Free Ebooks - BARNABY RUDGE - A TALE OF THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY

BARNABY RUDGE - A TALE OF THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY

by

Charles Dickens

PREFACE

The late Mr Waterton having, some time ago, expressed his opinion
that ravens are gradually becoming extinct in England, I offered
the few following words about my experience of these birds.

The raven in this story is a compound of two great originals, of
whom I was, at different times, the proud possessor. The first was
in the bloom of his youth, when he was discovered in a modest
retirement in London, by a friend of mine, and given to me. He had
from the first, as Sir Hugh Evans says of Anne Page, 'good gifts',
which he improved by study and attention in a most exemplary
manner. He slept in a stable--generally on horseback--and so
terrified a Newfoundland dog by his preternatural sagacity, that he
has been known, by the mere superiority of his genius, to walk off
unmolested with the dog's dinner, from before his face. He was
rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour,
his stable was newly painted. He observed the workmen closely,
saw that they were careful of the paint, and immediately burned to
possess it. On their going to dinner, he ate up all they had left
behind, consisting of a pound or two of white lead; and this
youthful indiscretion terminated in death.

While I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine
in Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village
public-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for
a consideration, and sent up to me. The first act of this Sage,
was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor, by
disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the
garden--a work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted
all the energies of his mind. When he had achieved this task, he
applied himself to the acquisition of stable language, in which he
soon became such an adept, that he would perch outside my window
and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all day. Perhaps
even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his
duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very strong,
would I be so good as to show him a drunken man'--which I never
did, having (unfortunately) none but sober people at hand.

But I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the
stimulating influences of this sight might have been. He had not
the least respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return, or for
anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached--but only, I fear, as
a Policeman might have been. Once, I met him unexpectedly, about
half-a-mile from my house, walking down the middle of a public
street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and spontaneously
exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments. His gravity under
those trying circumstances, I can never forget, nor the
extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he
defended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It
may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it
may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill,
and thence into his maw--which is not improbable, seeing that he
new-pointed the greater part of the garden-wall by digging out the
mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty
all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the
greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing--but
after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the
kitchen fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it
roasted, and suddenly. turned over on his back with a sepulchral
cry of 'Cuckoo!' Since then I have been ravenless.

No account of the Gordon Riots having been to my knowledge
introduced into any Work of Fiction, and the subject presenting
very extraordinary and remarkable features, I was led to project
this Tale.

It is unnecessary to say, that those shameful tumults, while they
reflect indelible disgrace upon the time in which they occurred,
and all who had act or part in them, teach a good lesson. That
what we falsely call a religious cry is easily raised by men who
have no religion, and who in their daily practice set at nought the
commonest principles of right and wrong; that it is begotten of
intolerance and persecution; that it is senseless, besotted,
inveterate and unmerciful; all History teaches us. But perhaps we
do not know it in our hearts too well, to profit by even so humble
an example as the 'No Popery' riots of Seventeen Hundred and Eighty.

However imperfectly those disturbances are set forth in the
following pages, they are impartially painted by one who has no
sympathy with the Romish Church, though he acknowledges, as most
men do, some esteemed friends among the followers of its creed.

In the description of the principal outrages, reference has been
had to the best authorities of that time, such as they are; the
account given in this Tale, of all the main features of the Riots,
is substantially correct.

Mr Dennis's allusions to the flourishing condition of his trade in
those days, have their foundation in Truth, and not in the
Author's fancy. Any file of old Newspapers, or odd volume of the
Annual Register, will prove this with terrible ease.

Even the case of Mary Jones, dwelt upon with so much pleasure by
the same character, is no effort of invention. The facts were
stated, exactly as they are stated here, in the House of Commons.
Whether they afforded as much entertainment to the merry gentlemen
assembled there, as some other most affecting circumstances of a
similar nature mentioned by Sir Samuel Romilly, is not recorded.

That the case of Mary Jones may speak the more emphatically for
itself, I subjoin it, as related by SIR WILLIAM MEREDITH in a
speech in Parliament, 'on Frequent Executions', made in 1777.

'Under this act,' the Shop-lifting Act, 'one Mary Jones was
executed, whose case I shall just mention; it was at the time when
press warrants were issued, on the alarm about Falkland Islands.
The woman's husband was pressed, their goods seized for some debts
of his, and she, with two small children, turned into the streets
a-begging. It is a circumstance not to be forgotten, that she was
very young (under nineteen), and most remarkably handsome. She
went to a linen-draper's shop, took some coarse linen off the
counter, and slipped it under her cloak; the shopman saw her, and
she laid it down: for this she was hanged. Her defence was (I have
the trial in my pocket), "that she had lived in credit, and wanted
for nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband from her;
but since then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give her
children to eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she might
have done something wrong, for she hardly knew what she did." The
parish officers testified the truth of this story; but it seems,
there had been a good deal of shop-lifting about Ludgate; an
example was thought necessary; and this woman was hanged for the
comfort and satisfaction of shopkeepers in Ludgate Street. When
brought to receive sentence, she behaved in such a frantic manner,
as proved her mind to he in a distracted and desponding state; and
the child was sucking at her breast when she set out for Tyburn.'

Chapter 1

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest,
at a distance of about twelve miles from London--measuring from the
Standard in Cornhill,' or rather from the spot on or near to which
the Standard used to be in days of yore--a house of public
entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to
all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that
time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in
this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against
the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles
were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty
feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman
drew.

The Maypole--by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and
not its sign--the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends
than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag
chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not
choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted
to it in its tortuous progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous,
and empty. The place was said to have been built in the days of
King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen
Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion,
to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but
that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the
door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and
there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty.
The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few
among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every
little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as
rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient
hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and
triumphantly pointed out that there it stood in the same place to
that very day, the doubters never failed to be put down by a large
majority, and all true believers exulted as in a victory.

Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true
or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house,
perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will
sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a
certain, age. Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its
floors were sunken and uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand
of time, and heavy with massive beams. Over the doorway was an
ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely carved; and here on summer
evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank--ay, and
sang many a good song too, sometimes--reposing on two grim-looking
high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy
tale, guarded the entrance to the mansion.

In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their
nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest
autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the
eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and
out-buildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The
wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and
pouters, were perhaps not quite consistent with the grave and sober
character of the building, but the monotonous cooing, which never
ceased to be raised by some among them all day long, suited it
exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With its overhanging
stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and
projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were
nodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of
fancy to detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks
of which it was built had originally been a deep dark red, but had
grown yellow and discoloured like an old man's skin; the sturdy
timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a
warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves
closely round the time-worn walls.

It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer or
autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak
and chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking
of its lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good
years of life in him yet.

The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an
autumn one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind
howled dismally among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling
in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of
the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters as chanced to be
there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their stay,
and caused the landlord to prophesy that the night would certainly
clear at eleven o'clock precisely,--which by a remarkable
coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his house.

The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was
John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which
betokened profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension,
combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. It was
John Willet's ordinary boast in his more placid moods that if he
were slow he was sure; which assertion could, in one sense at
least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing that he was in everything
unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one of the most
dogged and positive fellows in existence--always sure that what he
thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite
settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that
anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and
of necessity wrong.

Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose
against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might
not be affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then
he walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and,
composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might
give way to and so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze,
said, looking round upon his guests:

'It'll clear at eleven o'clock. No sooner and no later. Not
before and not arterwards.'

'How do you make out that?' said a little man in the opposite
corner. 'The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.'

John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had
brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and
then made answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was
peculiarly his business and nobody else's:

'Never you mind about the moon. Don't you trouble yourself about
her. You let the moon alone, and I'll let you alone.'

'No offence I hope?' said the little man.

Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly
penetrated to his brain, and then replying, 'No offence as YET,'
applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and
then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-
coat with huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver lace and
large metal buttons, who sat apart from the regular frequenters of
the house, and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which was still
further shaded by the hand on which his forehead rested, looked
unsociable enough.

There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some
distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts--to judge from his
folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before
him--were occupied with other matters than the topics under
discussion or the persons who discussed them. This was a young man
of about eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and
though of somewhat slight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He
wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in a riding dress, which
together with his large boots (resembling in shape and fashion
those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed
indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads. But travel-
stained though he was, he was well and even richly attired, and
without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.

Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them
down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn
no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency of the weather.
There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short
riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, except the long dark
lashes which concealed his downcast eyes, but an air of careless
ease and natural gracefulness of demeanour pervaded the figure, and
seemed to comprehend even those slight accessories, which were all
handsome, and in good keeping.

Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but
once, and then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his
silent neighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman
had often met before. Finding that his look was not returned, or
indeed observed by the person to whom it was addressed, John
gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one focus,
and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he
came to stare in course of time with an intensity so remarkable,
that it affected his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord,
took their pipes from their lips, and stared with open mouths at
the stranger likewise.

The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and
the little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who
was the parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard
by) had little round black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this
little man wore at the knees of his rusty black breeches, and on
his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat,
little queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like
them, that as they twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire,
which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from
head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of them at the
unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless under
such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging to
short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and
long Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example
of their companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less
attentively.

The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this
raking fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous
meditations--most probably from the latter cause, for as he changed
his position and looked hastily round, he started to find himself
the object of such keen regard, and darted an angry and suspicious
glance at the fireside group. It had the effect of immediately
diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who
finding himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as
has been already observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring
at his guest in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner.

'Well?' said the stranger.

Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. 'I
thought you gave an order,' said the landlord, after a pause of two
or three minutes for consideration.

The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a
man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time,
and the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a
dark handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and,
while it served the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and
almost hid his eyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert
attention from a deep gash, now healed into an ugly seam, which
when it was first inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, the
object was but indifferently attained, for it could scarcely fail
to be noted at a glance. His complexion was of a cadaverous hue,
and he had a grizzly jagged beard of some three weeks' date. Such
was the figure (very meanly and poorly clad) that now rose from the
seat, and stalking across the room sat down in a corner of the
chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little clerk very
readily assigned to him.

'A highwayman!' whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.

'Do you suppose highwaymen don't dress handsomer than that?'
replied Parkes. 'It's a better business than you think for, Tom,
and highwaymen don't need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.'

Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to
the house by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by
the landlord's son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow
of twenty, whom it pleased his father still to consider a little
boy, and to treat accordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm
them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the
company, and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a
voice well suited to his appearance:

'What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?'

'Public-house?' said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.

'Public-house, father!' exclaimed Joe, 'where's the public-house
within a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house--the
Warren--naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir,
that stands in its own grounds--?'

'Aye,' said the stranger.

'And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as
broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed
hands and dwindled away--more's the pity!' pursued the young man.

'Maybe,' was the reply. 'But my question related to the owner.
What it has been I don't care to know, and what it is I can see for
myself.'

The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips,
and glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had
changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in
a lower tone:

'The owner's name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and'--again he
glanced in the same direction as before--'and a worthy gentleman
too--hem!'

Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the
significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his
questioning.

'I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that
crosses the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a
carriage? His daughter?'

'Why, how should I know, honest man?' replied Joe, contriving in
the course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close
to his questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, 'I didn't see the
young lady, you know. Whew! There's the wind again--AND rain--
well it IS a night!'

Rough weather indeed!' observed the strange man.

'You're used to it?' said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to
promise a diversion of the subject.

'Pretty well,' returned the other. 'About the young lady--has Mr
Haredale a daughter?'

'No, no,' said the young fellow fretfully, 'he's a single
gentleman--he's--be quiet, can't you, man? Don't you see this
talk is not relished yonder?'

Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to
hear it, his tormentor provokingly continued:

'Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his
daughter, though he is not married.'

'What do you mean?' said Joe, adding in an undertone as he
approached him again, 'You'll come in for it presently, I know you
will!'

'I mean no harm'--returned the traveller boldly, 'and have said
none that I know of. I ask a few questions--as any stranger may,
and not unnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable house in a
neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and
disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George.
Perhaps you can tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger,
and this is Greek to me?'

The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe
Willet's discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-
cloak preparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he
could give him no information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and
handing him a piece of money in payment of his reckoning, hurried
out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a candle
followed to light him to the house-door.

While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three
companions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep
silence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that
was suspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly
shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but
no man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn
expression of his countenance in the slightest degree.

At length Joe returned--very talkative and conciliatory, as though
with a strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault
with.

'Such a thing as love is!' he said, drawing a chair near the fire,
and looking round for sympathy. 'He has set off to walk to
London,--all the way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out
here this blessed afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our
stable at this minute; and he giving up a good hot supper and our
best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone to a masquerade up in
town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her! I don't think I
could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,--but then
I'm not in love (at least I don't think I am) and that's the whole
difference.'

'He is in love then?' said the stranger.

'Rather,' replied Joe. 'He'll never be more in love, and may very
easily be less.'

'Silence, sir!' cried his father.

'What a chap you are, Joe!' said Long Parkes.

'Such a inconsiderate lad!' murmured Tom Cobb.

'Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own
father's face!' exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.

'What HAVE I done?' reasoned poor Joe.

'Silence, sir!' returned his father, 'what do you mean by talking,
when you see people that are more than two or three times your age,
sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?'

'Why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?' said Joe
rebelliously.

'The proper time, sir!' retorted his father, 'the proper time's no
time.'

'Ah to be sure!' muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two
who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was
the point.

'The proper time's no time, sir,' repeated John Willet; 'when I was
your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and
improved myself that's what I did.'

'And you'd find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment,
Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him,' said Parkes.

'For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr Willet, blowing a long,
thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and
staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; 'For the matter o'
that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a
man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of
'em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that
he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a
flouting of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving
of one's self to be a swine that isn't worth her scattering pearls
before.'

The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally
concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and
therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity,
exclaimed:

'You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn't much like to
tackle him in argeyment, I'm thinking, sir.'

'IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the
face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals,
to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with
unbecoming and irreverent haste; 'IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me
the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory
in the same? Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are
right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many
and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don't know,' added
John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, 'so much the better, for
I an't proud and am not going to tell you.'

A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of
heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had
good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to
assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more
dignity and surveyed them in silence.

'It's all very fine talking,' muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting
in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. 'But if you mean to tell
me that I'm never to open my lips--'

'Silence, sir!' roared his father. 'No, you never are. When your
opinion's wanted, you give it. When you're spoke to, you speak.
When your opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't you
give an opinion and don't you speak. The world's undergone a nice
alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an't
any boys left--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's
nothing now between a male baby and a man--and that all the boys
went out with his blessed Majesty King George the Second.'

'That's a very true observation, always excepting the young
princes,' said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of
church and state in that company, held himself bound to the nicest
loyalty. 'If it's godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages
of boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes
must be boys and cannot be otherwise.'

'Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?' said Mr Willet.

'Certainly I have,' replied the clerk.

'Very good,' said Mr Willet. 'According to the constitution of
mermaids, so much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish.
According to the constitution of young princes, so much of a young
prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and
righteous. Therefore if it's becoming and godly and righteous in
the young princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be
boys, they are and must be boys, and cannot by possibility be
anything else.'

This elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks
of approval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented
himself with repeating to his son his command of silence, and
addressing the stranger, said:

'If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person--of me or any
of these gentlemen--you'd have had some satisfaction, and wouldn't
have wasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale's
niece.'

'Is her father alive?' said the man, carelessly.

'No,' rejoined the landlord, 'he is not alive, and he is not dead--'

'Not dead!' cried the other.

'Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord.

The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an
undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, 'let no
man contradict me, for I won't believe him,' that John Willet was
in amazing force to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.

The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked
abruptly, 'What do you mean?'

'More than you think for, friend,' returned John Willet. 'Perhaps
there's more meaning in them words than you suspect.'

'Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; 'but what the
devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that
a man is not alive, nor yet dead--then, that he's not dead in a
common sort of way--then, that you mean a great deal more than I
think for. To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so
far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask
again?'

'That,' returned the landlord, a little brought down from his
dignity by the stranger's surliness, 'is a Maypole story, and has
been any time these four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon
Daisy's story. It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon
Daisy has ever told it under this roof, or ever shall--that's
more.'

The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness
and importance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to,
and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a
very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell
his story without further solicitation, gathered his large coat
about him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom
of the spacious chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling
from under a great faggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the
time, shot upward with a strong and sudden glare, and illumining
his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to cast it into deeper
obscurity than before.

By this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavy
timbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished
ebony--the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latch
and creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving at
the casement as though it would beat it in--by this light, and
under circumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:

'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother--'

Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even
John Willet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.

'Cobb,' said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the
post-office keeper; 'what day of the month is this?'

'The nineteenth.'

'Of March,' said the clerk, bending forward, 'the nineteenth of
March; that's very strange.'

In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:

'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother, that
twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe
has said--not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can't
do that, but because you have often heard me say so--was then a
much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property
than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one
child--the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about--who was
then scarcely a year old.'

Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so
much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if
expecting some exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter
made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was
interested in what was said. Solomon therefore turned to his old
companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated by the deep red
glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of
their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent
behaviour.

'Mr Haredale,' said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man,
'left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and
went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that
place as lonely as this--as I suppose and have always heard say--he
suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren,
bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and
his steward, and a gardener.'

Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out,
and then proceeded--at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by
keen enjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and
afterwards with increasing distinctness:

'--Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a
gardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow
next day. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived
at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order
came to me at half after twelve o'clock at night to go and toll the
passing-bell.'

There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently
indicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt
to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk
felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.

'It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up
in his bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to
take his dinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under
obligation to go alone, for it was too late to hope to get any
other companion. However, I wasn't unprepared for it; as the old
gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be
tolled as soon as possible after the breath was out of his body,
and he had been expected to go for some days. I put as good a face
upon it as I could, and muffling myself up (for it was mortal
cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key
of the church in the other.'

At this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man
rustled as if he had turned himself to hear more distinctly.
Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows
and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the case. Joe
shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could
make out nothing, and so shook his head.

'It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining
heavily, and very dark--I often think now, darker than I ever saw
it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all
close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one
other man who knows how dark it really was. I got into the church,
chained the door back so that it should keep ajar--for, to tell the
truth, I didn't like to be shut in there alone--and putting my
lantern on the stone seat in the little corner where the bell-rope
is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.

'I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not
persuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don't
know how it was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever
heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and
had forgotten long ago; and they didn't come into my mind one after
another, but all crowding at once, like. I recollected one story
there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year
(it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead
people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own
graves till morning. This made me think how many people I had
known, were buried between the church-door and the churchyard gate,
and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among them
and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves. I had known
all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still, I
couldn't persuade myself that those were their natural shadows
which I saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly
figures hiding among 'em and peeping out. Thinking on in this
way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just dead, and I
could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him
in his usual place, wrapping his shroud about him and shivering as
if he felt it cold. All this time I sat listening and listening,
and hardly dared to breathe. At length I started up and took the
bell-rope in my hands. At that minute there rang--not that bell,
for I had hardly touched the rope--but another!

'I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly.
It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the
sound away, but I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it
rang no more. I had heard of corpse candles, and at last I
persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell tolling of itself
at midnight for the dead. I tolled my bell--how, or how long, I
don't know--and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the
ground.

'I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the
story to my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of
it; I don't think anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr
Reuben Haredale was found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his
hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-bell outside the
roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder, no doubt by
the murderer, when he seized it.

'That was the bell I heard.

'A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had
brought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of
money, was gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and
both suspected for a long time, but they were never found, though
hunted far and wide. And far enough they might have looked for
poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body--scarcely to be recognised by
his clothes and the watch and ring he wore--was found, months
afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with
a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife.
He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed that he had been
sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of
blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his master.

Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and
though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will
be, mark my words. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty
years--on the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and
fifty-three. On the nineteenth of March in some year--no matter
when--I know it, I am sure of it, for we have always, in some
strange way or other, been brought back to the subject on that day
ever since--on the nineteenth of March in some year, sooner or
later, that man will be discovered.'

Chapter 2

'A strange story!' said the man who had been the cause of the
narration.--'Stranger still if it comes about as you predict. Is
that all?'

A question so unexpected, nettled Solomon Daisy not a little. By
dint of relating the story very often, and ornamenting it
(according to village report) with a few flourishes suggested by
the various hearers from time to time, he had come by degrees to
tell it with great effect; and 'Is that all?' after the climax, was
not what he was accustomed to.

'Is that all?' he repeated, 'yes, that's all, sir. And enough
too, I think.'

'I think so too. My horse, young man! He is but a hack hired from
a roadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to-
night.'

'To-night!' said Joe.

'To-night,' returned the other. 'What do you stare at? This
tavern would seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers
of the neighbourhood!'

At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he
had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of
John Willet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity
to the copper boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a
mettlesome fellow, returned the stranger's angry glance with a
steady look, and rejoined:

'It is not a very bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night.
Surely you have been asked such a harmless question in an inn
before, and in better weather than this. I thought you mightn't
know the way, as you seem strange to this part.'

'The way--' repeated the other, irritably.

'Yes. DO you know it?'

'I'll--humph!--I'll find it,' replied the nian, waving his hand and
turning on his heel. 'Landlord, take the reckoning here.'

John Willet did as he was desired; for on that point he was seldom
slow, except in the particulars of giving change, and testing the
goodness of any piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the
application of his teeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in
doubtful cases, by a long series of tests terminating in its
rejection. The guest then wrapped his garments about him so as to
shelter himself as effectually as he could from the rough weather,
and without any word or sign of farewell betook himself to the
stableyard. Here Joe (who had left the room on the conclusion of
their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse from the
rain under the shelter of an old penthouse roof.

'He's pretty much of my opinion,' said Joe, patting the horse upon
the neck. 'I'll wager that your stopping here to-night would
please him better than it would please me.'

'He and I are of different opinions, as we have been more than once
on our way here,' was the short reply.

'So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your spurs,
poor beast.'

The stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and made no
answer.

'You'll know me again, I see,' he said, marking the young fellow's
earnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle.

'The man's worth knowing, master, who travels a road he don't know,
mounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such
a night as this.'

'You have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.'

'Both I hope by nature, but the last grows rusty sometimes for
want of using.'

'Use the first less too, and keep their sharpness for your
sweethearts, boy,' said the man.

So saying he shook his hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on
the head with the butt end of his whip, and galloped away; dashing
through the mud and darkness with a headlong speed, which few badly
mounted horsemen would have cared to venture, even had they been
thoroughly acquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew
nothing of the way he rode, was attended at every step with great
hazard and danger.

The roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time
ill paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made. The way this
rider traversed had been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy
waggons, and rendered rotten by the frosts and thaws of the
preceding winter, or possibly of many winters. Great holes and
gaps had been worn into the soil, which, being now filled with
water from the late rains, were not easily distinguishable even by
day; and a plunge into any one of them might have brought down a
surer-footed horse than the poor beast now urged forward to the
utmost extent of his powers. Sharp flints and stones rolled from
under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely see beyond
the animal's head, or farther on either side than his own arm
would have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the
neighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads or
highwaymen, and it was a night, of all others, in which any evil-
disposed person of this class might have pursued his unlawful
calling with little fear of detection.

Still, the traveller dashed forward at the same reckless pace,
regardless alike of the dirt and wet which flew about his head, the
profound darkness of the night, and the probability of encountering
some desperate characters abroad. At every turn and angle, even
where a deviation from the direct course might have been least
expected, and could not possibly be seen until he was close upon
it, he guided the bridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle
of the road. Thus he sped onward, raising himself in the stirrups,
leaning his body forward until it almost touched the horse's neck,
and flourishing his heavy whip above his head with the fervour of a
madman.

There are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion,
those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great
thoughts, whether of good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with
the tumult of nature, and are roused into corresponding violence.
In the midst of thunder, lightning, and storm, many tremendous
deeds have been committed; men, self-possessed before, have given
a sudden loose to passions they could no longer control. The
demons of wrath and despair have striven to emulate those who ride
the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man, lashed into madness
with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time
as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.

Whether the traveller was possessed by thoughts which the fury of
the night had heated and stimulated into a quicker current, or was
merely impelled by some strong motive to reach his journey's end,
on he swept more like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his
pace until, arriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a
longer route to the place whence he had lately started, he bore
down so suddenly upon a vehicle which was coming towards him, that
in the effort to avoid it he well-nigh pulled his horse upon his
haunches, and narrowly escaped being thrown.

'Yoho!' cried the voice of a man. 'What's that? Who goes there?'

'A friend!' replied the traveller.

'A friend!' repeated the voice. 'Who calls himself a friend and
rides like that, abusing Heaven's gifts in the shape of horseflesh,
and endangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great
matter) but the necks of other people?'

'You have a lantern there, I see,' said the traveller dismounting,
'lend it me for a moment. You have wounded my horse, I think, with
your shaft or wheel.'

'Wounded him!' cried the other, 'if I haven't killed him, it's no
fault of yours. What do you mean by galloping along the king's
highway like that, eh?'

'Give me the light,' returned the traveller, snatching it from his
hand, 'and don't ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for
talking.'

'If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should
perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,' said the voice.
'Hows'ever as it's the poor horse that's damaged and not you, one
of you is welcome to the light at all events--but it's not the
crusty one.'

The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the
light near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb
and carcass. Meanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his
vehicle, which was a kind of chaise with a depository for a large
bag of tools, and watched his proceedings with a careful eye.

The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double
chin, and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good
humour, and good health. He was past the prime of life, but Father
Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none
of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have
used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but
leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With
such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's
hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in
the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.

The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of
this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace
with himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world.
Although muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs--one of
which, passed over his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of
his double chin, secured his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from
blowing off his head--there was no disguising his plump and
comfortable figure; neither did certain dirty finger-marks upon
his face give it any other than an odd and comical expression,
through which its natural good humour shone with undiminished
lustre.

'He is not hurt,' said the traveller at length, raising his head
and the lantern together.

'You have found that out at last, have you?' rejoined the old man.
'My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn't change
with you.'

'What do you mean?'

'Mean! I could have told you he wasn't hurt, five minutes ago.
Give me the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good
night.'

In handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays full
on the speaker's face. Their eyes met at the instant. He suddenly
dropped it and crushed it with his foot.

'Did you never see a locksmith before, that you start as if you had
come upon a ghost?' cried the old man in the chaise, 'or is this,'
he added hastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and
drawing out a hammer, 'a scheme for robbing me? I know these
roads, friend. When I travel them, I carry nothing but a few
shillings, and not a crown's worth of them. I tell you plainly, to
save us both trouble, that there's nothing to be got from me but a
pretty stout arm considering my years, and this tool, which, mayhap
from long acquaintance with, I can use pretty briskly. You shall
not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at that
game. With these words he stood upon the defensive.

'I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,' replied the other.

'Then what and who are you?' returned the locksmith. 'You know my
name, it seems. Let me know yours.'

'I have not gained the information from any confidence of yours,
but from the inscription on your cart which tells it to all the
town,' replied the traveller.

'You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,'
said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; 'who are you? Let
me see your face.'

While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his
saddle, from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as
the horse moved in chafing under the tightened rein, kept close
beside him.

'Let me see your face, I say.'

'Stand off!'

'No masquerading tricks,' said the locksmith, 'and tales at the
club to-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice
and a dark night. Stand--let me see your face.'

Finding that further resistance would only involve him in a
personal struggle with an antagonist by no means to be despised,
the traveller threw back his coat, and stooping down looked
steadily at the locksmith.

Perhaps two men more powerfully contrasted, never opposed each
other face to face. The ruddy features of the locksmith so set off
and heightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that
he looked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard
riding had brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy
drops, like dews of agony and death. The countenance of the old
locksmith lighted up with the smile of one expecting to detect in
this unpromising stranger some latent roguery of eye or lip, which
should reveal a familiar person in that arch disguise, and spoil
his jest. The face of the other, sullen and fierce, but shrinking
too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while his firmly closed
jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain stealthy
motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a
desperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child's play.

Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.

'Humph!' he said when he had scanned his features; 'I don't know
you.'

'Don't desire to?'--returned the other, muffling himself as before.

'I don't,' said Gabriel; 'to be plain with you, friend, you don't
carry in your countenance a letter of recommendation.'

'It's not my wish,' said the traveller. 'My humour is to be
avoided.'

'Well,' said the locksmith bluntly, 'I think you'll have your
humour.'

'I will, at any cost,' rejoined the traveller. 'In proof of it,
lay this to heart--that you were never in such peril of your life
as you have been within these few moments; when you are within
five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death
than you have been to-night!'

'Aye!' said the sturdy locksmith.

'Aye! and a violent death.'

'From whose hand?'

'From mine,' replied the traveller.

With that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first
plashing heavily through the mire at a smart trot, but gradually
increasing in speed until the last sound of his horse's hoofs died
away upon the wind; when he was again hurrying on at the same
furious gallop, which had been his pace when the locksmith first
encountered him.

Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken
lantern in his hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound
reached his ear but the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling
rain; when he struck himself one or two smart blows in the breast
by way of rousing himself, and broke into an exclamation of
surprise.

'What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a
highwayman? a cut-throat? If he had not scoured off so fast, we'd
have seen who was in most danger, he or I. I never nearer death
than I have been to-night! I hope I may be no nearer to it for a
score of years to come--if so, I'll be content to be no farther
from it. My stars!--a pretty brag this to a stout man--pooh,
pooh!'

Gabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which
the traveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:

'The Maypole--two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road from
the Warren after a long day's work at locks and bells, on purpose
that I should not come by the Maypole and break my promise to
Martha by looking in--there's resolution! It would be dangerous to
go on to London without a light; and it's four miles, and a good
half mile besides, to the Halfway-House; and between this and that
is the very place where one needs a light most. Two miles to the
Maypole! I told Martha I wouldn't; I said I wouldn't, and I
didn't--there's resolution!'

Repeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for
the little resolution he was going to show by piquing himself on
the great resolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned
back, determining to get a light at the Maypole, and to take
nothing but a light.

When he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his
well-known hail, came running out to the horse's head, leaving the
door open behind him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of
warmth and brightness--when the ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming
through the old red curtains of the common room, seemed to bring
with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a
fragrant odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as
it were in the cheerful glow--when the shadows, flitting across the
curtain, showed that those inside had risen from their snug seats,
and were making room in the snuggest corner (how well he knew that
corner!) for the honest locksmith, and a broad glare, suddenly
streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling log from which
a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment whirling
up the chimney in honour of his coming--when, superadded to these
enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle
sound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a
savoury smell that made even the boisterous wind a perfume--Gabriel
felt his firmness oozing rapidly away. He tried to look stoically
at the tavern, but his features would relax into a look of
fondness. He turned his head the other way, and the cold black
country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into
its hospitable arms.

'The merciful man, Joe,' said the locksmith, 'is merciful to his
beast. I'll get out for a little while.'

And how natural it was to get out! And how unnatural it seemed for
a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads,
encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain,
when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well
swept hearth, a blazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth,
bright pewter flagons, and other tempting preparations for a well-
cooked meal--when there were these things, and company disposed to
make the most of them, all ready to his hand, and entreating him to
enjoyment!

Chapter 3

Such were the locksmith's thoughts when first seated in the snug
corner, and slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision--
pleasant, because occasioned by the wind blowing in his eyes--which
made it a matter of sound policy and duty to himself, that he
should take refuge from the weather, and tempted him, for the same
reason, to aggravate a slight cough, and declare he felt but
poorly. Such were still his thoughts more than a full hour
afterwards, when, supper over, he still sat with shining jovial
face in the same warm nook, listening to the cricket-like chirrup
of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no unimportant or slightly
respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole fire.

'I wish he may be an honest man, that's all,' said Solomon, winding
up a variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning
whom Gabriel had compared notes with the company, and so raised a
grave discussion; 'I wish he may be an honest man.'

'So we all do, I suppose, don't we?' observed the locksmith.

'I don't,' said Joe.

'No!' cried Gabriel.

'No. He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted
and I afoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what
I think him.'

'And what may that be, Joe?'

'No good, Mr Varden. You may shake your head, father, but I say no
good, and will say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times
over, if that would bring him back to have the drubbing he
deserves.'

'Hold your tongue, sir,' said John Willet.

'I won't, father. It's all along of you that he ventured to do
what he did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a
fool, HE plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he
thinks--and may well think too--hasn't a grain of spirit. But he's
mistaken, as I'll show him, and as I'll show all of you before
long.'

'Does the boy know what he's a saying of!' cried the astonished
John Willet.

'Father,' returned Joe, 'I know what I say and mean, well--better
than you do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I cannot
bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings
upon me from others every day. Look at other young men of my age.
Have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged
to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the
laughing-stock of young and old? I am a bye-word all over
Chigwell, and I say--and it's fairer my saying so now, than waiting
till you are dead, and I have got your money--I say, that before
long I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it
won't be me that you'll have to blame, but your own self, and no
other.'

John Willet was so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his
hopeful son, that he sat as one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous
manner at the boiler, and endeavouring, but quite ineffectually, to
collect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer. The guests,
scarcely less disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length,
with a variety of muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces
of advice, rose to depart; being at the same time slightly muddled
with liquor.

The honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and
sensible advice to both parties, urging John Willet to remember
that Joe was nearly arrived at man's estate, and should not be
ruled with too tight a hand, and exhorting Joe himself to bear with
his father's caprices, and rather endeavour to turn them aside by
temperate remonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion. This advice
was received as such advice usually is. On John Willet it made
almost as much impression as on the sign outside the door, while
Joe, who took it in the best part, avowed himself more obliged than
he could well express, but politely intimated his intention
nevertheless of taking his own course uninfluenced by anybody.

'You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,' he
said, as they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was
equipping himself for his journey home; 'I take it very kind of
you to say all this, but the time's nearly come when the Maypole
and I must part company.'

'Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,' said Gabriel.

'Nor milestones much,' replied Joe. 'I'm little better than one
here, and see as much of the world.'

'Then, what would you do, Joe?' pursued the locksmith, stroking
his chin reflectively. 'What could you be? Where could you go,
you see?'

'I must trust to chance, Mr Varden.'

'A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don't like it. I always tell my
girl when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to
chance, but to make sure beforehand that she has a good man and
true, and then chance will neither make her nor break her. What
are you fidgeting about there, Joe? Nothing gone in the harness, I
hope?'

'No no,' said Joe--finding, however, something very engrossing to
do in the way of strapping and buckling--'Miss Dolly quite well?'

'Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good
too.'

'She's always both, sir'--

'So she is, thank God!'

'I hope,' said Joe after some hesitation, 'that you won't tell this
story against me--this of my having been beat like the boy they'd
make of me--at all events, till I have met this man again and
settled the account. It'll be a better story then.'

'Why who should I tell it to?' returned Gabriel. 'They know it
here, and I'm not likely to come across anybody else who would care
about it.'

'That's true enough,' said the young fellow with a sigh. 'I quite
forgot that. Yes, that's true!'

So saying, he raised his face, which was very red,--no doubt from
the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,--and giving
the reins to the old man, who had by this time taken his seat,
sighed again and bade him good night.

'Good night!' cried Gabriel. 'Now think better of what we have
just been speaking of; and don't be rash, there's a good fellow! I
have an interest in you, and wouldn't have you cast yourself away.
Good night!'

Returning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet
lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears,
and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.

Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great
many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate
his adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for
visiting the Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between
himself and that lady. Thinking begets, not only thought, but
drowsiness occasionally, and the more the locksmith thought, the
more sleepy he became.

A man may be very sober--or at least firmly set upon his legs on
that neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect
sobriety and slight tipsiness--and yet feel a strong tendency to
mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner of
connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons,
things, times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts
together in a kind of mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations
as unexpected as they are transitory. This was Gabriel Varden's
state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and leaving his horse to
pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got over the
ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home. He had
roused himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate
was opened, and had cried a lusty 'good night!' to the toll-
keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in
the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up
the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty
years. It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and
jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress.

And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched
before him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish
air with a deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways
and shops, and swarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and
nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes which produced
it slowly to develop themselves. Long lines of poorly lighted
streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter
spot, where lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round
some great building; after a time these grew more distinct, and the
lamps themselves were visible; slight yellow specks, that seemed to
be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as intervening obstacles hid
them from the sight. Then, sounds arose--the striking of church
clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the
streets; then outlines might be traced--tall steeples looming in
the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then,
the noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct
and numerous still, and London--visible in the darkness by its own
faint light, and not by that of Heaven--was at hand.

The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still
jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no
great distance ahead, roused him with a start.

For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been
transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon
recognising familiar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have
relapsed again, but that the cry was repeated--not once or twice or
thrice, but many times, and each time, if possible, with increased
vehemence. Thoroughly aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not
easily daunted, made straight to the spot, urging on his stout
little horse as if for life or death.

The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the
place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a
man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway,
and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand,
which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling
meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to
the spot.

'What's here to do?' said the old man, alighting. 'How's this--
what--Barnaby?'

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his
eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith,
fixed upon him a look which told his history at once.

'You know me, Barnaby?' said Varden.

He nodded--not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a
fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for
an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his
eye sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body
with an inquiring look.

'There's blood upon him,' said Barnaby with a shudder. 'It makes
me sick!'

'How came it there?' demanded Varden.

'Steel, steel, steel!' he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand
the thrust of a sword.

'Is he robbed?' said the locksmith.

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded 'Yes;' then pointed
towards the city.

'Oh!' said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as
he spoke into Barnaby's pale face, strangely lighted up by
something that was NOT intellect. 'The robber made off that way,
did he? Well, well, never mind that just now. Hold your torch
this way--a little farther off--so. Now stand quiet, while I try
to see what harm is done.'

With these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of the
prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been
directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or
curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret
horror which convulsed him in every nerve.

As he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending
forward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of
the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad
day. He was about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather
spare, of a fair height and strong make. His hair, of which he had
a great profusion, was red, and hanging in disorder about his face
and shoulders, gave to his restless looks an expression quite
unearthly--enhanced by the paleness of his complexion, and the
glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes. Startling as his
aspect was, the features were good, and there was something even
plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence of the
soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and
in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.

His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there--apparently
by his own hands--with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was
most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair
of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was
nearly bare. He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's
feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed
negligently down his back. Girt to his side was the steel hilt of
an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends
of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of
his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition of all the
motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less
degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his
mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more
impressive wildness of his face.

'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful
inspection, 'this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side,
and is in a fainting-fit.'

'I know him, I know him!' cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.

'Know him?' repeated the locksmith.

'Hush!' said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. 'He went
out to-day a wooing. I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should
never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim
that are now as bright as--see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come
out! Whose eyes are they? If they are angels' eyes, why do they
look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all
the night?'

'Now Heaven help this silly fellow,' murmured the perplexed
locksmith; 'can he know this gentleman? His mother's house is not
far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby,
my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we'll ride home
together.'

'I can't touch him!' cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering
as with a strong spasm; he's bloody!'

'It's in his nature, I know,' muttered the locksmith, 'it's cruel
to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby--good Barnaby--dear
Barnaby--if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and
everybody's life that loves him, help me to raise him and lay him
down.'

'Cover him then, wrap him close--don't let me see it--smell it--
hear the word. Don't speak the word--don't!'

'No, no, I'll not. There, you see he's covered now. Gently. Well
done, well done!'

They placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was
strong and active, but all the time they were so occupied he
shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of
terror.

This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden's
own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded
onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his
fingers, and Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an
adventure now, which would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the
Maypole, for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

Chapter 4

In the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell,
towards that part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter
House, and in one of those cool, shady Streets, of which a few,
widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the
metropolis,--each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient
citizen who long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its
infirmity until in course of time it tumbles down, and is replaced
by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and ornamental
work, and all the vanities of modern days,--in this quarter, and in
a street of this description, the business of the present chapter
lies.

At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years
ago, a very large part of what is London now had no existence.
Even in the brains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up
no long rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no
assemblages of palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in
the open fields. Although this part of town was then, as now,
parcelled out in streets, and plentifully peopled, it wore a
different aspect. There were gardens to many of the houses, and
trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up
and down, which in these days would be sought in vain. Fields were
nigh at hand, through which the New River took its winding course,
and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time. Nature was
not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and
although there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working
jewellers by scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer
to it than many modern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers'
walks at no great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long
before the lovers of this age were born, or, as the phrase goes,
thought of.

In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady
side of the way--for good housewives know that sunlight damages
their cherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its
intrusive glare--there stood the house with which we have to deal.
It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall;
not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking
house, with a conical roof going up into a peak over its garret
window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head
of an elderly gentleman with one eye. It was not built of brick or
lofty stone, but of wood and plaster; it was not planned with a
dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no one window matched
the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything
besides itself.

The shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first
floor, where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between
it and any other shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in
and out didn't go up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in
upon a level with the street, but dived down three steep stairs,
as into a cellar. Its floor was paved with stone and brick, as
that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of window framed and
glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast
high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting
as much cold air as light, and very often more. Behind this shop
was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a paved yard, and
beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised some feet
above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscoted
parlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had
entered, was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed
most strangers on their first entrance were observed to grow
extremely thoughtful, as weighing and pondering in their minds
whether the upper rooms were only approachable by ladders from
without; never suspecting that two of the most unassuming and
unlikely doors in existence, which the most ingenious mechanician
on earth must of necessity have supposed to be the doors of
closets, opened out of this room--each without the smallest
preparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage--upon
two dark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other
downward, which were the sole means of communication between that
chamber and the other portions of the house.

With all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously
tidy, or more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in
London, in all England. There were not cleaner windows, or whiter
floors, or brighter Stoves, or more highly shining articles of
furniture in old mahogany; there was not more rubbing, scrubbing,
burnishing and polishing, in the whole street put together. Nor
was this excellence attained without some cost and trouble and
great expenditure of voice, as the neighbours were frequently
reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked and assisted in
its being put to rights on cleaning days--which were usually from
Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.

Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith
stood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man,
gazing disconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in
vivid yellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front,
and swung to and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if
complaining that it had nothing to unlock. Sometimes, he looked
over his shoulder into the shop, which was so dark and dingy with
numerous tokens of his trade, and so blackened by the smoke of a
little forge, near which his 'prentice was at work, that it would
have been difficult for one unused to such espials to have
distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth make and shape,
great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finished
locks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung in
clusters from the ceiling.

After a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many
such backward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a
look at the upper windows. One of them chanced to be thrown open
at the moment, and a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the
loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon;
the face of a pretty, laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and
healthful--the very impersonation of good-humour and blooming
beauty.

'Hush!' she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the
window underneath. 'Mother is still asleep.'

'Still, my dear,' returned the locksmith in the same tone. 'You
talk as if she had been asleep all night, instead of little more
than half an hour. But I'm very thankful. Sleep's a blessing--no
doubt about it.' The last few words he muttered to himself.

'How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never
tell us where you were, or send us word!' said the girl.

'Ah Dolly, Dolly!' returned the locksmith, shaking his head, and
smiling, 'how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down to
breakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you'll wake your
mother. She must be tired, I am sure--I am.'

Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his
daughter's nod, he was passing into the workshop, with the smile
she had awakened still beaming on his face, when he just caught
sight of his 'prentice's brown paper cap ducking down to avoid
observation, and shrinking from the window back to its former
place, which the wearer no sooner reached than he began to hammer
lustily.

'Listening again, Simon!' said Gabriel to himself. 'That's bad.
What in the name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I
always catch him listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other
time! A bad habit, Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may
hammer, but you won't beat that out of me, if you work at it till
your time's up!'

So saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the
workshop, and confronted the subject of these remarks.

'There's enough of that just now,' said the locksmith. 'You
needn't make any more of that confounded clatter. Breakfast's
ready.'

'Sir,' said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiar
little bow cut short off at the neck, 'I shall attend you
immediately.'

'I suppose,' muttered Gabriel, 'that's out of the 'Prentice's
Garland or the 'Prentice's Delight, or the 'Prentice's Warbler, or
the Prentice's Guide to the Gallows, or some such improving
textbook. Now he's going to beautify himself--here's a precious
locksmith!'

Quite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark
corner by the parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang
from his seat, and in two extraordinary steps, something between
skating and minuet dancing, bounded to a washing place at the other
end of the shop, and there removed from his face and hands all
traces of his previous work--practising the same step all the time
with the utmost gravity. This done, he drew from some concealed
place a little scrap of looking-glass, and with its assistance
arranged his hair, and ascertained the exact state of a little
carbuncle on his nose. Having now completed his toilet, he placed
the fragment of mirror on a low bench, and looked over his shoulder
at so much of his legs as could be reflected in that small compass,
with the greatest possible complacency and satisfaction.

Sim, as he was called in the locksmith's family, or Mr Simon
Tappertit, as he called himself, and required all men to style him
out of doors, on holidays, and Sundays out,--was an old-fashioned,
thin-faced, sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow,
very little more than five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in
his own mind that he was above the middle size; rather tall, in
fact, than otherwise. Of his figure, which was well enough formed,
though somewhat of the leanest, he entertained the highest
admiration; and with his legs, which, in knee-breeches, were
perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured to a degree
amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowy ideas,
which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends,
concerning the power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so
far as to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the
haughtiest beauty by a simple process, which he termed 'eyeing her
over;' but it must be added, that neither of this faculty, nor of
the power he claimed to have, through the same gift, of vanquishing
and heaving down dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he ever
furnished evidence which could be deemed quite satisfactory and
conclusive.

It may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of
Mr Tappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul.
As certain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their
dimensions, will ferment, and fret, and chafe in their
imprisonment, so the spiritual essence or soul of Mr Tappertit
would sometimes fume within that precious cask, his body, until,
with great foam and froth and splutter, it would force a vent, and
carry all before it. It was his custom to remark, in reference to
any one of these occasions, that his soul had got into his head;
and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapes and mishaps
befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no small
difficulty from his worthy master.

Sim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-
mentioned soul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which
fancies, like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed
upon), had a mighty notion of his order; and had been heard by the
servant-maid openly expressing his regret that the 'prentices no
longer carried clubs wherewith to mace the citizens: that was his
strong expression. He was likewise reported to have said that in
former times a stigma had been cast upon the body by the execution
of George Barnwell, to which they should not have basely
submitted, but should have demanded him of the legislature--
temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if necessary--to
be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit. These
thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the
'prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at
their head; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his
hearers, hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a
certain Lion Heart ready to become their captain, who, once afoot,
would make the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne.

In respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no
less of an adventurous and enterprising character. He had been
seen, beyond dispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at
the corner of the street on Sunday nights, and to put them
carefully in his pocket before returning home; and it was quite
notorious that on all great holiday occasions it was his habit to
exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for a pair of glittering
paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted most conveniently
in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years just twenty,
in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred; that
he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration of
his master's daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain
obscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love,
toasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christian
name, he said, began with a D--;--and as much is known of Sim
Tappertit, who has by this time followed the locksmith in to
breakfast, as is necessary to be known in making his acquaintance.

It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea
equipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of
beef, a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered
Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order.
There was also a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into
the form of an old gentleman, not by any means unlike the
locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering
to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home-brewed
ale. But, better far than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or
ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or
water can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith's
rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant,
and malt became as nothing.

Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by.
It's too much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought
Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his--those lips
within Sim's reach from day to day, and yet so far off. He had a
respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might
choke him.

'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over,
and they took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last
night?'

'All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.'

'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you
came up!'

'Ay--Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all
his might. It was well it happened as it did; for the road's a
lonely one, the hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor
Barnaby even less sensible than usual from surprise and fright, the
young gentleman might have met his death in a very short time.'

'I dread to think of it!' cried his daughter with a shudder. 'How
did you know him?'

'Know him!' returned the locksmith. 'I didn't know him--how could
I? I had never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him.
I took him to Mrs Rudge's; and she no sooner saw him than the truth
came out.'

'Miss Emma, father--If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as
it is sure to be, she will go distracted.'

'Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-
natured,' said the locksmith. 'Miss Emma was with her uncle at the
masquerade at Carlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at
the Warren told me, sorely against her will. What does your
blockhead father when he and Mrs Rudge have laid their heads
together, but goes there when he ought to be abed, makes interest
with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask and domino,
and mixes with the masquers.'

'And like himself to do so!' cried the girl, putting her fair arm
round his neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.

'Like himself!' repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but
evidently delighted with the part he had taken, and with her
praise. 'Very like himself--so your mother said. However, he
mingled with the crowd, and prettily worried and badgered he was, I
warrant you, with people squeaking, "Don't you know me?" and "I've
found you out," and all that kind of nonsense in his ears. He
might have wandered on till now, but in a little room there was a
young lady who had taken off her mask, on account of the place
being very warm, and was sitting there alone.'

'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily.

'And that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner
whispered to her what the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with
nearly as much art as you could have used yourself--than she gives
a kind of scream and faints away.'

'What did you do--what happened next?' asked his daughter. 'Why,
the masks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and
I thought myself in luck to get clear off, that's all,' rejoined
the locksmith. 'What happened when I reached home you may guess,
if you didn't hear it. Ah! Well, it's a poor heart that never
rejoices.--Put Toby this way, my dear.'

This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been
made. Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman's benevolent
forehead, the locksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among
the eatables, kept them there so long, at the same time raising the
vessel slowly in the air, that at length Toby stood on his head
upon his nose, when he smacked his lips, and set him on the table
again with fond reluctance.

Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no
part of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such
silent manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible
with the favourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which
now ensued, as a particularly advantageous opportunity for doing
great execution with them upon the locksmith's daughter (who he had
no doubt was looking at him in mute admiration), he began to screw
and twist his face, and especially those features, into such
extraordinary, hideous, and unparalleled contortions, that Gabriel,
who happened to look towards him, was stricken with amazement.

'Why, what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the
locksmith. 'Is he choking?'

'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain.

'Who? Why, you,' returned his master. 'What do you mean by making
those horrible faces over your breakfast?'

'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, rather
discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's
daughter smiling.

'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. 'Don't be a fool, for
I'd rather see you in your senses. These young fellows,' he added,
turning to his daughter, 'are always committing some folly or
another. There was a quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last
night though I can't say Joe was much in fault either. He'll be
missing one of these mornings, and will have gone away upon some
wild-goose errand, seeking his fortune.--Why, what's the matter,
Doll? YOU are making faces now. The girls are as bad as the boys
every bit!'

'It's the tea,' said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very
white, which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald--'so very hot.'

Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table,
and breathed hard.

'Is that all?' returned the locksmith. 'Put some more milk in it.--
Yes, I am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and
gains upon one every time one sees him. But he'll start off,
you'll find. Indeed he told me as much himself!'

'Indeed!' cried Dolly in a faint voice. 'In-deed!'

'Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?' said the
locksmith.

But, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken
with a troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough,
that, when she left off, the tears were starting in her bright
eyes. The good-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back
and applying such gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from
Mrs Varden, making known to all whom it might concern, that she
felt too much indisposed to rise after her great agitation and
anxiety of the previous night; and therefore desired to be
immediately accommodated with the little black teapot of strong
mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a middling-sized
dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual in two
volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remote ages
flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most
ill-tempered. Whenever she and her husband were at unusual
variance, then the Protestant Manual was in high feather.

Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the
triumvirate broke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all
despatch; Gabriel, to some out-of-door work in his little chaise;
and Sim, to his daily duty in the workshop, to which retreat he
carried the big look, although the loaf remained behind.

Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his
apron on, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several
times walked up and down with folded arms, and the longest strides
be could take, and had kicked a great many small articles out of
his way, that his lip began to curl. At length, a gloomy derision
came upon his features, and he smiled; uttering meanwhile with
supreme contempt the monosyllable 'Joe!'

'I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,' he said, 'and
that was of course the reason of her being confused. Joe!'

He walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if
possible with longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance
at his legs, and sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another
'Joe!' In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again
assumed the paper cap and tried to work. No. It could not be
done.

'I'll do nothing to-day,' said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again,
'but grind. I'll grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my
present humour well. Joe!'

Whirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were
flying off in showers. This was the occupation for his heated
spirit.

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.

'Something will come of this!' said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in
triumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. 'Something
will come of this. I hope it mayn't be human gore!'

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

Chapter 5

As soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied
forth, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain the
progress of his recovery. The house where he had left him was in a
by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither he
hied with all speed, bent upon returning with as little delay as
might be, and getting to bed betimes.

The evening was boisterous--scarcely better than the previous night
had been. It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep his
legs at the street corners, or to make head against the high wind,
which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some
paces, or, in defiance of all his energy, forced him to take
shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent.
Occasionally a hat or wig, or both, came spinning and trundling
past him, like a mad thing; while the more serious spectacle of
falling tiles and slates, or of masses of brick and mortar or
fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement near at hand,
and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the
journey, or make the way less dreary.

'A trying night for a man like me to walk in!' said the locksmith,
as he knocked softly at the widow's door. 'I'd rather be in old
John's chimney-corner, faith!'

'Who's there?' demanded a woman's voice from within. Being
answered, it added a hasty word of welcome, and the door was
quickly opened.

She was about forty--perhaps two or three years older--with a
cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It bore
traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and
Time had smoothed them. Any one who had bestowed but a casual
glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother, from
the strong resemblance between them; but where in his face there
was wildness and vacancy, in hers there was the patient composure
of long effort and quiet resignation.

One thing about this face was very strange and startling. You
could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling
that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror. It
was not on the surface. It was in no one feature that it lingered.
You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and
say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there
it always lurked--something for ever dimly seen, but ever there,
and never absent for a moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow
of some look, to which an instant of intense and most unutterable
horror only could have given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it
was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and fixed it in
the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.

More faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were,
because of his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon
the son. Seen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it,
and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas. They who
knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow was,
before her husband's and his master's murder, understood it well.
They recollected how the change had come, and could call to mind
that when her son was born, upon the very day the deed was known,
he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear of blood but half washed
out.

'God save you, neighbour!' said the locksmith, as he followed her,
with the air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a
cheerful fire was burning.

'And you,' she answered smiling. 'Your kind heart has brought you
here again. Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there
are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.'

'Tut, tut,' returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming
them. 'You women are such talkers. What of the patient,
neighbour?'

'He is sleeping now. He was very restless towards daylight, and
for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly. But the fever has left
him, and the doctor says he will soon mend. He must not be removed
until to-morrow.'

'He has had visitors to-day--humph?' said Gabriel, slyly.

'Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and
had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.'

'No ladies?' said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking
disappointed.

'A letter,' replied the widow.

'Come. That's better than nothing!' replied the locksmith. 'Who
was the bearer?'

'Barnaby, of course.'

'Barnaby's a jewel!' said Varden; 'and comes and goes with ease
where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand
of it. He is not out wandering, again, I hope?'

'Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you
know, and on his feet all day. He was quite tired out. Ah,
neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so--if I could but tame
down that terrible restlessness--'

'In good time,' said the locksmith, kindly, 'in good time--don't be
down-hearted. To my mind he grows wiser every day.'

The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith
sought to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she
was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted son.

'He will be a 'cute man yet,' resumed the locksmith. 'Take care,
when we are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn't put us to the
blush, that's all. But our other friend,' he added, looking under
the table and about the floor--'sharpest and cunningest of all the
sharp and cunning ones--where's he?'

'In Barnaby's room,' rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.

'Ah! He's a knowing blade!' said Varden, shaking his head. 'I
should be sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He's a deep
customer. I've no doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts
if he chooses. What was that? Him tapping at the door?'

'No,' returned the widow. 'It was in the street, I think. Hark!
Yes. There again! 'Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter.
Who can it be!'

They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead,
and the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound
of their voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The
party without, whoever it was, could have stood close to the
shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing the light
through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been
persuaded that only one person was there.

'Some thief or ruffian maybe,' said the locksmith. 'Give me the
light.'

'No, no,' she returned hastily. 'Such visitors have never come to
this poor dwelling. Do you stay here. You're within call, at the
worst. I would rather go myself--alone.'

'Why?' said the locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he
had caught up from the table.

'Because--I don't know why--because the wish is so strong upon me,'
she rejoined. 'There again--do not detain me, I beg of you!'

Gabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually
so mild and quiet thus agitated, and with so little cause. She
left the room and closed the door behind her. She stood for a
moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock. In this
short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the
window--a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some
disagreeable association with--whispered 'Make haste.'

The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its
way so readily to sleepers' ears, and wakes them in a fright. For
a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew
back from the window, and listened.

The wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what
passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was
the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment's
silence--broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek,
or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all
three; and the words 'My God!' uttered in a voice it chilled him to
hear.

He rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful
look--the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen
before--upon her face. There she stood, frozen to the ground,
gazing with starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature
fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last
night. His eyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a flash,
an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.

The locksmith was upon him--had the skirts of his streaming garment
almost in his grasp--when his arms were tightly clutched, and the
widow flung herself upon the ground before him.

'The other way--the other way,' she cried. 'He went the other way.
Turn--turn!'

'The other way! I see him now,' rejoined the locksmith, pointing--
'yonder--there--there is his shadow passing by that light. What--
who is this? Let me go.'

'Come back, come back!' exclaimed the woman, clasping him; 'Do not
touch him on your life. I charge you, come back. He carries other
lives besides his own. Come back!'

'What does this mean?' cried the locksmith.

'No matter what it means, don't ask, don't speak, don't think about
it. He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!'

The old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about
him; and, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into
the house. It was not until she had chained and double-locked the
door, fastened every bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a
maniac, and drawn him back into the room, that she turned upon him,
once again, that stony look of horror, and, sinking down into a
chair, covered her face, and shuddered, as though the hand of death
were on her.

Chapter 6

Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had
passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon
the shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and
would have gazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by
compassion and humanity.

'You are ill,' said Gabriel. 'Let me call some neighbour in.'

'Not for the world,' she rejoined, motioning to him with her
trembling hand, and holding her face averted. 'It is enough that
you have been by, to see this.'

'Nay, more than enough--or less,' said Gabriel.

'Be it so,' she returned. 'As you like. Ask me no questions, I
entreat you.'

'Neighbour,' said the locksmith, after a pause. 'Is this fair, or
reasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have known me
so long and sought my advice in all matters--like you, who from a
girl have had a strong mind and a staunch heart?'

'I have need of them,' she replied. 'I am growing old, both in
years and care. Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them
weaker than they used to be. Do not speak to me.'

'How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!' returned the
locksmith. 'Who was that man, and why has his coming made this
change in you?'

She was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself
from falling on the ground.

'I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,' said the
locksmith, 'who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has
tried to prove it when he could. Who is this ill-favoured man, and
what has he to do with you? Who is this ghost, that is only seen
in the black nights and bad weather? How does he know, and why
does he haunt, this house, whispering through chinks and crevices,
as if there was that between him and you, which neither durst so
much as speak aloud of? Who is he?'

'You do well to say he haunts this house,' returned the widow,
faintly. 'His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and
darkness, at noonday and midnight. And now, at last, he has come
in the body!'

'But he wouldn't have gone in the body,' returned the locksmith
with some irritation, 'if you had left my arms and legs at liberty.
What riddle is this?'

'It is one,' she answered, rising as she spoke, 'that must remain
for ever as it is. I dare not say more than that.'

'Dare not!' repeated the wondering locksmith.

'Do not press me,' she replied. 'I am sick and faint, and every
faculty of life seems dead within me.--No!--Do not touch me,
either.'

Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell
back as she made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent
wonder.

'Let me go my way alone,' she said in a low voice, 'and let the
hands of no honest man touch mine to-night.' When she had
tottered to the door, she turned, and added with a stronger effort,
'This is a secret, which, of necessity, I trust to you. You are a
true man. As you have ever been good and kind to me,--keep it. If
any noise was heard above, make some excuse--say anything but what
you really saw, and never let a word or look between us, recall
this circumstance. I trust to you. Mind, I trust to you. How
much I trust, you never can conceive.'

Casting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left
him there alone.

Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with
a countenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on
what had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable
interpretation. To find this widow woman, whose life for so many
years had been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and
who, in her quiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion
and respect of all who knew her--to find her linked mysteriously
with an ill-omened man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet
favouring his escape, was a discovery that pained as much as
startled him. Her reliance on his secrecy, and his tacit
acquiescence, increased his distress of mind. If he had spoken
boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her when she rose to
leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of silently
compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have been
more at ease.

'Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!'
said Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with
greater ease, and looking ruefully at the fire. 'I have no more
readiness than old John himself. Why didn't I say firmly, "You
have no right to such secrets, and I demand of you to tell me what
this means," instead of standing gaping at her, like an old moon-
calf as I am! But there's my weakness. I can be obstinate enough
with men if need be, but women may twist me round their fingers at
their pleasure.'

He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and,
warming his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his
bald head with it, until it glistened again.

'And yet,' said the locksmith, softening under this soothing
process, and stopping to smile, 'it MAY be nothing. Any drunken
brawler trying to make his way into the house, would have alarmed a
quiet soul like her. But then'--and here was the vexation--'how
came it to be that man; how comes he to have this influence over
her; how came she to favour his getting away from me; and, more
than all, how came she not to say it was a sudden fright, and
nothing more? It's a sad thing to have, in one minute, reason to
mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old sweetheart into
the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon my mind!--
Is that Barnaby outside there?'

'Ay!' he cried, looking in and nodding. 'Sure enough it's
Barnaby--how did you guess?'

'By your shadow,' said the locksmith.

'Oho!' cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, 'He's a merry
fellow, that shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We
have such pranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass!
Sometimes he'll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes
no bigger than a dwarf. Now, he goes on before, and now behind,
and anon he'll be stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping
whenever I stop, and thinking I can't see him, though I have my eye
on him sharp enough. Oh! he's a merry fellow. Tell me--is he
silly too? I think he is.'

'Why?' asked Gabriel.

'Because be never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.--
Why don't you come?'

'Where?'

'Upstairs. He wants you. Stay--where's HIS shadow? Come. You're
a wise man; tell me that.'

'Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,' returned the locksmith.

'No!' he replied, shaking his head. 'Guess again.'

'Gone out a walking, maybe?'

'He has changed shadows with a woman,' the idiot whispered in his
ear, and then fell back with a look of triumph. 'Her shadow's
always with him, and his with her. That's sport I think, eh?'

'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, with a grave look; 'come hither,
lad.'

'I know what you want to say. I know!' he replied, keeping away
from him. 'But I'm cunning, I'm silent. I only say so much to
you--are you ready?' As he spoke, he caught up the light, and
waved it with a wild laugh above his head.

'Softly--gently,' said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to
keep him calm and quiet. 'I thought you had been asleep.'

'So I HAVE been asleep,' he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes.
'There have been great faces coming and going--close to my face,
and then a mile away--low places to creep through, whether I would
or no--high churches to fall down from--strange creatures crowded
up together neck and heels, to sit upon the bed--that's sleep, eh?'

'Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,' said the locksmith.

'Dreams!' he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. 'Those are not
dreams.'

'What are,' replied the locksmith, 'if they are not?'

'I dreamed,' said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden's, and
peering close into his face as he answered in a whisper, 'I dreamed
just now that something--it was in the shape of a man--followed me--
came softly after me--wouldn't let me be--but was always hiding
and crouching, like a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should
pass; when it crept out and came softly after me.--Did you ever see
me run?'

'Many a time, you know.'

'You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came
creeping on to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--
leaped--sprung out of bed, and to the window--and there, in the
street below--but he is waiting for us. Are you coming?'

'What in the street below, Barnaby?' said Varden, imagining that he
traced some connection between this vision and what had actually
occurred.

Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the
light above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith's
arm more tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.

They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with
chairs, whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture
of very little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an
easy-chair before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was
Edward Chester, the young gentleman who had been the first to quit
the Maypole on the previous night, and who, extending his hand to
the locksmith, welcomed him as his preserver and friend.

'Say no more, sir, say no more,' said Gabriel. 'I hope I would
have done at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most
of all for you, sir. A certain young lady,' he added, with some
hesitation, 'has done us many a kind turn, and we naturally feel--I
hope I give you no offence in saying this, sir?'

The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in
his chair as if in pain.

'It's no great matter,' he said, in answer to the locksmith's
sympathising look, 'a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from
being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the
loss of blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.'

'If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,'
returned the locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and
bending over him, 'I'll stand here for the convenience of speaking
low. Barnaby is not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such
times talking never does him good.'

They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a
seat on the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was
making puzzles on his fingers with a skein of string.

'Pray, tell me, sir,' said Varden, dropping his voice still lower,
'exactly what happened last night. I have my reason for inquiring.
You left the Maypole, alone?'

'And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place
where you found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.'

'Behind you?' said the locksmith.

'Indeed, yes--behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook
me, and checking his horse, inquired the way to London.'

'You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are,
scouring the roads in all directions?' said Varden.

'I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols
in their holster-case with the landlord's son. I directed him as
he desired. Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me
furiously, as if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse's
hoofs. In starting aside, I slipped and fell. You found me with
this stab and an ugly bruise or two, and without my purse--in which
he found little enough for his pains. And now, Mr Varden,' he
added, shaking the locksmith by the hand, 'saving the extent of my
gratitude to you, you know as much as I.'

'Except,' said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking
cautiously towards their silent neighhour, 'except in respect of
the robber himself. What like was he, sir? Speak low, if you
please. Barnaby means no harm, but I have watched him oftener than
you, and I know, little as you would think it, that he's listening
now.'

It required a strong confidence in the locksmith's veracity to
lead any one to this belief, for every sense and faculty that
Barnahy possessed, seemed to be fixed upon his game, to the
exclusion of all other things. Something in the young man's face
expressed this opinion, for Gabriel repeated what he had just said,
more earnestly than before, and with another glance towards
Barnaby, again asked what like the man was.

'The night was so dark,' said Edward, 'the attack so sudden, and
he so wrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say. It seems
that--'

'Don't mention his name, sir,' returned the locksmith, following
his look towards Barnaby; 'I know HE saw him. I want to know what
YOU saw.'

'All I remember is,' said Edward, 'that as he checked his horse his
hat was blown off. He caught it, and replaced it on his head,
which I observed was bound with a dark handkerchief. A stranger
entered the Maypole while I was there, whom I had not seen--for I
had sat apart for reasons of my own--and when I rose to leave the
room and glanced round, he was in the shadow of the chimney and
hidden from my sight. But, if he and the robber were two different
persons, their voices were strangely and most remarkably alike; for
directly the man addressed me in the road, I recognised his speech
again.'

'It is as I feared. The very man was here to-night,' thought the
locksmith, changing colour. 'What dark history is this!'

'Halloa!' cried a hoarse voice in his ear. 'Halloa, halloa,
halloa! Bow wow wow. What's the matter here! Hal-loa!'

The speaker--who made the locksmith start as if he had been some
supernatural agent--was a large raven, who had perched upon the top
of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a
polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of
comprehending every word, to all they had said up to this point;
turning his head from one to the other, as if his office were to
judge between them, and it were of the very last importance that he
should not lose a word.

'Look at him!' said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird
and a kind of fear of him. 'Was there ever such a knowing imp as
that! Oh he's a dreadful fellow!'

The raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye
shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few
seconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it
seemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his
mouth.

'Halloa, halloa, halloa! What's the matter here! Keep up your
spirits. Never say die. Bow wow wow. I'm a devil, I'm a devil,
I'm a devil. Hurrah!'--And then, as if exulting in his infernal
character, he began to whistle.

'I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do,'
said Varden. 'Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I
was saying?'

To which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it were, and
moving his body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined,
'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil,' and flapped his wings
against his sides as if he were bursting with laughter. Barnaby
clapped his hands, and fairly rolled upon the ground in an ecstasy
of delight.

'Strange companions, sir,' said the locksmith, shaking his head,
and looking from one to the other. 'The bird has all the wit.'

'Strange indeed!' said Edward, holding out his forefinger to the
raven, who, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive at it
immediately with his iron bill. 'Is he old?'

'A mere boy, sir,' replied the locksmith. 'A hundred and twenty,
or thereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby, my man.'

'Call him!' echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and
staring vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his
face. 'But who can make him come! He calls me, and makes me go
where he will. He goes on before, and I follow. He's the master,
and I'm the man. Is that the truth, Grip?'

The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;--a
most expressive croak, which seemed to say, 'You needn't let these
fellows into our secrets. We understand each other. It's all
right.'

'I make HIM come?' cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. 'Him, who
never goes to sleep, or so much as winks!--Why, any time of night,
you may see his eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks. And
every night, and all night too, he's broad awake, talking to
himself, thinking what he shall do to-morrow, where we shall go,
and what he shall steal, and hide, and bury. I make HIM come!
Ha ha ha!'

On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself.
After a short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the
ceiling and at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the
floor, and went to Barnaby--not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a
pace like that of a very particular gentleman with exceedingly
tight boots on, trying to walk fast over loose pebbles. Then,
stepping into his extended hand, and condescending to be held out
at arm's length, he gave vent to a succession of sounds, not unlike
the drawing of some eight or ten dozen of long corks, and again
asserted his brimstone birth and parentage with great distinctness.

The locksmith shook his head--perhaps in some doubt of the
creature's being really nothing but a bird--perhaps in pity for
Bamaby, who by this time had him in his arms, and was rolling
about, with him, on the ground. As he raised his eyes from the
poor fellow he encountered those of his mother, who had entered the
room, and was looking on in silence.

She was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but had wholly
subdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look. Varden fancied
as he glanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she
busied herself about the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better.

It was time he went to bed, she said. He was to be removed to his
own home on the morrow, and he had already exceeded his time for
sitting up, by a full hour. Acting on this hint, the locksmith
prepared to take his leave.

'By the bye,' said Edward, as he shook him by the hand, and looked
from him to Mrs Rudge and back again, 'what noise was that below?
I heard your voice in the midst of it, and should have inquired
before, but our other conversation drove it from my memory. What
was it?'

The locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip. She leant
against the chair, and bent her eyes upon the ground. Barnaby too--
he was listening.

--'Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,' Varden at length made answer,
looking steadily at the widow as he spoke. 'He mistook the house,
and tried to force an entrance.'

She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the
locksmith said 'Good night,' and Barnaby caught up the candle to
light him down the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him--
with more haste and earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared
to warrant--not to stir. The raven followed them to satisfy
himself that all was right below, and when they reached the street-
door, stood on the bottom stair drawing corks out of number.

With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and
turned the key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith
said in a low voice,

'I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake
of bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so
for my own. I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I
can't help the suspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I
tell you plainly, to leave Mr Edward here. Take care he comes to
no hurt. I doubt the safety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it
so soon. Now, let me go.'

For a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting
the strong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the
door--no wider than was sufficient for the passage of his body--
and motioned him away. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it
was chained and locked behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of
these precautions, barked like a lusty house-dog.

'In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from
a gibbet--he listening and hiding here--Barnaby first upon the spot
last night--can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty
of such crimes in secret!' said the locksmith, musing. 'Heaven
forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is
poor, the temptation may be great, and we daily hear of things as
strange.--Ay, bark away, my friend. If there's any wickedness
going on, that raven's in it, I'll be sworn.'

Chapter 7

Mrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain
temper--a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper
tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable.
Thus it generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs
Varden was dull; and that when other people were dull, Mrs Varden
was disposed to be amazingly cheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife
was of such a capricious nature, that she not only attained a
higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her ability to
be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an
instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and
forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short quarter of
an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major on the
peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and
rapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.

It had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for
personal attractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like
her fair daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this
uncertainty of disposition strengthened and increased with her
temporal prosperity; and divers wise men and matrons, on friendly
terms with the locksmith and his family, even went so far as to
assert, that a tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the world's
ladder--such as the breaking of the bank in which her husband kept
his money, or some little fall of that kind--would be the making
of her, and could hardly fail to render her one of the most
agreeable companions in existence. Whether they were right or
wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like bodies,
will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from mere
excess of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by
remedies in themselves very nauseous and unpalatable.

Mrs Varden's chief aider and abettor, and at the same time her
principal victim and object of wrath, was her single domestic
servant, one Miss Miggs; or as she was called, in conformity with
those prejudices of society which lop and top from poor hand-
maidens all such genteel excrescences--Miggs. This Miggs was a
tall young lady, very much addicted to pattens in private life;
slender and shrewish, of a rather uncomfortable figure, and though
not absolutely ill-looking, of a sharp and acid visage. As a
general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs held the male sex
to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice; to be fickle,
false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly undeserving.
When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal said,
was when Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to
wish with great emphasis that the whole race of women could but die
off, in order that the men might be brought to know the real value
of the blessings by which they set so little store; nay, her
feeling for her order ran so high, that she sometimes declared, if
she could only have good security for a fair, round number--say ten
thousand--of young virgins following her example, she would, to
spite mankind, hang, drown, stab, or poison herself, with a joy
past all expression.

It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he
knocked at his own house, with a shrill cry of 'Who's there?'

'Me, girl, me,' returned Gabriel.

What, already, sir!' said Miggs, opening the door with a look of
surprise. 'We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,--me
and mistress. Oh, she has been SO bad!'

Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but
the parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew
for whose ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but
an approving look as he passed in.

'Master's come home, mim,' cried Miggs, running before him into the
parlour. 'You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he
wouldn't keep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master's
always considerate so far. I'm so glad, mim, on your account. I'm
a little'--here Miggs simpered--'a little sleepy myself; I'll own
it now, mim, though I said I wasn't when you asked me. It ain't of
no consequence, mim, of course.'

'You had better,' said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that
Barnaby's raven was at Miggs's ankles, 'you had better get to bed
at once then.'

'Thanking you kindly, sir,' returned Miggs, 'I couldn't take my
rest in peace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than
that I knew mistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by
rights she ought to have been there, hours ago.'

'You're talkative, mistress,' said Varden, pulling off his
greatcoat, and looking at her askew.

'Taking the hint, sir,' cried Miggs, with a flushed face, 'and
thanking you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I
give offence by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask
your pardon, but am content to get myself into trouble and to be in
suffering.'

Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large
nightcap, had been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual,
looked round, and acknowledged Miggs's championship by commanding
her to hold her tongue.

Every little bone in Miggs's throat and neck developed itself with
a spitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, 'Yes, mim, I will.'

'How do you find yourself now, my dear?' said the locksmith,
taking a chair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and
rubbing his knees hard as he made the inquiry.

'You're very anxious to know, an't you?' returned Mrs Varden, with
her eyes upon the print. 'You, that have not been near me all day,
and wouldn't have been if I was dying!'

'My dear Martha--' said Gabriel.

Mrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to
the bottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and
then went on reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and
study.

'My dear Martha,' said the locksmith, 'how can you say such things,
when you know you don't mean them? If you were dying! Why, if
there was anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn't I
be in constant attendance upon you?'

'Yes!' cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, 'yes, you would. I
don't doubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That's as much as to
tell me that you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting
till the breath was out of my body, that you might go and marry
somebody else.'

Miggs groaned in sympathy--a little short groan, checked in its
birth, and changed into a cough. It seemed to say, 'I can't help
it. It's wrung from me by the dreadful brutality of that monster
master.'

'But you'll break my heart one of these days,' added Mrs Varden,
with more resignation, 'and then we shall both be happy. My only
desire is to see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you
may settle ME as soon as you like.'

'Ah!' cried Miggs--and coughed again.

Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and
then said mildly, 'Has Dolly gone to bed?'

'Your master speaks to you,' said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over
her shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.

'No, my dear, I spoke to you,' suggested the locksmith.

'Did you hear me, Miggs?' cried the obdurate lady, stamping her
foot upon the ground. 'YOU are beginning to despise me now, are
you? But this is example!'

At this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for
large or small parties, on the shortest notice and the most
reasonable terms, fell a crying violently; holding both her hands
tight upon her heart meanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent
its splitting into small fragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise
possessed that faculty in high perfection, wept too, against Miggs;
and with such effect that Miggs gave in after a time, and, except
for an occasional sob, which seemed to threaten some remote
intention of breaking out again, left her mistress in possession of
the field. Her superiority being thoroughly asserted, that lady
soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.

The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last
night so completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in
his chair, and would doubtless have slept there all night, but for
the voice of Mrs Varden, which, after a pause of some five minutes,
awoke him with a start.

'If I am ever,' said Mrs V.--not scolding, but in a sort of
monotonous remonstrance--'in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I
am ever more than usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable,
this is the way I am treated.'

'Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!' cried
Miggs. 'I never see such company!'

'Because,' said Mrs Varden, 'because I never interfere or
interrupt; because I never question where anybody comes or goes;
because my whole mind and soul is bent on saving where I can save,
and labouring in this house;--therefore, they try me as they do.'

'Martha,' urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as
possible, 'what is it you complain of? I really came home with
every wish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.'

'What do I complain of!' retorted his wife. 'Is it a chilling
thing to have one's husband sulking and falling asleep directly he
comes home--to have him freezing all one's warm-heartedness, and
throwing cold water over the fireside? Is it natural, when I know
he went out upon a matter in which I am as much interested as
anybody can be, that I should wish to know all that has happened,
or that he should tell me without my begging and praying him to do
it? Is that natural, or is it not?'

'I am very sorry, Martha,' said the good-natured locksmith. 'I was
really afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I'll tell
you everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.'

'No, Varden,' returned his wife, rising with dignity. 'I dare say--
thank you! I'm not a child to be corrected one minute and petted
the next--I'm a little too old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the
light.--YOU can be cheerful, Miggs, at least'

Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of
compassionate despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest
state conceivable, and tossing her head as she glanced towards the
locksmith, bore off her mistress and the light together.

'Now, who would think,' thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and
drawing his chair nearer to the fire, 'that that woman could ever
be pleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be. Well, well, all of
us have our faults. I'll not be hard upon hers. We have been man
and wife too long for that.'

He dozed again--not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty
temper. While his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper
stairs was partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight
of him, hastily drew back again.

'I wish,' murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round
the room, 'I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But that's
impossible! I wonder whether there's any madman alive, who would
marry Miggs!'

This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again,
and slept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused
himself; and having double-locked the street-door according to
custom, and put the key in his pocket, went off to bed.

He had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head
again appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a
little lamp.

'What the devil business has he to stop up so late!' muttered Sim,
passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge.
'Here's half the night gone already. There's only one good that
has ever come to me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade,
and that's this piece of ironmongery, upon my soul!'

As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg
pocket of his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted
cautiously in the lock his master had secured, and softly opened
the door. That done, he replaced his piece of secret workmanship
in his pocket; and leaving the lamp burning, and closing the door
carefully and without noise, stole out into the street--as little
suspected by the locksmith in his sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby
himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.

Chapter 8

Clear of the locksmith's house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his
cautious manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling,
swaggering, roving blade, who would rather kill a man than
otherwise, and eat him too if needful, made the best of his way
along the darkened streets.

Half pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and
assure himself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to
Barbican, and turning into one of the narrowest of the narrow
streets which diverged from that centre, slackened his pace and
wiped his heated brow, as if the termination of his walk were near
at hand.

It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in
truth one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance
by no means inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself
little better than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind
court, or yard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant
odours. Into this ill-favoured pit, the locksmith's vagrant
'prentice groped his way; and stopping at a house from whose
defaced and rotten front the rude effigy of a bottle swung to and
fro like some gibbeted malefactor, struck thrice upon an iron
grating with his foot. After listening in vain for some response
to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and struck the
grating thrice again.

A further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration. The
ground seemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.

'Is that the captain?' said a voice as ragged as the head.

'Yes,' replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, 'who
should it be?'

'It's so late, we gave you up,' returned the voice, as its owner
stopped to shut and fasten the grating. 'You're late, sir.'

'Lead on,' said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, 'and make
remarks when I require you. Forward!'

This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and
unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep,
and slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from
the beaten track must have ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr
Tappertit being, like some other great commanders, favourable to
strong effects, and personal display, cried 'Forward!' again, in
the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with folded
arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a
small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table,
a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged
patchwork rug.

'Welcome, noble captain!' cried a lanky figure, rising as from a
nap.

The captain nodded. Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood
composed in all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.

'What news to-night?' he asked, when he had looked into his very
soul.

'Nothing particular,' replied the other, stretching himself--and he
was so long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it--
'how come you to be so late?'

'No matter,' was all the captain deigned to say in answer. 'Is the
room prepared?'

'It is,' replied the follower.

'The comrade--is he here?'

'Yes. And a sprinkling of the others--you hear 'em?'

'Playing skittles!' said the captain moodily. 'Light-hearted
revellers!'

There was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which
these heedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and
stifling atmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant
thunder. It certainly appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to
choose, for that or any other purpose of relaxation, if the other
cellars answered to the one in which this brief colloquy took
place; for the floors were of sodden earth, the walls and roof of
damp bare brick tapestried with the tracks of snails and slugs; the
air was sickening, tainted, and offensive. It seemed, from one
strong flavour which was uppermost among the various odours of the
place, that it had, at no very distant period, been used as a
storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it accounted
for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably
suggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little
trees of fungus sprung from every mouldering corner.

The proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged
head before mentioned--for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and
frowzy as a stunted hearth-broom--had by this time joined them; and
stood a little apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled
chin, and smiling in silence. His eyes were closed; but had they
been wide open, it would have been easy to tell, from the attentive
expression of the face he turned towards them--pale and unwholesome
as might be expected in one of his underground existence--and from
a certain anxious raising and quivering of the lids, that he was
blind.

'Even Stagg hath been asleep,' said the long comrade, nodding
towards this person.

'Sound, captain, sound!' cried the blind man; 'what does my noble
captain drink--is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it soaked
gunpowder, or blazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we'd
get it for you, if it was wine from a bishop's cellar, or melted
gold from King George's mint.'

'See,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily, 'that it's something strong,
and comes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may
bring it from the devil's cellar, if you like.'

'Boldly said, noble captain!' rejoined the blind man. 'Spoken like
the 'Prentices' Glory. Ha, ha! From the devil's cellar! A brave
joke! The captain joketh. Ha, ha, ha!'

'I'll tell you what, my fine feller,' said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the
host over as he walked to a closet, and took out a bottle and glass
as carelessly as if he had been in full possession of his sight,
'if you make that row, you'll find that the captain's very far from
joking, and so I tell you.'

'He's got his eyes on me!' cried Stagg, stopping short on his way
back, and affecting to screen his face with the bottle. 'I feel
'em though I can't see 'em. Take 'em off, noble captain. Remove
'em, for they pierce like gimlets.'

Mr Tappertit smiled grimly at his comrade; and twisting out one
more look--a kind of ocular screw--under the influence of which the
blind man feigned to undergo great anguish and torture, bade him,
in a softened tone, approach, and hold his peace.

'I obey you, captain,' cried Stagg, drawing close to him and
filling out a bumper without spilling a drop, by reason that he
held his little finger at the brim of the glass, and stopped at the
instant the liquor touched it, 'drink, noble governor. Death to
all masters, life to all 'prentices, and love to all fair damsels.
Drink, brave general, and warm your gallant heart!'

Mr Tappertit condescended to take the glass from his outstretched
hand. Stagg then dropped on one knee, and gently smoothed the
calves of his legs, with an air of humble admiration.

'That I had but eyes!' he cried, 'to behold my captain's
symmetrical proportions! That I had but eyes, to look upon these
twin invaders of domestic peace!'

'Get out!' said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his favourite
limbs. 'Go along, will you, Stagg!'

'When I touch my own afterwards,' cried the host, smiting them
reproachfully, 'I hate 'em. Comparatively speaking, they've no
more shape than wooden legs, beside these models of my noble
captain's.'

'Yours!' exclaimed Mr Tappertit. 'No, I should think not. Don't
talk about those precious old toothpicks in the same breath with
mine; that's rather too much. Here. Take the glass. Benjamin.
Lead on. To business!'

With these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a
sullen majesty, passed with his companion through a little door at
the upper end of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his
private meditations.

The vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was
between the outer one from which they had just come, and that in
which the skittle-players were diverting themselves; as was
manifested by the increased noise and clamour of tongues, which was
suddenly stopped, however, and replaced by a dead silence, at a
signal from the long comrade. Then, this young gentleman, going to
a little cupboard, returned with a thigh-bone, which in former
times must have been part and parcel of some individual at least as
long as himself, and placed the same in the hands of Mr Tappertit;
who, receiving it as a sceptre and staff of authority, cocked his
three-cornered hat fiercely on the top of his head, and mounted a
large table, whereon a chair of state, cheerfully ornamented with a
couple of skulls, was placed ready for his reception.

He had no sooner assumed this position, than another young
gentleman appeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who
made him a profound obeisance, and delivering it to the long
comrade, advanced to the table, and turning his back upon it, stood
there Atlas-wise. Then, the long comrade got upon the table too;
and seating himself in a lower chair than Mr Tappertit's, with much
state and ceremony, placed the large book on the shoulders of their
mute companion as deliberately as if he had been a wooden desk, and
prepared to make entries therein with a pen of corresponding size.

When the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked
towards Mr Tappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone,
knocked nine times therewith upon one of the skulls. At the ninth
stroke, a third young gentleman emerged from the door leading to
the skittle ground, and bowing low, awaited his commands.

'Prentice!' said the mighty captain, 'who waits without?'

The 'prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who
claimed admission into that secret society of 'Prentice Knights,
and a free participation in their rights, privileges, and
immunities. Thereupon Mr Tappertit flourished the bone again, and
giving the other skull a prodigious rap on the nose, exclaimed
'Admit him!' At these dread words the 'prentice bowed once more,
and so withdrew as he had come.

There soon appeared at the same door, two other 'prentices, having
between them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was attired
in a bag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished
lace; and who was girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws
of the Institution regulating the introduction of candidates, which
required them to assume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly
in lavender, for their convenience. One of the conductors of this
novice held a rusty blunderbuss pointed towards his ear, and the
other a very ancient sabre, with which he carved imaginary
offenders as he came along in a sanguinary and anatomical manner.

As this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his
head. The novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent
before him. When he had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain
ordered the bandage to be removed, and proceeded to eye him over.

'Ha!' said the captain, thoughtfully, when he had concluded this
ordeal. 'Proceed.'

The long comrade read aloud as follows:--'Mark Gilbert. Age,
nineteen. Bound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden Fleece, Aldgate.
Loves Curzon's daughter. Cannot say that Curzon's daughter loves
him. Should think it probable. Curzon pulled his ears last
Tuesday week.'

'How!' cried the captain, starting.

'For looking at his daughter, please you,' said the novice.

'Write Curzon down, Denounced,' said the captain. 'Put a black
cross against the name of Curzon.'

'So please you,' said the novice, 'that's not the worst--he calls
his 'prentice idle dog, and stops his beer unless he works to his
liking. He gives Dutch cheese, too, eating Cheshire, sir, himself;
and Sundays out, are only once a month.'

'This,' said Mr Tappert;t gravely, 'is a flagrant case. Put two
black crosses to the name of Curzon.'

'If the society,' said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-
sided, shambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his
head--'if the society would burn his house down--for he's not
insured--or beat him as he comes home from his club at night, or
help me to carry off his daughter, and marry her at the Fleet,
whether she gave consent or no--'

Mr Tappertit waved his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him
not to interrupt, and ordered three black crosses to the name of
Curzon.

'Which means,' he said in gracious explanation, 'vengeance,
complete and terrible. 'Prentice, do you love the Constitution?'

To which the novice (being to that end instructed by his attendant
sponsors) replied 'I do!'

'The Church, the State, and everything established--but the
masters?' quoth the captain.

Again the novice said 'I do.'

Having said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an
address prepared for such occasions, told him how that under that
same Constitution (which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but
where exactly he could not find out, or he would have endeavoured
to procure a copy of it), the 'prentices had, in times gone by,
had frequent holidays of right, broken people's heads by scores,
defied their masters, nay, even achieved some glorious murders in
the streets, which privileges had gradually been wrested from them,
and in all which noble aspirations they were now restrained; how
the degrading checks imposed upon them were unquestionably
attributable to the innovating spirit of the times, and how they
united therefore to resist all change, except such change as would
restore those good old English customs, by which they would stand
or fall. After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by
reference to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent
practice of the mule and donkey, he described their general
objects; which were briefly vengeance on their Tyrant Masters (of
whose grievous and insupportable oppression no 'prentice could
entertain a moment's doubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid, of
their ancient rights and holidays; for neither of which objects
were they now quite ripe, being barely twenty strong, but which
they pledged themselves to pursue with fire and sword when needful.
Then he described the oath which every member of that small remnant
of a noble body took, and which was of a dreadful and impressive
kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief, to resist and
obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to despise the
authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen as
nought; but not on any account, in case the fulness of time should
bring a general rising of 'prentices, to damage or in any way
disfigure Temple Bar, which was strictly constitutional and always
to be approached with reverence. Having gone over these several
heads with great eloquence and force, and having further informed
the novice that this society had its origin in his own teeming
brain, stimulated by a swelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr
Tappertit demanded whether he had strength of heart to take the
mighty pledge required, or whether he would withdraw while retreat
was yet in his power.

To this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow,
though it should choke him; and it was accordingly administered
with many impressive circumstances, among which the lighting up of
the two skulls with a candle-end inside of each, and a great many
flourishes with the bone, were chiefly conspicuous; not to mention
a variety of grave exercises with the blunderbuss and sabre, and
some dismal groaning by unseen 'prentices without. All these dark
and direful ceremonies being at length completed, the table was put
aside, the chair of state removed, the sceptre locked up in its
usual cupboard, the doors of communication between the three
cellars thrown freely open, and the 'Prentice Knights resigned
themselves to merriment.

But Mr Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on
account of his greatness, could only afford to be merry now and
then, threw himself on a bench with the air of a man who was faint
with dignity. He looked with an indifferent eye, alike on
skittles, cards, and dice, thinking only of the locksmith's
daughter, and the base degenerate days on which he had fallen.

'My noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,' said his
host, taking a seat beside him. 'Drink, gallant general!'

Mr Tappertit drained the proffered goblet to the dregs; then thrust
his hands into his pockets, and with a lowering visage walked among
the skittles, while his followers (such is the influence of
superior genius) restrained the ardent ball, and held his little
shins in dumb respect.

'If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand, genteel
highwayman or patriot--and they're the same thing,' thought Mr
Tappertit, musing among the nine-pins, 'I should have been all
right. But to drag out a ignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in
general--patience! I will be famous yet. A voice within me keeps
on whispering Greatness. I shall burst out one of these days, and
when I do, what power can keep me down? I feel my soul getting
into my head at the idea. More drink there!'

'The novice,' pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of
thunder, for his tones, to say the truth were rather cracked and
shrill--but very impressively, notwithstanding--'where is he?'

'Here, noble captain!' cried Stagg. 'One stands beside me who I
feel is a stranger.'

'Have you,' said Mr Tappertit, letting his gaze fall on the party
indicated, who was indeed the new knight, by this time restored to
his own apparel; 'Have you the impression of your street-door key
in wax?'

The long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing it from the
shelf on which it had been deposited.

'Good,' said Mr Tappertit, scrutinising it attentively, while a
breathless silence reigned around; for he had constructed secret
door-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed something of his
influence to that mean and trivial circumstance--on such slight
accidents do even men of mind depend!--'This is easily made. Come
hither, friend.'

With that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the
pattern in his pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side.

'And so,' he said, when they had taken a few turns up and down,
you--you love your master's daughter?'

'I do,' said the 'prentice. 'Honour bright. No chaff, you know.'

'Have you,' rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and
giving him a look which would have been expressive of the most
deadly malevolence, but for an accidental hiccup that rather
interfered with it; 'have you a--a rival?'

'Not as I know on,' replied the 'prentice.

'If you had now--' said Mr Tappertit--'what would you--eh?--'

The 'prentice looked fierce and clenched his fists.

'It is enough,' cried Mr Tappertit hastily, 'we understand each
other. We are observed. I thank you.'

So saying, he cast him off again; and calling the long comrade
aside after taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade him
immediately write and post against the wall, a notice, proscribing
one Joseph Willet (commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding
all 'Prentice Knights to succour, comfort, or hold communion with
him; and requiring them, on pain of excommunication, to molest,
hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick quarrels with the said Joseph,
whensoever and wheresoever they, or any of them, should happen to
encounter him.

Having relieved his mind by this energetic proceeding, he
condescended to approach the festive board, and warming by degrees,
at length deigned to preside, and even to enchant the company with
a song. After this, he rose to such a pitch as to consent to
regale the society with a hornpipe, which be actually performed to
the music of a fiddle (played by an ingenious member) with such
surpassing agility and brilliancy of execution, that the spectators
could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in their admiration; and
their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that he had never
truly felt his blindness until that moment.

But the host withdrawing--probably to weep in secret--soon returned
with the information that it wanted little more than an hour of
day, and that all the cocks in Barbican had already begun to crow,
as if their lives depended on it. At this intelligence, the
'Prentice Knights arose in haste, and marshalling into a line,
filed off one by one and dispersed with all speed to their several
homes, leaving their leader to pass the grating last.

'Good night, noble captain,' whispered the blind man as he held it
open for his passage out; 'Farewell, brave general. Bye, bye,
illustrious commander. Good luck go with you for a--conceited,
bragging, empty-headed, duck-legged idiot.'

With which parting words, coolly added as he listened to his
receding footsteps and locked the grate upon himself, he descended
the steps, and lighting the fire below the little copper,
prepared, without any assistance, for his daily occupation; which
was to retail at the area-head above pennyworths of broth and soup,
and savoury puddings, compounded of such scraps as were to be
bought in the heap for the least money at Fleet Market in the
evening time; and for the sale of which he had need to have
depended chiefly on his private connection, for the court had no
thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which many people
were likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable
promenade.

Chapter 9

Chronicler's are privileged to enter where they list, to come and
go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their
soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time, and place.
Thrice blessed be this last consideration, since it enables us to
follow the disdainful Miggs even into the sanctity of her chamber,
and to hold her in sweet companionship through the dreary watches
of the night!

Miss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as she phrased it (which
means, assisted to undress her), and having seen her comfortably to
bed in the back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own
apartment, in the attic story. Notwithstanding her declaration in
the locksmith's presence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting
her light upon the table and withdrawing the little window curtain,
she gazed out pensively at the wild night sky.

Perhaps she wondered what star was destined for her habitation when
she had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which of
those glimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit;
perhaps marvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious
creature, man, and not sicken and turn green as chemists' lamps;
perhaps thought of nothing in particular. Whatever she thought
about, there she sat, until her attention, alive to anything
connected with the insinuating 'prentice, was attracted by a noise
in the next room to her own--his room; the room in which he slept,
and dreamed--it might be, sometimes dreamed of her.

That he was not dreaming now, unless he was taking a walk in his
sleep, was clear, for every now and then there came a shuffling
noise, as though he were engaged in polishing the whitewashed wall;
then a gentle creaking of his door; then the faintest indication of
his stealthy footsteps on the landing-place outside. Noting this
latter circumstance, Miss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as
mistrusting his intentions; and more than once exclaimed, below her
breath, 'Oh! what a Providence it is, as I am bolted in!'--which,
owing doubtless to her alarm, was a confusion of ideas on her part
between a bolt and its use; for though there was one on the door,
it was not fastened.

Miss Miggs's sense of hearing, however, having as sharp an edge as
her temper, and being of the same snappish and suspicious kind,
very soon informed her that the footsteps passed her door, and
appeared to have some object quite separate and disconnected from
herself. At this discovery she became more alarmed than ever, and
was about to give utterance to those cries of 'Thieves!' and
'Murder!' which she had hitherto restrained, when it occurred to
her to look softly out, and see that her fears had some good
palpable foundation.

Looking out accordingly, and stretching her neck over the handrail,
she descried, to her great amazement, Mr Tappertit completely
dressed, stealing downstairs, one step at a time, with his shoes in
one hand and a lamp in the other. Following him with her eyes, and
going down a little way herself to get the better of an intervening
angle, she beheld him thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw
it back again with great swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat
upstairs with all possible expedition.

'Here's mysteries!' said the damsel, when she was safe in her own
room again, quite out of breath. 'Oh, gracious, here's mysteries!'

The prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept
Miss Miggs awake under the influence of henbane. Presently, she
heard the step again, as she would have done if it had been that of
a feather endowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe. Then
gliding out as before, she again beheld the retreating figure of
the 'prentice; again he looked cautiously in at the parlour-door,
but this time instead of retreating, he passed in and disappeared.

Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window,
before an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from
it. Out he came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him,
tried it with his knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his
pocket as he went along. At this spectacle Miggs cried 'Gracious!'
again, and then 'Goodness gracious!' and then 'Goodness gracious
me!' and then, candle in hand, went downstairs as he had done.
Coming to the workshop, she saw the lamp burning on the forge, and
everything as Sim had left it.

'Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried
decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn't been
and made a key for his own self!' cried Miggs. 'Oh the little
villain!'

This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much
peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the
recollection that she had on several occasions come upon the
'prentice suddenly, and found him busy at some mysterious
occupation. Lest the fact of Miss Miggs calling him, on whom she
stooped to cast a favourable eye, a boy, should create surprise in
any breast, it may be observed that she invariably affected to
regard all male bipeds under thirty as mere chits and infants;
which phenomenon is not unusual in ladies of Miss Miggs's temper,
and is indeed generally found to be the associate of such
indomitable and savage virtue.

Miss Miggs deliberated within herself for some little time, looking
hard at the shop-door while she did so, as though her eyes and
thoughts were both upon it; and then, taking a sheet of paper from
a drawer, twisted it into a long thin spiral tube. Having filled
this instrument with a quantity of small coal-dust from the forge,
she approached the door, and dropping on one knee before it,
dexterously blew into the keyhole as much of these fine ashes as
the lock would hold. When she had filled it to the brim in a very
workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept upstairs again, and
chuckled as she went.

'There!' cried Miggs, rubbing her hands, 'now let's see whether you
won't be glad to take some notice of me, mister. He, he, he!
You'll have eyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I think. A
fat-faced puss she is, as ever I come across!'

As she uttered this criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small
mirror, as who should say, I thank my stars that can't be said of
me!--as it certainly could not; for Miss Miggs's style of beauty
was of that kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not inaptly termed,
in private, 'scraggy.'

'I don't go to bed this night!' said Miggs, wrapping herself in a
shawl, and drawing a couple of chairs near the window, flouncing
down upon one, and putting her feet upon the other, 'till you come
home, my lad. I wouldn't,' said Miggs viciously, 'no, not for
five-and-forty pound!'

With that, and with an expression of face in which a great number
of opposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice,
triumph, and patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a
kind of physiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait
and listen, like some fair ogress who had set a trap and was
watching for a nibble from a plump young traveller.

She sat there, with perfect composure, all night. At length, just
upon break of day, there was a footstep in the street, and
presently she could hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door. Then she
could make out that he tried his key--that he was blowing into it--
that he knocked it on the nearest post to beat the dust out--that
he took it under a lamp to look at it--that he poked bits of stick
into the lock to clear it--that he peeped into the keyhole, first
with one eye, and then with the other--that he tried the key again--
that he couldn't turn it, and what was worse, couldn't get it out--
that he bent it--that then it was much less disposed to come out
than before--that he gave it a mighty twist and a great pull, and
then it came out so suddenly that he staggered backwards--that he
kicked the door--that he shook it--finally, that he smote his
forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.

When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted
with terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out
her nightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.

Mr Tappertit cried 'Hush!' and, backing to the road, exhorted her
in frenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.

'Tell me one thing,' said Miggs. 'Is it thieves?'

'No--no--no!' cried Mr Tappertit.

'Then,' said Miggs, more faintly than before, 'it's fire. Where
is it, sir? It's near this room, I know. I've a good conscience,
sir, and would much rather die than go down a ladder. All I wish
is, respecting my love to my married sister, Golden Lion Court,
number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-
post.'

'Miggs!' cried Mr Tappertit, 'don't you know me? Sim, you know--
Sim--'

'Oh! what about him!' cried Miggs, clasping her hands. 'Is he in
any danger? Is he in the midst of flames and blazes! Oh gracious,
gracious!'

'Why I'm here, an't I?' rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking himself on
the breast. 'Don't you see me? What a fool you are, Miggs!'

'There!' cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment. 'Why--so it--
Goodness, what is the meaning of--If you please, mim, here's--'

'No, no!' cried Mr Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that
means he, in the street, were any nearer being able to stop the
mouth of Miggs in the garret. 'Don't!--I've been out without
leave, and something or another's the matter with the lock. Come
down, and undo the shop window, that I may get in that way.'

'I dursn't do it, Simmun,' cried Miggs--for that was her
pronunciation of his Christian name. 'I dursn't do it, indeed.
You know as well as anybody, how particular I am. And to come
down in the dead of night, when the house is wrapped in slumbers
and weiled in obscurity.' And there she stopped and shivered, for
her modesty caught cold at the very thought.

'But Miggs,' cried Mr Tappertit, getting under the lamp, that she
might see his eyes. 'My darling Miggs--'

Miggs screamed slightly.

'--That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,' and it is
impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said
this--'do--for my sake, do.'

'Oh Simmun,' cried Miggs, 'this is worse than all. I know if I
come down, you'll go, and--'

'And what, my precious?' said Mr Tappertit.

'And try,' said Miggs, hysterically, 'to kiss me, or some such
dreadfulness; I know you will!'

'I swear I won't,' said Mr Tappertit, with remarkable earnestness.
'Upon my soul I won't. It's getting broad day, and the watchman's
waking up. Angelic Miggs! If you'll only come and let me in, I
promise you faithfully and truly I won't.'

Miss Miggs, whose gentle heart was touched, did not wait for the
oath (knowing how strong the temptation was, and fearing he might
forswear himself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and with
her own fair hands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop
window. Having helped the wayward 'prentice in, she faintly
articulated the words 'Simmun is safe!' and yielding to her woman's
nature, immediately became insensible.

'I knew I should quench her,' said Sim, rather embarrassed by this
circumstance. 'Of course I was certain it would come to this, but
there was nothing else to be done--if I hadn't eyed her over, she
wouldn't have come down. Here. Keep up a minute, Miggs. What a
slippery figure she is! There's no holding her, comfortably. Do
keep up a minute, Miggs, will you?'

As Miggs, however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant
her against the wall as one might dispose of a walking-stick or
umbrella, until he had secured the window, when he took her in his
arms again, and, in short stages and with great difficulty--arising
from her being tall and his being short, and perhaps in some degree
from that peculiar physical conformation on which he had already
remarked--carried her upstairs, and planting her, in the same
umbrella and walking-stick fashion, just inside her own door, left
her to her repose.

'He may be as cool as he likes,' said Miss Miggs, recovering as
soon as she was left alone; 'but I'm in his confidence and he can't
help himself, nor couldn't if he was twenty Simmunses!'

Chapter 10

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the
year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created
things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or
forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the one
and now to the other, and now to both at once--wooing summer in the
sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade--it was, in
short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and
dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial,
in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was
dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was roused by the sound of
a horse's feet, and glancing out at window, beheld a traveller of
goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door.

He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a
tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if
they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young
swaggerers, who would even penetrate into the bar--that solemn
sanctuary--and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire if there
was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little
chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature;
none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their
boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all
particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable
blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles
for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something
past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that,
and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy
chestnut cob, and had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman;
while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then
in vogue, was handsome and well chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a
somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the
taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet cape,
and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion; his
linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the
wrists and throat, and scrupulously white. Although he seemed,
judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from
London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey
periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single
hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this
gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered
dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an
elaborate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait
at old John Willet's gate.

It must not be supposed that John observed these several
characteristics by other than very slow degrees, or that he took in
more than half a one at a time, or that he even made up his mind
upon that, without a great deal of very serious consideration.
Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by
questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a
fortnight to have noted what is here set down; but it happened that
the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump
pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with the
tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out
of order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music
of its own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in
silence. Hence John, standing with his hand upon the horse's
bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing
to divert his thoughts, had really got some of these little
circumstances into his brain by the time he was called upon to
speak.

'A quaint place this,' said the gentleman--and his voice was as
rich as his dress. 'Are you the landlord?'

'At your service, sir,' replied John Willet.

'You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early
dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be cleanly served),
and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this great
mansion,' said the stranger, again running his eyes over the
exterior.

'You can have, sir,' returned John with a readiness quite
surprising, 'anything you please.'

'It's well I am easily satisfied,' returned the other with a smile,
'or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.' And saying so, he
dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a
twinkling.

'Halloa there! Hugh!' roared John. 'I ask your pardon, sir, for
keeping you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on
business, and the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me,
I'm rather put out when he's away. Hugh!--a dreadful idle vagrant
fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think--always sleeping in the sun
in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir--Hugh! Dear Lord,
to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!--Hugh! I wish that
chap was dead, I do indeed.'

'Possibly he is,' returned the other. 'I should think if he were
living, he would have heard you by this time.'

'In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,' said the
distracted host, 'that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into
his ears, it wouldn't wake him, sir.'

The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and
recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind
him, stood in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the
bridle in his hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon
the animal to his fate, and a half disposition to lead him into the
house, and shut him up in the parlour, while he waited on his
master.

'Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!' cried John, in the very
height and zenith of his distress. 'Did you hear me a calling,
villain?'

The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon
the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse's head
towards the stable, and was gone in an instant.

'Brisk enough when he is awake,' said the guest.

'Brisk enough, sir!' replied John, looking at the place where the
horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become
of him. 'He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You
look at him, and there he is. You look at him again, and--there he
isn't.'

Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to
what he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the
whole life and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led
the gentleman up his wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole's
best apartment.

It was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth
of the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large
as many modern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass,
emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and
patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their
presence, that the former owner had made the very light subservient
to his state, and pressed the sun itself into his list of
flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his chamber, reflect the
badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and colours from
their pride.

But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as
it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the
best room of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in
decay, and was much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings,
waving on the walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and
beauty's dress; the light of women's eyes, outshining the tapers
and their own rich jewels; the sound of gentle tongues, and music,
and the tread of maiden feet, had once been there, and filled it
with delight. But they were gone, and with them all its gladness.
It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there;
the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be bought and
sold--a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave
it, it was still the same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had
equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever
changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!

No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before
the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on
a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with
figures, grinning and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands
the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to
hold grave council with his cook, touching the stranger's
entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing small comfort in
the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant window, and
basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.

Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs
together, or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it
when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest
chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet.

'Sir,' said John.

He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the
mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set
this before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to
stay.

'There's a house not far from here,' said the guest when he had
written a few lines, 'which you call the Warren, I believe?'

As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked
the question as a thing of course, John contented himself with
nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one
hand out of his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in
again.

'I want this note'--said the guest, glancing on what he had
written, and folding it, 'conveyed there without loss of time, and
an answer brought back here. Have you a messenger at hand?'

John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.

'Let me see him,' said the guest.

This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in
rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand,
Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who,
so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious
business, would go anywhere.

'Why the truth is,' said John after a long pause, 'that the person
who'd go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and
though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post
itself, he's not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.'

'You don't,' said the guest, raising his eyes to John's fat face,
'you don't mean--what's the fellow's name--you don't mean Barnaby?'

'Yes, I do,' returned the landlord, his features turning quite
expressive with surprise.

'How comes he to be here?' inquired the guest, leaning back in his
chair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never
varied; and with the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile
upon his face. 'I saw him in London last night.'

'He's, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,' returned old
John, after the usual pause to get the question in his mind.
'Sometimes he walks, and sometimes runs. He's known along the road
by everybody, and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and
sometimes riding double. He comes and goes, through wind, rain,
snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.'

'He goes often to the Warren, does he not?' said the guest
carelessly. 'I seem to remember his mother telling me something to
that effect yesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman
much.'

'You're right, sir,' John made answer, 'he does. His father, sir,
was murdered in that house.'

'So I have heard,' returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick
from his pocket with the same sweet smile. 'A very disagreeable
circumstance for the family.'

'Very,' said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him,
dimly and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of
treating the subject.

'All the circumstances after a murder,' said the guest
soliloquising, 'must be dreadfully unpleasant--so much bustle and
disturbance--no repose--a constant dwelling upon one subject--and
the running in and out, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I
wouldn't have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly
interested in, on any account. 'Twould be enough to wear one's
life out.--You were going to say, friend--' he added, turning to
John again.

'Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and
that Barnaby's as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,'
answered John. 'Shall he do your errand, sir?'

'Oh yes,' replied the guest. 'Oh certainly. Let him do it by all
means. Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick.
If he objects to come you may tell him it's Mr Chester. He will
remember my name, I dare say.'

John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that
he could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but
left the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of
all possible conditions. It has been reported that when he got
downstairs, he looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by
the clock, and all that time never once left off shaking his head;
for which statement there would seem to be some ground of truth and
feasibility, inasmuch as that interval of time did certainly
elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest's apartment.

'Come hither, lad,' said Mr Chester. 'You know Mr Geoffrey
Haredale?'

Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say,
'You hear him?' John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of
decorum, clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute
remonstrance.

'He knows him, sir,' said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, 'as well
as you or I do.'

'I haven't the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,'
returned his guest. 'YOU may have. Limit the comparison to
yourself, my friend.'

Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same
smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at
Barnaby's door, determined to kick his raven, on the very first
opportunity.

'Give that,' said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note,
and who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, 'into Mr
Haredale's own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me
here. If you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now,
tell him--can he remember a message, landlord?'

'When he chooses, sir,' replied John. 'He won't forget this one.'

'How are you sure of that?'

John merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward,
and his earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner's face; and
nodded sagely.

'Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,' said Mr Chester,
'that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him
(if he will call) at any time this evening.--At the worst I can
have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?'

Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in
this familiar form of address, answered, with something like a
knowing look, 'I should believe you could, sir,' and was turning
over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of
selecting one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when
his ideas were put to flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the
letter, and bidding him make all speed away.

'Speed!' said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast,
'Speed! If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!'

With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet's horror, on
the guest's fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the
back window.

'Look down there,' he said softly; 'do you mark how they whisper in
each other's ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in
sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think
there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and
then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they've
been plotting? Look at 'em now. See how they whirl and plunge.
And now they stop again, and whisper, cautiously together--little
thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the grass and watched
them. I say what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?'

'They are only clothes,' returned the guest, 'such as we wear;
hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.'

'Clothes!' echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling
quickly back. 'Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as
wise as you! You don't see shadowy people there, like those that
live in sleep--not you. Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass,
nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the
air, nor see men stalking in the sky--not you! I lead a merrier
life than you, with all your cleverness. You're the dull men.
We're the bright ones. Ha! ha! I'll not change with you, clever
as you are,--not I!'

With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off.

'A strange creature, upon my word!' said the guest, pulling out a
handsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.

'He wants imagination,' said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a
long silence; 'that's what he wants. I've tried to instil it into
him, many and many's the time; but'--John added this in confidence--
'he an't made for it; that's the fact.'

To record that Mr Chester smiled at John's remark would be little
to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant
look at all times. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as
a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having
no reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself.

Very thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was
preparing; and if his brain were ever less clear at one time than
another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled it in no
slight degree by shaking his head so much that day. That Mr
Chester, between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the
neighbourhood, a deep and bitter animosity existed, should come
down there for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and
should choose the Maypole for their place of meeting, and should
send to him express, were stumbling blocks John could not overcome.
The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and wait
impatiently for Barnaby's return.

But Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent. The visitor's dinner was
served, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished, the hearth
clean swept; the light waned without, it grew dusk, became quite
dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John Willet was
full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the
easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as
in his dress--the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care
or thought beyond his golden toothpick.

'Barnaby's late,' John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of
tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and
snuffed the lights they held.

'He is rather so,' replied the guest, sipping his wine. 'He will
not be much longer, I dare say.'

John coughed and raked the fire together.

'As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my
son's mishap, though,' said Mr Chester, 'and as I have no fancy to
be knocked on the head--which is not only disconcerting at the
moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with
respect to the people who chance to pick one up--I shall stop here
to-night. I think you said you had a bed to spare.'

'Such a bed, sir,' returned John Willet; 'ay, such a bed as few,
even of the gentry's houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I've heard
say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble
son--a fine young gentleman--slept in it last, sir, half a year
ago.'

'Upon my life, a recommendation!' said the guest, shrugging his
shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire. 'See that it
be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there
at once. This house is something damp and chilly.'

John raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of
mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw,
when a bounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came
panting in.

'He'll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour's time,' he cried,
advancing. 'He has been riding hard all day--has just come home--
but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to
meet his loving friend.'

'Was that his message?' asked the visitor, looking up, but without
the smallest discomposure--or at least without the show of any.

'All but the last words,' Barnaby rejoined. 'He meant those. I
saw that, in his face.'

'This for your pains,' said the other, putting money in his hand,
and glancing at him steadfastly.' This for your pains, sharp
Barnaby.'

'For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,' he rejoined,
putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. 'Grip
one, me two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats--well, we
shall spend it pretty soon, I warn you. Stay.--Look. Do you wise
men see nothing there, now?'

He bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke,
which was rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John
Willet, who appeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly
referred to under the term wise men, looked that way likewise, and
with great solidity of feature.

'Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,'
asked Barnaby; 'eh? Why do they tread so closely on each other's
heels, and why are they always in a hurry--which is what you blame
me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me? More
of 'em! catching to each other's skirts; and as fast as they go,
others come! What a merry dance it is! I would that Grip and I
could frisk like that!'

'What has he in that basket at his back?' asked the guest after a
few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look
higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.

'In this?' he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply--
shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen. 'In
this! What is there here? Tell him!'

'A devil, a devil, a devil!' cried a hoarse voice.

'Here's money!' said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, 'money for a
treat, Grip!'

'Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!' replied the raven, 'keep up your
spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow!'

Mr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a
customer in a laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have
any acquaintance even with the existence of such unpolite gentry as
the bird claimed to belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture,
with the view of preventing any other improper declarations, and
quitted the room with his very best bow.

Chapter 11

There was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers,
to each of whom, as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in
the chimney-corner, John, with a most impressive slowness of
delivery, and in an apoplectic whisper, communicated the fact that
Mr Chester was alone in the large room upstairs, and was waiting
the arrival of Mr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a letter
(doubtless of a threatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then
and there present.

For a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom any
new topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend. Here was a
good, dark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof--
brought home to the fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the
smallest pains or trouble. It is extraordinary what a zest and
relish it gave to the drink, and how it heightened the flavour of
the tobacco. Every man smoked his pipe with a face of grave and
serious delight, and looked at his neighbour with a sort of quiet
congratulation. Nay, it was felt to be such a holiday and special
night, that, on the motion of little Solomon Daisy, every man
(including John himself) put down his sixpence for a can of flip,
which grateful beverage was brewed with all despatch, and set down
in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that it might simmer
and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising up
among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes,
might shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut
out all the world. The very furniture of the room seemed to
mellow and deepen in its tone; the ceiling and walls looked
blacker and more highly polished, the curtains of a ruddier red;
the fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the hearthstone
chirped with a more than wonted satisfaction.

There were present two, however, who showed but little interest in
the general contentment. Of these, one was Barnaby himself, who
slept, or, to avoid being beset with questions, feigned to sleep,
in the chimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who, sleeping too, lay
stretched upon the bench on the opposite side, in the full glare of
the blazing fire.

The light that fell upon this slumbering form, showed it in all its
muscular and handsome proportions. It was that of a young man, of
a hale athletic figure, and a giant's strength, whose sunburnt face
and swarthy throat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have
served a painter for a model. Loosely attired, in the coarsest and
roughest garb, with scraps of straw and hay--his usual bed--
clinging here and there, and mingling with his uncombed locks, he
had fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his dress. The
negligence and disorder of the whole man, with something fierce and
sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque appearance, that
attracted the regards even of the Maypole customers who knew him
well, and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like a
poaching rascal to-night than ever he had seen him yet.

'He's waiting here, I suppose,' said Solomon, 'to take Mr
Haredale's horse.'

'That's it, sir,' replied John Willet. 'He's not often in the
house, you know. He's more at his ease among horses than men. I
look upon him as a animal himself.'

Following up this opinion with a shrug that seemed meant to say,
'we can't expect everybody to be like us,' John put his pipe into
his mouth again, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over
the general run of mankind.

'That chap, sir,' said John, taking it out again after a time, and
pointing at him with the stem, 'though he's got all his faculties
about him--bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres
or another--'

'Very good!' said Parkes, nodding his head. 'A very good
expression, Johnny. You'll be a tackling somebody presently.
You're in twig to-night, I see.'

'Take care,' said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the
compliment, 'that I don't tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly
endeavour to do, if you interrupt me when I'm making observations.--
That chap, I was a saying, though he has all his faculties about
him, somewheres or another, bottled up and corked down, has no more
imagination than Barnaby has. And why hasn't he?'

The three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that
action, without the trouble of opening their lips, 'Do you observe
what a philosophical mind our friend has?'

'Why hasn't he?' said John, gently striking the table with his open
hand. 'Because they was never drawed out of him when he was a
boy. That's why. What would any of us have been, if our fathers
hadn't drawed our faculties out of us? What would my boy Joe have
been, if I hadn't drawed his faculties out of him?--Do you mind
what I'm a saying of, gentlemen?'

'Ah! we mind you,' cried Parkes. 'Go on improving of us, Johnny.'

'Consequently, then,' said Mr Willet, 'that chap, whose mother was
hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing
bad notes--and it's a blessed thing to think how many people are
hung in batches every six weeks for that, and such like offences,
as showing how wide awake our government is--that chap that was
then turned loose, and had to mind cows, and frighten birds away,
and what not, for a few pence to live on, and so got on by degrees
to mind horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts and litter,
instead of under haystacks and hedges, till at last he come to be
hostler at the Maypole for his board and lodging and a annual
trifle--that chap that can't read nor write, and has never had much
to do with anything but animals, and has never lived in any way but
like the animals he has lived among, IS a animal. And,' said Mr
Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion, 'is to be treated
accordingly.'

'Willet,' said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at
the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting
theme, 'when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the large
room?'

'He signified, sir,' said John, 'that he wanted a large apartment.
Yes. Certainly.'

'Why then, I'll tell you what,' said Solomon, speaking softly and
with an earnest look. 'He and Mr Haredale are going to fight a
duel in it.'

Everybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming suggestion. Mr
Willet looked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect
which such an occurrence would be likely to have on the establishment.

'Well,' said John, 'I don't know--I am sure--I remember that when I
went up last, he HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.'

'It's as plain,' returned Solomon, 'as the nose on Parkes's face'--
Mr Parkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he
considered this a personal allusion--'they'll fight in that room.
You know by the newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen
to fight in coffee-houses without seconds. One of 'em will be
wounded or perhaps killed in this house.'

'That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh?' said John.

'--Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword upon it,
I'll bet a guinea,' answered the little man. 'We know what sort of
gentleman Mr Haredale is. You have told us what Barnaby said about
his looks, when he came back. Depend upon it, I'm right. Now,
mind.'

The flip had had no flavour till now. The tobacco had been of mere
English growth, compared with its present taste. A duel in that
great old rambling room upstairs, and the best bed ordered already
for the wounded man!

'Would it be swords or pistols, now?' said John.

'Heaven knows. Perhaps both,' returned Solomon. 'The gentlemen
wear swords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets--most
likely have, indeed. If they fire at each other without effect,
then they'll draw, and go to work in earnest.'

A shade passed over Mr Willet's face as he thought of broken
windows and disabled furniture, but bethinking himself that one of
the parties would probably be left alive to pay the damage, he
brightened up again.

'And then,' said Solomon, looking from face to face, 'then we shall
have one of those stains upon the floor that never come out. If Mr
Haredale wins, depend upon it, it'll be a deep one; or if he loses,
it will perhaps be deeper still, for he'll never give in unless
he's beaten down. We know him better, eh?'

'Better indeed!' they whispered all together.

'As to its ever being got out again,' said Solomon, 'I tell you it
never will, or can be. Why, do you know that it has been tried, at
a certain house we are acquainted with?'

'The Warren!' cried John. 'No, sure!'

'Yes, sure--yes. It's only known by very few. It has been
whispered about though, for all that. They planed the board away,
but there it was. They went deep, but it went deeper. They put
new boards down, but there was one great spot that came through
still, and showed itself in the old place. And--harkye--draw
nearer--Mr Geoffrey made that room his study, and sits there,
always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it; and he believes,
through thinking of it long and very much, that it will never fade
until he finds the man who did the deed.'

As this recital ended, and they all drew closer round the fire, the
tramp of a horse was heard without.

'The very man!' cried John, starting up. 'Hugh! Hugh!'

The sleeper staggered to his feet, and hurried after him. John
quickly returned, ushering in with great attention and deference
(for Mr Haredale was his landlord) the long-expected visitor, who
strode into the room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and
looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hat in
acknowledgment of their profound respect.

'You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,' he said, in a
voice which sounded naturally stern and deep. 'Where is he?'

'In the great room upstairs, sir,' answered John.

'Show the way. Your staircase is dark, I know. Gentlemen, good
night.'

With that, he signed to the landlord to go on before; and went
clanking out, and up the stairs; old John, in his agitation,
ingeniously lighting everything but the way, and making a stumble
at every second step.

'Stop!' he said, when they reached the landing. 'I can announce
myself. Don't wait.'

He laid his hand upon the door, entered, and shut it heavily. Mr
Willet was by no means disposed to stand there listening by
himself, especially as the walls were very thick; so descended,
with much greater alacrity than he had come up, and joined his
friends below.

Chapter 12

There was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr
Haredale tried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the
door securely, and, striding up the dark chamber to where the
screen inclosed a little patch of light and warmth, presented
himself, abruptly and in silence, before the smiling guest.

If the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in
their outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem
likely to prove a very calm or pleasant one. With no great
disparity between them in point of years, they were, in every other
respect, as unlike and far removed from each other as two men could
well be. The one was soft-spoken, delicately made, precise, and
elegant; the other, a burly square-built man, negligently dressed,
rough and abrupt in manner, stern, and, in his present mood,
forbidding both in look and speech. The one preserved a calm and
placid smile; the other, a distrustful frown. The new-comer,
indeed, appeared bent on showing by his every tone and gesture his
determined opposition and hostility to the man he had come to meet.
The guest who received him, on the other hand, seemed to feel that
the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to derive a
quiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.

'Haredale,' said this gentleman, without the least appearance of
embarrassment or reserve, 'I am very glad to see you.'

'Let us dispense with compliments. They are misplaced between us,'
returned the other, waving his hand, 'and say plainly what we have
to say. You have asked me to meet you. I am here. Why do we
stand face to face again?'

'Still the same frank and sturdy character, I see!'

'Good or bad, sir, I am,' returned the other, leaning his arm upon
the chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of
the easy-chair, 'the man I used to be. I have lost no old likings
or dislikings; my memory has not failed me by a hair's-breadth.
You ask me to give you a meeting. I say, I am here.'

'Our meeting, Haredale,' said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box,
and following with a smile the impatient gesture he had made--
perhaps unconsciously--towards his sword, 'is one of conference and
peace, I hope?'

'I have come here,' returned the other, 'at your desire, holding
myself bound to meet you, when and where you would. I have not
come to bandy pleasant speeches, or hollow professions. You are a
smooth man of the world, sir, and at such play have me at a
disadvantage. The very last man on this earth with whom I would
enter the lists to combat with gentle compliments and masked faces,
is Mr Chester, I do assure you. I am not his match at such
weapons, and have reason to believe that few men are.'

'You do me a great deal of honour Haredale,' returned the other,
most composedly, 'and I thank you. I will be frank with you--'

'I beg your pardon--will be what?'

'Frank--open--perfectly candid.'

'Hab!' cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath. 'But don't let me
interrupt you.'

'So resolved am I to hold this course,' returned the other, tasting
his wine with great deliberation; 'that I have determined not to
quarrel with you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or
a hasty word.'

'There again,' said Mr Haredale, 'you have me at a great advantage.
Your self-command--'

'Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose, you would
say'--rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same
complacency. 'Granted. I allow it. And I have a purpose to serve
now. So have you. I am sure our object is the same. Let us
attain it like sensible men, who have ceased to be boys some time.--
Do you drink?'

'With my friends,' returned the other.

'At least,' said Mr Chester, 'you will be seated?'

'I will stand,' returned Mr Haredale impatiently, 'on this
dismantled, beggared hearth, and not pollute it, fallen as it is,
with mockeries. Go on.'

'You are wrong, Haredale,' said the other, crossing his legs, and
smiling as he held his glass up in the bright glow of the fire.
'You are really very wrong. The world is a lively place enough, in
which we must accommodate ourselves to circumstances, sail with the
stream as glibly as we can, be content to take froth for substance,
the surface for the depth, the counterfeit for the real coin. I
wonder no philosopher has ever established that our globe itself is
hollow. It should be, if Nature is consistent in her works.'

'YOU think it is, perhaps?'

'I should say,' he returned, sipping his wine, 'there could be no
doubt about it. Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have
had the ill-luck to jostle and fall out. We are not what the world
calls friends; but we are as good and true and loving friends for
all that, as nine out of every ten of those on whom it bestows the
title. You have a niece, and I a son--a fine lad, Haredale, but
foolish. They fall in love with each other, and form what this
same world calls an attachment; meaning a something fanciful and
false like the rest, which, if it took its own free time, would
break like any other bubble. But it may not have its own free
time--will not, if they are left alone--and the question is, shall
we two, because society calls us enemies, stand aloof, and let them
rush into each other's arms, when, by approaching each other
sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?'

'I love my niece,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence. 'It
may sound strangely in your ears; but I love her.'

'Strangely, my good fellow!' cried Mr Chester, lazily filling his
glass again, and pulling out his toothpick. 'Not at all. I like
Ned too--or, as you say, love him--that's the word among such near
relations. I'm very fond of Ned. He's an amazingly good fellow,
and a handsome fellow--foolish and weak as yet; that's all. But
the thing is, Haredale--for I'll be very frank, as I told you I
would at first--independently of any dislike that you and I might
have to being related to each other, and independently of the
religious differences between us--and damn it, that's important--I
couldn't afford a match of this description. Ned and I couldn't do
it. It's impossible.'

'Curb your tongue, in God's name, if this conversation is to last,'
retorted Mr Haredale fiercely. 'I have said I love my niece. Do
you think that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away
on any man who had your blood in his veins?'

'You see,' said the other, not at all disturbed, 'the advantage of
being so frank and open. Just what I was about to add, upon my
honour! I am amazingly attached to Ned--quite doat upon him,
indeed--and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that
very objection would be quite insuperable.--I wish you'd take some
wine?'

'Mark me,' said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his
hand upon it heavily. 'If any man believes--presumes to think--
that I, in word or deed, or in the wildest dream, ever entertained
remotely the idea of Emma Haredale's favouring the suit of any one
who was akin to you--in any way--I care not what--he lies. He
lies, and does me grievous wrong, in the mere thought.'

'Haredale,' returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in
assent, and nodding at the fire, 'it's extremely manly, and really
very generous in you, to meet me in this unreserved and handsome
way. Upon my word, those are exactly my sentiments, only
expressed with much more force and power than I could use--you know
my sluggish nature, and will forgive me, I am sure.'

'While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son,
and sever their intercourse here, though it should cause her
death,' said Mr Haredale, who had been pacing to and fro, 'I would
do it kindly and tenderly if I can. I have a trust to discharge,
which my nature is not formed to understand, and, for this reason,
the bare fact of there being any love between them comes upon me
to-night, almost for the first time.'

'I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you,' rejoined Mr
Chester with the utmost blandness, 'to find my own impression so
confirmed. You see the advantage of our having met. We understand
each other. We quite agree. We have a most complete and thorough
explanation, and we know what course to take.--Why don't you taste
your tenant's wine? It's really very good.'

'Pray who,' said Mr Haredale, 'have aided Emma, or your son? Who
are their go-betweens, and agents--do you know?'

'All the good people hereabouts--the neighbourhood in general, I
think,' returned the other, with his most affable smile. 'The
messenger I sent to you to-day, foremost among them all.'

'The idiot? Barnaby?'

'You are surprised? I am glad of that, for I was rather so myself.
Yes. I wrung that from his mother--a very decent sort of woman--
from whom, indeed, I chiefly learnt how serious the matter had
become, and so determined to ride out here to-day, and hold a
parley with you on this neutral ground.--You're stouter than you
used to be, Haredale, but you look extremely well.'

'Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end,' said Mr Haredale,
with an expression of impatience he was at no pains to conceal.
'Trust me, Mr Chester, my niece shall change from this time. I
will appeal,' he added in a lower tone, 'to her woman's heart, her
dignity, her pride, her duty--'

'I shall do the same by Ned,' said Mr Chester, restoring some
errant faggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his
boot. 'If there is anything real in this world, it is those
amazingly fine feelings and those natural obligations which must
subsist between father and son. I shall put it to him on every
ground of moral and religious feeling. I shall represent to him
that we cannot possibly afford it--that I have always looked
forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for myself in
the autumn of life--that there are a great many clamorous dogs to
pay, whose claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be
paid out of his wife's fortune. In short, that the very highest
and most honourable feelings of our nature, with every
consideration of filial duty and affection, and all that sort of
thing, imperatively demand that he should run away with an
heiress.'

'And break her heart as speedily as possible?' said Mr Haredale,
drawing on his glove.

'There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,' returned the other,
sipping his wine; 'that's entirely his affair. I wouldn't for the
world interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point. The
relationship between father and son, you know, is positively quite
a holy kind of bond.--WON'T you let me persuade you to take one
glass of wine? Well! as you please, as you please,' he added,
helping himself again.

'Chester,' said Mr Haredale, after a short silence, during which he
had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently, 'you have the
head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception.'

'Your health!' said the other, with a nod. 'But I have interrupted
you--'

'If now,' pursued Mr Haredale, 'we should find it difficult to
separate these young people, and break off their intercourse--if,
for instance, you find it difficult on your side, what course do
you intend to take?'

'Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,' returned the
other, shrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more
comfortably before the fire. 'I shall then exert those powers on
which you flatter me so highly--though, upon my word, I don't
deserve your compliments to their full extent--and resort to a few
little trivial subterfuges for rousing jealousy and resentment.
You see?'

'In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a last
resource for tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and--and
lying,' said Mr Haredale.

'Oh dear no. Fie, fie!' returned the other, relishing a pinch of
snuff extremely. 'Not lying. Only a little management, a little
diplomacy, a little--intriguing, that's the word.'

'I wish,' said Mr Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and
moving on again, like one who was ill at ease, 'that this could
have been foreseen or prevented. But as it has gone so far, and it
is necessary for us to act, it is of no use shrinking or
regretting. Well! I shall second your endeavours to the utmost of
my power. There is one topic in the whole wide range of human
thoughts on which we both agree. We shall act in concert, but
apart. There will be no need, I hope, for us to meet again.'

'Are you going?' said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful indolence.
'Let me light you down the stairs.'

'Pray keep your seat,' returned the other drily, 'I know the way.
So, waving his hand slightly, and putting on his hat as he turned
upon his heel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut the door
behind him, and tramped down the echoing stairs.

'Pah! A very coarse animal, indeed!' said Mr Chester, composing
himself in the easy-chair again. 'A rough brute. Quite a human
badger!'

John Willet and his friends, who had been listening intently for
the clash of swords, or firing of pistols in the great room, and
had indeed settled the order in which they should rush in when
summoned--in which procession old John had carefully arranged that
he should bring up the rear--were very much astonished to see Mr
Haredale come down without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride
away thoughtfully at a footpace. After some consideration, it was
decided that he had left the gentleman above, for dead, and had
adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion or pursuit.

As this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs
forthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed
upon, when a smart ringing at the guest's bell, as if he had pulled
it vigorously, overthrew all their speculations, and involved them
in great uncertainty and doubt. At length Mr Willet agreed to go
upstairs himself, escorted by Hugh and Barnaby, as the strongest
and stoutest fellows on the premises, who were to make their
appearance under pretence of clearing away the glasses.

Under this protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly
entered the room, half a foot in advance, and received an order for
a boot-jack without trembling. But when it was brought, and he
leant his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to
look very hard into his boots as he pulled them off, and, by
opening his eyes much wider than usual, to appear to express some
surprise and disappointment at not finding them full of blood. He
took occasion, too, to examine the gentleman as closely as he
could, expecting to discover sundry loopholes in his person,
pierced by his adversary's sword. Finding none, however, and
observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and
unruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day,
old John at last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had
been fought that night.

'And now, Willet,' said Mr Chester, 'if the room's well aired, I'll
try the merits of that famous bed.'

'The room, sir,' returned John, taking up a candle, and nudging
Barnaby and Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman should
unexpectedly drop down faint or dead from some internal wound, 'the
room's as warm as any toast in a tankard. Barnaby, take you that
other candle, and go on before. Hugh! Follow up, sir, with the
easy-chair.'

In this order--and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his
candle very close to the guest; now making him feel extremely warm
about the legs, now threatening to set his wig on fire, and
constantly begging his pardon with great awkwardness and
embarrassment--John led the party to the best bedroom, which was
nearly as large as the chamber from which they had come, and held,
drawn out near the fire for warmth, a great old spectral bedstead,
hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top of each carved
post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white, but with
dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.

'Good night, my friends,' said Mr Chester with a sweet smile,
seating himself, when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in
the easy-chair which his attendants wheeled before the fire. 'Good
night! Barnaby, my good fellow, you say some prayers before you go
to bed, I hope?'

Barnaby nodded. 'He has some nonsense that he calls his prayers,
sir,' returned old John, officiously. 'I'm afraid there an't much
good in em.'

'And Hugh?' said Mr Chester, turning to him.

'Not I,' he answered. 'I know his'--pointing to Barnaby--'they're
well enough. He sings 'em sometimes in the straw. I listen.'

'He's quite a animal, sir,' John whispered in his ear with dignity.
'You'll excuse him, I'm sure. If he has any soul at all, sir, it
must be such a very small one, that it don't signify what he does
or doesn't in that way. Good night, sir!'

The guest rejoined 'God bless you!' with a fervour that was quite
affecting; and John, beckoning his guards to go before, bowed
himself out of the room, and left him to his rest in the Maypole's
ancient bed.

Chapter 13

If Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of 'prentices, had
happened to be at home when his father's courtly guest presented
himself before the Maypole door--that is, if it had not perversely
chanced to be one of the half-dozen days in the whole year on which
he was at liberty to absent himself for as many hours without
question or reproach--he would have contrived, by hook or crook, to
dive to the very bottom of Mr Chester's mystery, and to come at his
purpose with as much certainty as though he had been his
confidential adviser. In that fortunate case, the lovers would
have had quick warning of the ills that threatened them, and the
aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot; for all Joe's
readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good
wishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were
staunch in devotion to their cause. Whether this disposition arose
out of his old prepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose
history had surrounded her in his mind, almost from his cradle,
with circumstances of unusual interest; or from his attachment
towards the young gentleman, into whose confidence he had, through
his shrewdness and alacrity, and the rendering of sundry important
services as a spy and messenger, almost imperceptibly glided;
whether they had their origin in either of these sources, or in the
habit natural to youth, or in the constant badgering and worrying
of his venerable parent, or in any hidden little love affair of his
own which gave him something of a fellow-feeling in the matter, it
is needless to inquire--especially as Joe was out of the way, and
had no opportunity on that particular occasion of testifying to his
sentiments either on one side or the other.

It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people
know to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those
unpleasant epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of
March, it was John Willet's pride annually to settle, in hard cash,
his account with a certain vintner and distiller in the city of
London; to give into whose hands a canvas bag containing its exact
amount, and not a penny more or less, was the end and object of a
journey for Joe, so surely as the year and day came round.

This journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom
John had an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the
effect that she could win a plate or cup if she tried. She never
had tried, and probably never would now, being some fourteen or
fifteen years of age, short in wind, long in body, and rather the
worse for wear in respect of her mane and tail. Notwithstanding
these slight defects, John perfectly gloried in the animal; and
when she was brought round to the door by Hugh, actually retired
into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of lemons, laughed with
pride.

'There's a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!' said John, when he had
recovered enough self-command to appear at the door again.
'There's a comely creature! There's high mettle! There's bone!'

There was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to
think, as he sat sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his
chin nearly touching his knees; and heedless of the dangling
stirrups and loose bridle-rein, sauntered up and down on the little
green before the door.

'Mind you take good care of her, sir,' said John, appealing from
this insensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared, fully
equipped and ready. 'Don't you ride hard.'

'I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,' Joe replied,
casting a disconsolate look at the animal.

'None of your impudence, sir, if you please,' retorted old John.
'What would you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too tame
for you, wouldn't he, eh sir? You'd like to ride a roaring lion,
wouldn't you, sir, eh sir? Hold your tongue, sir.' When Mr
Willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the
questions that occurred to him, and Joe had said nothing at all in
answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue.

'And what does the boy mean,' added Mr Willet, after he had stared
at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, 'by cocking
his hat, to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?'

'No,' said Joe, tartly; 'I'm not. Now your mind's at ease,
father.'

'With a milintary air, too!' said Mr Willet, surveying him from top
to toe; 'with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking
sort of way with him! And what do you mean by pulling up the
crocuses and snowdrops, eh sir?'

'It's only a little nosegay,' said Joe, reddening. 'There's no
harm in that, I hope?'

'You're a boy of business, you are, sir!' said Mr Willet,
disdainfully, 'to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays.'

'I don't suppose anything of the kind,' returned Joe. 'Let them
keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going to
Mr Varden's house.'

'And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?' demanded
John.

'I don't know, and to say the truth, I don't care,' said Joe.
'Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let
me go.'

'There it is, sir,' replied John; 'and take care of it; and mind
you don't make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.--
Do you mind?'

'Ay, I mind,' returned Joe. 'She'll need it, Heaven knows.'

'And don't you score up too much at the Black Lion,' said John.
'Mind that too.'

'Then why don't you let me have some money of my own?' retorted
Joe, sorrowfully; 'why don't you, father? What do you send me into
London for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the
Black Lion, which you're to pay for next time you go, as if I was
not to be trusted with a few shillings? Why do you use me like
this? It's not right of you. You can't expect me to be quiet
under it.'

'Let him have money!' cried John, in a drowsy reverie. 'What does
he call money--guineas? Hasn't he got money? Over and above the
tolls, hasn't he one and sixpence?'

'One and sixpence!' repeated his son contemptuously.

'Yes, sir,' returned John, 'one and sixpence. When I was your age,
I had never seen so much money, in a heap. A shilling of it is in
case of accidents--the mare casting a shoe, or the like of that.
The other sixpence is to spend in the diversions of London; and the
diversion I recommend is going to the top of the Monument, and
sitting there. There's no temptation there, sir--no drink--no
young women--no bad characters of any sort--nothing but imagination.
That's the way I enjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.'

To this, Joe made no answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the
saddle and rode away; and a very stalwart, manly horseman he
looked, deserving a better charger than it was his fortune to
bestride. John stood staring after him, or rather after the grey
mare (for he had no eyes for her rider), until man and beast had
been out of sight some twenty minutes, when he began to think they
were gone, and slowly re-entering the house, fell into a gentle doze.

The unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe's life,
floundered along at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was
no longer visible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a
puppet would have been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward
imitation of a canter, mended her pace all at once, and did it of
her own accord. The acquaintance with her rider's usual mode of
proceeding, which suggested this improvement in hers, impelled her
likewise to turn up a bye-way, leading--not to London, but through
lanes running parallel with the road they had come, and passing
within a few hundred yards of the Maypole, which led finally to an
inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick mansion--the same of
which mention was made as the Warren in the first chapter of this
history. Coming to a dead stop in a little copse thereabout, she
suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and to tie her
to the trunk of a tree.

'Stay there, old girl,' said Joe, 'and let us see whether there's
any little commission for me to-day.' So saying, he left her to
browze upon such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within
the length of her tether, and passing through a wicket gate,
entered the grounds on foot.

The pathway, after a very few minutes' walking, brought him close
to the house, towards which, and especially towards one particular
window, he directed many covert glances. It was a dreary, silent
building, with echoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and
whole suites of rooms shut up and mouldering to ruin.

The terrace-garden, dark with the shade of overhanging trees, had
an air of melancholy that was quite oppressive. Great iron gates,
disused for many years, and red with rust, drooping on their hinges
and overgrown with long rank grass, seemed as though they tried to
sink into the ground, and hide their fallen state among the
friendly weeds. The fantastic monsters on the walls, green with
age and damp, and covered here and there with moss, looked grim and
desolate. There was a sombre aspect even on that part of the
mansion which was inhabited and kept in good repair, that struck
the beholder with a sense of sadness; of something forlorn and
failing, whence cheerfulness was banished. It would have been
difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull and darkened
rooms, or to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that the
frowning walls shut in. It seemed a place where such things had
been, but could be no more--the very ghost of a house, haunting the
old spot in its old outward form, and that was all.

Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to
the death of its former master, and the temper of its present
occupant; but remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it
seemed the very place for such a deed, and one that might have been
its predestined theatre years upon years ago. Viewed with
reference to this legend, the sheet of water where the steward's
body had been found appeared to wear a black and sullen character,
such as no other pool might own; the bell upon the roof that had
told the tale of murder to the midnight wind, became a very phantom
whose voice would raise the listener's hair on end; and every
leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy whispering
of the crime.

Joe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected
contemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning
against a tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference,
but always keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at
first. After some quarter of an hour's delay, a small white hand
was waved to him for an instant from this casement, and the young
man, with a respectful bow, departed; saying under his breath as he
crossed his horse again, 'No errand for me to-day!'

But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet
had objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little
errand of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner
or even a locksmith. So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had
settled with the vintner--whose place of business was down in some
deep cellars hard by Thames Street, and who was as purple-faced an
old gentleman as if he had all his life supported their arched roof
on his head--when he had settled the account, and taken the
receipt, and declined tasting more than three glasses of old
sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the purple-faced vintner,
who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon at least a score
of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally gimleted as it
were, to his own wall--when he had done all this, and disposed
besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel;
spurning the Monument and John's advice, he turned his steps
towards the locksmith's house, attracted by the eyes of blooming
Dolly Varden.

Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he
got to the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he
could by no means make up his mind to walk straight to the house.
First, he resolved to stroll up another street for five minutes,
then up another street for five minutes more, and so on until he
had lost full half an hour, when he made a bold plunge and found
himself with a red face and a beating heart in the smoky workshop.

'Joe Willet, or his ghost?' said Varden, rising from the desk at
which he was busy with his books, and looking at him under his
spectacles. 'Which is it? Joe in the flesh, eh? That's hearty.
And how are all the Chigwell company, Joe?'

'Much as usual, sir--they and I agree as well as ever.'

'Well, well!' said the locksmith. 'We must be patient, Joe, and
bear with old folks' foibles. How's the mare, Joe? Does she do
the four miles an hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha, ha! Does she,
Joe? Eh!--What have we there, Joe--a nosegay!'

'A very poor one, sir--I thought Miss Dolly--'

'No, no,' said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head,
'not Dolly. Give 'em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give
'em to her mother. Would you mind giving 'em to Mrs Varden, Joe?'

'Oh no, sir,' Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the
greatest possible success, to hide his disappointment. 'I shall be
very glad, I'm sure.'

'That's right,' said the locksmith, patting him on the back. 'It
don't matter who has 'em, Joe?'

'Not a bit, sir.'--Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!

'Come in,' said Gabriel. 'I have just been called to tea. She's
in the parlour.'

'She,' thought Joe. 'Which of 'em I wonder--Mrs or Miss?' The
locksmith settled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed
aloud, by leading him to the door, and saying, 'Martha, my dear,
here's young Mr Willet.'

Now, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap,
or decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided
and abetted him, in the light of so many poachers among Christian
men; and believing, moreover, that the publicans coupled with
sinners in Holy Writ were veritable licensed victuallers; was far
from being favourably disposed towards her visitor. Wherefore she
was taken faint directly; and being duly presented with the
crocuses and snowdrops, divined on further consideration that they
were the occasion of the languor which had seized upon her spirits.
'I'm afraid I couldn't bear the room another minute,' said the good
lady, 'if they remained here. WOULD you excuse my putting them out
of window?'

Joe begged she wouldn't mention it on any account, and smiled
feebly as he saw them deposited on the sill outside. If anybody
could have known the pains he had taken to make up that despised
and misused bunch of flowers!--

'I feel it quite a relief to get rid of them, I assure you,' said
Mrs Varden. 'I'm better already.' And indeed she did appear to
have plucked up her spirits.

Joe expressed his gratitude to Providence for this favourable
dispensation, and tried to look as if he didn't wonder where
Dolly was.

'You're sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,' said Mrs V.

'I hope not, ma'am,' returned Joe.

'You're the cruellest and most inconsiderate people in the world,'
said Mrs Varden, bridling. 'I wonder old Mr Willet, having been a
married man himself, doesn't know better than to conduct himself as
he does. His doing it for profit is no excuse. I would rather
pay the money twenty times over, and have Varden come home like a
respectable and sober tradesman. If there is one character,' said
Mrs Varden with great emphasis, 'that offends and disgusts me more
than another, it is a sot.'

'Come, Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith cheerily, 'let us have
tea, and don't let us talk about sots. There are none here, and
Joe don't want to hear about them, I dare say.'

At this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast.

'I dare say he does not,' said Mrs Varden; 'and I dare say you do
not, Varden. It's a very unpleasant subiect, I have no doubt,
though I won't say it's personal'--Miggs coughed--'whatever I may
be forced to think'--Miggs sneezed expressively. 'You never will
know, Varden, and nobody at young Mr Willet's age--you'll excuse
me, sir--can be expected to know, what a woman suffers when she is
waiting at home under such circumstances. If you don't believe me,
as I know you don't, here's Miggs, who is only too often a witness
of it--ask her.'

'Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said
Miggs. 'If you hadn't the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I
don't think you could abear it, I raly don't.'

'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, 'you're profane.'

'Begging your pardon, mim,' returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity,
'such was not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character,
though I am but a servant.'

'Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,' retorted her
mistress, looking round with dignity, 'is one and the same thing.
How dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful
fellow-beings--mere'--said Mrs Varden, glancing at herself in a
neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more
becoming fashion--'mere worms and grovellers as we are!'

'I did not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,' said
Miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing
strongly in the throat as usual, 'and I did not expect it would be
took as such. I hope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate
and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable
Christian should.'

'You'll have the goodness, if you please,' said Mrs Varden,
loftily, 'to step upstairs and see if Dolly has finished dressing,
and to tell her that the chair that was ordered for her will be
here in a minute, and that if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it
away that instant.--I'm sorry to see that you don't take your tea,
Varden, and that you don't take yours, Mr Joseph; though of course
it would be foolish of me to expect that anything that can be had
at home, and in the company of females, would please YOU.'

This pronoun was understood in the plural sense, and included both
gentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and undeserved,
for Gabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising
appetite, until it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as
great a liking for the female society of the locksmith's house--or
for a part of it at all events--as man could well entertain.

But he had no opportunity to say anything in his own defence, for
at that moment Dolly herself appeared, and struck him quite dumb
with her beauty. Never had Dolly looked so handsome as she did
then, in all the glow and grace of youth, with all her charms
increased a hundredfold by a most becoming dress, by a thousand
little coquettish ways which nobody could assume with a better
grace, and all the sparkling expectation of that accursed party.
It is impossible to tell how Joe hated that party wherever it was,
and all the other people who were going to it, whoever they were.

And she hardly looked at him--no, hardly looked at him. And when
the chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the
workshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go.
But Joe gave her his arm--there was some comfort in that--and
handed her into it. To see her seat herself inside, with her
laughing eyes brighter than diamonds, and her hand--surely she had
the prettiest hand in the world--on the ledge of the open window,
and her little finger provokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it
wondered why Joe didn't squeeze or kiss it! To think how well one
or two of the modest snowdrops would have become that delicate
bodice, and how they were lying neglected outside the parlour
window! To see how Miggs looked on with a face expressive of
knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and of being in the
secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and of saying it
ain't half as real as you think, and I could look quite as well
myself if I took the pains! To hear that provoking precious little
scream when the chair was hoisted on its poles, and to catch that
transient but not-to-be-forgotten vision of the happy face within--
what torments and aggravations, and yet what delights were these!
The very chairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her down the
street.

There never was such an alteration in a small room in a small time
as in that parlour when they went back to finish tea. So dark, so
deserted, so perfectly disenchanted. It seemed such sheer nonsense
to be sitting tamely there, when she was at a dance with more
lovers than man could calculate fluttering about her--with the
whole party doting on and adoring her, and wanting to marry her.
Miggs was hovering about too; and the fact of her existence, the
mere circumstance of her ever having been born, appeared, after
Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke. It was impossible to
talk. It couldn't be done. He had nothing left for it but to stir
his tea round, and round, and round, and ruminate on all the
fascinations of the locksmith's lovely daughter.

Gabriel was dull too. It was a part of the certain uncertainty of
Mrs Varden's temper, that when they were in this condition, she
should be gay and sprightly.

'I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,' said the smiling
housewife, 'to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I can
scarcely tell.'

'Ah, mim,' sighed Miggs, 'begging your pardon for the interruption,
there an't a many like you.'

'Take away, Miggs,' said Mrs Varden, rising, 'take away, pray. I
know I'm a restraint here, and as I wish everybody to enjoy
themselves as they best can, I feel I had better go.'

'No, no, Martha,' cried the locksmith. 'Stop here. I'm sure we
shall be very sorry to lose you, eh Joe!' Joe started, and said
'Certainly.'

'Thank you, Varden, my dear,' returned his wife; 'but I know your
wishes better. Tobacco and beer, or spirits, have much greater
attractions than any I can boast of, and therefore I shall go and
sit upstairs and look out of window, my love. Good night, Mr
Joseph. I'm very glad to have seen you, and I only wish I could
have provided something more suitable to your taste. Remember me
very kindly if you please to old Mr Willet, and tell him that
whenever he comes here I have a crow to pluck with him. Good
night!'

Having uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good
lady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its condescension, and
serenely withdrew.

And it was for this Joe had looked forward to the twenty-fifth of
March for weeks and weeks, and had gathered the flowers with so
much care, and had cocked his hat, and made himself so smart! This
was the end of all his bold determination, resolved upon for the
hundredth time, to speak out to Dolly and tell her how he loved
her! To see her for a minute--for but a minute--to find her going
out to a party and glad to go; to be looked upon as a common pipe-
smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-guzzler, and tosspot! He bade
farewell to his friend the locksmith, and hastened to take horse at
the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home, as many another
Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to all his
hopes--that the thing was impossible and never could be--that she
didn't care for him--that he was wretched for life--and that the
only congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a
sailor, and get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as
soon as possible.

Chapter 14

Joe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing
the locksmith's daughter going down long country-dances, and
poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers--which was almost too
much to bear--when he heard the tramp of a horse's feet behind him,
and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a
smart canter. As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and
called him of the Maypole by his name. Joe set spurs to the grey
mare, and was at his side directly.

'I thought it was you, sir,' he said, touching his hat. 'A fair
evening, sir. Glad to see you out of doors again.'

The gentleman smiled and nodded. 'What gay doings have been going
on to-day, Joe? Is she as pretty as ever? Nay, don't blush, man.'

'If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,' said Joe, 'which I didn't know I
did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have
any hope of her. She's as far out of my reach as--as Heaven is.'

'Well, Joe, I hope that's not altogether beyond it,' said Edward,
good-humouredly. 'Eh?'

'Ah!' sighed Joe. 'It's all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs are
easily made in cold blood. But it can't be helped. Are you bound
for our house, sir?'

'Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night,
and ride home coolly in the morning.'

'If you're in no particular hurry,' said Joe after a short silence,
'and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to
ride on with you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when you
dismount. It'll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there
and back again. I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.'

'And so am I,' returned Edward, 'though I was unconsciously riding
fast just now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts,
which were travelling post. We will keep together, Joe, willingly,
and be as good company as may be. And cheer up, cheer up, think of
the locksmith's daughter with a stout heart, and you shall win her
yet.'

Joe shook his head; but there was something so cheery in the
buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under
its influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse
even to the grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a
gentle trot, emulated the pace of Edward Chester's horse, and
appeared to flatter herself that he was doing his very best.

It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was
then just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which
gives to evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened
shadows of the trees, softened as if reflected in still water,
threw their carpet on the path the travellers pursued, and the
light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as though it were
soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased
talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence.

'The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,' said Edward, as they
rode along the lane from which, while the intervening trees were
bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.

'Brilliant indeed, sir,' returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to
get a better view. 'Lights in the large room, and a fire
glimmering in the best bedchamber? Why, what company can this be
for, I wonder!'

'Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from
going on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the
highwayman, I suppose,' said Edward.

'He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations.
Your bed too, sir--!'

'No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come--there's
nine striking. We may push on.'

They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe's charger could
attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left
her in the morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his
companion, and walked with a light step towards the house.

A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and
admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and
darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy
hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour,
antlers, weapons of the chase, and suchlike garniture. Here he
paused, but not long; for as he looked round, as if expecting the
attendant to have followed, and wondering she had not done so, a
lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his
breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her
arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr Haredale stood between
them.

He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with
one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held
his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew
himself up, and returned his gaze.

'This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter
my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!' said Mr Haredale.
'Leave it, sir, and return no more.'

'Miss Haredale's presence,' returned the young man, 'and your
relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave
man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course,
and the fault is yours--not mine.'

'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true
man, sir,' retorted the other, 'to tamper with the affections of a
weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from
her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day.
More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this
house, and require you to be gone.'

'It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man
to play the spy,' said Edward. 'Your words imply dishonour, and I
reject them with the scorn they merit.'

'You will find,' said Mr Haredale, calmly, 'your trusty go-between
in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no
spy's part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and
followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you
been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to
withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to
my niece.' As he said these words, he passed his arm about the
waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to
him; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely
changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness
and sympathy for her distress.

'Mr Haredale,' said Edward, 'your arm encircles her on whom I have
set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute's
happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is
the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence. Your
niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to
her. What have I done that you should hold me in this light
esteem, and give me these discourteous words?'

'You have done that, sir,' answered Mr Haredale, 'which must he
undone. You have tied a lover'-knot here which must be cut
asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond
between ye. I reject you, and all of your kith and kin--all the
false, hollow, heartless stock.'

'High words, sir,' said Edward, scornfully.

'Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,' replied the
other. 'Lay them to heart.'

'Lay you then, these,' said Edward. 'Your cold and sullen temper,
which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into
fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret
course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign,
sir, to us than you. I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless
man; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious
terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded
you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I will
not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece's truth and
honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her with a
confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with
no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.'

With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more
encountering and returning Mr Haredale's steady look, withdrew.

A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained
what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman's despondency
with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without
exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.

Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode
up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great
importance as he held the young man's stirrup,

'He's comfortable in bed--the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the
smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.'

'Who, Willet?' said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.

'Your worthy father, sir,' replied John. 'Your honourable,
venerable father.'

'What does he mean?' said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm
and doubt, at Joe.

'What DO you mean?' said Joe. 'Don't you see Mr Edward doesn't
understand, father?'

'Why, didn't you know of it, sir?' said John, opening his eyes
wide. 'How very singular! Bless you, he's been here ever since
noon to-day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him,
and hasn't been gone an hour.'

'My father, Willet!'

'Yes, sir, he told me so--a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in
green-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you
can go in, sir,' said John, walking backwards into the road and
looking up at the window. 'He hasn't put out his candles yet, I
see.'

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he
had changed his mind--forgotten something--and must return to
London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets,
father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

Chapter 15

At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his
breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts,
which left the Maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of
accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested
comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that
venerable tavern.

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modern
sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in
the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester
lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-
table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-
gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for
the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the
aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually
forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent
night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency,
indolence, and satisfaction.

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly
favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the
lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional
sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place
of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in
these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days
of yore.

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day,
for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet
a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and
gardens; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the
echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its
gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street,
'Who enters here leaves noise behind.' There is still the plash of
falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and
corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty
garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the
tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger's
form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish
atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and
even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its
pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more
sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the
spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the
freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and
think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.

It was in a room in Paper Buildings--a row of goodly tenements,
shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon
the Temple Gardens--that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up
again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with
the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick,
and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the
trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing
to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up;
there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than
her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a
string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on
that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with
like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't know she was
no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river's margin two
or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in
earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a
bench, alone.

'Ned is amazingly patient!' said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-
named person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden
toothpick, 'immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began
to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most
eccentric dog!'

As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid
pace.

'Really, as if he had heard me,' said the father, resuming his
newspaper with a yawn. 'Dear Ned!'

Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom
his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.

'Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?' said Edward.

'Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.--
Have you breakfasted?'

'Three hours ago.'

'What a very early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from
behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.

'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating
himself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was
glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to
you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to speak.'

'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide in me, I beg. But you
know my constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.'

'I will be plain, and brief,' said Edward.

'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing
his legs, 'or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me'--

'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern,
'that I know where you were last night--from being on the spot,
indeed--and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.'

'You don't say so!' cried his father. 'I am delighted to hear it.
It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long
explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house!
Why didn't you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.'

'I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's
reflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son.

''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the father, 'I was cool enough last
night. That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of
the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember
the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you
my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out
of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying'--

'I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that
you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a
moment?'

'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will hear you with the patience
of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.'

'I saw Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had
complied with this request; 'her uncle, in her presence,
immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in
consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of
indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to
leave it on the instant.'

'For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not
accountable,' said his father. 'That you must excuse. He is a
mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a
fly in the jug. The first I have seen this year.'

Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped
his tea.

'Father,' said the young man, stopping at length before him, 'we
must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or
ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and
do not repel me by this unkind indifference.'

'Whether I am indifferent or no,' returned the other, 'I leave you,
my dear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles,
through miry roads--a Maypole dinner--a tete-a-tete with Haredale,
which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business--a
Maypole bed--a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots
and centaurs;--whether the voluntary endurance of these things
looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety,
and devotion, and all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall
determine for yourself.'

'I wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, 'in what a cruel
situation I am placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do'--

'My dear fellow,' interrupted his father with a compassionate
smile, 'you do nothing of the kind. You don't know anything about
it. There's no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for
it. You have good sense, Ned,--great good sense. I wonder you
should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise
me.'

'I repeat,' said his son firmly, 'that I love her. You have
interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told
you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more
favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your
fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?'

'My dear Ned,' returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and
pushing his box towards him, 'that is my purpose most undoubtedly.'

'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son, 'since I began to
know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have
hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it?
From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness,
and have been bred as though my fortune were large, and my
expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been
familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon
those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and
distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I
have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for
nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no
resource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life
we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk
instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay
court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have
rendered them in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there
never has been thus much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the
fault has not been mine, indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly
now, it is, believe me father, in the hope that there may be a
franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence
between us in time to come.'

'My good fellow,' said his smiling father, 'you quite affect me.
Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is
great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you
say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to
prose.'

'I am very sorry, sir.'

'I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind
for any long period upon one subject. If you'll come to the point
at once, I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it
said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes
me feverish.'

'What I would say then, tends to this,' said Edward. 'I cannot
bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been
lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may
retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities
and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me
try to make for myself an honourable path in life? For any term
you please to name--say for five years if you will--I will pledge
myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without
your fall concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour
earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for
myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become if I
married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments. Will
you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we agree upon, let
us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is revived by
you, let it never be renewed between us.'

'My dear Ned,' returned his father, laying down the newspaper at
which he had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in
the window-seat, 'I believe you know how very much I dislike what
are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian
Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our
condition. But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned--
altogether upon a mistake--I will conquer my repugnance to entering
on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer,
if you will do me the favour to shut the door.'

Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his
pocket, and paring his nails, continued:

'You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your
mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and
so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to
become immortal--had nothing to boast of in that respect.'

'Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward.

'Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a
great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing--I have
always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its
contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his
business did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to marry
his daughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned.
I was a younger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had
our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest
and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you
was very necessary to my comfort--quite indispensable. Now, my
good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It
is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how old are you? I always
forget.'

'Seven-and-twenty, sir.'

'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising his eyelids in a
languishing surprise. 'So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as
nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge,
about eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when
I came to live in these chambers (once your grandfather's, and
bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me), and
commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity and my past
reputation.'

'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.

'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father
with great composure. 'These family topics are so extremely dry,
that I am sorry to say they don't admit of any such relief. It is
for that reason, and because they have an appearance of business,
that I dislike them so very much. Well! You know the rest. A
son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion--that is to
say, unless he is some two or three and twenty--is not the kind of
thing to have about one. He is a restraint upon his father, his
father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually
uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four years or so--
I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct
me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a distance, and
picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we
passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as
only such near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly
tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown,
I should have exported you to some distant part of the world.'

'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said Edward.

'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I
assure you. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant
fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command.
Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided
for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for
me in return.'

'I do not understand your meaning, sir.'

'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream-
jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first,
for their walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful
and disagreeable--my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that
you must marry well and make the most of yourself.'

'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.

'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father.
'All men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church,
the court, the camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-
hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange,
the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the
senate,--what but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-
hunter! Yes. You ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear
Ned, if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator,
prelate, or merchant, in existence. If you are squeamish and
moral, Ned, console yourself with the reflection that at the very
worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person miserable or
unhappy. How many people do you suppose these other kinds of
huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at a step? Or
thousands?'

The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.

'I am quite charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to
and fro--stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror,
or survey a picture through his glass, with the air of a
connoisseur, 'that we have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising
as it was. It establishes a confidence between us which is quite
delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever
have mistaken our positions and designs, I confess I cannot
understand. I conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl,
that all these points were tacitly agreed upon between us.'

'I knew you were embarrassed, sir,' returned the son, raising his
head for a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, 'but
I had no idea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How
could I suppose it, bred as I have been; witnessing the life you
have always led; and the appearance you have always made?'

'My dear child,' said the father--'for you really talk so like a
child that I must call you one--you were bred upon a careful
principle; the very manner of your education, I assure you,
maintained my credit surprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must
lead it, Ned. I must have these little refinements about me. I
have always been used to them, and I cannot exist without them.
They must surround me, you observe, and therefore they are here.
With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you may set your mind at
rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own appearance is
by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours
our income. That's the truth.'

'Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me,
sir, to an expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right
or title?'

'My good fellow,' returned his father more compassionately than
ever, 'if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in
the pursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life,
every man has a right to live in the best way he can; and to make
himself as comfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel.
Our debts, I grant, are very great, and therefore it the more
behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to pay them
off as speedily as possible.'

'The villain's part,' muttered Edward, 'that I have unconsciously
played! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I would, for her
sake, I had died first!'

'I am glad you see, Ned,' returned his father, 'how perfectly self-
evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apart
from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself
on another (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish
you'd look upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone,
how could you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless
she was amazingly rich? You ought to be so very Protestant,
coming of such a Protestant family as you do. Let us be moral,
Ned, or we are nothing. Even if one could set that objection
aside, which is impossible, we come to another which is quite
conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was
killed, like meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable! Consider the
impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law under
such unpleasant circumstances--think of his having been "viewed" by
jurors, and "sat upon" by coroners, and of his very doubtful
position in the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an
indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have
been put to death by the state to prevent its happening. But I
tease you perhaps. You would rather be alone? My dear Ned, most
willingly. God bless you. I shall be going out presently, but we
shall meet to-night, or if not to-night, certainly to-morrow.
Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both our sakes. You
are a person of great consequence to me, Ned--of vast consequence
indeed. God bless you!'

With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in
the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner,
withdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so
lost in thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite
still and silent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder
Chester, gaily dressed, went out. The younger still sat with his
head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.

Chapter 16

A series of pictures representing the streets of London in the
night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would
present to the eye something so very different in character from
the reality which is witnessed in these times, that it would be
difficult for the beholder to recognise his most familiar walks in
the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago.

They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest
and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though
regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt
feebly at the best; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted
by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of
doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and
house-fronts in the deepest gloom. Many of the courts and lanes
were left in total darkness; those of the meaner sort, where one
glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favoured in
no slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had often
good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted;
and the watch being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent
them, they did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest
thoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous
spot whither a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to
follow; and the city being belted round by fields, green lanes,
waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the
suburbs that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit
was hot, was rendered easy.

It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and
constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel
wounds, and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of
nightly occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks
should have had great dread of traversing its streets after the
shops were closed. It was not unusual for those who wended home
alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the better to
guard against surprise from lurking footpads; few would venture to
repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to
Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended; while he who had
been loudest and most valiant at the supper-table or the tavern,
and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to fee a link-boy to
escort him home.

There were many other characteristics--not quite so disagreeable--
about the thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been
long familiar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward
of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a
sign; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their iron
frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournfal concert for
the ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the
streets. Long stands of hackney-chairs and groups of chairmen,
compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite,
obstructed the way and filled the air with clamour; night-cellars,
indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement, and
stretching out half-way into the road, and by the stifled roar of
voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of
the most abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and bulk small
groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day; or one more
weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his
torch fall hissing on the puddled ground.

Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour,
and the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and
turned them round in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed,
or blew, or froze, for very comfort's sake. The solitary passenger
was startled by the chairmen's cry of 'By your leave there!' as two
came trotting past him with their empty vehicle--carried backwards
to show its being disengaged--and hurried to the nearest stand.
Many a private chair, too, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously
hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running-footmen bearing
flambeaux--for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the
doors of a few houses of the better sort--made the way gay and
light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had
passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried
it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants' hall while
waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows
either there or in the street without, to strew the place of
skirmish with hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered
nosegays. Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes
(the fashion being of course set by the upper), was generally the
cause of these disputes; for cards and dice were as openly used,
and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below
stairs, as above. While incidents like these, arising out of drums
and masquerades and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west
end of the town, heavy stagecoaches and scarce heavier waggons were
lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and
passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach--a day or so perhaps
behind its time, but that was nothing--despoiled by highwaymen; who
made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan
of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were
sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow,
rumours of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a
few hours' conversation through the town, and a Public Progress of
some fine gentleman (half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest
fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and
grace, furnished to the populace, at once a pleasant excitement and
a wholesome and profound example.

Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society,
prowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man
from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an
involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question
often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown, he
had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts,
and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts
he ventured fearlessly, as to the young. He could be no spy, for
he never removed his slouched hat to look about him, entered into
conversation with no man, heeded nothing that passed, listened to
no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went. But so surely as
the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the midst of
the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every
grade resorted; and there he sat till morning.

He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something
in the midst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted
them; but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he
was abroad--never in company with any one, but always alone; never
lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so
they said who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time,
and as he did so quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes,
the roads, in all quarters of the town--east, west, north, and
south--that man was seen gliding on like a shadow. He was always
hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him steal past,
caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the
darkness.

This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to
strange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at
times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether
there were not two of them, or more--some, whether he had not
unearthly means of travelling from spot to spot. The footpad
hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a ghost along its
brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the beggar
had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and
then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons
could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him
glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they told
these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would
pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.

At last, one man--he was one of those whose commerce lay among the
graves--resolved to question this strange companion. Next night,
when he had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do
that, they had observed, as though he had no other in the day),
this fellow sat down at his elbow.

'A black night, master!'

'It is a black night.'

'Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too. Didn't I pass you
near the turnpike in the Oxford Road?'

'It's like you may. I don't know.'

'Come, come, master,' cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of
his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; 'be more
companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in this
good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself
to the devil, and I know not what.'

'We all have, have we not?' returned the stranger, looking up. 'If
we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.'

'It goes rather hard with you, indeed,' said the fellow, as the
stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes.
'What of that? Be merry, master. A stave of a roaring song now'--

'Sing you, if you desire to hear one,' replied the other, shaking
him roughly off; 'and don't touch me if you're a prudent man; I
carry arms which go off easily--they have done so, before now--and
make it dangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of them,
to lay hands upon me.'

'Do you threaten?' said the fellow.

'Yes,' returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking
fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.

His voice, and look, and bearing--all expressive of the wildest
recklessness and desperation--daunted while they repelled the
bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now,
they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the
Maypole Inn.

'I am what you all are, and live as you all do,' said the man
sternly, after a short silence. 'I am in hiding here like the
rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the
best of ye. If it's my humour to be left to myself, let me have
it. Otherwise,'--and here he swore a tremendous oath--'there'll be
mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a score
against me.'

A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and
the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on
the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient
precedent to meddle too curiously with a gentleman's private
affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who
had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no
further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench
to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was
gone.

Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and
traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith's house more
than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This
night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark. As he
glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm,
turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he
sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had
passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and
followed.

She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household
necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered
like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was
nigh eleven o'clock, and the passengers in the streets were
thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom
still followed her.

She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first,
which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She
quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped,
and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He
crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted
with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would
have tracked her down.

At length the widow--for she it was--reached her own door, and,
panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a
flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of
being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her
head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of
a dream.

His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue
clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. 'I have
been looking for you many nights. Is the house empty? Answer me.
Is any one inside?'

She could only answer by a rattle in her throat.

'Make me a sign.'

She seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the
key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully
behind them.

Chapter 17

It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had
burnt low. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and
stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them
together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he
glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of
her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart; and that done,
busied himself about the fire again.

It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress
was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he
shivered from head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous
night and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been
fine. Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness, his
condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent
beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes
clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven,
his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,--a
more miserable wretch could hardly be, than this man who now
cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watched the struggling
flame with bloodshot eyes.

She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to
look towards him. So they remained for some short time in silence.
Glancing round again, he asked at length:

'Is this your house?'

'It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?'

'Give me meat and drink,' he answered sullenly, 'or I dare do more
than that. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and
hunger. I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here.'

'You were the robber on the Chigwell road.'

'I was.'

'And nearly a murderer then.'

'The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised
the hue-and-cry', that it would have gone hard with, but for his
nimbleness. I made a thrust at him.'

'You thrust your sword at HIM!' cried the widow, looking upwards.
'You hear this man! you hear and saw!'

He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands
tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of
appeal. Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced
towards her.

'Beware!' she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped
him midway. 'Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are
lost; body and soul, you are lost.'

'Hear me,' he replied, menacing her with his hand. 'I, that in the
form of a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am
a spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures
shrink, save those curst beings of another world, who will not
leave me;--I am, in my desperation of this night, past all fear but
that of the hell in which I exist from day to day. Give the
alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I will not hurt you. But I
will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above
your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. The blood with which
I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit
that tempts men to their ruin!'

As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched
it in his hand.

'Remove this man from me, good Heaven!' cried the widow. 'In thy
grace and mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him
dead!'

'It has no such purpose,' he said, confronting her. 'It is deaf.
Give me to eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing,
and will not do for you.'

'Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and
return no more?'

'I will promise nothing,' he rejoined, seating himself at the
table, 'nothing but this--I will execute my threat if you betray
me.'

She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room,
brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on
the table. He asked for brandy, and for water. These she produced
likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a famished
hound. All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost
distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her
face towards him. She never turned her back upon him once; and
although when she passed him (as she was obliged to do in going to
and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her garment about
her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think
of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her
face towards his own, and watched his every movement.

His repast ended--if that can be called one, which was a mere
ravenous satisfying of the calls of hunger--he moved his chair
towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze which
had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more.

'I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an
uncommon luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate
fare. You live here at your ease. Do you live alone?'

'I do not,' she made answer with an effort.

'Who dwells here besides?'

'One--it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you
here. Why do you linger?'

'For warmth,' he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire.
'For warmth. You are rich, perhaps?'

'Very,' she said faintly. 'Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.'

'At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were
making purchases to-night.'

'I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.'

'Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it
to me.'

She stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took
it up, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting
them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him.

'Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go
before it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know
full well. It will return directly. Begone.'

'What do you mean?'

'Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch
you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength,
rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from
this place.'

'If there are spies without, I am safer here,' replied the man,
standing aghast. 'I will remain here, and will not fly till the
danger is past.'

'It is too late!' cried the widow, who had listened for the step,
and not to him. 'Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you
tremble to hear it! It is my son, my idiot son!'

As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door.
He looked at her, and she at him.

'Let him come in,' said the man, hoarsely. 'I fear him less than
the dark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!'

'The dread of this hour,' returned the widow, 'has been upon me all
my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye
to eye. My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth--
hear a poor mother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of
this man!'

'He rattles at the shutters!' cried the man. 'He calls you. That
voice and cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it
he?'

She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips,
but uttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do
or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to
catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his
coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning's speed,
when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash
exultingly.

'Why, who can keep out Grip and me!' he cried, thrusting in his
head, and staring round the room. 'Are you there, mother? How
long you keep us from the fire and light.'

She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby
sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about
her neck, kissed her a hundred times.

'We have been afield, mother--leaping ditches, scrambling through
hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on.
The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing
and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards--and
Grip--ha ha ha!--brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the
wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it--Grip,
bold Grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig--thinking,
he told me, that it mocked him--and has worried it like a bulldog.
Ha ha ha!'

The raven, in his little basket at his master's back, hearing this
frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his
sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his
various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many
varieties of hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a
crowd of people.

'He takes such care of me besides!' said Barnaby. 'Such care,
mother! He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes
and make-believe to slumber, he practises new learning softly; but
he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though
never so little, stops directly. He won't surprise me till he's
perfect.'

The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said,
'Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in
them.' In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it,
and coming to the fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face
to the closet. But his mother prevented this, by hastily taking
that side herself, and motioning him towards the other.

'How pale you are to-night!' said Barnaby, leaning on his stick.
'We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!'

Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the
door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched
her son. Grip--alive to everything his master was unconscious of--
had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him
intently with his glistening eye.

'He flaps his wings,' said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough
to catch the retreating form and closing door, 'as if there were
strangers here, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump then!'

Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the
bird hopped up on his master's shoulder, from that to his extended
hand, and so to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and
putting it down in a corner with the lid open, Grip's first care
was to shut it down with all possible despatch, and then to stand
upon it. Believing, no doubt, that he had now rendered it utterly
impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut him up in
it any more, he drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a
corresponding number of hurrahs.

'Mother!' said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and
returning to the chair from which he had risen, 'I'll tell you
where we have been to-day, and what we have been doing,--shall I?'

She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she
could not speak.

'You mustn't tell,' said Barnaby, holding up his finger, 'for it's
a secret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had
the dog with us, but he's not like Grip, clever as he is, and
doesn't guess it yet, I'll wager.--Why do you look behind me so?'

'Did I?' she answered faintly. 'I didn't know I did. Come nearer
me.'

'You are frightened!' said Barnaby, changing colour. 'Mother--you
don't see'--

'See what?'

'There's--there's none of this about, is there?' he answered in a
whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his
wrist. 'I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand
on end, and my flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in
the room as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and
the walls with red? Tell me. Is it?'

He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting
out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it
had passed away. After a time, he raised his head and looked about
him.

'Is it gone?'

'There has been nothing here,' rejoined his mother, soothing him.
'Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you
and me.'

He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst
into a wild laugh.

'But let us see,' he said, thoughtfully. 'Were we talking? Was it
you and me? Where have we been?'

'Nowhere but here.'

'Aye, but Hugh, and I,' said Barnaby,--'that's it. Maypole Hugh,
and I, you know, and Grip--we have been lying in the forest, and
among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night
came on, and the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came
by.'

'What man?'

'The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him
after dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I'd know him
in a thousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!'

He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his
brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like
the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out
behind him might have passed for his own shadow.

'Ha ha ha! We shall have him,' he cried, ridding himself of the
semblance as hastily as he had assumed it. 'You shall see him,
mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-
girth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck.
So Hugh says. You're pale again, and trembling. And why DO you
look behind me so?'

'It is nothing,' she answered. 'I am not quite well. Go you to
bed, dear, and leave me here.'

'To bed!' he answered. 'I don't like bed. I like to lie before
the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals--the rivers,
hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I
am hungry too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us
to supper. Grip! To supper, lad!'

The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped
to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for
snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he
received about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest
discomposure.

'That's all,' said Barnaby.

'More!' cried Grip. 'More!'

But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he
retreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one
from his pouch, hid them in various corners--taking particular
care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden
man's propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had
concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room
with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but
with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time), and then, and
not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it
with the utmost relish.

Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain,
made a hearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he
wanted more bread from the closet and rose to get it. She
hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost
fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself.

'Mother,' said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down
beside him after doing so; 'is to-day my birthday?'

'To-day!' she answered. 'Don't you recollect it was but a week or
so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it
comes again?'

'I remember that it has been so till now,' said Barnaby. 'But I
think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.'

She asked him why? 'I'll tell you why,' he said. 'I have always
seen you--I didn't let you know it, but I have--on the evening of
that day grow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were
most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have touched
your hand, and felt that it was cold--as it is now. Once, mother
(on a birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we
went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one
o'clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well. You
were on your knees. I forget what it was you said. Grip, what was
it we heard her say that night?'

'I'm a devil!' rejoined the raven promptly.

'No, no,' said Barnaby. 'But you said something in a prayer; and
when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever
since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I
have found that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you're
wrong; and this must be my birthday--my birthday, Grip!'

The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as
a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind,
might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well
considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays,
he cried, 'Never say die!' a great many times, and flapped his
wings for emphasis.

The widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured
to divert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all
times, as she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her
entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip
perched upon his leg, and divided his time between dozing in the
grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to
recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day.

A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of
position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open
and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection
on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to
time, 'Polly put the ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the
remainder, and go off in a doze again.

After a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and
regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet
spirit of the raven interposed. 'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip,
and his master was broad awake again.

At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk
upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable
alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,
really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then
he muttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very
drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.

The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The
man glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.

'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much
excited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all
have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah,
hurrah, hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep
up your spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a
ket-tle, I'm a--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'

They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from
the grave.

But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards
the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily
upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at
each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the
door.

'Stay,' he whispered. 'You teach your son well.'

'I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart
instantly, or I will rouse him.'

'You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?'

'You dare not do that.'

'I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems.
At least I will know him.'

'Would you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing
herself between them.

'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside,
'I would see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill
the other, wake him.'

With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form,
softly turned back the head and looked into the face. The light of
the fire was upon it, and its every lineament was revealed
distinctly. He contemplated it for a brief space, and hastily
uprose.

'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear: 'In him, of whose
existence I was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power.
Be careful how you use me. Be careful how you use me. I am
destitute and starving, and a wanderer upon the earth. I may take
a sure and slow revenge.'

'There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.'

'There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very
depth. You have anticipated it for years; you have told me as
much. I leave you to digest it. Do not forget my warning.'

He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthily
withdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees
beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone,
until the tears which fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her
relief.

'Oh Thou,' she cried, 'who hast taught me such deep love for this
one remnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose
affliction, even, perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a
relying, loving child to me--never growing old or cold at heart,
but needing my care and duty in his manly strength as in his
cradle-time--help him, in his darkened walk through this sad world,
or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!'

Chapter 18

Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they
were darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow's
house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into
the backways, lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield;
with no more fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their
windings, and baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.

It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then
a drowsy watchman's footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the
lamplighter on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a
little track of smoke mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red
link. He hid himself even from these partakers of his lonely walk,
and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, issued
forth again when they were gone and so pursued his solitary way.

To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind
moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to
listen to the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee
of some old barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal
things--but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where
shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a houseless
rejected creature. To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour,
counting the dull chimes of the clocks; to watch the lights
twinkling in chamber windows, to think what happy forgetfulness
each house shuts in; that here are children coiled together in
their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth, all
equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common
with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven's gift to
all its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by
the wretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly
alone and cast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of
suffering, on which the rivers of great cities close full many a
time, and which the solitude in crowds alone awakens.

The miserable man paced up and down the streets--so long, so
wearisome, so like each other--and often cast a wistful look
towards the east, hoping to see the first faint streaks of day.
But obdurate night had yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed
and restless walk found no relief.

One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of
lights; there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of
dancers, and there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of
laughter. To this place--to be near something that was awake and
glad--he returned again and again; and more than one of those who
left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check upon
their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy
ghost. At last the guests departed, one and all; and then the
house was close shut up, and became as dull and silent as the rest.

His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead
of hastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause
to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin
upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though
even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and
round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again. He did this
often, and once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men
were watching in the prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps
as though determined to accost them. But looking round, he saw
that the day began to break, and failing in his purpose, turned and
fled.

He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to
and fro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean
street, when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry
arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping
and calling to each other, who, parting noisily, took different
ways and dispersed in smaller groups.

Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him
a safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when
they were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or
lighted window, or other indication of the place whence they had
come. It was so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured,
that he concluded they had but turned up there, missing their way,
and were pouring out again when he observed them. With this
impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he
had entered, he was about to turn, when from a grating near his
feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound of talking
came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers were,
and to listen to them.

The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a
man ascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked
and held open the grating as for the passage of another, who
presently appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and
uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy
fashion.

'Good night, noble captain,' said he with the torch. 'Farewell,
commander. Good luck, illustrious general!'

In return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue,
and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar
injunctions, with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.

'Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,' returned the torch-
bearer in a lower voice. 'My captain flies at higher game than
Miggses. Ha, ha, ha! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his
eye and soaring wings. My captain breaketh hearts as other
bachelors break eggs at breakfast.'

'What a fool you are, Stagg!' said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the
pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had
contracted in his passage upward.

'His precious limbs!' cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles.
'Shall a Miggs aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain.
We will inveigle ladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern.
We will unite ourselves with blooming beauties, captain.'

'I'll tell you what, my buck,' said Mr Tappertit, releasing his
leg; 'I'll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach
certain questions unless certain questions are broached to you.
Speak when you're spoke to on particular subjects, and not
otherways. Hold the torch up till I've got to the end of the
court, and then kennel yourself, do you hear?'

'I hear you, noble captain.'

'Obey then,' said Mr Tappertit haughtily. 'Gentlemen, lead on!'
With which word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or
retinue) he folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity
down the court.

His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and
then the observer saw for the first time, from his place of
concealment, that he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his
part caught the quick ear of the blind man, before he was conscious
of having moved an inch towards him, for he turned suddenly and
cried, 'Who's there?'

'A man,' said the other, advancing. 'A friend.'

'A stranger!' rejoined the blind man. 'Strangers are not my
friends. What do you do there?'

'I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone.
I want a lodging.'

'A lodging at this time!' returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn
as though he saw it. 'Do you know the day is breaking?'

'I know it,' rejoined the other, 'to my cost. I have been
traversing this iron-hearted town all night.'

'You had better traverse it again,' said the blind man, preparing
to descend, 'till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste. I
don't let any.'

'Stay!' cried the other, holding him by the arm.

'I'll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog
it is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood
besides, if you detain me,' said the blind man. 'Let me go. Do
you hear?'

'Do YOU hear!' returned the other, chinking a few shillings
together, and hurriedly pressing them into his hand. 'I beg
nothing of you. I will pay for the shelter you give me. Death!
Is it much to ask of such as you! I have come from the country,
and desire to rest where there are none to question me. I am
faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let me lie down, like a
dog, before your fire. I ask no more than that. If you would be
rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.'

'If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,' muttered Stagg,
yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a
footing on the steps--'and can pay for his accommodation--'

'I will pay you with all I have. I am just now past the want of
food, God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion
have you below?'

'None.'

'Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way. Quick!'

The blind man complied after a moment's hesitation, and they
descended together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the
words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before
he had had time to recover from his first surprise.

'May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?' said the
man, glancing keenly round. 'You will not mind that?'

'I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your
choice.'

He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his
conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars
narrowly. Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he
lived there alone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in
which a fire was burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon
the ground before it.

His host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him
any further. But directly he fell asleep--and he noted his falling
into a slumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have
done--he knelt down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but
carefully over his face and person.

His sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a
muttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and
his mouth firmly set. All this, the blind man accurately marked;
and as if his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already
some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression
may be used, and listening, until it was broad day.

Chapter 19

Dolly Varden's pretty little head was yet bewildered by various
recollections of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by
a crowd of images, dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams,
among which the effigy of one partner in particular did especially
figure, the same being a young coachmaker (a master in his own
right) who had given her to understand, when he handed her into the
chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his
business from that time, and die slowly for the love of her--
Dolly's head, and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses, were all in
a state of flutter and confusion for which the party was
accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as she was
sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes
(that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the
grounds of her teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr
Edward Chester was descried through the glass door, standing among
the rusty locks and keys, like love among the roses--for which apt
comparison the historian may by no means take any credit to
himself, the same being the invention, in a sentimental mood, of
the chaste and modest Miggs, who, beholding him from the doorsteps
she was then cleaning, did, in her maiden meditation, give
utterance to the simile.

The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown
upward and his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby,
did not see his visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the
rest, had desired Sim Tappertit to open the glass door and give him
admission--from which untoward circumstance the good lady argued
(for she could deduce a precious moral from the most trifling
event) that to take a draught of small ale in the morning was to
observe a pernicious, irreligious, and Pagan custom, the relish
whereof should be left to swine, and Satan, or at least to Popish
persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin
and evil. She would no doubt have pursued her admonition much
further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious
precepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman
standing by in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner
while she read her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it
to a premature conclusion.

'I'm sure you'll excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Varden, rising and
curtseying. 'Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much
reminding--Sim, bring a chair here.'

Mr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so,
under protest.

'And you can go, Sim,' said the locksmith.

Mr Tappertit obeyed again, still under protest; and betaking
himself to the workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find
it necessary to poison his master, before his time was out.

In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs Varden's
courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he
accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was
perfectly agreeable.

'I am sure if there's anything we can do,--Varden, or I, or Dolly
either,--to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it,
and it shall be done,' said Mrs V.

'I am much obliged to you, I am sure,' returned Edward. 'You
encourage me to say that I have come here now, to beg your good
offices.'

Mrs Varden was delighted beyond measure.

'It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going
to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,' said Edward, glancing
at Dolly; 'and if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this
letter, ma'am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you. The
truth is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its
destination, I have particular reasons for not trusting it to any
other conveyance; so that without your help, I am wholly at a loss.'

'She was not going that way, sir, either to-day, or to-morrow, nor
indeed all next week,' the lady graciously rejoined, 'but we shall
be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account, and
if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might
suppose,' said Mrs Varden, frowning at her husband, 'from Varden's
sitting there so glum and silent, that he objected to this
arrangement; but you must not mind that, sir, if you please. It's
his way at home. Out of doors, he can be cheerful and talkative
enough.'

Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his
stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting
with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all
expression. Wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by
surprise.

'My dear Martha--' he said.

'Oh yes, I dare say,' interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile of
mingled scorn and pleasantry. 'Very dear! We all know that.'

'No, but my good soul,' said Gabriel, 'you are quite mistaken. You
are indeed. I was delighted to find you so kind and ready. I
waited, my dear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would
say.'

'You waited anxiously,' repeated Mrs V. 'Yes! Thank you, Varden.
You waited, as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any
came of it. But I am used to it,' said the lady with a kind of
solemn titter, 'and that's my comfort!'

'I give you my word, Martha--' said Gabriel.

'Let me give you MY word, my dear,' interposed his wife with a
Christian smile, 'that such discussions as these between married
people, are much better left alone. Therefore, if you please,
Varden, we'll drop the subject. I have no wish to pursue it. I
could. I might say a great deal. But I would rather not. Pray
don't say any more.'

'I don't want to say any more,' rejoined the goaded locksmith.

'Well then, don't,' said Mrs Varden.

'Nor did I begin it, Martha,' added the locksmith, good-humouredly,
'I must say that.'

'You did not begin it, Varden!' exclaimed his wife, opening her
eyes very wide and looking round upon the company, as though she
would say, You hear this man! 'You did not begin it, Varden! But
you shall not say I was out of temper. No, you did not begin it,
oh dear no, not you, my dear!'

'Well, well,' said the locksmith. 'That's settled then.'

'Oh yes,' rejoined his wife, 'quite. If you like to say Dolly
began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my duty. I
need know it, I am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind,
when my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it.
Thank you, Varden.' And so, with a mighty show of humility and
forgiveness, she folded her hands, and looked round again, with a
smile which plainly said, 'If you desire to see the first and
foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on view!'

This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden's
extraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to
check the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that
excellent lady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until
Edward withdrew; which he presently did, thanking the lady of the
house a great many times for her condescension, and whispering in
Dolly's ear that he would call on the morrow, in case there should
happen to be an answer to the note--which, indeed, she knew without
his telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the
previous night to prepare her for the visit which was then
terminating.

Gabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his
hands in his pockets; and, after fidgeting about the room in a very
uneasy manner, and casting a great many sidelong looks at Mrs
Varden (who with the calmest countenance in the world was five
fathoms deep in the Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how she
meant to go. Dolly supposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her
lady mother, who finding herself silently appealed to, dived down
at least another fathom into the Manual, and became unconscious of
all earthly things.

'Martha--' said the locksmith.

'I hear you, Varden,' said his wife, without rising to the surface.

'I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the Maypole and
old John, for otherways as it's a very fine morning, and Saturday's
not a busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in
the chaise, and had quite a happy day of it.'

Mrs Varden immediately closed the Manual, and bursting into tears,
requested to be led upstairs.

'What is the matter now, Martha?' inquired the locksmith.

To which Martha rejoined, 'Oh! don't speak to me,' and protested in
agony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn't have believed
it.

'But, Martha,' said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was
moving off with the aid of Dolly's shoulder, 'wouldn't have
believed what? Tell me what's wrong now. Do tell me. Upon my
soul I don't know. Do you know, child? Damme!' cried the
locksmith, plucking at his wig in a kind of frenzy, 'nobody does
know, I verily believe, but Miggs!'

'Miggs,' said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching
incoherence, 'is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw
down hatred upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me,
whatever she may be to others.'

'She's no comfort to me,' cried Gabriel, made bold by despair.
'She's the misery of my life. She's all the plagues of Egypt in
one.'

'She's considered so, I have no doubt,' said Mrs Varden. 'I was
prepared for that; it's natural; it's of a piece with the rest.
When you taunt me as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you
taunt her behind her back!' And here the incoherence coming on
very strong, Mrs Varden wept, and laughed, and sobbed, and
shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and said she knew it was very
foolish but she couldn't help it; and that when she was dead and
gone, perhaps they would be sorry for it--which really under the
circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she seemed to
think--with a great deal more to the same effect. In a word, she
passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to
such occasions; and being supported upstairs, was deposited in a
highly spasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly
afterwards flung herself upon the body.

The philosophy of all this was, that Mrs Varden wanted to go to
Chigwell; that she did not want to make any concession or
explanation; that she would only go on being implored and entreated
so to do; and that she would accept no other terms. Accordingly,
after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs, and much
damping of foreheads, and vinegaring of temples, and hartshorning
of noses, and so forth; and after most pathetic adjurations from
Miggs, assisted by warm brandy-and-water not over-weak, and divers
other cordials, also of a stimulating quality, administered at
first in teaspoonfuls and afterwards in increasing doses, and of
which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure (for
fainting is infectious); after all these remedies, and many more
too numerous to mention, but not to take, had been applied; and
many verbal consolations, moral, religious, and miscellaneous, had
been super-added thereto; the locksmith humbled himself, and the
end was gained.

'If it's only for the sake of peace and quietness, father,' said
Dolly, urging him to go upstairs.

'Oh, Doll, Doll,' said her good-natured father. 'If you ever have
a husband of your own--'

Dolly glanced at the glass.

'--Well, WHEN you have,' said the locksmith, 'never faint, my
darling. More domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting,
Doll, than from all the greater passions put together. Remember
that, my dear, if you would be really happy, which you never can
be, if your husband isn't. And a word in your ear, my precious.
Never have a Miggs about you!'

With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and
slowly repaired to Mrs Varden's room; where that lady, lying all
pale and languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight
of her last new bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her
scattered spirits, displayed to the best advantage at her bedside.

'Here's master, mim,' said Miggs. 'Oh, what a happiness it is
when man and wife come round again! Oh gracious, to think that him
and her should ever have a word together!' In the energy of these
sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in
general, Miss Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head,
and folding her hands, turned on her tears.

'I can't help it,' cried Miggs. 'I couldn't, if I was to be
drownded in 'em. She has such a forgiving spirit! She'll forget
all that has passed, and go along with you, sir--Oh, if it was to
the world's end, she'd go along with you.'

Mrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her attendant for
this enthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was far
too unwell to venture out that day.

'Oh no, you're not, mim, indeed you're not,' said Miggs; 'I repeal
to master; master knows you're not, mim. The hair, and motion of
the shay, will do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you
must not raly. She must keep up, mustn't she, sir, for all out
sakes? I was a telling her that, just now. She must remember us,
even if she forgets herself. Master will persuade you, mim, I'm
sure. There's Miss Dolly's a-going you know, and master, and you,
and all so happy and so comfortable. Oh!' cried Miggs, turning on
the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great emotion, 'I
never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her
spirit, I never, never, never did. Not more did master neither;
no, nor no one--never!'

For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed
to all her husband's prayers that she would oblige him by taking a
day's pleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be
persuaded, and granting him her free forgiveness (the merit
whereof, she meekly said, rested with the Manual and not with her),
desired that Miggs might come and help her dress. The handmaid
attended promptly, and it is but justice to their joint exertions
to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of
time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as
if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best health
imaginable.

As to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good
looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of
the same drawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood, a
little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the
merest trifle on one side--just enough in short to make it the
wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious
milliner devised. And not to speak of the manner in which these
cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her
lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such a cruel little
muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and was so
surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds,
that when Mr Tappettit, holding the horse's head, saw her come out
of the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into
the chaise and drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably
have done it, but for certain uneasy doubts besetting him as to the
shortest way to Gretna Green; whether it was up the street or
down, or up the right-hand turning or the left; and whether,
supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith
in the end would marry them on credit; which by reason of his
clerical office appeared, even to his excited imagination, so
unlikely, that he hesitated. And while he stood hesitating, and
looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came his master and his
mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity was gone for
ever. For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs Varden
was inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the
locksmith was inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat
lightly, and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and its place
was empty, and he and that dreary Miggs were standing in the street
together.

The hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had
occurred for the last twelve months to put him out of his way,
Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable
beyond all precedent. As they jogged through the streets talking
of this thing and of that, who should be descried upon the pavement
but that very coachmaker, looking so genteel that nobody would have
believed he had ever had anything to do with a coach but riding in
it, and bowing like any nobleman. To be sure Dolly was confused
when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-coloured ribbons
trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed to
say, 'I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is going to
the devil, and you're the cause of it.' There he stood, rooted to
the ground: as Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said,
like a pump; till they turned the corner: and when her father
thought it was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he
meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very hood was pale.

But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the
locksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart 'pulling-up' at
all manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance
with all the taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the
landladies, with whom, indeed, the little horse was on equally
friendly terms, for he kept on stopping of his own accord. Never
were people so glad to see other people as these landlords and
landladies were to behold Mr Varden and Mrs Varden and Miss Varden;
and wouldn't they get out, said one; and they really must walk
upstairs, said another; and she would take it ill and be quite
certain they were proud if they wouldn't have a little taste of
something, said a third; and so on, that it was really quite a
Progress rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality
from beginning to end. It was pleasant enough to be held in such
esteem, not to mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said nothing
at the time, and was all affability and delight--but such a body of
evidence as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that
day, to be used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got
together for matrimonial purposes.

In course of time--and in course of a pretty long time too, for
these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,--they
arrived upon the skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on
among the trees, came at last to the Maypole, where the locksmith's
cheerful 'Yoho!' speedily brought to the porch old John, and after
him young Joe, both of whom were so transfixed at sight of the
ladies, that for a moment they were perfectly unable to give them
any welcome, and could do nothing but stare.

It was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for
speedily reviving he thrust his drowsy father aside--to Mr Willet's
mighty and inexpressible indignation--and darting out, stood ready
to help them to alight. It was necessary for Dolly to get out
first. Joe had her in his arms;--yes, though for a space of time
no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his arms.
Here was a glimpse of happiness!

It would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace
affair the helping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it,
and did it too with the best grace in the world. Then old John,
who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden
wasn't fond of him, had been in some doubt whether she might not
have come for purposes of assault and battery, took courage, hoped
she was well, and offered to conduct her into the house. This
tender being amicably received, they marched in together; Joe and
Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and Varden brought
up the rear.

Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody
objecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but
the Maypole's was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar,
that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old
oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at
about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their
lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so
many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant
grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly
loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised
beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such
drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in
hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables,
drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as
typical of the immense resources of the establishment, and its
defiances to all visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous
cheese!

It is a poor heart that never rejoices--it must have been the
poorest, weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat, which would
not have warmed towards the Maypole bar. Mrs Varden's did
directly. She could no more have reproached John Willet among
those household gods, the kegs and bottles, lemons, pipes, and
cheese, than she could have stabbed him with his own bright
carving-knife. The order for dinner too--it might have soothed a
savage. 'A bit of fish,' said John to the cook, 'and some lamb
chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and a good salad, and a
roast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes,
or something of that sort.' Something of that sort! The resources
of these inns! To talk carelessly about dishes, which in
themselves were a first-rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to
one's wedding-day, as something of that sort: meaning, if you can't
get a spring chicken, any other trifle in the way of poultry will
do--such as a peacock, perhaps! The kitchen too, with its great
broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen, where nothing in the way of
cookery seemed impossible; where you could believe in anything to
eat, they chose to tell you of. Mrs Varden returned from the
contemplation of these wonders to the bar again, with a head quite
dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity was not large
enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to sleep. Waking
was pain, in the midst of such immensity.

Dolly in the meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other
matters, passed out at the garden door, and glancing back now and
then (but of course not wondering whether Joe saw her), tripped
away by a path across the fields with which she was well
acquainted, to discharge her mission at the Warren; and this
deponent hath been informed and verily believes, that you might
have seen many less pleasant objects than the cherry-coloured
mantle and ribbons, as they went fluttering along the green meadows
in the bright light of the day, like giddy things as they were.

Chapter 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 Haredale,
whose foster-sister she was, she was as free of the building as the
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 sombre
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 recognise 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 lustre. 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, but 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 bring something to
begin with.'

'Not from Edward?'

Dolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her pockets (there 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
marvelled 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 Haredale'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's sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite right,
but to be made miserable one's self 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. Even young ladies in love cannot read their
letters for ever. In 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 seemed 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 Haredale took occasion to
charge upon Dolly certain flirtish and inconstant 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
confided 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 in jest and half in earnest to amend her roguish
ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart (which Dolly
stoutly denied, with a 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 good bye, 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 Haredale.
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 Haredale, taking her by the hand. 'I
want to speak to you.'

'If you please, sir, I'm in a hurry,' faltered Dolly, 'and--you
have frightened me by coming so suddenly upon me, sir--I would
rather go, sir, if you'll be so good as to let me.'

'Immediately,' said Mr Haredale, who had by this time led her into
the room and closed the door. You shall go directly. You have
just left Emma?'

'Yes, sir, just this minute.--Father's waiting for me, sir, if
you'll please to have the goodness--'

I know. I know,' said Mr Haredale. 'Answer me a question. What
did you bring here to-day?'

'Bring here, sir?' faltered Dolly.

'You will tell me the truth, I am 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 Haredale. '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, sir.'

'I commend your firmness and your plain-speaking,' said Mr
Haredale. '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 afterwards 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 Haredale 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 an opinion, sir.'

'If your friends had no objection, would you have any?' said Mr
Haredale. 'Come. There'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 always am.'

'That's well,' said Mr Haredale. 'That is all I had to say. You
are 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 afresh; 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 fain 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-dress to
rights, dried her eyes, looked back very merrily and triumphantly
at the Warren 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 knowing, 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 wicket-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 is startling.

She had no sooner moved on again, than she was conscious of the
same sound, which was like that of a person tramping stealthily
among bushes and brushwood. Looking towards the spot whence it
appeared to come, she almost fancied she could make out a crouching
figure. She stopped again. All was quiet as before. On she went
once more--decidedly faster now--and tried to sing softly to
herself. It must he 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.

Chapter 21

It was for the moment an inexpressible relief to Dolly, to
recognise 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 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, he 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 sullen 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. The 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 she could feel his
breath upon her forehead. 'Why too near? You're always proud to
ME, mistress.'

'I am proud to no 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 good will. 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.

'Ha ha ha! 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. Ha ha ha! 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, Sweetlips,' said Hugh. 'You had,
indeed. Come. Tell me now. Why are you always so proud? I
don't quarrel with you for it. I love you when you're proud. Ha
ha ha! You can't hide your beauty from a poor fellow; that's a
comfort!'

She gave him no answer, but as he had not yet 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. 'Harkye, little dove, you had
best not. All about here know me, and what I dare do if I have a
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 hair 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!'

'A fine for crying out,' said Hugh. 'Ha ha ha! A fine, pretty
one, from your lips. I pay myself! Ha ha ha!'

'Help! help! help!' As she shrieked with the utmost violence she
could exert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and another.

'Thank Heaven!' cried the girl in an ecstasy. 'Joe, dear Joe, this
way. Help!'

Her assailant paused, and stood irresolute for a moment, but the
shouts drawing nearer and coming quick upon them, forced 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 was 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, bent 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 inquire 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, when Dolly stopped suddenly and
with a half scream exclaimed,

'The letter!'

'What letter?' cried Joe.

'That I was carrying--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 were taken from me,' answered
Dolly, vainly searching her pocket and rustling 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 with a
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 favourable 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 Willet.
'What do you want him for?'

'I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and
letter,' answered Joe. 'Halloa 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, sleepy-head,' said Joe, giving him the lantern. 'Carry
this, and bring the dog, and that small cudgel of yours. And woe
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 valour and
bustle; 'a fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about.
It's well for the 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 footpads, and frightened out of their precious
lives.'

'They never rob me,' cried Hugh with a laugh. 'I have got nothing
to lose. But I'd as lief knock them at head 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 it conveyed was lost
on 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? I know 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, belike?' 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 man.'

'Not to go with me!' cried Hugh. 'I'm too rough for them all.
They're all afraid of me. Why, bless you mistress, I've the
tenderest heart alive. I love all the ladies, ma'am,' 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 Mussulman or wild Islander than with a stanch
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 he 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 deep attention, 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 with his hands 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 Varden's 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 Haredale 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 rashers 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 plate 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 in 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 effect 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, when 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 lowness of spirits
Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and
SHE knew it!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly
showed that if ever a man were--not to say over head and ears, but
over the Monument and the top of Saint Paul's in love, that man was
himself. The road was a very good one; not at all a jolting road,
or an uneven one; and yet Dolly held the side of the chaise with
one little hand, all the way. 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 their 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!' from the
rider, who now came panting up, and checked his horse beside them.

'This man again!' cried Dolly, shuddering.

'Hugh!' said Joe. 'What errand are you upon?'

'I come to 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 man enough to take
care of myself!'

'Aye!' returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. 'The roads
are not safe just now, he says, and you'd 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 chaise, 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 audaciously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding
herself out of the chaise, 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
chaise 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 Hugh beside him.

What she thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker
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, Simmun! Here they are!' cried Miggs, clapping her
hands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. 'Bring a
chair, Simmun. Now, an't you the better for it, mim? 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 ice.'

'I can't help it, my good girl. You had better take her in to the
fire,' said the locksmith.

'Master sounds unfeeling, mim,' said Miggs, in a tone of
commiseration, 'but such is not his intentions, I'm sure. After
what he has 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--do.'

Mrs Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his
pockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a
neighbouring stable.

'Martha, my dear,' said the locksmith, when they reached the
parlour, 'if you'll 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 to-night.'

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 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; 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 especial of
womankind, 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 entreated her to 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 vale 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?

Miss Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that
indeed and indeed Miss 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, amiablest, forgivingest-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 affectionatest couple
upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at Golden
Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-
hand doorpost. After glancing at herself as a comparatively
worthless vessel, but still as one of some desert, she besought her
to bear in mind that her aforesaid dear and only mother was of a
weakly constitution and 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 prize-fighting phraseology,
always came up to time with a 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 woman's nature ever
afterwards--in which aspiration Miss Miggs, by divers 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 Tappertit 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 Miss Miggs's own fair hands.

'Oh Simmun!' said the young lady, 'such goings on to-day! Oh,
gracious me, Simmun!'

Mr Tappertit, who was not in the best of humours, and who
disliked Miss 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 the like, nor nobody else,' pursued Miggs. 'The
idea of interfering with HER. What people can see in her to make
it worth their while to do so, that's the joke--he he he!'

Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily
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, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is
a brave one; and he do deserve her, that he do.'

'Woman!' said Mr Tappertit, jumping off the counter on which he was
seated; 'beware!'

'My stars, Simmun!' cried Miggs, in affected astonishment. 'You
frighten me to death! What's the matter?'

'There are strings,' said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-
cheese knife in the air, 'in the human heart that had better not be
wibrated. That's what's the matter.'

'Oh, very well--if you're in a huff,' cried Miggs, turning away.

'Huff or no huff,' said Mr Tappertit, 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 Tappertit, fetching 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, Simmun!'

'I tell you,' said the 'prentice, '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 parlour; where the
locksmith, stimulated by quietness and Toby, 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 junketings, 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.

Chapter 23

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 then, as now, of 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 a 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 on 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; but 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 boors and peasants, and separate their character from those
intensely vulgar sentiments which are called the national
character. Apart from any natural prepossession 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 nobleman 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 feign 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
affect 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 compliment 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 favourite 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 at 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 importunate 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 tomorrow.
Poor fellow, he loses time, and time is 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, 'has 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--how much a
day? There's my nap after dinner--an hour--they're 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. Ah, 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.
What do you ask me to come for, and 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?'

'I'm well enough,' said Hugh impatiently.

'You look a perfect marvel of health. Sit down.'

'I'd rather stand,' said Hugh.

'Please yourself my good fellow,' returned Mr Chester rising,
slowly pulling off the loose robe he wore, and sitting down before
the dressing-glass. 'Please yourself by 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
sulkily from time to time.

'Are you going to speak to me, master?' he said, after a long
silence.

'My worthy creature,' returned Mr Chester, 'you are 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, and 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 am I to go away?'

'Speak you,' said Mr Chester, 'speak you, good fellow. I have
spoken, have I not? I am waiting for you.'

'Why, look'ee, 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 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; 'which is not
probable, I should say.'

'Then I have come, sir,' said Hugh, 'and I have brought it back,
and something else along with it. A letter, sir, it is, that 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.

'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 drawling 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 a kiss,' replied Hugh, after some hesitation.

'And what else?'

'Nothing.'

'I think,' said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and smiling
twice or thrice 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
bade 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. Don't show it to
me. You had 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.

'Step to that closet and bring me a bottle 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 bade him drink.
That dram despatched, 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 high. A bumper
with a bead in the middle! Give me enough of this,' he added, as
he tossed it 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 can 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? Ha ha ha! What's so
good to me as this? What ever has been? What else has kept away
the cold on bitter nights, and driven hunger off in starving times?
What else has given me the strength and courage 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 who when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs and
fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this did? I never knew him; not
I. I drink to the drink, master. Ha ha ha!'

'You are 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.
'Quite a boon companion.'

'Do you see this hand, master,' said Hugh, 'and this arm?' baring
the brawny limb to the elbow. 'It was once mere 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.'

'I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud
little beauty, master, but for the drink,' cried Hugh. 'Ha ha ha!
It was a good one. As sweet as honeysuckle, 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?'

'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 round your neck? What a confiding nature yours must be!'

Hugh fell back a pace or two and surveyed him with a 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:

'Robbery 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 do 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 am curious to know,' said Mr Chester, with
surpassing affability. '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 was on his lips when Mr Chester
turned round and questioned him so keenly, he would straightway
have given him into custody and had him dragged before a justice
with the stolen property upon him; in which case it was as certain
he would have been hung as it was that he had been born. The
ascendency 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 confidence
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 smouldered 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 are quieter now.'

Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his
smiling face, drank the contents in silence.

'Don't you--ha, ha!--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 bye, what is your name, my good
soul? You are called Hugh, I know, of course--your other name?'

'I have no other name.'

'A very strange fellow! Do you mean that you never knew one, or
that you don't choose to tell it? Which?'

'I'd tell it if I could,' said Hugh, quickly. 'I can't. I have
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. She was poor
enough.'

'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 dare say?' 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, and one of the same breed, was the only living
thing except me that howled that day,' said Hugh. 'Out of the two
thousand odd--there was a larger crowd for its being a woman--the
dog and I alone had any pity. If he'd have been a man, he'd have
been glad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him
lean and half-starved; but being a dog, and not having 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, bade 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 truckled 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
their 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.

'Foh!' said Mr Chester. 'The very atmosphere that centaur has
breathed, seems tainted with the cart and ladder. Here, Peak.
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.

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 deportment, 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
courted his favourable notice; how people, who really had good in
them, went with the stream, and fawned 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 despisers 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 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
Tappertit; 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 he were about to go through some performances in which it was
a necessary agent.

'Sir,' said Mr Tappertit 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 appearance is, has inn'ard 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 Tappertit bowed again, and displayed his legs to
the best advantage.

'You have heard, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his
breast, 'of G. Varden Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly
executed in town and country, Clerkenwell, London?'

'What then?' asked Mr Chester.

'I'm his 'prentice, sir.'

'What THEN?'

'Ahem!' said Mr Tappertit. 'Would you permit me to shut the door,
sir, and will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that
what passes between us is in the 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 Tappertit, producing a small
pocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the folds, 'as I have not
a card about me (for the envy of masters debases us below that
level) allow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances
will admit of. If you will take that in your own hand, sir, and
cast your eye on the right-hand corner,' said Mr Tappertit,
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. '"Four. Simon
Tappertit. One." 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
Tappertit, 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 Tappertit,' said Mr Chester, 'has that complicated piece
of ironmongery 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 ware'us-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
will oblige me so far as to put it outside the door?'

'By all means, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the
word.

'You'll excuse my mentioning it, I hope?'

'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 Tappertit, 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 in our house,' said Mr Tappertit, 'I am aware,
sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your
inclinations. Sir, your son has not used me well.'

'Mr Tappertit,' said the other, 'you grieve me beyond description.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied the 'prentice. '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 I've had to do for your son, sir,'
said Mr Tappertit; 'the chairs I've had to hand him, the coaches
I've had to call for him, the numerous degrading duties, wholly
unconnected with my indenters, 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'ee Sim," a proper form of
address on those occasions.'

'Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Pray go on.'

'I thank you for your good opinion, sir,' said Sim, much gratified,
'and will endeavour so to do. Now sir, on this account (and
perhaps for another reason or two which I needn't go into) I am on
your side. And what I tell you is this--that as long as our people
go backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and down, to that there
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 'em in the very fullest
uniform.'

Mr Tappertit 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 he prevented?" I'll tell you how. If an honest,
civil, smiling gentleman like you--'

'Mr Tappertit--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'd gain her over for ever. Then there's this point got--
that her daughter Dolly,'--here a flush came over Mr Tappertit's
face--'wouldn't be allowed to be a go-between from that time
forward; and till that point's got, there's nothing ever will
prevent her. Mind that.'

'Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature--'

'Wait a minute,' said Sim, folding his arms with a 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, that unless you get rid of and have kidnapped and carried off
at the very least--nothing less will do--will marry your son to
that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He will, sir, for the hatred and
malice that he bears to you; let 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, libelling, 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 Tappertit wildly, putting his hair
up straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; 'if
sich a thing is possible.'

'A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?'

'Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined--
destroy him,' said Mr Tappertit. 'Miggs says so too. Miggs and me
both say so. We can't bear the plotting and undermining that takes
place. Our souls recoil from it. Barnaby Rudge and Mrs Rudge are
in it likewise; but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader.
Their plottings and schemes are known to me and Miggs. If you want
information of 'em, apply to us. Put Joseph Willet down, sir.
Destroy him. Crush him. And be happy.'

With these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect no reply, and
to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his
hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, 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 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.

Chapter 25

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 to
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 lightly men may crush that faculty in
their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it 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 sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its
music--save when ye drown it--is not in sighs 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 ye 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 learn 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 the 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 dulness but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly
and unchildlike in its cunning--came back as vividly as if but
yesterday had intervened. The room in which they 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 wont to be in old times, yet different too,
and wore another air. 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 beggarman, 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 Haredale 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 Haredale, regarding her with some surprise,
'that having made this effort, you are 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's quite his home.'

'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven
hopped gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing
himself to Mr Haredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some
temperate refreshment would be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle
on, we'll all have tea!'

'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale 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 Emma 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 Haredale, '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 heart, sir. 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 Haredale, speaking more to
himself than her. 'We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed with
the most lavish hand, 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 rich are equally at a distance; the
one being forced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other
condescending to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more
aloof, 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 taking 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 Haredale 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 walls 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 Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent
pity. She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and
turned to Mr Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was
contemplating her with fixed attention.

The tale connected with the mansion borne 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 sombre;
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 anon a spectral knocking at the
glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy air.
Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants of the spot.
The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr
Haredale 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,
was 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, 'how to begin.
You will think my mind disordered.'

'The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were
last here,' returned Mr Haredale, 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 heart. 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 sink or swim as Heaven may decree!'

'You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,' said Mr
Haredale 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 misery of my distress. I can
give no reason 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 heart is--and yours, dear young
lady, will speak for me, I know--that I have lived, since that time
we all have bitter 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 Haredale.

'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 Haredale, '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 labouring?'

'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 in 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;
into what hands it may pass. I do, and I renounce it.'

'Surely,' said Mr Haredale, 'its uses 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 Haredale, 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 than
condemned. I must leave my house to-morrow, 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 Haredale,
too--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 entreaties, besought her 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 deaf
to their persuasions, Mr Haredale 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 Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean
time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions--though any
change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This
condition made at 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 Haredale
might, on second thoughts, despatch some messenger to that place of
entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard
instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither such
humble viands as they required, he cheerfully assented, 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 a long inspection of an epitaph,
he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and
cry in his hoarse 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; for
Mr Reuben Haredale 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, entreating society in general
(as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection
with churchyards) 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 gadding 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 go a-shopping. 'We
know nothing about coaches here, sir,' John would say, if any
unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles; 'we
don't book for 'em; we'd rather not; they're more trouble than
they're worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait
for 'em you can; but we don't know anything about 'em; 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 in 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.

Chapter 26

'And you're not surprised to hear this, Varden?' said Mr Haredale.
'Well! You and she have always been the best friends, and you
should understand her if anybody does.'

'I ask your pardon, sir,' rejoined the locksmith. 'I didn't say I
understood her. I wouldn't have the presumption to say that of any
woman. It's not so easily done. But I am not so much surprised,
sir, as you expected me to be, certainly.'

'May I ask why not, my good friend?'

'I have seen, sir,' returned the locksmith with evident reluctance,
'I have seen in connection with her, something that has filled me
with distrust and uneasiness. She has made bad friends, how, or
when, I don't know; but that her house is a refuge for one robber
and cut-throat at least, I am certain. There, sir! Now it's out.'

'Varden!'

'My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would be
willingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of
mistrusting 'em. I have kept the secret till now, and it will go
no further than yourself, I know; but I tell you that with my own
eyes--broad awake--I saw, in the passage of her house one evening
after dark, the highwayman who robbed and wounded Mr Edward
Chester, and on the same night threatened me.'

'And you made no effort to detain him?' said Mr Haredale quickly.

'Sir,' returned the locksmith, 'she herself prevented me--held me,
with all her strength, and hung about me until he had got clear
off.' And having gone so far, he related circumstantially all that
had passed upon the night in question.

This dialogue was held in a low tone in the locksmith's little
parlour, into which honest Gabriel had shown his visitor on his
arrival. Mr Haredale had called upon him to entreat his company to
the widow's, that he might have the assistance of his persuasion
and influence; and out of this circumstance the conversation had
arisen.

'I forbore,' said Gabriel, 'from repeating one word of this to
anybody, as it could do her no good and might do her great harm. I
thought and hoped, to say the truth, that she would come to me, and
talk to me about it, and tell me how it was; but though I have
purposely put myself in her way more than once or twice, she has
never touched upon the subject--except by a look. And indeed,'
said the good-natured locksmith, 'there was a good deal in the
look, more than could have been put into a great many words. It
said among other matters "Don't ask me anything" so imploringly,
that I didn't ask her anything. You'll think me an old fool, I
know, sir. If it's any relief to call me one, pray do.'

'I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,' said Mr Haredale,
after a silence. 'What meaning do you attach to it?'

The locksmith shook his head, and looked doubtfully out of window
at the failing light.

'She cannot have married again,' said Mr Haredale.

'Not without our knowledge surely, sir.'

'She may have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to
some objection or estrangement. Suppose she married incautiously--
it is not improbable, for her existence has been a lonely and
monotonous one for many years--and the man turned out a ruffian,
she would be anxious to screen him, and yet would revolt from his
crimes. This might be. It bears strongly on the whole drift of
her discourse yesterday, and would quite explain her conduct. Do
you suppose Barnaby is privy to these circumstances?'

'Quite impossible to say, sir,' returned the locksmith, shaking his
head again: 'and next to impossible to find out from him. If what
you suppose is really the case, I tremble for the lad--a notable
person, sir, to put to bad uses--'

'It is not possible, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, in a still lower
tone of voice than he had spoken yet, 'that we have been blinded
and deceived by this woman from the beginning? It is not possible
that this connection was formed in her husband's lifetime, and led
to his and my brother's--'

'Good God, sir,' cried Gabriel, interrupting him, 'don't entertain
such dark thoughts for a moment. Five-and-twenty years ago, where
was there a girl like her? A gay, handsome, laughing, bright-eyed
damsel! Think what she was, sir. It makes my heart ache now, even
now, though I'm an old man, with a woman for a daughter, to think
what she was and what she is. We all change, but that's with Time;
Time does his work honestly, and I don't mind him. A fig for Time,
sir. Use him well, and he's a hearty fellow, and scorns to have
you at a disadvantage. But care and suffering (and those have
changed her) are devils, sir--secret, stealthy, undermining devils--
who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do more havoc in
a month than Time does in a year. Picture to yourself for one
minute what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh heart
and face--do her that justice--and say whether such a thing is
possible.'

'You're a good fellow, Varden,' said Mr Haredale, 'and are quite
right. I have brooded on that subject so long, that every breath
of suspicion carries me back to it. You are quite right.'

'It isn't, sir,' cried the locksmith with brightened eyes, and
sturdy, honest voice; 'it isn't because I courted her before Rudge,
and failed, that I say she was too good for him. She would have
been as much too good for me. But she WAS too good for him; he
wasn't free and frank enough for her. I don't reproach his memory
with it, poor fellow; I only want to put her before you as she
really was. For myself, I'll keep her old picture in my mind; and
thinking of that, and what has altered her, I'll stand her friend,
and try to win her back to peace. And damme, sir,' cried Gabriel,
'with your pardon for the word, I'd do the same if she had married
fifty highwaymen in a twelvemonth; and think it in the Protestant
Manual too, though Martha said it wasn't, tooth and nail, till
doomsday!'

If the dark little parlour had been filled with a dense fog, which,
clearing away in an instant, left it all radiance and brightness,
it could not have been more suddenly cheered than by this outbreak
on the part of the hearty locksmith. In a voice nearly as full and
round as his own, Mr Haredale cried 'Well said!' and bade him come
away without more parley. The locksmith complied right willingly;
and both getting into a hackney coach which was waiting at the
door, drove off straightway.

They alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their
conveyance, walked to the house. To their first knock at the door
there was no response. A second met with the like result. But in
answer to the third, which was of a more vigorous kind, the parlour
window-sash was gently raised, and a musical voice cried:

'Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you. How
very much you have improved in your appearance since our last
meeting! I never saw you looking better. HOW do you do?'

Mr Haredale turned his eyes towards the casement whence the voice
proceeded, though there was no need to do so, to recognise the
speaker, and Mr Chester waved his hand, and smiled a courteous
welcome.

'The door will be opened immediately,' he said. 'There is nobody
but a very dilapidated female to perform such offices. You will
excuse her infirmities? If she were in a more elev