 CHAPTER 43 Next morning brought no satisfaction to the loxmas thoughts, nor next day nor the next nor many others. Often after nightfall he entered the street and turned his eyes towards the well-known house, and as surely as he did so there was the solitary light still gleaming through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was motionless, noiseless, cheerless as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr. Haerdale's favor by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured to knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way, but whenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot, which was not seldom, the light was always there. If he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight Mr. Haerdale shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night, always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the least degree. The manner of his watch was this. At dusk he entered the house in the same way as when the loxsmith bore him company, kindled a light, went through the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done he returned to the chamber on the ground floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the table sat by it until morning. He usually had a book with him and often tried to read, but never fixed his eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes together. The slightest noise without doors caught his ear. A step upon the pavement seemed to make his heart leap. He was not without some refreshment during the long, lonely hours, generally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of bread and meat and a small flask of wine. The latter diluted with large quantities of water he drank in a heated feverish way as though his throat were dried, but he scarcely ever broke his past by so much as a crumb of bread. If this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the loxsmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious expectation of the fulfillment of a dream or vision connected with the event on which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for some ghostly visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their beds, he showed no trace of fear or wavering. His stern features expressed inflexible resolution, his brows were puckered and his lips compressed with deep and subtle purpose. And when he started out of noise and listened, it was not with the start of fear but hope, and catching up his sword as though the hour had come at last he would clutch it in his tight-clenched hand and listen with sparkling eyes and eager looks until it died away. These disappointments were numerous for they ensued on almost every sound, but his constancy was not shaken. Still every night he was at his post the same stern, sleepless sentinel, and still night passed and morning dawned and he must watch again. This went on for weeks. He had taken a lodging at Vox Hall, in which to pass the day and rest himself, and from this place when the tide served he usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water in order that he might avoid the busy streets. One evening, shortly before twilight, he came as a customed road upon the river's bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty large concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament, looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or twice the no-pulpery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the ears of most men. But holding it in very slight regard and observing that the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared about it, but made his way along with perfect indifference. There were many little knots in groups of persons in Westminster Hall, some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening light tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in a slant through its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees were quenched in the gathering gloom below. Some noisy passengers, mechanics going home from work and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with their voices and soon darkening the small door in the distance as they passed into the street beyond. Some in busy conference together on political or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that sought the ground and seeming by their attitudes to listen earnestly from head to foot. Here a dozen squabbling urchins made a very babble in the air. There a solitary man, half-clerk, half-mendicant, paced up and down with hungry dejection in his look and gait, at his elbow past an errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill whistle writhing the very timbers of the roof, while a more observant schoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant beetle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you shut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder and around all other noises in its rowing sound. Mr. Haerdale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed near us to, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere, had nearly traversed the hall, when two persons before him caught his attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on. The other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what he said, at times throwing in a humble word himself, and with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears rubbed his hands submissively, or answered at intervals by an inclination of the head, halfway between a knot of acquiescence and a bow of most profound respect. In the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for civility, waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane, not to speak of gold and silver sticks or wands of office, is common enough. But there was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other likewise, which struck Mr. Haerdale with no pleasant feeling. He hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his path, but at the moment the other two faced about quickly and stumbled upon him before he could avoid them. The gentleman with the cane lifted his hat, and had begun to tender an apology which Mr. Haerdale had begun his hastily to acknowledge, and walk away, when he stopped short and cried, Haerdale! God bless me! This is strange indeed! It is, he returned impatiently. Yes, my dear friend, cried the other, detaining him. Why such great speed! One minute, Haerdale, for the sake of old acquaintance. I am in haste, he said. Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it be a brief one. Good night. Five, five, replied Sir John, for it was he. How very churlish! We were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips. Perhaps you heard me mention it. No, I am sorry for that. I am really sorry. You know our friend here, Haerdale. This is really a most remarkable meeting. The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John's arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John's purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly. The friend, therefore, had nothing for it but to muster up the pleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow as Mr. Haerdale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognized, he put out his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended by its contemptuous rejection. Mr. Gashford, said Haerdale coldly, it is as I have heard, then, you have left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions you formerly held with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an honor, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present much joy of the acquisition it has made. The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, now really this is a most remarkable meeting, and took a pinch of snuff with his usual self-possession. Mr. Haerdale, said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and letting them drop again when they met the other steady gaze, is too conscientious, too honorable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy motives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt of those he holds himself. Mr. Haerdale is too just, too generous, too clear-sided in his moral vision to—yes, sir, he rejoined, with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary stopped. You were saying? Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again was silent. No, but let us really, interposed sir John at this juncture, let us really, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this meeting. Haerdale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no previous appointment or arrangement, three old school fellows in Westminster Hall, three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady seminary at St. Omers, where you, being Catholics and of necessity educated out of England, were brought up, and were I, being a promising young Protestant, at that time was sent to learn the French tongue from a native of Paris. Add to the singularity, sir John, said Mr. Haerdale, that some of you Protestants of promise are at this moment, leagued in yonder building, to prevent our having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching our children to read and write here, in this land, where thousands of us enter your service every year, and to preserve the freedom of which we die in bloody battles abroad in heaps, and that others of you, to the number of some thousands, as I learn, are led on to look on all men of my creed as wolves and beasts of prey by this man, Gashford. Add to it, besides the bare fact that this man lives in society, walks the streets in broad day, I was about to say holds up his head, but that he does not, and it will be strange and very strange, I grant you. Oh, you are hard upon our friend, replied sir John, with an engaging smile. You are really very hard upon our friend. Let him go on, sir John, said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. Let him go on. I can make allowances, sir John. I am honored with your good opinion, and I can dispense with Mr. Hairedale's. Mr. Hairedale is a sufferer from the penal laws, and I can't expect his favor. You have so much of my favor, sir, retorted Mr. Hairedale with a bitter glance at the third party in their conversation, that I am glad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great association in yourselves. Now there are your mistakes, said sir John, in his most benign way. There, which is the most remarkable circumstance for a man of your punctuality and exactness, Hairedale, you fall into error. I don't belong to the body. I have an immense respect for its members, but I don't belong to it. Although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious opponent of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so. It is the most unfortunate necessity, and cost me a bitter struggle. Will you try this box? If you don't object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste scent, you'll find its flavor exquisite. I ask your pardon, sir John, said Mr. Hairedale, declining the proffer with the motion of his hand, for having ranked you among the humble instruments who are obvious and in all men's sight. I should have done more justice to your genius. Many of your capacity plot in secrecy and safety, and leave exposed posts to the duller wits. Don't apologize for the world, replied Sir John sweetly. Old friends like you and I may be allowed some freedoms, or the deuces in it. Gashford, who had been very restless all this time but had not once looked up, now turned to Sir John and ventured to mutter something to the effect that he must go, or my Lord would perhaps be waiting. Don't distress yourself good, sir, said Mr. Hairedale. I'll take my leave and put you at your ease, which he was about to do without ceremony when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of the hall, and looking in that direction saw Lord George Gordon coming on with a group of people round him. There was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently expressed, in the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse on Mr. Hairedale's part not to give way before this leader, but to stand there while he passed. He drew himself up, and, clasping his hands behind him, looked on with a proud and scornful aspect. While Lord George slowly advanced, for the press was great about him, towards the spot where they were standing, he had left the house of commons but that moment and had come straight down into the hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence of what had been said that night in reference to the papists, and what petitions had been presented in their favor, and who had supported them, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be advisable to present their own great protestant petition. All this he told the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each other, and vented threats and murmurings. Those who were outside the crowd cried, Silence, and, stand back, or closed in upon the rest, endeavoring to make a forcible exchange of places. And so they came driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner of a crowd to do. When they were very near to where the Secretary Sir John and Mr. Herodale stood, Lord George turned round, and, making a few remarks of a sufficiently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual sentiment, and called for three chairs to back it. While these were in the act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from the press and stepped up to Gashford's side. Both he and Sir John, being well known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the poor standing together. Mr. Herodale, Lord George, said Sir John Chester, seeing that the nobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. A Catholic gentleman, unfortunately, most unhappily a Catholic, but an esteemed acquaintance of mine, and once a Mr. Gashford's. My dear Herodale, this is Lord George Gordon. I should have known that had I been ignorant of his Lord Chip's person, said Mr. Herodale. I hope there is, but one gentleman in England who addressing an ignorant and excited throng would speak of a large body of his fellow subjects in such injurious language as I heard this moment. For shame, my Lord, for shame! I cannot talk to you, sir, replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner. We have nothing in common. We have much in common, many things, all that the Almighty gave us, said Mr. Herodale, and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgraced your station. I don't hear you, sir, he replied in the same manner as before. I can't hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don't retort, Gashford, for the Secretary had made a show of wishing to do so. I can hold no communion with the worshipers of idols. As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and eyebrows as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr. Herodale, and smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader. He retort, cried Herodale, look you here, my Lord, do you know this man? Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing Secretary and viewing him with a smile of confidence. This man, said Mr. Herodale, eyeing him from top to toe, who in his boyhood was a thief and has been from that time to this a servile, false and truckling knave, this man who has crawled and crept through life, wounding the hands he licked and biting those he fawned upon, this sycophant, who never knew what on her truth or courage meant, who robbed his benefactor's daughter of her virtue and married her to break her heart and did it with stripes and cruelty, this creature who has winded kitchen windows for the broken food and begged for half-pence at our chapel doors, this apostle of the faith whose tender conscience cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced. Do you know this man? Oh, really, you are very, very hard upon our friend, exclaimed Sir John. Let Mr. Herodale go on, said Gaspard, upon whose unwholesome face the perspiration had broken out during the speech in blotches of wet. I don't mind him, Sir John. It's quite as indifferent to me what he says as it is to my Lord. If he reviles my Lord as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to escape? It is not enough, my Lord, Mr. Herodale continued, that I, as good a gentleman as you, must hold my property such as it is by a trick at which the state connives because of these hard laws and that we may not teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong, but must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this? Here is the man to head your no-popery cry for shame, for shame. The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements concerning Gaspard, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a shrug or look, oh, dear me, no. He now said, in the same loud key and in the same strange manner as before, I have nothing to say, Sir, and reply, and no desire to hear anything more. I beg you, won't obtrude your conversation or these personal attacks upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my country and to my countrymen by any such attempts, whether they proceed from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you, come, Gaspard. They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the hall door through which they passed together. Mr. Herodale, without any leave-taking, turned away to the river-stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boltman who remained there. But the throng of people, the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause, came pouring out palmel and forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr. Herodale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself. They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings rose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, down with the papists! And there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments one man cried out, Stone him! Another, duck him! Another in a stentorian voice, no, Popary! This favorite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout. Mr. Herodale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand in the crowd, which struck him on the head and made him stagger like a drunken man. The blood sprung freely from the wound and trickled down his coat. He turned directly and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back demanded, Who did that? Show me the man who hit me! Not a soul moved, except some in the rear who slunk off and escaping to the other side of the way looked on like indifferent spectators. Who did that? He repeated. Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand. I know you. He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out and they fell off again. My Lord, Sir John, he cried, Draw, one of you. You are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen. With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard alone before them all. For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John's smooth face such as no man ever saw there. The next moment he stepped forward and laid one hand on Mr. Hairedale's arm, while with the other he endeavored to appease the crowd. My dear friend, my good Hairedale, you are blinded with passion. It's very natural, extremely natural, but you don't know friends from foes. I know them all, Sir. I can distinguish well, he retorted, almost mad with rage. Sir John, Lord George, do you hear me? Are you cowards? Never mind, Sir, said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with a friendly violence. Never mind asking that. For God's sake, get away. What can you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street who'll be round directly. Indeed, they began to pour in, as he said the words. You'd be giddy from that cut in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, Sir, or take my word for it you'll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman and that woman bloody Mary. Come, Sir, make haste as quick as you can. Mr. Hairedale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend's assistance. John Groobie, for John it was, helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bathed the waterman, pulled away like a Briton, and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed. There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference, but John, looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George's livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water, for she had by this time cleared the bridge and was darting swiftly down the center of the stream. From this amusement they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps and assaulting some strayed constables. But it being whispered that a detachment of life-guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition and left the street quite clear. CHAPTER 44 When the concourse separated and dividing into chance clusters drew off in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the late disturbance one man. This man was Gashford, who bruised by his late fall and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had undergone and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance. It was not the secretary's nature to waste his wrath in words. While he ventured the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady eye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was spread, had since returned and were now visible in the moonlight at no great distance as they walked to and fro and talked together. He made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of the street until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards and walked away in company. Then he followed but at some distance, keeping them in view without appearing to have that object or being seen by them. They went up Parliament Street, past St. Martin's Church, and away by St. Giles's to Tottenham Court Road at the back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great heaps of ashes, stagnant pools, overgrown with rank, grass, and duckweed, broken turnstiles, and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty nails, were the leading features of the landscape. While here and there a donkey or a ragged horse tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene and would have suggested, if the houses had not done so sufficiently of themselves, how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money or wore decent clothes to walk that way alone unless by daylight. Poverty has its whims and shows of taste as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turtled, some had false windows painted on their rotten walls, one had a mimic clock upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney. Each in its little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbor. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds and dogs. These and their several ways of storage filled the gardens and shedding a perfume, not of the most delicious nature in the air, filled it besides with yelps and screams and howling. Into this retreat the secretary followed the two men whom he had held in sight, and here he saw them safely lodged in one of the meanest houses, which was but a room and that of small dimensions. He waited without until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song, assured him they were making merry, and then approaching the door by means of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at it with his hand. Mr. Gashford said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from his mouth in evident surprise, why, who would have thought of this here honor? Walk in, Mr. Gashford, walk in, sir. Gashford required no second invitation and entered with a gracious air. There was a fire in the rusty grate, for though the spring was pretty far advanced, the nights were cold, and on a stool beside it Hugh sat smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary in front of the hearth, and took his seat again upon the stool he had left when he rose to give the visitor admission. What's in the wind now, Mr. Gashford, he said, as he resumed his pipe and looked at him askew. Any orders from headquarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Mr. Gashford? Oh, nothing, nothing rejoined the secretary with a friendly nod to Hugh. We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt today, eh, Dennis? A very little one growled the hangman, not half enough for me. I mean neither, cried Hugh. Give us something to do with life in it. With life in it, Master, ha-ha. While you wouldn't, said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, have anything to do with death in it. I don't know that, replied Hugh. I'm open to orders. I don't care, not I. Nor I, was the foray to Dennis. Brave fellows, said the secretary, in his pastor like a voice, as if he were commending them for some uncommon act of valor and generosity. By the by, in here he stopped and warmed his hands, then suddenly looked up. Who threw that stone today? Mr. Dennis coughed and shook his head as who should say, a mystery indeed. Hugh sat and smoked in silence. It was well done, said the secretary, warming his hands again. I should like to know that, man. Would you, said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself that he was serious? Would you like to know that, man, Mr. Gashford? I should indeed, replied the secretary. Why, then, Lord love you, said the hangman and his horse's chuckle, as he pointed with his pipe to Hugh. There he sits. That's the man. My stars and halters, Mr. Gashford, he added in a whisper, as he drew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow. What an interesting blade he is. He wants as much holding in as a thoroughbred bulldog. If it hadn't been for me today, he'd have had that air rollin' down and made a riot of it in another minute. And why not, cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last remark? Where's the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron's hot, that's what I say. Ah, retorted Dennis, shaking his head with the kind of pity for his friends and genuine youth. But suppose the iron ant hot, brother? You must get people's blood up before you strike and have them in the humor. There wasn't quite enough to provoke them today, I tell you. If you'd had your way, you'd have spoiled the fun to come and ruined us. Dennis is quite right, said Gashford smoothly. He is perfectly correct. Dennis has great knowledge of the world. I ought to have, Mr. Gashford, seeing one of many people I've helped out of it, eh? Grind the hang men, whispering the words behind his hand. The secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis could desire. And when he had done, said, turning to Hugh, Dennis's policy was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for instance, how I fell when I was set upon. I made no resistance. I did nothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh, dear no. No, by the Lord Harry cried Dennis with a noisy laugh. You went down very quiet, Mr. Gashford, and very flat besides. I think to myself at the time it's all up with Mr. Gashford. I never see a man lay flatter nor more still with a life in him than you did today. He's as rough and to play with as that airpapest. And that's the fact. The secretary's face, as Dennis roared with laughter and turned his wrinkled eyes on Hugh, who did the like, might have furnished a study for the devil's picture. He sat quite silent until they were serious again, and then said, looking round, We are very pleasant here. So very pleasant, Dennis, that, but for my Lord's particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being very near at hand, I should be inclined to stay until it would be hardly safe to go homeward. I come upon a little business. Yes, I do, as you supposed. It's very flattering to you, being this. If we ever should be obliged, and we can't tell, you know, this is a very uncertain world. I believe you, Mr. Gashford, interposed the hangman with a grave nod. The uncertainties, as I've seen in reference to this here state of existence, the unexpected contingencies as have come about. Oh, my eye! Feeling the subject much too vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe again and looked the rest. I say, resumed the secretary in a slow impressive way, we can't tell what may come to pass, and if we should be obliged against our wills to have recourse to violence, my Lord, who has suffered terribly today as far as words can go, consigns to you to, bearing in mind my recommendation of you both, as good staunch men beyond all doubt and suspicion, the pleasant task of punishing this hairdale. You may do as you please with him or his, provided that you show no mercy and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder placed them. You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but it must come down. It must be raised to the ground, and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless as newborn infants whom their mothers have exposed. Do you understand me, said Gashford, pausing and pressing his hands together gently? Understand you, master, cried Hugh. You speak plain now why this is hardy. I knew you would like it, said Gashford, shaking him by the hand. I thought you would. Good night. Don't rise, Dennis. I would rather find my way alone. I may have to make other visits here, and it's pleasant to come and go without disturbing you. I can find my way perfectly well. Good night. He was gone, and had shut the door behind him. They looked at each other, and knotted approvingly. Dennis stirred up the fire. This looks a little more like business, he said. A indeed, cried Hugh, this suits me. I have heard it said of Mr. Gashford, said the hangman, that he had a surprising memory and wonderful firmness that he never forgot and never forgave. Let's drink his health. Hugh readily complied, pouring no liquor on the floor when he drank this toast, and they pledged to Secretary as a man after their own hearts in a bumper. CHAPTER 44 While the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark, and the mantle of religion assumed to cover the ugliest deformities threatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position of two persons from whom this history has long been separated and to whom it must now return. In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labor of their hands in plating and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material, concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread, dwelt Barnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger's foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five years before, nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old world from which they had fled, to labor in peace and devote her labor and her life to her poor son was all the widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow prays, she was happy now. Tranquility, resignation, and her strong love of him who needed it so much formed the small circle of her quiet joys, and while that remained unbroken she was contented. For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by had passed him like the wind. The daily sons of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind, no dawn had broken on his long dark night. He would sit sometimes, often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage door busy at work, for he had learnt the art his mother plied, and listening God help him to the tales she would repeat as a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little narratives. The tale of yesterday was new to him upon the moral, but he liked them at the moment, and when the humor held him would remain patiently within doors hearing her stories like a little child and working cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see. At other times, and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of the course's sort, he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed, there were not many who could have kept up with him in his rambles had there been a legion. But there were a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbors, who served his purpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a full half dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on some long expedition that consumed the day, and though on their return at nightfall the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed and almost spent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with some new attendants of the same class with whom he would return in a like manner. When all these travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master's back, was a constant member of the party, and when they set off in fine weather and in high spirits no dog barked louder than the raven. Their pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. Across the bread and scrap of meat with water from the brook or spring sufficed for their repast. Barnaby's enjoyments were to walk and run and leap till he was tired, then to lie down in the long grass or by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree looking upward at the light clouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, and listening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were wild flowers to pluck, the bright red poppy, the gentle hair-bell, the cow slip, and the rose. There were birds to watch, fish, ants, worms, hares, or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway and the wood and so were gone. Beans of living things to have an interest in and lie and wait for and clap hands and shout in memory of when they had disappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sunlight to hunt out, as it crept in a slant through leaves and vows of trees and hid far down, deep, deep in hollow places like a silver pool where knotting branches seemed to bathe in sport. Sweet sense of summer air, breathing over fields of beans or clover, the perfume of wet leaves or moss, the life of waving trees and shadows always changing. When these, or any of them, tired, or in excess of pleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all these soft delights, with a gentle wind murmuring light music in his ears, and everything around melting into one delicious dream. There hot, for it was little more, stood on the outskirts of the town at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place where few chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot of garden ground attached which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working, trimmed and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother labored for their common good, and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine found no difference in her. Though so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to have a strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any old newspaper or scrap of intelligence from London she caught at with avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, for her manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread, but it never faded in the least degree. Then and in stormy winter nights when the wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face, and she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an agieu. But Barnaby noted little of this, and putting a great constraint upon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before the change had caught his observation. Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humble household, partly by dint of Barnaby's tuition and partly by pursuing a species of self-instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers and surprising performances were the universal theme, and as many persons came to see the wonderful raven and none left his exertions unrewarded when he kind ascended to exhibit, which was not always, for genius is capricious. His earnings formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed the bird himself appeared to know his value well, for though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of vagabond voice, an exercise in which he much delighted, killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of various neighboring dogs of whom the boldest held him in great awe and dread. Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturb or change their mode of life when, one summer's night in June, they were in their little garden, resting from the labors of the day. The widow's work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her, and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the west and singing softly to himself. A brave evening, mother, if we had chinking in our pockets but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life. We are better as we are, returned to the widow with a quiet smile. Let us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though it lay shining at our feet. A, said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade and looking wistfully at the sunset, that's well enough, mother, but gold's a good thing to have. I wished that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could do much with gold. Be sure of that. What would you do? She asked. What? A world of things. We'd dress finely. You and I, I mean, not grip. Pourses, dogs, wear bright colors and feathers, do no more work, live delicately and at our ease. We'd find uses for it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was buried, how hard I'd work to dig it up. You do not know, said his mother, rising from her seat and laying her hand upon his shoulder, what men have done to win it, and how they have found too late that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled. A, A, so you say, so you think, he answered, still looking eagerly in the same direction. For all that, mother, I should like to try. Do you not see, she said, how red it is? Nothing bears so many stains of blood as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid down in our graves than you should ever come to love it. For a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist as if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her with earnestness when a new object caught his wandering attention and made him quite forgetful of his purpose. This was a man with dusty feet and garments who stood bare-headed behind the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway and lent meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with their conversation and waited for his time to speak. His face was turned towards the brightness, too, but the light that fell upon it showed that he was blind and saw it not. A blessing on those voices, said the Wayfarer, I feel the beauty of the night more keenly when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will they speak again and cheer the heart of a poor traveler? Have you no guide? asked the widow after a moment's pause. None but that, he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now. Have you traveled far? A weary way and long rejoined the traveler as he shook his head. A weary, weary way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your well. Be pleased to let me have a draft of water, lady. Why do you call me lady? she returned. I am as poor as you. Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that, replied the man. The course of stuffs and finest silks are, apart from the sense of touch, a light to me that cannot judge you by your dress. Come round this way, said Barnaby, who had passed out at the garden gate and now stood close beside him. Put your hand in mine. You're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces now? Do they grin and chatter? Alas returned the other, I see nothing, waking or sleeping, nothing. Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his fingers as an inquisitive child might let him towards the house. You have come a long distance, said the widow, meeting him at the door. How have you found your way so far? Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard. The best of any, said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. May neither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters. You have wandered from the road, too, said the widow, in a tone of pity. Maybe, maybe, returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with something of a smile upon his face. That's likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb indeed to me. Thank you no more for this rest and this refreshing drink. As he spoke he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear and cold and sparkling, but not to his taste, nevertheless, or his thirst was not very great, for he only whetted his lips and put it down again. He wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of script or wallet in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheese before him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness of the charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was not hungry. When he had made her this reply he opened his wallet and took out a few pence which resolved it appeared to contain. Might I make bold to ask, he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood looking on, that one who has the gift of sight would lay this out for me in bread to keep me on my way, heaven's blessing on the young feet that will be stir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless man. Barnaby looked at his mother, who not a descent. In another moment he was gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an attentive face until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps was inaudible to the widow, and then said suddenly, and in a very altered tone, there are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the cannubial blindness, ma'am, which perhaps you may have observed in the course of your own experience, and which is a kind of willful and self-mandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma'am, and public men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of a regiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence of youth, which is the blindness of young kittens whose eyes have not yet opened on the world. And there is that physical blindness, ma'am, of which I am contrary to my own desire a most illustrious example. Added to these, ma'am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we have a specimen in your interesting sun, and which, having sometimes glimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a total darkness. Before, ma'am, I have taken the liberty to get him out of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together. And this precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towards yourself, you will excuse me, ma'am, I know. Having delivered himself of this speech, with many flourishes of manner, he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish. I am a citizen of the world, ma'am, said the blind man, corking his bottle, and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as I have leads me to that conclusion without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul is depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma'am, immediately. With that he slapped his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to proceeding any further. The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition, for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense something in its place almost divine, and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom he addressed that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor resumed, Madam, my name is Stagg, a friend of mine who has desired the honor of meeting with you any time these five years past has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's name in your ear. Sounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend's name in your ear? You need not repeat it, said the widow, with a stifled groan. I see too well from whom you come. But as a man of honor, ma'am, said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I will mention that gentleman's name. A-A, he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, but not aloud. With your leave, ma'am, I desire the favor of a whisper. She moved towards him and swooped down. He muttered a word in her ear and, ringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glass full, put it up as before, and drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence. You are slow in conversation, widow, he said after a time, pausing in his draft. We shall have to talk before your son. What would you have me do? She answered, what do you want? We are poor, widow, we are poor, he retorted, stretching out his right hand and rubbing his thumb upon his palm. Poor! She cried, and what am I? Comparisons are odious, said the blind man. I don't know, I don't care. I say that we are poor. My friend's circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I. So where is the use of talking? She still walked wildly to and fro, at length, stopping abruptly before him. She said, is he near here? He is, close at hand. Then I am lost. Not lost, widow, said the blind man calmly, only found. Shall I call him? Not for the world, she answered with a shudder. Very good, he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. As you please, widow, his presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live. To live we must eat and drink. To eat and drink we must have money. I say no more. Do you know how pinched in destitute I am? She retorted. I do not think you do or can. If you had eyes and could look around you on this poor place, you would have pity on me. Oh, let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine. The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered. Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question, I have the softest heart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible, and thus the case stands. If you are very poor now, it's your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and you and he being linked together in a common cost, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time, for, as I said just now, I am very soft-hearted, and I quite approve of his entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head. He has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you. He has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are in the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally. She was about to speak, but he checked her and went on. The only way of doing this is by making up a little purse now and then for my friend, and that's what I advise. He bears you no malice that I know of, ma'am. So little that, although you have treated him harshly more than once and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would consent to take charge of your son and to make a man of him. He laid a great stress on these latter words and pauses if to find out what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears. He is a likely lad, the blind man thoughtfully, for many purposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change and bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you tonight. Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty pounds. You who can give up an annuity can get that sum for him. It's a pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here and it's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a moderate demand. You know where to apply for it. A post will bring it to you. Twenty pounds. She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her. Don't say anything hastily, you might be sorry for it. Think of it a little while. Twenty pounds of other people's money. How easy. Turn it over in your mind, I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on and if I don't sleep here I shall not go far. Twenty pounds. Consider of it, ma'am, for twenty minutes. Give each pound a minute—that's a fair allowance. I'll enjoy the air of the wild, which is very mild and pleasant in these parts. With these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with him, then seating himself under a spreading honeysuckle and stretching his legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out without his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel, and tinderbox, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening of that gentle kind and at that time of year when the twilight is most beautiful. Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off and to sniff the grateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease as though the cottage were his proper dwelling and he had held undisputed possession of it all his life, waiting for the widow's answer and for Barnaby's return. CHAPTER 46 When Barnaby returned with the bread, the sight of the pious old pilgrim smoking his pipe and making himself so thoroughly at home appeared to surprise even him. The more so as that worthy person, instead of putting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious article, tossed it carelessly on the table and producing his bottle, bade him sit down and drink. For I carry some comfort, you see, he said. Taste that. Is it good? The water stood in Barnaby's eyes as he coughed from the strength of the draught and answered in the affirmative. Drink some more, said the blind man. Don't be afraid of it. You don't taste anything like that often, eh? Often, cried Barnaby, never. Too poor returned the blind man with a sigh, hey, that's bad. Your mother poor soul would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby. So I tell her the very thing I told her just before you came tonight when all that gold was in the sky, said Barnaby, drawing his chair nearer to him and looking eagerly in his face. Tell me, is there any way of being rich that I could find out? Anyway, a hundred ways. Eh, eh, he returned. Do you say so? What are they? Nay, mother, it's for your sake, I ask, not mine, for yours indeed. What are they? The blind man turned his face on which there was a smile of triumph to where the widow stood in great distress and answered, Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend. By stay-at-homes, cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve, but I am not one. Now there you mistake. I am often out before the sun and travel home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day has reached the shady places, and I'm often there when the bright moon is peeping through the boughs and looking down upon the other moon that lives in the water. As I walk along I try to find among the grass and moss some of that small money for which she works so hard and used to shed so many tears. As I lie asleep in the shade I dream of it, dream of digging it up in heaps and spying it out, hidden under bushes and seeing it sparkle as the dew drops do among the leaves. But I never find it. Tell me where it is. I'd go there if the journey were a whole year long, because I know she would be happier when I came home and brought some with me. Speak again. Listen to you if you talk all night. The blind man passed his hand lightly over the poor fellow's face, and finding that his elbows were planted on the table, that his chin rested on his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and that his whole manner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a minute as though he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made answer. It's in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world, not in solitary places like those you pass your time in, but in crowds and where there's noise and rattle. Good! Good! cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. Yes, I love that. Grip loves it, too. It suits us both. That's brave. The kind of places, said the blind man, that a young fellow likes, and in which a good son may do more for his mother and himself to boot in a month than he could hear in all his life. That is, if he had a friend, you know, and someone to advise with. You hear this mother, cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight. Never tell me we shouldn't heed it if it lay shining at our feet. Why do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night? Surely, said the blind man, surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is your mind, he slowly added, not made up yet? Let me speak with you, she answered, apart. Lay your hand upon my sleeve, said Stag, arising from the table, and lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby, we'll talk more of this. I have a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow. She led him out at the door and into the little garden where they stopped. You are a fit agent, she said, in a half-breathless manner, and well represent the man who sent you here. I'll tell him that you said so, Stag, retorted. He has a regard for you, and will respect me the more, if possible, for your praise. We must have our rights, widow. Right! Do you know, she said, that a word from me? Why do you stop? Returned to the blind man, calmly, after a long pause. Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in the last position of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never be spoken, widow. You are sure of that? Quite. So sure that I don't come here to discuss the question. I say we must have our rights, or we must be bought off. Keep to that point, or let me return to my young friend, for I have an interest in the lad, and desire to put him in the way of making his fortune. Bah! You needn't speak, he added hastily. I know what you would say. You have hinted at it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I am blind? No, I have not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be better than men who have their sight? Why should you? Is the hand of heaven more manifest in my having no eyes than in your having too? It's the can't of you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals. Oh, yes, it's far worse than him, who can barely live on the few half-pence that are thrown to him in the streets, than in you, who can see and work and are not dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you. You who have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure. We who have four, and want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and justice of rich to poor all the world over. She paused a moment when he had said these words and caught the sound of money jingling in her hand. Well, he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. That should lead to something. The point, widow? First answered me one question, she replied. You say he is close at hand. Has he left London? Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has, returned the blind man. I mean for good. You know that. Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that reason. Listen, said the widow, telling some money out upon a bench beside them. Count. Six, said the blind man, listening attentively, any more. They are the savings, she answered, of five years. Six guineas. He put out his hand for one of the coins, felt it carefully, put it between his teeth, rung it on the bench, and knotted to her to proceed. These have been scraped together and laid by lest sickness or death should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you can take them, do, on condition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no more into that room where he sits now, expecting your return. Six guineas. Said the blind man, shaking his head. Though of the fullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty pounds, widow. For such as some, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the country. To do that and receive an answer I must have time. Two days? Said Stagg. More. Four days? A week. Return on this day, week, at the same hour, but not to the house. Wait at the corner of the lane. Of course, said the blind man with a crafty look, I shall find you there. Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have made a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store so hardly earned to preserve this home? Humpf! Said the blind man, after some consideration. Sat me with my face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is this the spot? It is. On this day, week, at sunset. And think of him within doors. For the present, good night. So made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away, turning his head from time to time and stopping to listen, as if he were curious to know whether he was watched by anyone. The shadows of night were closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It was not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end, and made sure that he was gone, that she re-entered the cottage and hurriedly barred the door and window. Mother! Said Barnaby, what is the matter? Where is the blind man? He is gone. Gone! He cried, starting up. I must have more talk with him. Which way did he take? I don't know, she answered, folding her arms about him. You must not go out tonight. There are ghosts and dreams abroad. Eh? Said Barnaby in a frightened whisper. It is not safe to stir. We must leave this place tomorrow. This place? This cottage and the little garden, mother? Yes. Tomorrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London, lose ourselves in that wide place. There would be some trace of us in any other town, then travel on again and find some new abode. Little persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that promised change. In another minute he was wild with delight, in another full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the dogs. In another, wild again. Then he was fearful of what she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and strange questions. His lightheartedness in the ends surmounted all his other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might be ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf fire. His mother did not close her eyes but sat beside him watching. Every breath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night a night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made the little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons. His clothes were few enough, and to carry grip was a labour of love. As the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of their deserted home and turned away. The sky was blue and bright, the air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes. Barnaby looked upward and laughed with all his heart. But it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the dogs, the ugliest of them all, came bounding up and jumping round him in the fullness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone, and his heart smote him while he did so. The dog, retreated, turned with a half-incredulous, half-impouring look, came a little back and stopped. It was the last appeal of an old companion and a faithful friend cast off. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head and waved his playmate home, he burst into tears. Mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches out the door and finds it always shut. There was such a sense of home in the thought that though her own eyes overflowed, she would not have obliterated the recollection of it, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth of the whole wide world. CHAPTER 47 In the exhaustless catalog of Heaven's mercies to mankind, the power we have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must ever occupy the foremost place, not only because it supports and upholds us when we most require to be sustained, but because, in this source of consolation, there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divine spirit, something of that goodness which detacts amidst our own evil doings a redeeming quality, something which, even in our fallen nature, we possess in common with the angels which had its being in the old time when they trod the earth and lingers on it yet in pity. How often on their journey did the widow remember with a grateful heart that out of his deprivation Barnaby's cheerfulness and affection sprung? How often did she call to mind that but for that he might have been sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her, vicious, perhaps, and cruel? How often had she caused for comfort in his strength and hope and in his simple nature? Those feeble powers of mind which rendered him so soon forgetful of the past, saving brief gleams and flashes, even they were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness. In every tree and plant and flower, in every bird and beast and tiny insect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground he had delight. His delight was hers, and where many a wise son would have made her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with thankfulness and love. Their stock of money was low, but from the horde she had told into the blind man's hand the widowhead withheld one guinea. This with the few pents she possessed besides was to two persons of their frugal habits, a goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had grip in company, and when they must otherwise have changed the guinea it was but to make him exhibit outside a nail-house door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or gardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given nothing in charity were ready to bargain for more amusement from the talking bird. One day for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides and carts and wagons were on the road a week, Barnaby with grip upon his shoulder and his mother following begged permission at a trim lodge to go up to the great house at the other end of the avenue and show his raven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance and was indeed about to do so when a stout gentleman with a long whip in his hand and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had his morning's draught rode up to the gate and called in a loud voice and with more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it opened directly. "'Who is Thou got there?' said the gentleman angrily, as the man threw the gate wide open and pulled off his hat. "'Who are these, eh? Are they a bigger woman?' The widow answered with a curtsy that they were poor travelers. "'Vagrants,' said the gentleman, vagrants and vagabonds. They wished to be made acquainted with the cage, dusty, the cage, the stocks, and the whipping-post. Where does come from?' She told him in a timid manner, for he was very loud, hoarse and red-faced, and we sought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm, and would go upon their way that moment. "'Don't be too sure of that,' replied the gentleman. "'We don't allow vagrants to roam about this place. I know what Thou wantst.' Stray linen, drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What has gotten that basket, lazy hound? Grip, grip, grip, grip the clever, grip the wicked, grip the knowing, grip, grip, grip,' cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up on the approach of this stern personage. "'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil. Never say die, hurrah, bow-ow-ow. Polly put the kettle on, we'll all have tea.' "'Take the vermin out,' scoundrel said the gentleman, and let me see him.' Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not without much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground, which he had no sooner done than grip drew fifty corks at least, and then began to dance, at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising insolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot. The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman's mind than the raven's power of speech, and was indeed particularly adapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again, but despite his being very peremptory and notwithstanding that Barnaby coaxed to the utmost, grip turned a deaf ear to the request and preserved a dead silence. "'Bring him along,' said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But grip, who had watched the action, anticipated his master by hopping on before them, instantly flapping his wings and screaming, "'Cook!' meanwhile, as a hint, perhaps, that there was company coming, and a small collation would be acceptable. Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman on horseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and coarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone of which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and as a matter of course could make him no reply. On one of these occasions, when the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horse whip, the widow ventured to inform him, in a low voice and with tears in her eyes, that her son was of weak mind. "'An idiot, eh?' said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. "'And how long has thou been an idiot?' "'She knows,' was Barnaby's timid answer, pointing to his mother. "'I always, I believe. From his birth,' said the widow. "'I don't believe it,' cried the gentleman, not a bit of it. "'It's an excuse not to work. There's nothing like flogging to cure that disorder. I'd make a difference in him in ten minutes, I'll be bound.' "'Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,' said the widow mildly. "'Then why don't you shut him up? We pay enough for county institutions, dam'em. But thou'd rather drag him about to excite charity, of course. Eh, I know thee.' Now this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his intimate friends. By some, he was called a country gentleman of the true school. By some, a fine old country gentleman. By some, a sporting gentleman. By some, a thoroughbred Englishman. By some, a genuine John Bull. But they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it was a pity that were not more like him, and that because there were not, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in the commission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly. But his greatest qualifications were that he was more severe with poachers, was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs, could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night more drunk, and get up every morning more sober than any man in the county. In knowledge of horse flesh he was almost equal to a farrier. In stable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not a pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliament himself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his voters up to the pole with his own hands. He was warmly attached to church and state and never appointed to the living in his gift any but a three-bottle man and a first-rate foxhunter. He mistrusted the honesty of all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousy of his own wife, a young lady whom he had married for what his friends called the good old English reason, that her father's property adjoined his own, for possessing those accomplishments in a greater degree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot and grip a creature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this gentleman was. He rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight of steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse and led the way into a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the fumes of last night's stale debauch. Great coats, riding whips, bridles, top boots, spurs, and such gear were strewn about on all sides and formed with some huge stags, antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and horses, its principal embellishments. Throwing himself into a great chair, in which, by the by, he often snored away the night when he had been, according to his admirers, a finer country gentleman than usual, he bade the man to tell his mistress to come down, and presently there appeared a little flurried, as it seemed, by the unwanted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who had the appearance of being in delicate health and not too happy. Here, though no delight in following the hounds as an English woman should have, said the gentleman, see to this here, that'll please thee perhaps. The lady smiled, sat down, at a little distance from him, and glanced at Barnaby with a look of pity. He's an idiot, the woman says, observed the gentleman, shaking his head. I don't believe it. Are you his mother? asked the lady. She answered yes. What's the use of asking her? said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his breeches' pockets. She'll tell thee so, of course. Most likely he's hired it so much a day. There, get on, make him do something. Grip, having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended at Barnaby's solicitation to repeat his various phrases of speech and to go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The corks and the never-say-die afforded the gentleman so much delight that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment until Grip got into his basket and positively refused to say another word good or bad. The lady, too, was much amused with him, and the closing point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a roar of laughter and demanded his price. Barnaby looked as though he didn't understand his meaning. Probably he did not. His price, said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets. What does want for him? How much? He's not to be sold, replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a great hurry and throwing the strap over his shoulder. Mother, come away. Thou seest how much of an idiot he is. Book-learner, said the gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. He can make a bargain. What does want for him, old woman? He is my son's constant companion, said the widow. He is not to be sold, sir, indeed. Not to be sold? cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder, horser and louder than before. Not to be sold? Indeed, no, she answered. We have never thought of parting with him, sir. I do assure you. He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear. He turned sharply round and said, Eh, what? We can hardly expect them to sell the bird against their own desire, she faltered. If they prefer to keep him— Prefer to keep him, he echoed. These people who go tramping about the country of pilfering and vagabondizing on all hands, prefer to keep a bird when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price. That old woman's been to school. I know she has. Don't tell me no, he roared to the widow. I say yes. Barnamy's mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was no harm in it. No harm, said the gentleman. No, no harm, no harm, yield, rubble not a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I'd set you in the stocks, I would, or lay you in jail for prowling up and down on the lookout for petty larcenies. Ye limb of a gypsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out. Shove them into the road, out with them. Ye don't want to sell the bird, ye that come here to beg, don't ye? If they end out in double-quick, set the dogs upon them. They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitantly, leaving the gentleman to storm away by himself, for the poor lady had already retreated, and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who, excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the widow's hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently from the gate. This incident only suggested to the widow's mind when they halted at an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice's character as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of stomach and tastes for the kennel on the stable were required to form either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or a genuine John Bull, and that possibly the terms were sometimes misappropriated, not to stay disgraced. She little thought then that a circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes, but time and experience enlightened her in this respect. Mother, said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a wagon, which was to take them within ten miles of the capital, we're going to London first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there? She was about to answer, heaven forbid, but chacked herself and told him, no, she thought not, why did he ask? He's a wise man, said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. I wish that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds, that gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it. London is a crowded place, I think we shall meet him there. But why do you desire to see him, love? she asked. Because, said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, he talked to me about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so strangely, just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed's foot in the night, and say what I can't remember when the bright day returns. He told me he'd come back. I wonder why he broke his word. But you never thought of being rich or gay before, dear Barnaby. You have always been contented. He laughed, and Bader say that again, then cried, A, A, O yes, and laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as fleeting. But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the point, more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man's visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind. Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time on looking at the golden clouds that evening, and images were often presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and distant, or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it, by contrast, long ago, or whether the accident, as he would deem it, of the blind man's pursuing the current of his own remarks had done so at the moment, or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the man being blind, and therefore, unlike anyone with whom he had talked before, it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover, but in vain, and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in the dark. It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but all that she could do was to lead him quickly to some other subject, and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor, to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be she feared to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were possible, to live again unknown in secrecy and peace. They reached, in course of time, their halting place within ten miles of London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on for a trifle next day in a light van which was returning empty, and was to start at five o'clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the road good saved for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry, and at seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, 1780, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge, bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone together on the scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with uncommon luster. End of Chapter 47 Uncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of people who were already a stir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the bridge to rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all pouring one way, and that a vast strung of persons were crossing the river from the middle sex to the surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident excitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or sometimes half a dozen. They spoke little together, many of them were quite silent, and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in view which was common to them all. They were surprised to see that nearly every man in this great concourse which still came pouring past without slackening in the least, wore in his hat a blue cockade, and that the chance passengers who were not so decorated appeared timidly anxious to escape observation or attack, and gave them the wall as if they would conciliate them. This, however, was natural enough, considering their inferiority in point of numbers, for the proportion of those who wore blue cockades to those who were dressed as usual was at least forty or fifty to one. There was no quarreling, however. The blue cockades went swarming on, passing each other when they could, and making all the speed that was possible in such a multitude, and exchanged nothing more than looks, and very often not even those with such of the passengers by as were not of their number. At first the current of people had been confined to the two pathways, and but a few more eager stragglers kept the road. But after half an hour or so the passage was completely blocked up by the great press, which being now closely wedged together and impeded by the carts and coaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a stand for five or ten minutes together. After the lapse of nearly two hours the numbers began to diminish visibly, and gradually dwindling away by little and little, left the bridge quite clear, save that now and then some hot and dusty man with the cockade in his hat and his coat thrown over his shoulder went panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way his friends had taken, and being directed hastened on again like one refreshed. In this comparative solitude which seemed quite strange and novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an opportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them what was the meaning of that great assemblage. Why, where have you come from? he returned, that you haven't heard of Lord George Gordon's great association. This is the day that he presents the petition against the Catholics, God bless him. What have all these men to do with that? she said. What have they to do with it? the old man replied. Why, how you talk? Don't you know his lordship has declared he won't present it to the house at all, unless it has attended to the door by forty thousand good and true men at least? There is a crowd for you. A crowd indeed said Barnaby, do you hear that, mother? And their mustering yonder, as I am told, resumed the old man, nigh upon a hundred thousand strong, ah, let Lord George alone, he knows his power. There will be a good many faces inside them three windows over there, and he pointed to where the house of commons overlooked the river, that will turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon, and with reason too. Hey, hey, let his lordship alone, let him alone, he knows. And so with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his poor finger, he rose with the assistance of his stick and tottered off. Mother, said Barnaby, that's a brave crowd he talks of. Come. Not to join it, cried his mother. Yes, yes he answered, plucking at her sleeve. Why not? Come. You don't know, she urged, what mischief they may do, where they may lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake, for your sake, he cried patting her hand. Well, it is for your sake, mother. You remember what the blind man said about the gold? Here's a brave crowd. Come, or wait till I come back. Yes, yes, wait here. She tried with all the earnestness her fears engendered to turn him from his purpose, but in vain. He was stooping down to buckle on his shoe when a hackney coach passed them rather quickly, and a voice inside called to the driver to stop. Young man, said a voice within. Who's that? cried Barnaby, looking up. Do you wear this ornament? Returned the stranger, holding out a blue cockade? In heaven's name, no. Pray did not give it him, exclaimed the widow. Speak for yourself, woman, said the man within the coach coldly. Leave the young man to his choice. He's old enough to make it, and to snap your apron strings. He knows without your telling whether he wears the sign of a loyal Englishman or not. Barnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, Yes, yes, yes, I do, as he had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade and, crying, make haste to St. George's fields, ordered the coachman to drive on fast and left them. With hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bobble in his hat, Barnaby was adjusting it, as he best could, and hurriedly replying to the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on the opposite side of the way. Observing them and seeing how Barnaby was occupied, they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back, and came over to them. Why are you sitting here? said one of them, who was dressed in a plain suit of black, wore long, lank hair, and carried a great cane. Why have you not gone with the rest? I am going, sir, replied Barnaby, finishing his task, and putting his hat on with an air of pride. I shall be there directly. Say, my lord, young man, when his lordship does you the honor of speaking to you, said the second gentleman mildly, if you don't know Lord George Gordon when you see him, it's high time you should. Nay, Gashford said, Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again and made him a low bow. It's no great matter on a day like this, which every Englishman will remember with delight and pride. Put on your hat, friend, and follow us, for you lag behind in our late. It's past ten now. Didn't you know that the hour for assembling was ten o'clock? Barnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from one to the other. You might have known it, friend, said Gashford. It was perfectly understood. How came you to be so ill-informed? He cannot tell you, sir, the widow interposed. It's of no use to ask him. We are but this morning come from a long distance in the country, and know nothing of these matters. The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far and wide, said Lord George, to his secretary. This is a pleasant hearing. I thank heaven for it. Amen, cried Gashford with a solemn face. You do not understand me, my lord, said the widow. Pardon me, but you cruelly mistake my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no desire or right to join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my poor afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. In mercy's name, my lord, go your way alone, and do not tempt him into danger. A good woman, said Gashford. How can you, dear me? What do you mean by tempting and by danger? Do you think his lordship is a roaring lion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God bless me. No, no, my lord, forgive me, implored the widow, laying both her hands upon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did or said in the earnestness of her supplication. But there are reasons why you should hear my earnest mother's prayer and leave my son with me. O do, he is not in his right senses. He is not indeed. It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these times, said Lord George, evading her touch and coloring deeply, that those who cling to the truth and support the right cause are set down as mad. Have you the heart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother? I am astonished at you, said Gashford, with the kind of meek severity. This is a very sad picture of female depravity. He has surely no appearance, said Lord George, glancing at Barnaby and whispering in his secretary's ear, of being deranged. And even if he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness, which of us, and here he turned red again, would be safe, that that were made the law. Not one, replied the secretary. In that case, the greater the zeal, the truth and talent, the more direct the call from above, the clearer would be the madness. With regard to this young man, my Lord, he added, with a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood twirling his hat and stealthily beckoning them to come away, he is as sensible and self-possessed as anyone I ever saw. And you desired to make one of this great body, said Lord George, addressing him, and intended to make one, did you? Yes, yes, said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. To be sure I did, I told her so myself. I see, replied Lord George, with a reproachful glance at the unhappy mother. I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and you shall have your wish. Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek, and bidding her be of good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did as he was desired. She, poor woman, followed, too, with how much fear and grief it would be hard to tell. They passed quickly through the bridge road, where the shops were all shut up, for the passage of the great crowd, and the expectation of their return had alarmed the tradesmen for their goods and windows, and where, in the upper stories, all the inhabitants were congregated, looking down into the street below, with faces variously expressive of alarm, of interest, expectancy, and indignation. Some of these applauded, and some hissed, but regardless of these interruptions, for the noise of a vast congregation of people, at a little distance, sounded in his ears like the roaring of the sea, Lord George Gordon quickened his pace, and presently arrived before St. George's fields. They were really fields at that time, and of considerable extent. Here an immense multitude was collected, bearing flags of various kinds and sizes, but all of the same color, blue like the cockades. Some sections marching to and fro in military array, and others drawn up in circles, squares, and lines. A large portion, both of the bodies, which paraded the ground, and of those which remained stationary, were occupied in singing hymns or psalms. With whomsoever this originated, it was well done, for the sound of so many thousand voices in the air must have stirred the heart of any man within him, and could not fail to have a wonderful effect upon enthusiasts, however mistaken. Scouts had been posted in advance of the great body to give notice of their leaders coming. These falling back, the word was quickly passed through the whole host, and for a short interval there ensued a profound and death-like silence, during which the mass was so still and quiet, that the fluttering of a banner caught the eye and became a circumstance of note. Then they burst into a tremendous shout, into another and another, and the air seemed rent and shaken as if by the discharge of cannon. Cashford cried Lord George, pressing his secretary's arm tight within his own, and speaking with as much emotion in his voice as in his altered face. I am called indeed now. I feel and know it. I am the leader of a host. If they summoned me at this moment with one voice to lead them on to death, I'd do it. Yes, and fall first myself. It is a proud sight, said the secretary. It is a noble day for England, and for the great cause throughout the world. Such homage, my Lord, as I, an humble but devoted man, can render. What are you doing? cried his master, catching him by both hands, for he had made a show of kneeling at his feet. Do not unfit me, dear Cashford, for the solemn duty of this glorious day. The tears stood in the eyes of the poor gentleman, as he said the words. Let us go among them. We have to find a place in some division for this new recruit. Give me your hand. Cashford slid his cold insidious palm into his master's grasp, and so, hand in hand, and followed still by Barnaby and by his mother, too, they mingled with the concourse. They had, by this time, taken to their singing again, and as their leader passed between their ranks, they raised their voices to their utmost. Many of those who were banded together to support the religion of their country, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or Psalm in all their lives, but these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and being naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribbled rear nonsense that occurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected in the general chorus, and not caring much of it were. Many of these volunteers were sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who, quite unconscious of their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and solemn deportment, very much edified and delighted by the pious conduct of his followers. So they went on and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of this circle, and on every side of that hollow square, and still there were lines and squares and circles out of number to review. The day being now intensely hot, and the sun striking down his fiercest rays upon the field, those who carried heavy banners began to grow faint and weary. Most of the number assembled were feigned to pull off their netcloths and throw their coats and waistcoats open, and some, towards the center, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was of course rendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down upon the grass and offered all they had about them for a drink of water. Still no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed. Still Lord George, streaming from every poor, went on with Gashford, and still Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them. They had arrived at the top of a long line of some 800 men in single file, and Lord George had turned his head to look back, when a loud cry of recognition and that peculiar and half-stifled tone which his voice has, when it is raised in the open air and in the midst of a great concourse of persons, was heard, and a man stepped with a shout of laughter from the rank and smoked Barnaby on the shoulder with his heavy hand. How now, he cried, Barnaby, rudge, where where have you been hiding for these hundred years? Barnaby had been thinking within himself that the smell of the trodden grass brought back his old days at Cricket, when he was a young boy and played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and boisterous address, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could scarcely say, What, Hugh? Hugh, echoed the other, Hey, Hugh, may Paul Hugh, you remember my dog? He's alive now and will know you, I warn't. What, you wear the collar, do you? Well done, ha ha ha. You know this young man, I see, said Lord George. Know him, my lord, as well as I know my own right hand. My captain knows him. We all know him. Will you take him into your division? It hasn't in it a better nor a nimbler nor a more active man than Barnaby Rudge, said Hugh. Show me the man who says it has. Fall in, Barnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis, and he shall carry, he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who tendered it, the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army. In the name of God, no, shrieked the widow darting forward. Barnaby, my lord, see, he'll come back. Barnaby, Barnaby. Women in the field, cried Hugh, stepping between them and holding her off. Hello, my captain there. What's the matter here, cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great heat. Do you call this order? Nothing like it, captain, answered Hugh, still holding her back with his outstretched hand. It's against all orders. Ladies are carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain. They're filing off the ground. Quick! Close! Cried Simon with the whole power of his lungs. Form! March! She was thrown to the ground. The whole field was in motion. Barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and she saw him no more. End of Chapter 48