him on the dark high road. The beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and then sweep on again. They who dealt in bodies with the surgeons could swear he slept in church-yards, and that they had beheld him glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they told these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them. At last, one man, he was one of those whose commerce lay among the graves, resolved to question the strange companion. Next night, when he had to eat his poor meal voraciously, he was accustomed to do that they had observed, as though he had no other in the day. This fellow sat down at his elbow. A black knight, master. It is a black knight. Blacker than last, though that was pitchy, too, didn't I pass you near the turnpike in the Oxford Road? It's like you may. I don't know. Cam, cam, master, cried the fellow, urged down by the looks of his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder. Be more companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in this good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself to the devil, and I know not what. We all have. Have we not? returned the stranger, looking up. If we were few in number, perhaps you would give better wages. It goes rather hard with you, indeed, said the fellow, as the stranger disclosed his haggard, unwashed face and torn clothes. What of that? Be, merry master, a stave of a roaring song now. Sing you, if you desire to hear one, replied the other, shaking him roughly off. And don't touch me, if you're a prudent man. I carry arms which go off easily. They have done so before now, and make it dangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of them to lay hands upon me. Do you threaten, said the fellow? Yes, returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack. His voice and look and bearing, all expressive of the wildest recklessness and desperation, daunted while they repelled the bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now, they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the maypole inn. I am what you all are, and live as you all do," said the man sternly, after short silence. I'm in hiding, here, like the rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the best of you. If it's my humour to be left to myself, let me have it. Otherwise, and here he swore a tremendous oath, there will be mischief done in this place, though there are odds of a score against me. A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on the part of some of those present that it would be an inconvenient precedent to meddle too curiously with the gentleman's private affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was gone. Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the streets. He was before the locksmith's house more than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwalk. As he glided down a by-street, a woman with a little basket on her arm turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway and stood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place and followed. She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped, he hovered like her evil spirit, following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o'clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her. She turned into the same by-street in which she had seen her first, which, being free from shops and narrow, was extremely dark. She quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down. At length the widow, for she it was, reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a flush and glow with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her head, she saw him standing silently beside her, the apparition of a dream. His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. I've been looking for you many nights. Is thou's empty? Answer me. Is any one inside? She could only answer by a rattle in her throat. Make me a sign! She seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully behind him. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Barnaby-Rudge A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Barnaby-Rudge A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter 17 It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had burnt low. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and, stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart. And that done busied himself about the fire again. It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered from head to foot. He had rained hard during the previous night, and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness his conditions sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire, his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs, his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows, a more miserable wretch could hardly be than this man, who now cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watched the struggling flame with bloodshot eyes. She had covered her face with her hands, fearing as it seemed to look towards him. So they remained for some short time in silence, glancing round again, he asked at length, �Is this your house? It is. Why, in the name of heaven, do you darken it? Give me meat and drink!� he answered sullenly, �or I dare do more than that. A very marrow in me bones is cold with wet and hunger. I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here. You were the robber on the Chigwell Road? I was, and nearly a murderer then. The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised a hue and cry that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness I made a thrust at him. �You thrust your sword at him?� cried the widow, looking upwards. �You hear this man? You hear and saw?� He looked at her, as with her head thrown back and her hands tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her. �Beware!� she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him midway. �Do not so much as touch me with a finger!� �Oh, you are lost!� Body and soul, you are lost!� �Hear me!� he replied, menacing her with his hand. �I, that in the form of a ban, live the life of a hunted beast, that in the body and the spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save those cursed beings of another world who will not leave me. I am in my desperation of this night, past all fear but of the hell in which I exist from date to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me, I will not hurt you, but I will not be taken alive, and so surely as you threaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor, the blood with which I sprinkle it beyond you and yours, in the name of the evil spirit that tempts men to their ruin. As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast and firmly clutched it in his hand. �Remove this man from me, good heaven!� cried the widow. �In my grace and mercy, give him one minute's penitence and strike him dead!� �It has no such purpose� he said, confronting her. �It is death. Give me the eat and drink lest I do that. It cannot help my doing and will not do for you.� �Will you leave me if I do thus much? Will you leave me in return no more?� �I will promise nothing� he rejoined, seating himself at the table. �Nothing but this. I will execute my threat, if you betray me.� She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread, and put them on the table. He asked for brandy and for water. These she produced likewise, and he ate and drank with the veracity of a famished hound. All the time he was so engaged, she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her back upon him once. And although, when she passed him, as she was obliged to do in going to and from the cupboard, she gathered the skirts of her garment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think of. Still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her face towards his own, and watched his every movement. His repast ended, if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous satisfying the cause of hunger. He moved his chair towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze, which had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more. �I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon luxury, and a food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live here at your ease. Do you live alone? I do not,� she made answer with an effort. �Who dwells here besides? One, it is no matter who. You would best be gone, or he may find you here. Why do you linger? For warmth,� he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. �For all you are rich, perhaps? Very,� she said frankly, �very rich. No doubt I am very rich. At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You are making purchases tonight. I have a little left. It is but a few shillings. Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it to me.� She stepped to the table, and laid it down. He reached across, took it up, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him. �Take what there is. Take all. Take more, if more were there, but go before it is too late. I have heard a way would step without. I know full well. It will return directly. Be gone! What do you mean? Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. But as I dread to touch you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! Fly from this place! �If there are spies without, I am safer here� replied the man, standing aghast. �I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past. It is too late.� cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and not to him. �Hark! To that foot upon the ground! Do you chamber to hear it? It is my son, my idiot son.� As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. He looked at her, and she at him. �Let him come in� said the man hoarsely. �Ah, fear him less than the dark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in.� �The dread of this hour� returned the widow, �has been upon me all my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him if you stand eye to eye, my blinded boy. Oh, all good angels who know the truth! Hear a poor mother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man.� �He rattles at the shutters� cried the man. �He calls you! That voice and cry? It was a you grapple with me in the road! Was it he?� She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, and certain what to do or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knife from the table. Sheathed in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning speed, when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly. �Why? Who can keep out gripping me?� he cried, thrusting in his head and staring round the room. �Are you there, mother? How long you keep us from the fire and light.� She stammered some excuse, and tended him her hand. But Barnaby sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck, kissed her a hundred times. �We have been afield, mother, leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, running down steep banks, up and away and hurrying on. The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards, and grip, brave grip, who cares for nothing. And when the wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it. Grip, bold grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig, thinking, he told me, that it mocked him, and has worried it like a bulldog.� The raven in his little basket at his master's back, hearing this frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of hoarseness that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people. �He takes such care of me besides,� said Barnaby. �Such care, mother! He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make belief to slumber, he practices new learning softly, but he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stops directly. He won't surprise me till he's perfect.� The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner, which plainly said, �Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.� In the meantime Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and, coming to the fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But his mother prevented this by hastily taking that side herself and motioning him towards the other. �Pale, you are, tonight!� said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. �We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious.� Anxious in good truth and sick at heart, the listener held the door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son. Grip, alive to everything his master was unconscious of, had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with his glistening eye. �He flaps his wings!� said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough to catch the retreating form and closing door. �As if there were strangers here! But Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump, then!� Accepting this invitation for the dignity peculiar to himself, the bird hopped onto his master's shoulder, from that to his extended hand, and so to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down in a corner with the lid open, Grip's first care was to shut it down with all possible dispatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing no doubt that he had now rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut him up in it any more. He drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a corresponding number of hurrahs. �Mother!� said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and returning to the chair from which he had risen. �I�ll tell you where we have been today, and what we have been doing. Shall I?� She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the words you could not speak. �You mustn�t tell,� said Barnaby, holding up his finger, �for it�s a secret mind, and only known to me and Grip and Hugh. We had the dog with us, but he�s not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn�t guess it yet, her wager. �Why do you look behind me so?� �Did I� she answered faintly. �I didn�t know. I did. Come nearer to me. �You�re frightened� said Barnaby, changing colour. �Mother, you don�t see� �See what? There�s—there�s none of this about, is there?� He answered in a whisper, drawing closer to her, and clasping the mark upon his wrist. �I�m afraid there is somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room, as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me, is it?� He fell into a shivering fit, as he put the question, and shutting out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed away. After a time he raised his head and looked about him. �Is it gone?� �There�s been nothing here� rejoined his mother, soothing him. �Nothing indeed, nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look, you see there are but you and me.� He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into a wild laugh. �But let us see� he said thoughtfully. �Were we talking? Was it you and me? Where have we been?� �Nowhere, but here.� �I, but Hugh and I� said Barnaby. �That�s it. Maypole, Hugh, and I, you know, and Grip. We have been lying in the forest, and among the trees by the roadside, with a dark lantern after night came on, and the dog in the noose ready to slip him when the man came by. �What man?� �The robber, him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him after dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I know him in a thousand. �Mother, see here. This is the man. Look.� He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her. So like the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind him might have passed for his own shadow. �We shall have him� he cried, ridding himself of the semblance as hastily as he had assumed it. �You shall see him, mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle girth, and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree, if we have luck. So Hugh says, �You�re pale again, and trembling, and why do you look behind me so?� �It is nothing� she answered. �I�m not quite well. �Go you to bed, dear, and leave me here.� �To bed?� he answered. �I don�t like bed. I like to lie before the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals, the rivers, hills, and dells, in the deep red sunset, and the wild faces. �I�m hungry, too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip to supper, lad.� The raven flapped his wings, and croaking his satisfaction hopped to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received about a score in rapid succession without the smallest discomposure. �That�s all!� said Barnaby. �More!� cried Grip. �More!� But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he retreated with his stall, and, disgorging the morsels one by one from his pouch, hid them in various corners, taking particular care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man�s propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room, with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind but with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time, and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it with the utmost relish. Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a hearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted more bread from the closet, and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and, summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself. �Mother� said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly, as she sat down beside him after doing so. �Is today my birthday?� �Today� she answered. �Don�t you recollect it was but a week or so ago, and that summer, autumn and winter have to pass before it comes again. �I remember that it has been so till now� said Barnaby, �but I think today must be my birthday too, for all that� she asked him why. �I�ll tell you why� he said. �I�ve always seen you�—I didn�t let you know it, but I have—on the evening of that day grow very sad. I�ve seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad, and look frightened with no reason, and I have touched your hand and felt that it was cold as it is now. Once, Mother, on a birthday that was also, Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one o�clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you said. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night? �I�m a devil� rejoined the raven promptly. �No, no� said Barnaby, �but you said something in a prayer, and when you rose and walked about, you looked, as you have done ever since, Mother, towards night on my birthday, just as you do now. I have found that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you�re wrong, and this must be my birthday, my birthday, Grip.� The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as a cock. Gift of intelligence beyond all others of his kind might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, �Never say die!� a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis. The widow tried to make light of Barnaby�s remark, and endeavored to divert his attention to some new subject, too easy a task at all times as she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire. Grip perched upon his leg. And divided his time between dosing and the grateful warmth and endeavouring, as it presently appeared, to recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day. A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and intently fixed upon the fire, or by an effort of recollection on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, �Olly, but the cat!� And there stopped short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in a dose again. After a long interval Barnaby�s breathing grew more deep and regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven interposed, �Olly, but the cat!� cried Grip, and his master was brought awake again. At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller, really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he muttered in a sepulchral voice, �Olly, but the cat!� But very drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven. The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat, the man glided from the closet and extinguished the candle. �Gray Grip� suddenly struck with an idea, and very much excited. They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the grave. But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the door. "'Stay,' he whispered, "'you teach your son well. I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night, depart instantly, or I'll arouse him.' "'You're free to do so. Shall I arouse him?' "'You dare not do that. I dare do anything. I've told you. He knows me well, it seems. At least I will know him.' "'Would you kill him in this sleep?' cried the widow, throwing herself between them. "'Woman,' he returned between his teeth as he motioned her aside, "'I would see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill the other, wake him.' With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly turned back the head, and looked into the face. The light of the fire was upon it, and its every liniment was revealed distinctly. He contemplated it for a brief space, and hastily up rose. "'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear, "'in-in, of whose existence I was ignorant until to-night. I have you in my power. Be careful how you use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and starving, and a wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.' "'There, there's some dead for meaning in your words. I do not fathom it. There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth. You have anticipated it for years. You have told me as much. I'll leave you to digest it. Do not forget my warning.' He pointed as he left her to the slumbering form, and stealthily withdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the tears which fear had frozen so long came tenderly to her relief. "'O, there!' she cried, "'Who has taught me such deep love for this one remnant of the promise of a happy life? I would have use affliction, even perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a relying, loving child to me. He's a growing old or cold at heart, but needy my care and duty in his manly strength as in his cradle-time, help him in his darkened walk through this sad world, or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken.' Chapter 18 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty Chapter 18 Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they were darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow's house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the city plunged into the backways, lanes and courts between Cornhill and Smithfield, with no more fixedness of purpose than to loose himself among their windings and baffle pursuit if any one were dogging his steps. It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a drowsy watchman's footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamp-lighter on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even from these partakers of his lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, eschewed forth again when they were gone, and so pursued his solitary way. To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night, to listen to the falling rain and crouch for warmth beneath the leaves some old barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree, are dismal things, but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands, a houseless, rejected creature. To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull chimes of the clocks, to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to think what happy forgetfulness each house shuts in, that here our children coiled together in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth, all equal in their sleep and all at rest, to have nothing in common with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, heaven's gift to all its creatures, and to be akin to nothing but despair, to feel by their wretched contrast with everything on every hand more utterly alone and cast away than in a trackless desert. This is a kind of suffering on which the rivers of great cities close full many a time, and which the solitude and crowds alone awakens. The miserable man paced up and down the streets, so long, so wearisome, so like each other, and often cast a wistful look towards the east, hoping to see the first faint streaks of day, but obdurate night had yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no relief. One house on a back street was bright, with the cheerful glare of lights, there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers, and there were cheerful voices and many a burst of laughter. To this place, to be near something that was awake and glad, he returned again and more than one of those who left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check upon their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost. At last the guests departed, one and all, and then the house was close shut up and became as dull and silent as the rest. His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead of hastening from it as a place of ill omen and one he had caused to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men were watching in the prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost them, but looking round he saw that the day began to break, and failing in his purpose turned and fled. He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to and fro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean street when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps whooping and calling to each other, who, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in smaller groups. Hoping that some low place of entertainment which should afford him a safe refuge might be at hand, he turned into this court when they were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted window, or other indication of the place whence they had come. It was so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they had but turned up there, missing their way, and were pouring out again when he observed them. With this impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he had entered, he was about to turn, when from a grating near his feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound of talking came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers were, and to listen to them. The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a man ascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked and held open the grating as for the passage of another, who presently appeared in the form of a young man of small stature and uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion. "'Good night, noble captain,' said he with the torch, "'Farewell, Commander! Good luck, illustrious general!' When returned to these compliments the other bait him hold his tongue, and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar injunctions with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner. "'Come in me, Captain, to the stricken migs,' returned the torchbearer in a lower voice. "'My captain flies at higher gain than migs' is! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings! My captain breaketh hearts, as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast!' "'What a fool you are, stag!' said Mr. Teppetit, stepping on the pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had contracted in his passage upward. "'Is precious limbs,' cried stag, clasping one of his ankles, "'shall our migs aspire to these proportions?' "'No, no, my captain, we will invigil ladies' fare, and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves with blooming beauties, Captain.' "'I'll tell you what, my buck,' said Mr. Teppetit, releasing his leg. "'I'll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach certain questions, unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when you're spoke to on particular subjects, and not other ways. Hold the torch up till I've got to the end of the court, and then kennel yourself. Do you hear?' "'I hear you, noble captain.' "'O bay, then,' said Mr. Teppetit, haughtily. "'Gentlemen, lead on!' With which word of command, addressed to an imaginary staff or retinue, he folded his arms and walked with suppressing dignity down the court. His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and then the observer saw for the first time from his place of concealment that he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick ear of the blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch towards him, for he turned suddenly and cried, "'Who's there?' "'A man,' said the other, advancing, "'a friend.' "'A stranger,' rejoined the blind man, "'strangers are not my friends. What do you do there?' "'I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone. I want a lodging.' "'And lodging at this time,' returned Stag, pointing towards the door, as though he saw it. "'Do you know that day is breaking?' "'I know it,' returned the other, "'to my cost. I've been traversing this iron heart in town all night. You had better traverse it again,' said the blind man, preparing to descend, "'till you find some lodging suitable to your taste, I don't let any.' "'Stay,' cried the other, holding him by the arm, "'I'll beat this light about that hen-dog face of yours, for hen-dog it is if it answers to your voice, and rouse the neighbourhood besides if you detain me,' said the blind man. "'Let me go. Do you hear?' "'Do you hear?' returned the other, chinking a few shillings together, and hurriedly pressing them into his hand. "'I beg nothing of you. I will pay for the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as you? I have come from the country and desire to rest where there are not the question me. I am faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let me lie down like a dog before your fire. I ask no more than that. If you will be rid of me, I will depart tomorrow.' "'If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,' muttered Stag, yielding to the other, who pressing on him had already gained a footing on the steps, and can pay for his accommodation, I will pay with all I have. I am just now past the want of food, God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion have you below?' "'None. They fast near great there, and show me the way, quick.' The blind man complied after a moment's hesitation, and they descended together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he had had time to recover from his first surprise. "'May I see where that door leads to? And what is beyond?' said the man, glancing keenly round. "'You're not mind that?' "'I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your choice.' He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly. Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there alone, a visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it. His host pursued his usual occupation, without seeming to heed him any further. But directly he fell asleep, and he noted his falling into a slumber, as readily as the keenest sighted man could have done. He knelt down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but carefully over his face and person. His sleep was checkered with starts and knowns, and sometimes with a muttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and his mouth firmly set. All this the blind man accurately marked. And as if his curiosity was strongly awakened, and he had already some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression may be used, and listening, until it was broad day. CHAPTER XIX Dolly Varden's pretty little head was yet bewildered by the various recollections of the party. And her bright eyes were yet dazzled by a crowd of images dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams, among which the effigy of one partner in particular did a specially figure. The same being a young coach-maker, a master in his own right, who had given her to understand, when he handed her into the chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his business from that time and die slowly for the love of her. Dolly's head, and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses were all in a state of flutter and confusion for which the party was accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as she was sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes, that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes, in the grounds of her teacup. A step was heard in the workshop, and Mr. Edward Chester was described through the glass door, standing among the rusty locks and keys, like love among the roses, for which apt comparison the historian may by no means take any credit to himself, the same being the invention in a sentimental mood of the chaste and modest mages, who, beholding him from the doorstep she was then cleaning, did in her maiden meditation give utterance to the simile. The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown upward and his head backward in an intense communing with Toby, did not see his visitor, until Mrs. Varden, more watchful than the rest, had desired sim-tapetite to open the glass door and give him admission, from which, untoward circumstance, the good lady argued, for she could deduce a precious moral from the most trifling event, that to take a draft of small ale in the morning was to observe a pernicious, irreligious, and pagan custom. The relish whereof should be left to swine and Satan, or at least to popish persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin and evil. She would no doubt have pursued her admonition much further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious precepts of inestimable value. But that the young gentleman standing by, in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomforted manner, while she read her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it to a premature conclusion. I'm sure you'll excuse me, sir," said Mrs. Varden, rising and cursing. Varden is so very thoughtless and needs so much reminding. Sim, bring a chair here. Mr. Tapetite obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so under protest. And you couldn't go, Sim," said the locksmith. Mr. Tapetite obeyed again, still under protest, and, but taking himself to the workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find it necessary to poison his master before his time was out. In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs. Varden's courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much, so that when he accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was perfectly agreeable. I am sure, if there's anything we can do, Varden, or I, or Dolly, either, to serve you, serve any time, you've only to say it, and it shall be done," said Mrs. V. I am much obliged to you, I am sure," returned Edward. You encouraged me to say that I have come here now to beg your good offices. Mrs. Varden was delighted beyond measure. It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow," said Edward, glancing at Dolly. And if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this letter, ma'am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you. The truth is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its destination, I have particular reasons for not trusting it to any other conveyance, so that without your help I am wholly at a loss. She was not going that way, sir, either to-day or to-morrow, nor indeed or next week," the lady graciously rejoined, but we shall be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account. And if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might suppose, said Mrs. Varden, frowning at her husband, from Varden's sitting there so glamourous silent, that he objected to this arrangement. But you must not mind that, sir, if you please. It is his way at home. Out of doors he can be cheerful and talkative enough. Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all expression, wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by surprise. My dear Martha! he said. Oh, yes! I daresay! interrupted Mrs. Varden with a smile of mingled scorn and pleasantry. Very dear! We all know that. No, but my good soul! said Gabriel. You are quite mistaken. You are indeed. I was delighted to find you so kind and ready. I waited, my dear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would say. You waited anxiously! repeated Mrs. V. Yes, thank you, Varden. You waited as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any, came of it. But I'm used to it, said the lady, with the kind of solemn titter. And that's my comfort. I give you my word, Martha, said Gabriel. Let me give you my word, my dear. Interposed his wife with a Christian smile. That such discussions as these between married people are much better left alone. Therefore, if you'll please, Varden, we'll drop the subject. I've no wish to pursue it. I could. I might say a great deal, but I would rather not. Pray, don't say any more. I don't want to say any more! rejoined the goaded locksmith. Well, then, don't! said Mrs. Varden. Nor did I begin it, Martha. Added the locksmith good-humidly. I must say that. You did not begin it, Varden? exclaimed his wife, opening her eyes very wide, and looking round upon the company as though she would say, You hear this man? You did not begin it, Varden. But you shall not say I was out of temper. No, you did not begin it. Oh, dear, no, not you, my dear. Well, well, said the locksmith, that's settled then. Oh, yes, rejoined his wife, quite. If you like to say Dolly began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my duty. I need know it, I am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind when my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it. Thank you, Varden. And so, with a mighty show of humility and forgiveness, she folded her hands and looked round again with a smile which plainly said, If you desire to see the first and foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on view. This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs. Varden's extraordinary sweetness and amyability, had so strong a tendency to check the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that excellent lady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until Edward withdrew, which he presently did, thanking the lady of the house at great many times for her condescension and whispering in Dolly's ear that he would call on the morrow in case there should have to be an answer to the note, which indeed she knew without his telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the previous night to prepare her for the visit which was then terminating. Gabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his hands in his pockets, and after fidgeting about the room in a very uneasy manner and casting a great many side-long looks at Mrs. Varden, who with the calmest countenance in the world was five pathems deep in the Protestant manual, inquired of Dolly how she meant to go. Dolly, supposed by the stagecoach and looked at her lady mother, who, finding herself silently appealed to, dived down at least another pathem into the manual and became unconscious of all earthly things. Martha, said the locksmith, I hear you, Varden, said his wife, without rising to the surface. I'm sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the maple and old John, for other ways, as it's a very fine morning, and Saturday's not a busy day with us. We might have all three gone to Chigwell in the jays and had quite a happy day of it. Mrs. Varden immediately closed the manual and, bursting into tears, requested to be led upstairs. What is the matter now, Martha? inquired the locksmith, to which Martha rejoined. Oh, don't speak to me! and protested in agony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn't have believed it. But Martha, said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was moving off with the aid of Dolly's shoulder, wouldn't have believed what? Tell me what's wrong now? Do tell me. Upon my soul, I don't know. Do you know, child? Damn! cried the locksmith, plucking at his wig in a kind of frenzy. Nobody does know, I verily believe, but Miggs. said Mrs. Varden faintly and the symptoms of approaching incoherence, is attached to me and that is sufficient to draw down hatred upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me, whatever she may be to others. She's no comfort to me, cried Gabriel, made bold by despair. She is the misery of my life. She's all the plagues of Egypt in one. She's considered so. I have no doubt. said Mrs. Varden. I was prepared for that. It's natural. It's of a peace with the rest. When you taunt me, as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you taunt her behind her back? And here the incoherence coming on very strong, Mrs. Varden wept and laughed and sobbed and shivered and hiccuffed and choked and said she knew it was very foolish but she couldn't help it and that when she was dead and gone perhaps they would be sorry for it which really under the circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she seemed to think with a great deal more to the same effect. In a word she passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to such occasions and being supported upstairs was deposited in a highly spasmodic state on her own bed where Miss Miggs shortly afterwards flung herself upon the body. The philosophy of all this was that Mrs. Varden wanted to go to Chigwell that she did not want to make any concession or explanation that she would only go on being implored and entreated so to do and that she would accept no other terms. Accordingly after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs and much damping of foreheads and vinegaring of temples and heart shawning of noses and so forth and after most pathetic adurations from Miggs assisted by warm brandy and water not over weak and diverse other cordials also over stimulating quality administered at first in teaspoon falls and afterwards in increasing doses and of which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure for fainting is infectious. After all these remedies and many more too numerous to mention but not to take had been applied and many verbal consolations moral, religious and miscellaneous had been super-added there too. The locksmith humbled himself and the end was gained. If it's only for the sake of peace and quietness, Father, said Dolly, urging him to go upstairs. Oh, doll, doll! said a good-natured father if you ever have a husband of your own dolly glanced at the glass. Well, when you have, said the locksmith, never faint by darling, more domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting doll than from all the greater passions put together. Remember that, my dear, if you would be really happy which you'd ever can be if your husband isn't and a word in your ear, my precious, never have a Miggs about you. With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek and slowly repaired to Mrs. Varden's room. Where that lady, lying all pale and languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with the sight of her last new bonnet which Miggs, as a means of calming her, with her spirits displayed to the best advantage at her bedside. Here's Master Mim, said Miggs. Oh, what a happiness it is when man and wife come round again. Oh, gracious, to think that him and her should ever have a word together. In the energy of these sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the heavens in general, Mrs. Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head and her hands turned on her tears. I—I can't help it! cried Miggs. I couldn't if I was to be drowned in him. She has such a forgiving spirit. She'll forget all that has passed and go along with you, sir. Oh, if it were to the world's end, she'd go along with you. Mrs. Varden, with a faint smile, gently reproved her attendant for this enthusiasm and reminded her at the same time that she was far too unwell to venture out that day. Oh, now you're not Mim. Indeed you're not, said Miggs. I'll repeat the Master. Master knows you're not Mim. The hair and motion of the shea will do you good, Mim, and you must not give way. You must not rarely. She must keep up, mustn't she, sir, for all our sakes. I was a-telling her that just now. She must remember us, even if she forgets herself. Master will persuade you, Mim, I'm sure. There's Miss Dolly's a-going, you know, and Master and you are all so happy and so comfortable. Oh! cried Miggs, turning on the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great emotion. I never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her spirit. I never, never, never did. Not more did Master neither, nor no-one, never. For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs. Varden remained mildly opposed to all her husband's prayers that she would oblige him by taking a day's pleasure. But relenting at length, she suffered herself to be persuaded, and granting him her free forgiveness, the merit were of, she meekly said, rested with the manual, and not with her, desired that Miggs might come and help her dress. The handmaid attended promptly, and it is but just as to their joint exertions to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best health imaginable. As to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same drawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood a little straw hat, trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one side, just enough in short to make it the wickedest and most provoking headdress that ever malicious milliner devised. And not to speak of the manner in which these cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such a cruel little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and were so surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds, that when Mr. Tapetit, holding the horse's head, saw her come out of the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into the shays, and drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably have done it, but for certain uneasy doubts besetting him, as to the shortest way to Gretna Green, whether it was up the street, or down, or up the right-hand turning or the left, and whether supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith in the end would marry them on credit, which by reason of his clerical office appeared even to his excited imagination so unlikely that he hesitated. And while he stood hesitating, and looking post-chases and six at Dolly, out came his master and mistress, and the constant migs, and the opportunity was gone forever. For now the shays creaked upon its springs, and Mrs. Varden was inside, and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the locksmith was inside, and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat lightly, and Dolly was inside. And now it was gone, and its place was empty, and he and that dreary migs were standing in the street together. The hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had occurred for the last twelve months to put him out of his way. Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs. Varden was agreeable beyond all precedent. As they jogged through the streets, talking of this thing and of that, who should be described upon the pavement but that very coach-maker, looking so genteel that nobody would have believed he had ever had anything to do with the coach but riding in it, and bowing like any nobleman? To be sure Dolly was confused when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-coloured ribbons trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed to say, to my word, I have begun, the business is going to the devil, and you're the cause of it. There he stood, rooted to the ground, as Dolly said, like a statue, and as Mrs. Varden said, like a pump. Till they turned the corner, and when her father thought it was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very hood was pale. But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the locksmith in the incautious fullness of his heart pulling up at all manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance with all the taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the landlady's, with whom indeed the little horse was on equally friendly terms, for he kept on stopping of his own accord. Never were people so glad to see other people, as these landlords and landlady's were, to behold Mr. Varden, and Mrs. Varden, and Mrs. Varden. Now wouldn't they get out, said one, and they really must walk upstairs, said another, and she would take it ill and be quite certain that they were proud if they wouldn't have a little taste of something, said a third, and so on, that it was really quite a progress, rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality from beginning to end. It was pleasant enough to be held in such esteem, not to mention the refreshments, so Mrs. Varden said nothing at the time, and was all affability and delight. But such a body of evidence, as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that day, to be used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got together for matrimonial purposes. In course of time, and in course of a pretty long time, too, for these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little, they arrived upon the skirts of the forest, and riding pleasantly on among the trees, came at last to the maypole, where the locksmiths cheerful, speedily brought to the porch old John, and after him young Joe, both of whom were so transfixed at sight of the ladies, that for a moment they were perfectly unable to give them any welcome, and could do nothing but stare. It was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for speedily reviving he thrust his drowsy father aside, to Mr. Willet's mighty and inexpressible indignation, and darting out stood ready to help them to a light. It was necessary for Dolly to get out first. Joe had her in his arms. Yes, though for a space of time no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his arms. Here was a glimpse of happiness. It would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace affair the helping Mrs. Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it, and did it, too, with the best grace in the world. Then old John, who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs. Varden wasn't fond of him, had been in some doubt whether she might not have come for purposes of assault and battery, took courage, hoped she was well, and offered to conduct her into the house. This tender being amicably received, they marched in together. Joe and Dolly followed arm in arm, happiness again, and Varden brought up the rear. Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody objecting into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the may-poles was the very snuggest, coziest, and completest bar that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old, oaken pigeonholes, such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their lips. Such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves, so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealized beyond all mortal knowledge. Such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window-seats, all crowned to the throat with eatables, drinkables, or savory condiments. Lastly, and to crown all, as typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese. It is a poor heart that never rejoices. It must have been the poorest, weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat, which would not have warmed towards the maple bar. Mrs. Vardens did directly. She could no more have reproached John Willet among those household guards, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and cheese that she could have stabbed him with his own bright carving knife. The order for dinner, too, it might have soothed a savage. Ah, bit of fish, said John to the cook. And some lamb chops, breaded with plenty of ketchup, and a good salad, and a roast spring chicken with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes, all something of that sort. Something of that sort? The resources of these inns to talk carelessly about dishes which in themselves were a first rate holiday kind of dinner suitable to one's wedding day as something of that sort. Meaning, if you can't get a spring chicken, any other trifle in the way a poultry will do, such as a peacock, perhaps? The kitchen, too, with its great broad cavernous chimney. The kitchen, where nothing in the way of cookery seemed impossible. Where you could believe in anything to eat, they chose to tell you of. Mrs. Varden returned from the contemplation of these windows to the bar again, with a head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity was not large enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to sleep. Waking was pain in the midst of such immensity. Dolly in the meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other matters, passed out at the garden door, and glancing back now and then, but of course not wondering whether Joe saw her, tripped away by a path across the fields with which she was well acquainted to discharge her mission at the Warren. And this deponent hath been informed and verily believes that you might have seen many less pleasant objects than cherry-coloured mantel and ribbons as they went fluttering along the green in the bright light of the day, like giddy things as they were. End of chapter 19