 20 The proud consciousness of her trust, and the great importance she derived from it, might have advertised it to all the house if she had had to run the gauntlet of its inhabitants. But as Dolly had played in every dull room and passage many and many a time when a child, and had ever since been the humble friend of Miss Hairdale, whose foster sister she was, she was as free of the building as a young lady herself. So using no greater precaution than holding her breath and walking on tiptoe as she passed the library door, she went straight to Emma's room as a privileged visitor. It was the liveliest room in the building. The chamber was somber like the rest for the matter of that, but the presence of youth and beauty would make a prison cheerful, saving alas that confinement withers them, and lend some charms of their own to the gloomiest scene. Birds, flowers, books, drawing, music, and a hundred such graceful tokens of feminine loves and cares filled it with more of life and human sympathy than the whole house besides seemed made to hold. There was heart in the room, and who that has a heart ever fails to recognize the silent presence of another. Dolly had one undoubtedly, and it was not a tough one, either. Though there was a little mist of coquettishness about it, such as sometimes surrounds that sun of life in its morning, and slightly dims its luster, thus when Emma rose to greet her, and kissing her affectionately on the cheek, told her in her quiet way that she had been very unhappy, the tears stood in Dolly's eyes, and she felt more sorry than she could tell. But next moment she happened to raise them to the glass, and really there was something there so exceedingly agreeable, that as she sighed she smiled, and felt surprisingly consoled. "'I have heard about it, Miss,' said Dolly, and it's very sad, indeed, that when things are at the worst they are sure to mend. "'But are you sure they are at the worst?' asked Emma with a smile. "'Why, I don't see how they can very well be more unpromising than they are. I really don't,' said Dolly, and I'll bring something to begin with.' "'Not from Edward,' Dolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her pockets, they were pockets in those days, with an affectation of not being able to find what she wanted, which greatly enhanced her importance, at length produced the letter. As Emma hastily broke the seal and became absorbed in its contents, Dolly's eyes, by one of those strange accidents for which there is no accounting, wandered to the glass again. She could not help wondering whether the coach-maker suffered very much, and quite pitied the poor man. It was a long letter, a very long letter, written close on all four sides of the sheet of paper, and crossed afterwards, but it was not a consolatory letter, for as Emma read it, she stopped from time to time to put her handkerchief to her eyes. To be sure, Dolly marveled greatly to see her in so much distress, for to her, thinking, a love affair ought to be one of the best jokes, and the slyest, merriest kind of thing in life. But she set it down in her own mind, that all this came from Miss Hairdale's being so constant, and that if she would only take on with some other young gentleman, just in the most innocent way possible, to keep her first lover up to the mark, she would find herself inexpressibly comforted. I am sure that's what I should do if it was me, thought Dolly. To make one sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite right, but to be made miserable oneself is a little too much. However it wouldn't do to say so, and therefore she sat looking on in silence. She needed a pretty considerable stretch of patience, for when the long letter had been read once all through, it was read again, and when it had been read twice all through, it was read again. During this tedious process, Dolly beguiled the time in the most improving manner that occurred to her, by curling her hair on her fingers, with the aid of the looking-glass before mentioned, and giving it some killing-twists. Everything has an end. Ten young ladies in love cannot read their letters forever. In the course of time the packet was folded up, and it only remained to write the answer. But as this promised to be a work of time likewise, Emma said she would put it off until after dinner, and that Dolly must dine with her. As Dolly had made up her mind to do so beforehand, she required very little pressing, and when they had settled this point they went to walk in the garden. They strolled up and down the terrace-walks, talking incessantly, at least Dolly never left off once, and making that quarter of the sad and mournful house quite gay. Not that they talked loudly, or laughed much, but they were both so very handsome, and it was such a breezy day, and their light dresses and dark curls appeared so free and joyous in their abandonment, and Emma was so fair, and Dolly so rosy, and Emma so delicately shaped and Dolly so plump, and, in short, there are no flowers for any garden like such flowers, let horticulturists say what they may, and both house and garden seem to know it, and to brighten up sensibly. After this came the dinner and the letter writing, and some more talking, in the course of which Miss Hedale took occasion to charge upon Dolly certain flirtation in constant propensities, which accusations Dolly seemed to think very complimentary indeed, and to be mightily amused with. Finding her quite incorrigible in this respect, Emma suffered her to depart, but not before she had been fighted to her that important, and never sufficiently to be taken care of, answer, and endowed her moreover with a pretty little bracelet, as a keepsake. Having clasped it on her arm, and again advised her half ingest and half in earnest to amend her roguish ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart, which Dolly stoutly denied, with the great many haughty protestations that she hoped she could do better than that indeed, and so forth. She bade her farewell, and after calling her back to give her more supplementary messages for Edward, than anybody with tenfold the gravity of Dolly Varden could be reasonably expected to remember, at length dismissed her. Dolly bade her goodbye, and tripping lightly down the stairs arrived at the dreaded library door, and was about to pass it again on tiptoe, when it opened, and behold, there stood Mr. Hairdale. Now Dolly had from her childhood, associated with this gentleman the idea of something grim and ghostly, and being at the moment conscience-stricken besides, the sight of him threw her into such a flurry that she could neither acknowledge his presence nor run away, so she gave a great start, and then with downcast eyes stood still and trembled. Come here, girl, said Mr. Hairdale, taking her by the hand. I want to speak to you. If you please, sir, I'm in a hurry. Faulted Dolly, and you were frightened of me by coming so sadly upon me, sir. I would rather go, sir, if you'd be so good as to let me. Immediately, did Mr. Hairdale, who had by this time bled her into the room, and closed the door. You shall door directly. You have just left, Emma. Yes, sir. Just this minute. Father's waiting for me, sir, if you're pleased to have the goodness. I know. I know, said Mr. Hairdale. Answer me a question. What did you bring here, to-day? Bring here, sir. Faulted Dolly. You will tell me the truth, I'm sure, yes. Dolly hesitated for a little while, and somewhat emboldened by his manner, said at last, Well then, sir, it was a letter. From Mr. Edward Chester, of course, and you are the bearer of the answer. Dolly hesitated again, and not being able to decide upon any other course of action burst into tears. You alarm yourself without cause, said Mr. Hairdale. Why are you so foolish? Surely you can answer me. You know that I have but to put the question to Emma, and learn the truth directly. Have you the answer with you? Dolly had what is popularly called a spirit of her own, and being now fairly at bay, made the best of it. Yes, sir. She rejoined, trembling and frightened as she was. Yes, sir. I have. You may kill me if you please, sir, but I won't give it up. I'm very sorry, but I won't. There you are, sir. I commend your firmness and your plain speaking, said Mr. Hairdale, rest assured that I have as little desire to take your letter as your life. You are a very discreet messenger, and a good girl. Not feeling quite certain, as she afterward said, whether he might not be coming over her with these compliments, Dolly kept as far from him as she could, cried again, and resolved to defend her pocket for the letter was there to the last extremity. I have some design, said Mr. Hairdale, after a short silence, during which a smile, as he regarded her, had struggled through the gloom and melancholy that was natural to his face. Of providing a companion for my niece, for her life is a very lonely one. Would you like the office? You are the oldest friend she has, and the best entitled to it. I don't know, sir, answered Dolly. Not sure, but he was bantering her. I can't say. I don't know what they might wish at home. I couldn't give my opinion, sir. If your friends had no objection, would you have any? said Mr. Hairdale. Come! Here's a plain question, and easy to answer. None at all, that I know of, sir, replied Dolly. I should be very glad to be near Miss Emma, of course, and at always am. That's well, said Mr. Hairdale. That is all I had to say. You're anxious to go. Don't let me detain you. Dolly didn't let him, nor did she wait for him to try, for the words had no sooner passed his lips than she was out of the room, out of the house, and in the fields again. The first thing to be done, of course, when she came to herself and considered what a flurry she had been in, was to cry her fresh, and the next thing, when she reflected how well she had got over it, was to laugh heartily. The tears once banished gave place to the smiles, and at last Dolly laughed so much that she was famed to lean against a tree and give vent to her exultation. When she could laugh no longer, and was quite tired, she put her head rest to rights, dried her eyes, looked back very merrily and triumphantly at the worn chimneys which were just visible, and resumed her walk. The twilight had come on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the path was so familiar to her from frequent traversing that she hardly thought of this, and certainly felt no uneasiness at being left alone. Moreover there was the bracelet to admire, and when she had given it a good rub, and held it out at arm's length, it sparkled and glittered so beautifully on her wrist that to look at it in every point of view and with every possible turn of the arm was quite an absorbing business. There was the letter, too, and it looked so mysterious and glowing, when she took it out of her pocket and it held, as she knew, so much inside, that to turn it over and over and think about it, and wonder how it began, and how it ended, and what it said all through was another matter of constant occupation. Between the bracelet and the letter there was quite enough to do without thinking of anything else, and admiring each by turns Dolly went on gaily. As she passed through a wicked gate, to where the path was narrow and lay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she heard a rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop. She listened. All was very quiet, and she went on again, not absolutely frightened, but a little quicker than before, perhaps, and possibly not quite so much at her ease for a check of that kind as startling. She had no sooner moved on again, and she was conscious of the same sound, which was like that of a person, tramping stealthily among bushes and brushwood. Looking towards the spot when it appeared to come, she almost fancied she could make out a crouching figure. She stopped again. All was quiet as before. Aren't she went once more, decidedly faster now, and tried to sing softly to herself? It must be the wind. But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when she stood still? She stopped involuntarily, as she made the reflection, and the rustling noise stopped likewise. She was really frightened now, and was yet hesitating what to do, when the bushes crackled and snapped, and a man came plunging through them close before her. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty It was for the moment an inexpressible relief to Dolly, to recognize in the person who forced himself into the path so abruptly, and now stood directly in her way, Hugh of the Maypole, whose name she uttered in a tone of delighted surprise, a tone of indifference, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of anger, and a tone of delighted surprise that came from her heart. Was it you? she said. How glad I am to see you, and how could you terrify me so? In answer to which she said nothing at all, but stood quite still, looking at her. Did you come to meet me? asked Dolly. Hugh nodded and muttered something to the effect that he had been waiting for her, and had expected her sooner. I thought it likely they would send, said Dolly, greatly reassured by this. Nobody sent me, was his son in answer. I came of my own accord. The rough bearing of this fellow, and his wild, uncouth appearance, had often filled the girl with a vague apprehension, even when other people were by, and had occasioned her to shrink from him involuntarily. After having him for an unbidden companion, in so solitary a place, with the darkness fast gathering about them, renewed and even increased the alarm she had felt at first. If his manner had been merely dogged and passively fierce, as usual, she would have had no greater dislike to his company than she always felt, perhaps indeed would have been rather glad to have had him at hand. But there was something of coarse, bold admiration in his look, which terrified her very much. She glanced timidly towards him, uncertain whether to go forward or retreat, and he stood gazing at her like a handsome satyr, and so they remained for some short time without stirring or breaking silence. At length Dolly took courage, shot past him, and hurried on. Why do you spend so much breath in avoiding me? said Hugh, accommodating his pace to hers, and keeping close at her side. I wish to get back as quickly as I can, and you walk too near me, answered Dolly. Too near? said Hugh, stooping over her so that you could feel her's breath upon her forehead. Why too near? You're always proud to me, mistress. I'm proud to know one. You mistake me, answered Dolly. Fall back, if you please, or go on. Nay, mistress. He rejoined, endeavouring to draw her arm through his. I'll walk with you. She released herself, and clenching her little hand struck him with right goodwill. At this, Maypole Hugh burst into a roar of laughter, and passing his arm about her waist held her in his strong grasp as easily as if she had been a bird. Oh, well done, mistress. Strike again. You shall beat my face, and tear my hair, and pluck my beard up by the roots, and welcome, for the sake of your bright eyes. Strike again, mistress, do. I like it. Let me go! She cried, endeavouring with both her hands to push him off. Let me go, this moment! You had as good be kinder to me, sweet lips, said Hugh. You had indeed. Come. Tell me now, why are you always so proud? I don't quarrel with you for it, and love you when you're proud. You can't hide your beauty from a poor fellow, that's her comfort. She gave him no answer, but as he had not checked her progress, continued to press forward as rapidly as she could. At length between the hurry she had made, her terror, and the tightness of his embrace, her strength failed her, and she could go no further. Hugh! cried the panting girl. Good Hugh, if you will leave me, I will give you anything, everything I have, and never tell one word of this to any living creature. You had best not, he answered, harky little dove, you had best not. All about here know me, and what I dare do, if I ever mind, if ever you are going to tell, stop, when the words are on your lips, and think of the mischief you'll bring, if you do, upon some innocent heads that you wouldn't wish to hurt a heir of. Bring trouble on me, and I'll bring trouble and something more on them in return. I care no more for them than for so many dogs. Not so much. Why should I? I'd sooner kill a man than a dog any day. I've never been sorry for a man's death in all my life, and I have for a dog's. There was something so thoroughly savage in the manner of these expressions, and the looks and gestures by which they were accompanied, that her great fear of him gave her new strength, and enabled her by a sudden effort to extricate herself and run fleetly from him. But Hugh was as nimble, strong, and swift of foot as any man in broad England, and it was but a fruitless expenditure of energy, for he had her in his encircling arms again before she had gone a hundred yards. Softly, darling, gently, would you fly from rough Hugh that loves you as well as any drawing room gallant? I would, she answered, struggling to free herself again. I will help. I'm fine for crying out, said Hugh. I'm fine, pretty one, from your lips. I pay myself. Help! Help! As she shrieked with the utmost violence she could exert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and another. Oh, thank heaven! cried the girl in an ecstasy. Joe! Dear Joe! This way! Help! Her assailant paused and stood a resolute for a moment. But the shouts, drawing nearer and coming quick upon them, paused him to a speedy decision. He released her, whispered with a menacing look, tell him and see what follows, and leaping the hedge was gone in an instant. Dolly darted off and fairly ran into Joe Willet's open arms. What is the matter? Are you hurt? What is it? Who was it? Where is he? What was he like? With a great many encouraging expressions and assurances of safety, were the first words Joe poured forth. But poor little Dolly was so breathless and terrified that for some time she was quite unable to answer him, and hung upon his shoulder sobbing and crying as if her heart would break. Joe had not the smallest objection to have her hanging on his shoulder. No, not the least. Though it crushed the cherry-coloured ribbons, sadly, and put the smart little hat out of all shape, but he couldn't bear to see her cry, it went to his very heart. He tried to console her, bend over her, whispered to her. Some say kissed her, but that's a fable. At any rate he said all the kind and tender things he could think of, and Dolly let him go on and didn't interrupt him once, and it was a good ten minutes before she was able to raise her head and thank him. What was it that frightened you? Said Joe. A man whose person was unknown to her had followed her, she answered. He began by begging, and went on to threats of robbery, which he was on the point of carrying into execution and would have executed, but for Joe's timely aid. The hesitation and confusion with which she said this, Joe attributed to the fright she had sustained, and no suspicion of the truth occurred to him for a moment. Stop when the words are on your lips. A hundred times that night, and very often afterwards when the disclosure was rising to her tongue, Dolly thought of that, and repressed it. A deeply rooted dread of the man, the conviction that his ferocious nature once roused would stop at nothing, and the strong assurance that if she impeached him, the full measure of his wrath and vengeance would be wreaked on Joe, who had preserved her. These were considerations she had not the courage to overcome, and inducements to secrecy too powerful for her to surmount. Joe, for his part, was a great deal too happy to enquire very curiously into the matter, and Dolly being yet too tremulous to walk without assistance, they went forward very slowly, and in his mind very pleasantly, until the maypole lights were near at hand, twinkling their cheerful welcome, Dolly stopped suddenly, and with a half scream exclaimed, The letter! What letter? cried Joe. Then I was carrying! Oh, I had it in my hand! My bracelet too! she said, clasping her wrist. I have lost them both. Do you mean just now? said Joe. Either I dropped them then, or they might have taken from me. answered Dolly, vainly searching her pocket and wrestling her dress. They are gone! Both gone! What an unhappy girl I am! With these words poor Dolly, who to do her justice was quite as sorry for the loss of the letter as for her bracelet, fell a crying again, and bemoaned her fate most movingly. Joe tried to comfort her with the assurance that directly he had housed her in the maypole, he would return to the spot of the lantern, for it was now quite dark, and make strict search for the missing articles, which there was great probability of his finding, as it was not likely that anybody had passed that way since, and she was not conscious that they had been forcibly taken from her. Dolly thanked him very heartily for this offer, though with no great hope of his quest being successful, and so with many lamentations on her side, and many hopeful words on his, and much weakness on the part of Dolly, and much tender supporting on the part of Joe, they reached the maypole bar at last, where the locksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival. Mr. Willet received the intelligence of Dolly's trouble with that surprising presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he was so eminently distinguished above all other men. Mrs. Varden expressed her sympathy for her daughter's distress by scolding her roundly for being so late, and the honest locksmith divided himself between condoling with and kissing Dolly, and shaking hands heartily with Joe, whom he could not sufficiently praise or thank. In reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing with his friend. For besides that he by no means approved of an adventurous spirit in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his son and heir had been seriously damaged in a scuffle, the consequences would assuredly have been expensive and inconvenient, and might perhaps have proved detrimental to the maypole business. Wherefore, and because he looked with no favorable eye upon young girls, but rather considered that they and the whole female sex were a kind of nonsensical mistake on the part of nature, he took occasion to retire and shake his head in private at the boiler. Inspired by which silent oracle, he was moved to give Joe various stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental reproof and gentle admonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of himself. Joe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it, and arming himself with a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable. He's lying asleep before the kitchen fire, sir, said Mr. Willett. What do you want him for? I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and letter, answered Joe. Hello there, Hugh! Dolly turned pale as death, and felt as if she must faint forthwith. After a few moments, Hugh came staggering in, stretching himself and yawning according to custom, and presenting every appearance of having been roused from a sound nap. Here, sleepyhead, said Joe, giving him the lantern, carry this and bring the dog and that small cudgel of yours, and will betide the fellow if we come upon him. What fellow! growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself. What fellow! returned Joe, who was in a state of great valor in his little vessel. A fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about. It's well for like of you, lazy giant, that you are, to be snoring your time away in chimney corners when honest men's daughters can't cross even our quiet meadows at nightfall without being set upon by foot-pads and frightened out of their precious lives. They never robbed me, cried Hugh with a laugh. I've got nothing to lose. But I'd as leaf knock'em ahead as any other men. How many are there? Only one," said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her. And what was he like, mistress? Said Hugh with a glance at young Willet, so slight and momentary that the scowl had conveyed was lost and all but her. About my height? Not, not so tall, Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said. His dress? Said Hugh, looking at her keenly. Like, like any of ours now? Oh, no, all the people hereabouts, and maybe could give a guess at the man if I had anything to guide me. Dolly faltered and turned paler yet, then answered that he was wrapped in a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief and that she could give no other description of him. You wouldn't know him if you saw him then be like, said Hugh with a malicious grin. I should not, answered Dolly, bursting into tears again. I don't wish to see him. I can't bear to think of him. I can't talk about him any more. Don't go to look for these things, Mr. Joe, pray don't. I entreat you not to go with that plan. Not to go with me, cried Hugh. Aren't too rough for them all. They're all afraid of me. Why, bless you, mistress, are the tenderest art alive. I love all the ladies, Barb. Said Hugh, turning to the locksmith's wife. Mrs. Varden opined that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of himself. Such sentiments being more consistent, so she argued, with a benighted musselman or wild islander, and with a staunch protestant. Arguing from this imperfect state of his morals, Mrs. Varden further opined that he had never studied the manual. Hugh admitting that he never had, and moreover that he couldn't read, Mrs. Varden declared with much severity that he ought to be even more ashamed of himself than before, and strongly recommended him to save up his pocket money for the purchase of one, and further to teach himself the contents with all convenient diligence. She was still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh, somewhat unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master out and left her to edify the rest of the company. This she proceeded to do, and finding that Mr. Willet's eyes were fixed upon her with an appearance of deeper tension, gradually addressed the whole of her discourse to him, whom she entertained with a moral and theological lecture of considerable length, in the conviction that great workings were taking place in his spirit. The simple truth was, however, that Mr. Willet, although his eyes were wide open, and he saw a woman before him, whose head, by long and steady, looking at, seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it filled the whole bar, was to all other intents and purposes, fast asleep, and so sat leaning back in his chair in his pockets until his son's return caused him to wake up with a deep sigh, and a faint impression that he had been dreaming about pickled pork and greens, a vision of his slumbers which was no doubt referable to the circumstance of Mrs. Vardens having frequently pronounced the word grace, with much emphasis, which word entering the portals of Mr. Willet's brain as they stood ajar, and coupling itself with the words before meat, which were there ranging about, did in time suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description of vegetable, which is usually its companion. The search was wholly unsuccessful. Joe had groped along the path a dozen times, and among the grass, and in the dry ditch, and in the hedge, but all in vain. Dolly, who was quite inconsolable for her loss, wrote a note to Miss Hairdell, giving her the same account of it that she had given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to deliver as soon as the family were stirring next day. That done, they sat down to tea in the bar, where there was an uncommon display of buttered toast, and, in order that they might not grow faint for want of sustenance, and might have a decent halting-place, or halfway house, between dinner and supper, a few savoury trifles in the shape of great rashes of broiled ham, which, being well cured, done to a turn and smoking hot, sent forth a tempting and delicious fragrance. Mrs. Varden was seldom very protestant at meals, unless it happened that they were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything occurred to put her out of humour. Her spirits rose considerably on beholding these goodly preparations, and from the nothingness of good works, she passed to the somethingness of ham and toast with great cheerfulness. Nay, under the influence of these wholesome stimulants, she sharply reproved her daughter for being low and despondent, which she considered an unacceptable frame of mind, and remarked as she held her own place for a fresh supply that it would be well for Dolly, who pined over the loss of a toy and a sheet of paper, if she would reflect upon the voluntary sacrifices of the missionaries and foreign parts who lived chiefly on salads. The proceedings of such a day occasion various fluctuations in the human thermometer, and especially in instruments so sensitively and delicately constructed as Mrs. Varden. Thus, at dinner, Mrs. V stood at summer heat, genial, smiling and delightful. After dinner, in the sunshine of the wine, she went up at least half a dozen degrees and was perfectly enchanting. As its effects subsided, she fell rapidly, went to sleep for an hour or so at temperate and woke at something below freezing. Now she was at summer heat again in the shade, and when tea was over and old John producing a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases insisted on her sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she stood steadily at ninety for one hour and a quarter. Profiting by experience, the locksmith took advantage of this genial weather to smoke his pipe in the porch, and in consequence of this prudent management, he was fully prepared and the glass went down again to start homewards directly. The horse was accordingly put in and the chaise brought round to the door. Joe, who would on no account be dissuaded from escorting them until they had passed the most dreary and solitary part of the road, led out the grey mare at the same time and having helped Dolly into her seat—more happiness— sprung gaily into the saddle. Then, after many good nights and admonitions to wrap up and glancing of lights and handing in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise rolled away and Joe trotted beside it on Dolly's side, no doubt, and pretty close to the wheel, too. CHAPTER 22 It was a fine bright night. And for all her loners of spirits, Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a mannous setting, as if she had never seen the stars before, and she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen the stars before, and as if she had never seen If there had been an executioner behind him with an uplifted axe ready to chop off his head if he touched that hand, Joe couldn't have helped doing it. From putting his own hand upon it as if by chance, and taking it away again after a minute or so, he got to riding along without taking it off at all, as if he, the escort, were bound to do that as an important part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose. The most curious circumstance about this little incident was that Dolly didn't seem to know of it. She looked so innocent and unconscious when she turned her eyes on Joe that it was quite provoking. She talked, though, talked about her fright, and about Joe's coming up to rescue her, and about her gratitude, and about her fear that she might not have thanked him enough, and about there always being friends from that time forth, and about all that sort of thing. And when Joe said, not friends, he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised, and said not enemies, she hoped, and when Joe said couldn't they be something much better than either, Dolly all of a sudden found out a star which was brighter than all the other stars and begged to call his attention to the same, and was ten thousand times more innocent and unconscious than ever. In this manner they travelled along, talking very little above a whisper, and wishing the road could be stretched out to some dozen times its natural length. At least that was Joe's desire, when, as they were getting clear of the forest and emerging on the more frequented road, they heard behind them the sound of a horse's feet at a round trot, which growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer elicited a scream from Mrs. Varden, and the cry, a friend, and the rider who now came panting up and checked his horse beside them. This man again, cried Dolly, shuddering. You, said Joe, what errand are you upon? I can't ride back with you, he answered, glancing covertly at the locksmith's daughter. He sent me. My father, said poor Joe, adding under his breath with a very unfilial apostrophe, will he never think me men enough to take care of myself? I returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. The roads are not safe just now, he says, and you better have a companion. Ride on then, said Joe, I'm not going to turn yet. Hugh complied, and they went on again. It was his whim or humour to ride immediately before the Shays, and from this position he constantly turned his head and looked back. Dolly felt that he looked at her, but she averted her eyes and feared to raise them once, so great was the dread with which he had inspired her. This interruption and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs. Varden, who had been nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a minute or two at a time when she roused herself to scold the locksmith for auditiously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding herself out of the Shays, put a restraint upon the whispered conversation and made it difficult of resumption. Indeed, before they had gone another mile, Gabriel stopped at his wife's desire, and that good lady protested she would not hear of Joe's going a step further on any account whatever. It was in vain for Joe to protest, on the other hand, that he was by no means tired, and would turn back presently, and would see them safely past such a point and so forth. Mrs. Varden was obdurate, and being so was not to be overcome by mortal agency. Good night, if I must say it, said Joe sorrowfully. Good night, said Dolly. She would have added, take care of that man and pray don't trust him. But he had turned his horse's head and was standing close to them. She had therefore nothing for it but to suffer Joe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the Shays had gone on, for some distance, to look back and wave it, as he still lingered on the spot where they had parted, with the tall, dark figure of hue beside him. What she thought about, going home, and whether the coachmaker held as favourable a place in her meditations as he had occupied in the morning, is unknown. They reached home at last, at last, for it was a long way, made none the shorter by Mrs. Varden's grumbling. Miggs, hearing the sound of wheels, was at the door immediately. Here they are, Simon! Here they are! cried Miggs, clapping her hands and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. Bring a chair, Simon! Now, aren't you the better for it, ma'am? Don't you feel more yourself than you would have done if you'd have stopped at home? Oh, gracious! how cold you are! Goodness me, sir, she's a perfect heap of eyes. I can't help it, my good girl. You'd better take her into the fire," said the locksmith. Master sounds unfeeling, Mim, said Miggs in a tone of commiseration. But Satch is not his intentions, I'm sure. After what you've seen of you this day, I never will believe but that he has a deal more affection in his heart than to speak unkind. Come in and sit yourself down by the fire. There's a good dear doom. Mrs. Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his pockets, and Mr. Tappeted trundled off with a chaise to a neighbouring stable. Mm, Martha, my dear, said the locksmith when they reached the parlour. If you look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do it, perhaps it will be only kind and reasonable. She has been frightened, you know, and is not at all well tonight. In fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite regardless of all the little finery of which she had been so proud in the morning, and with her face buried in her hands was crying very much. At first sight of this phenomenon, for Dolly was by no means accustomed to the displays of this sort rather learning from her mother's example to avoid them as much as possible, Mrs. Varden expressed her belief that never was any woman so beset as she, and that her life was a continued scene of trial, that whenever she was disposed to be well and cheerful, so sure were the people around her to throw, by some means or other, a damp upon her spirits, and that as she had enjoyed herself that day, and heaven knew it was very seldom she did enjoy herself, so she was now to pay the penalty. To all such propositions, Miggs assented freely. Poor Dolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but rather worse indeed, and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs. Varden and Miggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in earnest. But even then their very kindness shaped itself into their usual course of policy, and though Dolly was in a swoon it was rendered clear to the meanest capacity that Mrs. Varden was the sufferer. Thus when Dolly began to get a little better, and passed into that stage in which matrons hold that remonstrance and argument may be successfully applied, her mother represented to her with tears in her eyes that if she had been flurried and worried that day she must remember it was the common lot of humanity, and in a special of woman kind, who through the whole of their existence must expect no less, and were bound to make up their minds to meek endurance and patient resignation. Mrs. Varden and Cheetah Tedder remember that one of these days she would, in all probability, have to do violence to her feelings so far as to be married, and that marriage, as she might see every day of her life, and truly she did, was a state requiring great fortitude and forbearance. She represented to her in lively colours that if she, Mrs. V, had not, in steering her course through this veil of tears, been supported by a strong principle of duty which alone upheld and prevented her from drooping, she must have been in her grave many years ago, in which case she desired to know what would have become of that errant spirit, meaning the locksmith, of whose eye she was the very apple, and in whose path she was, as it were, a shining light and guiding star. Ms. Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that indeed and indeed Ms. Dolly might take pattern by her blessed mother, who she always had said, and always would say, though she were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for it next minute, was the mildest, amiableest, forgivingness spirited, longest, sufferingest female as ever she could have believed. The mere narration of whose excellencies had worked such a wholesome change in the mind of her own sister-in-law, that whereas before, she and her husband lived like cat and dog, and were in the habit of exchanging brass candlesticks, pot lids, flat irons, and other such strong resentments, they were now the happiest and affectionate couple upon earth, as could be proved any day on application at Golden Lion Court No. 27, Second Bell Handle on the Right Hand Doorpost After glancing at herself as a comparatively worthless vessel, but still as one of some dessert, she besought her to bear in mind that her aforesaid dear and only mother was of a weakly constitution, an excitable temperament, who had constantly to sustain afflictions in domestic life, compared with which thieves and robbers were as nothing, and yet never sunk down or gave way to despair or wrath, but in price-fighting phraseology, always came up to time with her cheerful countenance, and went in to win as if nothing had happened. When Miggs finished her solo, her mistress struck in again, and the two together performed a duet to the same purpose, the burden being that Mrs. Varden was persecuted perfection, and Mr. Varden, as the representative of mankind in that apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal habits, utterly insensible to the blessings he enjoyed. Of so refined a character indeed was their talent of assault under the mask of sympathy, that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly as in vindication of his goodness. Mrs. Varden expressed her solemn hope that this would be a lesson to him for the remainder of his life, and that he would do some little justice to a one's nature ever afterwards, in which aspiration, Ms. Miggs, by diverse sniffs and coughs, more significant than the longest oration, expressed her entire concurrence. But the great joy of Miggs's heart was that she not only picked up a full account of what had happened, but had the exquisite delight of conveying it to Mr. Tappeted for his jealousy and torture. For that gentleman, on account of Dolly's indisposition, had been requested to take his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed thither by Ms. Miggs's own fair hands. Ow, Simon! said the young lady. Such goings on today! How gracious me, Simon! Mr. Tappeted, who is not in the best of humours, and who disliked Ms. Miggs more, when she laid her hand on her heart and panted for breath, than at any other time, as her deficiency of outline was most apparent under such circumstances, eyed her over in his loftiest style, and deigned to express no curiosity, whatever. I never heard a lark, nor nobody else! pursued Miggs. The idea of interfering with her! What people can see in her at the bank it worth their while to do so! That's the joke! Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr. Tappeted totally requested his fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know what she meant by her. Why that dolly! said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on the name. But how upon my word in honour! Young Joseph Willett is a brave one, and he do deserve her, that he do. Woman! said Mr. Tappeted, jumping off the counter on which he was seated. Beware! Star Simon! cried Miggs, in effect at astonishment. You frightened me to death! What's the matter? There are strings! said Mr. Tappeted, flourishing his bread and cheese knife in the air. In a human heart, I'd had better not be vibrated. That's what's the matter. Oh, very well, if you're in a half! cried Miggs, turning away. Half! or no half! said Mr. Tappeted, detaining her by the wrist. What do you mean, Jezebel? What were you going to say? Answer me! Notwithstanding this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she was required, and told him how that their young mistress, being alone in the meadows after dark, had been attacked by three or four tall men, who would have certainly borne her away, and perhaps murdered her, but for the timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who with his own single hand put them all to flight, and rescued her, to the lasting admiration of his fellow creatures generally, and to the eternal love and gratitude of Dolly Varden. Very good! said Mr. Tappeted, etching a long breath when the tale was told, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and straight on end all over his head. His days are numbered! Oh, Simon! I tell you, said the apprentice, his days are numbered! Leave me, get along with you! Miggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than because she desired to chuckle in secret. When she had given vent to her satisfaction, she returned to the parlor, where the locksmith, stimulated by quietness and tobey, had become talkative, and was disposed to take a cheerful review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs. Varden, whose practical religion, as is not uncommon, was usually of the retrospective order, cut him short by declaiming on the sinfulness of such junkettings, and holding that it was high time to go to bed. To bed, therefore, she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the Maypole's own state couch, and to bed the rest of the establishment soon afterwards repaired. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Twilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon in those quarters of the town in which the world condescended to dwell. The world being there thus now are very limited dimensions and easily lodged, when Mr. Chester reclined upon a sofa in his dressing room in the temple, entertaining himself with a book. He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half the journey, was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs and feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of his toilet to perform. The coat was stretched like a refined scarecrow on its separate horse, the waistcoat was displayed to the best advantage, the various ornamental articles of dress were severally set out in most alluring order, and yet he lay dangling his legs between the sofa and the ground, as intent upon his book as if there were nothing but bed before him. Upon my honour, he said at length, raising his eyes to the ceiling with the air of man who was reflecting seriously on what he had read. Upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly sentiments in the universe. Ah, Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject that could possibly arise between us. This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty air, for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone. My Lord Chesterfield, he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the book as he laid it down. If I could but have profited by your genius, soon enough to have formed my son in the model, you have left to all wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was undoubtedly very fine in his way, Milton Good, though prosy, Lord Bacon deep, and decidedly knowing what the writer who should be his country's pride is my Lord Chesterfield. He became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition. I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world, he continued. I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from boers and peasants, and separated their character from those intensely vulgar sentiments which are called the national character. Apart from any natural pre-possession in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in every page of this enlightened writer, I find some captivating hypocrisy which has never occurred to me before, or some superlative piece of selfishness to which I was utterly a stranger. I should quite blush for myself before this stupendous creature, if remembering his precepts one might blush at anything. An amazing man, a noble man indeed. Any king or queen may make a lord, but only the devil himself and the graces can make a Chesterfield. Men who are thoroughly false and hollow seldom try to hide those vices from themselves, and yet in the very act of avowing them they lay claim to the virtues they fain most to despise. For, say they, this is honesty, this is truth. All mankind are like us, but they have not the candour to avow it. The more they effect to deny the existence of any sincerity in the world, the more they would be thought to possess it in its boldest shape. And this is an unconscious complement to truth on the part of these philosophers, which will turn the laugh against them to the day of judgment. Mr. Chester, having extolled his favoured author, as above recited, took up the book again in the excess of his admiration, and was composing himself for a further perusal of its sublime morality when he was disturbed by a noise of the outer door, occasioned as it seemed by the endeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance of some unwelcome visitor. A late hour for an important creditor, he said, raising his eyebrows with as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise were in the street, and one with which he had not the smallest possible concern. Much after their accustomed time, the usual pretence, I suppose, no doubt a heavy payment to make up to-morrow. Poor fellow, he loses time, and time as money as the good proverb says. I never found it out, though. Well, what now? You know I am not at home. A man, sir," replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and negligent in his way as his master, as brought home the riding-whip you lost the other day. I told him you were out, but he said he was to wait while I brought it in and wouldn't go till I did. He was quite right, returned his master, and you're a blockhead, possessing no judgment or discretion whatever. Tell him to come in and see that he rubs his shoes for exactly five minutes first. The man laid the whip on a chair and withdrew. The master, who had only heard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the trouble to turn round and look at him, shut his book, and pursued the train of ideas his entrance had disturbed. If time were money, he said, handling his snuff-box, I would compound with my creditors, and give them, let me see, all much a day. There's my nap after dinner, and are, extremely welcome to that, and to make the most of it. In the morning, between my breakfast and the paper, I could spare them another hour. In the evening before dinner, say another, three hours a day. They might pay themselves in calls with interest in twelve months. I think I shall propose it to them. Oh, my centaur, are you there? Here I am, replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog as rough and sullen as himself. And trouble enough I've had to get here, for you asked me to come, for keep me out when I do come. My good fellow, returned the other, raising his head a little from the cushion, and carelessly surveying him from top to toe. I am delighted to see you, and to have, in your being here, the very best proof that you are not kept out. How are you? Ah, well enough, said Hugh impatiently. You look a perfect marvel of health. Sit down. I'd rather stand, said Hugh. And please yourself, my good fellow, returned Mr. Chester rising, slowly pulling off the loose ropey wore, and sitting down before the dressing-class. Please yourself, my all means. Having said this, in the politest and blandest tone possible, he went on dressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who stood in the same spot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him solgently from time to time. Oh, you're going to spate a me, master! he said, after a long silence. My worthy creature! returned Mr. Chester, you're a little ruffled and out of humour. I'll wait till you're quite yourself again. I am in no hurry. This behaviour had its intended effect. It humbled and abashed the man, and made him still more irresolute and uncertain. Hard words he could have returned. Violence he would have repaid with interest. But this cool, complacent, contemptuous, self-possessed reception caused him to feel his inferiority more completely than the most elaborate arguments. Everything contributed to this effect. His own rough speech contrasted with the soft persuasive accents of the other, his rude bearing in Mr. Chester's polished manner, the disorder and negligence of his ragged dress, and the elegant attire he saw before him, with all the unaccustomed luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that gave him leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they made him. All these influences, which have too often some effect on tutored minds, and become of almost resistless power when brought to bear on such a mind as his, quelled Hugh completely. He moved by little and little nearer to Mr. Chester's chair, and glancing over his shoulder at the reflection of his face in the glass, as if seeking for some encouragement in its expression, said at length with a rough attempt at conciliation, Are you going to speak to me, Master, or are you going to go away? Speak, Hugh, said Mr. Chester. Speak, Hugh, good fellow. I have spoken. Have I not? I am waiting for you. Why, look ye, sir, returned Hugh with increased embarrassment. Am I the man that you privately left your whip with before you rode away from the maypole, and told him to bring it back whenever he might want to see you on a certain subject? No doubt the same. Or you have a twin brother, said Mr. Chester, glancing at the reflection of his anxious face, and which is not probable, I should say. Then I have come, sir, said Hugh, and I brought it back, and something else along with it. A letter, sir, it is, and I took from the person who had charge of it. As he spoke, he laid upon the dressing table Dolly's lost epistle, the very letter that had cost her so much trouble. And did you obtain this by force, my good fellow? said Mr. Chester, casting his eye upon it without the least perceptible surprise or pleasure. Not quite, said Hugh, partly. Who was the messenger from whom you took it? A woman, one Varden's daughter. Oh, indeed, said Mr. Chester gaily. What else did you take from her? What else? Yes, said the other in a drawing manner, for he was fixing a very small patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near the corner of his mouth. What else? Well, I guess, replied Hugh after some hesitation. And what else? Nothing. I think, said Mr. Chester, in the same easy tone and smiling twice or twice to try if the patch adhered. I think there was something else. I have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of. A mere trifle, a thing of such little value indeed that you may have forgotten it. Do you remember anything of the kind, such as a bracelet now, for instance? Hugh, with a muttered oath, thrust his hand into his breast, and drawing the bracelet forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to lay it on the table, likewise, when his patron stopped his hand and bait him put it up again. You took that for yourself, my excellent friend, he said, and may keep it. I am neither a thief nor a receiver, but don't show it to me. You'd better hide it again and lose no time. Don't let me see where you put it, either, he added, turning away his head. You're not a receiver, said Hugh bluntly, despite the increasing awe in which he held him. What do you call that, master, striking the letter with his heavy hand? I call that quite another thing, said Mr. Chester coolly. I shall prove it presently, as you will see. You are thirsty, I suppose? Hugh drew his sleeve across his lips and gruffly answered yes. A step to that closet and to bring me a buckle, you will see, there, and a glass. He obeyed. His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his back was turned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside the mirror. On his return he filled the glass and bait him drink. That dram dispatched, he poured him out another, and another. How many can you bear? he said, filling the glass again. As many as you like to give me, pour on, fill I, a bumper with a bead in the middle. Give me enough of this. He added his toaster down his hairy throat, and I'll do murder, if you ask me. As I don't mean to ask you, and you might possibly do it without being invited, if you went on much further, said Mr. Chester, with great composure. We will stop, if agreeable to you, my good friend, at the next glass. You were drinking before you came here. I always am when I get and get it, cried Hugh boisterously, waving the empty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude dancing attitude. I always am. Why not? What's so good to me as this? Whatever has been. What else has kept away the cold on bitternights, and driven hunger off in starving times? What else has given me the strength and carriage of a man, when men would have left me to die a puny child? I should never have had a man's heart but for this. I should have died in a ditch. Where's he you, when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs and fading sight, made me cheer up, as this did. I never knew him, not I. Ah, drink to the drink, master! You're an exceedingly cheerful young man, said Mr. Chester, putting on his cravat with great deliberation, and slightly moving his head from side to side to settle his chin in its proper place. A quite a boon companion. Do you see this hand, master? said Hugh, and this arm, bearing the brawny limb to the elbow. It was once me a skin and bone, and would have been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but for the drink. You may cover it, said Mr. Chester. It's sufficiently real in your sleeve. Ah, should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud little beauty master, but for the drink, cried Hugh. It was a good one. A sweet as Annie Sackle, I warrant you. I thank the drink for it. I'll drink to the drink again, master. Fill me one more. Come, one more. You are such a promising fellow, said his patron, putting on his waistcoat with great nicety, and taking no heed of this request. That I must caution you against having too many impulses from the drink, and getting hung before your time. What's your age? Oh, I don't know. At any rate, said Mr. Chester, you are young enough to escape what I may call a natural death for some years to come. How can you trust yourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance with a halter around your neck? What a confiding nature yours must be. Hugh fell back a pace or two, and surveyed him for the look of mingled terror indignation and surprise. Regarding himself in the glass with the same complacency as before, and speaking as smoothly as if he were discussing some pleasant chit-chat of the town, his patron went on. Rubbery on the King's Highway, my young friend, is a very dangerous and ticklish occupation. It is pleasant, I have no doubt, while it lasts, but like many other pleasures in this transitory world, it seldom lasts long. And really, if in the ingenuousness of youth you open your heart so readily on the subject, I am afraid your career will be an extremely short one. How's this? said Hugh. What you talk of, master? Who was it set me on? Who? said Mr. Chester, wheeling sharply round and looking full at him for the first time. I didn't hear you. Who was it? Hugh faltered and muttered something which was not audible. Who was it? I'm curious to know. Said Mr. Chester with surpassing effability. Some rustic beauty, perhaps? But be cautious, my good friend. They are not always to be trusted. Do take my advice now and be careful of yourself. With these words he turned to the glass again and went on with his toilet. Hugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself, had set him on, but the words stuck in his throat. The consummate art with which his patron had led him to this point, and managed the whole conversation, perfectly baffled him. He did not doubt that if he had made the retort which is on his lips on Mr. Chester turned round and questioned him so keenly, he would straight away have given him into custody, and had him dragged before a justice with the stone and property upon him, in which case it was as certain he would have been hung as it was that he had been born. The ascendancy, which it was the purpose of the man of the world to establish over this savage instrument, was gained from that time. Hugh's submission was complete. He dreaded him beyond description, and felt that accident and artifice had spun a web about him, which at a touch from such a master hand as his would bind him to the gallows. With these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet wondering at the very same time how he who came there rioting in the competence of this man, as he thought, should be so soon and so thoroughly subdued, Hugh stood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily from time to time while he finished dressing. When he had done so, he took up the letter, broke the seal, and throwing himself back in his chair read it leisurely through. Very neatly worded upon my life, quite a woman's letter, full of what people call tenderness and disinterestedness and heart and all that sort of thing. As he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at Hugh as though he would say, you see this, held it in the flame of the candle. When it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate, and there it smoldered away. It was directed to my son, he said, turning to Hugh, and you did quite right to bring it here. I opened it on my own responsibility, and you see what I have done with it. Take this for your trouble. Hugh stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to him. As he put it in his hand, he added, if you should happen to find anything else of this sort, or to pick up any kind of information you may think I would like to have, bring it here, will you, my good fellow? This was said with a smile, which implied, or Hugh thought it did, fail to do so at your peril. He answered that he would. And don't, said his patron, with an air of the very kindest patronage, don't be at all downcast or uneasy, respecting that little rashness we have been speaking of. Your neck is as safe in my hands, my good fellow, as though a baby's fingers clasped it, I assure you. Take another glass, you're quieter now. Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his smiling face, drank the contents in silence. Don't you, don't you drink to the drink any more? Said Mr. Chester in his most winning manner. To you, sir, was the sullen answer, with something approaching to a bow. I drink to you. Thank you. God bless you. By the by, what is your name, my good cell? You are called Hugh, I know, of course, your other name. I have no other name. A very strange fellow. A do mean that you never knew one, or that you don't choose to tell it. Which? I tell it if I could. Said Hugh quickly. I can't. I've been always called Hugh. Nothing more. I never knew nor saw nor thought about a father, and I was a boy of six. That's not very old. When they hung my mother up at Tyburn for a couple of thousand men to stare at, they might have let her live if she was poor enough. Oh, how very sad! exclaimed his patron with a condescending smile. I have no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman. You see that dog of mine, said Hugh abruptly. Faithful, I daresay, rejoined his patron, looking at him through his glass, and immensely clever. Virtuous and gifted animals, whether man or beast, always are so very hideous. Such a dog as that, or one of the same breed, was the only living thin except me that held that day. Said Hugh. Out of the two thousand odd, there was a larger crowd for its being a woman, a dog and I alone had any pity. If he'd have been a man, he'd have been glad to be quiver, for she had been forced to keep him lean and half starved, but being a dog and not now in a man's sense, he was sorry. It was dull of the brute certainly, said Mr Chester, and very like a brute. Hugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at the sound and came jumping and sporting about him, baited his sympathising friend good night. Good night, he returned. Remember, you're safe with me, quite safe. So long as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you always will. You have a friend in me on whose silence you may rely. Now, do be careful of yourself, pray do, and consider what jeopardy you might have stood in. Good night, bless you. Hugh chuckled before the hidden meaning of these words as much as such a being could, and crept out of the door so submissively and subserviently with an air in short so different from that with which he had entered, that his patron on being left alone smiled more than ever. And yet, he said as he took a pinch of snuff, I do not like there having hanged his mother. The fellow has a fine eye, and I am sure she was handsome, but very probably she was coarse, red-nosed, perhaps, and had clumsy feet. Aye, it was all for the best, no doubt. With this comforting reflection he put on his coat, took a farewell glance at the glass, and summoned his man, who promptly attended, followed by a chair and its two bearers. Fuh! said Mr. Chester. The very atmosphere that centaurs breathed seems tainted with the cart and ladder. Here I peek, bring some scent and sprinkle the floor, and take away the chair he sat upon and air it, and dash a little of that mixture upon me, I am stifled. The man obeyed, and the room and its master being both purified, nothing remained for Mr. Chester, but to demand his hat, to fold it jauntily under his arm, to take his seat in the chair, and be carried off, humming a fashionable tune. End of chapter 23. Chapter 24 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 24. How the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a dazzling and brilliant circle. How he enchanted all those with whom he mingled, by the grace of his deportant, the politeness of his manner, the vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of his voice. How it was observed in every corner that Chester was a man of that happy disposition that nothing ruffled him. That he was one on whom the world's cares and errors sat lightly as his dress, and in whose smiling face, a calm and tranquil mind was constantly reflected. How honest men, who by instinct knew him better, bowed down before him nevertheless, deferred to his every word, and caught at his favourable notice. How people who really had good in them went with the stream, and formed and flattered, and approved and despised themselves while they did so, and yet had not the courage to resist. How, in short, he was one of those who are received and cherished in society, as the phrase is, by scores who individually would shrink from and be repelled by the object of their lavish regard, are things, of course, which will suggest themselves. Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and there an end. The despises of mankind, apart from the mere fools and mimics of that creed, are of two sorts. They who believe their merit neglected and unappreciated make up one class. They who receive adulation and flattery, knowing their own worthlessness, compose the other. Be sure that the coldest hearted misanthropes are ever of this last order. Mr. Chester sat up in bed next morning, sipping his coffee and remembering with a kind of contemptuous satisfaction how he had shone last night, and how he had been caressed and courted, when his servant brought in a very small scrap of dirty paper, tightly sealed in two places, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty large text these words. A friend, desiring of a conference, immediate, private, burn it when you've read it. Where, in the name of the gunpowder plot, did you pick up this? said his master. It was given him by a person then waiting at the door, the man replied. With a cloak and a dagger, said Mr. Chester. With nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a leather apron and a dirty face. Let him come in. In he came, Mr. Tapetit, with his hair still on end, and a great lock in his hand, which he put down on the floor in the middle of the chamber, as if you were about to go through some performances in which it was a necessary agent. Sir, said Mr. Tapetit, with a low bow, I thank you for this condescension, and am glad to see you. Pardon the menial office in which I am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to one who humble, as his appearances has inert workings far above his station. Mr. Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him with a vague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only broken open the door of his place of confinement, but had brought away the lock. Mr. Tapetit bowed again, and displayed his legs to the best advantage. You have heard, sir, said Mr. Tapetit, laying his hand upon his breast, of G. Varden, locksmith, and bell-hanger, and repairs neatly executed in town and country, clerked in well London. What then? asked Mr. Chester. I'm his apprentice, sir. What then? Said Mr. Tapetit. Would you permit me to shut the door, sir? And will you fervor, sir? Give me your honour and bright, and what passes between us is in this strictest confidence. Mr. Chester laid himself calmly down in bed again, and turning a perfectly undisturbed face towards the strange apparition, which had by this time closed the door, begged him to speak out, and to be as rational as he could, without putting himself to any very great personal inconvenience. In the first place, sir, said Mr. Tapetit, producing a small pocket handkerchief, and shaking it out of the folds, as I have not a card about me, or the envy of master's debasers thus below that level, allow me to offer the best substitute circumstances will admit of. If you will take that in your own hands, and cast your eye on the right-hand corner, said Mr. Tapetit, offering it with a graceful air, you will meet with my credentials. Thank you, answered Mr. Chester, politely accepting it, and turning to some blood-red characters at one end. For Simon Tapetit I. Is that the— Without the numbers, sir, that is my name, replied the Prentice. They are merely intended as directions to the washerwoman, and have no connection with myself or family. Your name, sir, said Mr. Tapetit, looking very hard at his nightcap, is Chester, I suppose. You needn't pull it off, sir, thank you. I observe E.C. from here. We will take the rest for granted. Pray, Mr. Tapetit, said Mr. Chester, has that complicated piece of iron-mongeray, which you have done me the favour to bring with you, any immediate connection with the business we are to discuss? It has not, sir, rejoined the Prentice. It's going to be fitted on a warehouse door in Thames Street. Perhaps, as that is the case, said Mr. Chester, and as it has a stronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my bedroom with, you'll oblige me so far as to put it outside the door? By all means, sir, said Mr. Tapetit, suiting the action to the word. You'll excuse my mentioning it, I hope. I don't apologise, sir, I beg. And now, if you please, to business. During the whole of this dialogue, Mr. Chester had suffered nothing but his smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear upon his face. Sim Tapetit, who had far too good an opinion of himself to suspect that anybody could be playing upon him, thought within himself that this was something like the respect to which he was entitled, and drew a comparison from this courteous demeanour of a stranger, by no means favourable to the worthy locksmith. From what passes, you know, or else, said Mr. Tapetit, I'm aware, sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your intonations. Sir, your son has not used me well. Mr. Tapetit, said the other, you grieve me beyond description. Thank you, sir, replied the apprentice. I'm glad to hear you say so. He's very proud, sir, is your son, very haughty. I am afraid he is haughty, said Mr. Chester. Do you know I was really afraid of that before, and you confirm me? To recount the menial offices are that to do for your son, sir, said Mr. Tapetit. The chairs are that to hand him, the coaches are that to call for him, the numerous degrading duties wholly unconnected with my indentures, that I've had to do for him, would fill a family Bible. Besides which, sir, he is but a young man himself, and I do not consider, thank he, sim, a proper form of address on those occasions. Mr. Tapetit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Bray, go on. I thank you for your good opinion, sir, said sim, much gratified, and will endeavor so to do. Now, sir, on this account, and perhaps for another reason or two, which aren't even going to, I am on your side, and all I tell you is this. As long as our people go backwards and forwards to and fro up and down to that, their jolly old maypole, lettering and messaging and fetching and carrying, you couldn't help your son keeping company with that young lady by deputy, not if he was minded night and day by all the horse guards and every man of them in the very fullest uniform. Mr. Tapetit stopped to take breath after this, and then started fresh again. Now, sir, I am a-coming to the point. You will inquire of me. How is this to be prevented? I'll tell you how. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, Mr. Tapetit, really? No, no, I'm serious, rejoined the prentice. I am upon my soul. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you was to talk but ten minutes to our old woman, that's Mrs. Varden, and flatter her up a bit, you gain her over forever. Then there's this point got, that her daughter Dolly. Here a flush came over Mr. Tapetit's face. Wouldn't be allowed to be a go-between from that tartan forward, and till that point's got, there's nothing ever will prevent her. Mind that. Mr. Tapetit, your knowledge of human nature. Wait a minute. Said Sim, folding his arms of the dreadful calmness. Now I come to the point, sir. There is a villain at that maypole. A monster in human shape. A vagabond of the deepest dye. Unless you get rid of and have kidnapped and carried off with a very least, nothing less will do. Will marry your son of that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the archbishop of Kettnerbury himself. He will, sir, for the hatred and mellice that he bays to you, alone the pleasure of doing a bad action, which to him is its own reward. If you knew how this chap, this Joseph Willet, that's his name, comes backwards and forwards to our house, libeling and denouncing and threatening you, and how I shudder when I hear him, you'd hate him worse than I do. Worse than I do, sir, said Mr. Tapetit wildly, putting his hair up straighter and making a crunching noise with his teeth. If such a thing is possible. A little private vengeance in this, Mr. Tapetit. Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined, destroy him, said Mr. Tapetit. Migs say so too. Migs and me both say so. We can't bear the plotting and undermining that takes place. Oh, souls, recoil from it. Barnaby Raj and Mrs. Raj are in it likewise, but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader. Near plot-ins and schemes are not to me and Migs. If you want information of him, apply to us. Put Joseph Willet down, sir. Destroy him. Crush him. And be happy. With these words, Mr. Tapetit, who seemed to expect no reply and to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfounded and overwhelmed, folded his arms so that the palm of each hand rested on the opposite shoulder, and disappeared after the manner of those mysterious warners of whom he had read in cheap story books. That fellow, said Mr. Chester, relaxing his face when he was fairly gone, is good practice. I have some command of my features beyond all doubt. He fully confirms what I suspected, though, and blunt tools are sometimes found of use where sharper instruments would fail. I fear I may be obliged to make a great havoc among these worthy people, a troublesome necessity I quite feel for them. With that he fell into a quiet slumber, subsided into such a gentle, pleasant sleep that it was quite infantine. End of Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter Twenty-Five Leaving the favoured and well-received and flattered of the world, him of the world most worldly who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one, to lie smilingly asleep, for even sleep, working but little change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy. We follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell. Barnaby and his mother, grip in their company, of course. The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled wearily along, while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path, and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again, and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious nature prompted. Now he would call her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside. Now, using his tall staff as a leaping pole, come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate, now run with surprising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting sport upon a patch of grass with grip till she came up. These were his delights, and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure. It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is something to know that heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a creature's breast. It is something to be assured that, however likely men may crush that faculty in their fellows, the great creator of mankind imparted even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight than a wise man pining in a darkened jail? Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of infinite benevolence with an eternal frown, read in the everlasting book, wide open to your view the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and somber hues, but bright and glowing tints. Its music, save when ye drown it, is not in size and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if you can, the sense of hope and pleasure, which every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kind, who have not changed their nature, and learned some wisdom even from the witless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it brings. The widow's breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dread and sorrow, but her boy's gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled a long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short distance, but it was more his nature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself. She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly after the event which had changed her whole existence, and for two and twenty years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village. How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight. Two and twenty years, her boy's whole life and history, the last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came. How had she feared and doubted and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her. The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way, not of dullness but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly and un-childlike in its cunning, came back as vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which there used to be, the spot in which his cradle stood, he, old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him, every circumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial perhaps, the most distinctly. His older childhood, too. The strange imaginings he had, his terror of certain senseless things, familiar objects he endowed with life, the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror in which before his birth his darkened intellect began. How, in the midst of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had gone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind, until he grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting. One after another all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber and bitterer than ever. She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was the same as it was won't to be in old times, yet different, too, and wore another heir. The change was in herself, not it, but she never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration and where it lay, and what it was. The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking round him, as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers round some silly beggar-man when a child herself. None of them knew her. They passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead, and striking into the fields, were soon alone again. The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr. Heardale was walking in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and bade them enter that way. At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place, he said to the widow, I am glad you have. For the first time, and the last, sir, she replied. The first for many years, but not the last? The very last. You mean, said Mr. Heardale, regarding her with some surprise, that having made this effort, you were resolved not to persevere, and are determined to relapse. This is unworthy of you. I have often told you you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I know. As to Barnaby, it is quite his home. Angrips, said Barnaby, holding the basket open, the raven hopped gravely out, perching on his shoulder, and addressing himself to Mr. Heardale, cried as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshment would be acceptable. Hear me, Mary, said Mr. Heardale kindly as he motioned her to walk with him towards the house. Your life has been an example of patience and fortitude, except in this one particular, which has often given me great pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the calamity which deprived me of an only brother, and emmer of her father, without being obliged to suppose, as I sometimes am, that you associate us with the author of our joint misfortunes. Associate you with him, sir? She cried, indeed, said Mr. Heardale. I think you do. I almost believe that because your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died in his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect us with his murder. Alas! she answered. You little know my answer. You little know the truth. It is natural you should do so. It is very probable you may, without being conscious of it, said Mr. Heardale, speaking more to himself than her. We are a fallen house. Money dispensed with the most lavish and would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours, and thinly scattered by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable mockery. I feel it so God knows. He added hastily, Why should I wonder if she does? You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed. She rejoined with great earnestness. And yet, when you come to hear what I desire your leave to say, I shall find my doubts confirmed, he said, observing that she faltered and became confused. Well, he quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side, and said, And have you come all this way at last solely to speak to me? She answered, Yes. A curse, he muttered, upon the wretched state of us proud beggars, from whom the poor and richer equally at a distance, the one being forced to treat us with a show of called respect, the other condescending to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof for the nearer they approach us. Why, if it were pain to you, as it must have been, to break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged through two and twenty years, could you not let me know your wish and beg me to come to you? There was not time, sir. She rejoined. I took my resolution, but last night, and taken it felt that I must not lose a day, a day, an hour in having speech with you. They had by this time reached the house. Mr. Haerdale paused for a moment and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner. Observing, however, that she took no heed of him, but glanced up, shuddering at the old wars with which such horrors were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma was seated in a window reading. The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her book, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm and earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace, as though she feared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair. It is the return to this place, after so long an absence, said Emma gently. Pray ring, dear uncle, or stay. Barnaby will run himself and ask for wine. Not for the world, she cried. It would have another taste. I could not touch it. I want but a minute's rest. Nothing but that. Miss Hairdale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity. She remained for a little time quite still, then rose and turned to Mr. Hairdale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating her with fixed attention. The tale connected with the mansion born in mind, it seemed, as has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known. The room in which this group were now assembled, hard by the very chamber where the act was done, dull, dark, and somber, heavy with worm-eaten books, deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling every sound, shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever and a none a spectral knocking at the glass, war beyond all others in the house, a ghostly gloomy air, nor where the group assembled their unfitting tenants of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes, Mr. Hairdale, stern and despondent ever, his niece beside him, like yet most unlike the picture of her father, which gazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall. Barnaby, with his vacant look and restless eye, were all in keeping with the place, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven who had hopped upon the table, and with the air of some old necromancer, appeared to be profoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, and were strictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit of evil biding his time of mischief. I scarcely know, said the widow, breaking silence, out to begin, you will think my mind disordered. The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life, since you were last here, pretend Mr. Hairdale mildly, shall bear witness for you. Why do you fear to awaken such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. You have not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Be more yourself. Take art. Any advice or assistance that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and freely yours. What if I came, sir, she rejoined, I who have but one other friend on earth to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth I launch myself upon the world alone and unassisted to sing or swim as heaven may decree. You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose, said Mr. Hairdale calmly, some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which, if one may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange, would have its weight, of course. That, sir, she answered, is the mystery of my distress. I can give no reason or whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is my duty, my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it, I should be a base and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no more. As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with a firmer voice and heightened courage. Heaven is my witness, as my own art is, and yours, dear young lady, will speak for me, I know, that I have lived since that time we all have bit a reason to remember, in unchanging devotion and gratitude to this family. Heaven is my witness, that go where I may, I shall preserve those feelings unimpaired, and it is my witness, too, that they alone impel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall turn me as I hope for mercy. These are strange riddles, said Mr. Haerdale. In this world, sir, she replied, they may perhaps never be explained. In another the truth will be discovered in its own good time, and may that time, she added in a low voice, be far distant. Let me be sure, said Mr. Haerdale, that I understand you, for I am doubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from us so long, that you are determined to resign the annuity we settled on you twenty years ago, to leave house and home and goods and begin life anew, and this for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which is incapable of explanation, which only now exists and has been dormant all this time, in the name of God under what delusion are you laboring? As I am deeply thankful, she made answer, for the kindness of those alive and dead who have owned this house, and as I would not have its roof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being spoken and their hearing, I never will again subsist upon their bounty, or let it help me to subsistence. You do not know, she added suddenly, to what uses it may be applied, in what hands it may pass, I do, and I renounce it. Surely, said Mr. Hairdale, its use is rest with you. They did, they rest with me no longer, it may be, it is devoted to purposes that mock the dead in their graves, it never can prosper with me, it will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son, whose innocence will suffer for his mother's guilt. What words are these? cried Mr. Hairdale, regarding her with wonder, among what associates have you fallen, into what guilt have you ever been betrayed? I am guilty, and yet innocent, wrong, yet right, good in intention, though constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions, sir, but believe that I am rather to be pitied and condemned. I must leave my house tomorrow, for while I stay there it is haunted. My future dwelling, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor boy should ever stray this way, do not tempt him to disclose it, or have him watched when he returns, for if we are hunted we must fly again. And now, this load is off my mind, I beseech you, and you, dear Miss Hairdale, to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you have been used to do. If I die, and cannot tell my secret even then, for that may come to pass, it will sit the lighter on my breast in that hour for this day's work, and on that day, and every day until it comes, I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more. With that she would have left them, but they detained her, and with many soothing words and kind and treatise, resorted to consider what she did, and above all to repose more freely upon them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deft to their persuasions, Mr Hairdale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiled with the same indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met. The utmost that could be wrung from her was a promise that she would receive Mr Hairdale at her own house next evening, and in the meantime reconsider her determination and their dissuasion, though any change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made it last they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither eat nor drink within the house, and she and Barnaby and Grip accordingly went out as they had come by the private stair and garden gate, seeing and being seen of no one by the way. It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly called good company. They were to return by the coach, as there was an interval of full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole, but his mother, who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and who feared besides that Mr. Heardale might, on second thoughts, dispatched some messenger to that place of entertainment in Christopher, proposed to wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry such humble vines as they required, he cheerfully ascended, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner. Here again the raven was in a highly reflective state, walking up and down when he had dined with an air of elderly complacency, which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails, and appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes after long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and cry in his horse-tones, I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil. But whether he addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty. It was a quiet, pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother, who Mr. Ruben Heardale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription recording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the coach was coming. Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the sound, and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked into his basket straightway, and treating society in general, as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with charts, never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and rolling along the road. It went round by the maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it called for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from the coach-roof, fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John's character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach's time. He despised, getting about. He looked upon coaches as things that ought to be indicted, as disturbers of the peace of mankind, as restless, bustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and goer-shopping. We know nothing about coaches here, sir, John would say, if any unlucky stranger made enquiry, touching the offensive vehicles. We don't book for them. We'd rather not. They're more trouble than they're worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait for them, you can. But we don't know anything about them. They may call, and they may not. There's a carrier. He was looked upon as quite good enough for us, when I was a boy. She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind and talked to Barnaby and whispers. But neither he nor any other person spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her. And so, an alien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had lived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife, where she had known all her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.