Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Read online

  “The old room,” said John, looking timidly upward; “Mr Reuben's own apartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit there, so late at night—on this night too.”

  “Why, where else should he sit?” asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his breast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers. “It's snug enough, an't it?”

  “Snug!” said John indignantly. “You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?”

  “Why, what is it the worse for that!” cried Hugh, looking into John's fat face. “Does it keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha, ha! Never believe it, master. One man's no such matter as that comes to.”

  Mr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began—by a species of inspiration—to think it just barely possible that he was something of a dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid of him one of these days. He was too prudent to say anything, with the journey home before him; and therefore turned to the iron gate before which this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled the handle of the bell that hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at one corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of the gardenwalks, upon which this gate opened, Mr Haredale threw up the window directly, and demanded who was there.

  “Begging pardon, sir,” said John, “I knew you sat up late, and made bold to come round, having a word to say to you.”

  “Willet—is it not?”

  “Of the Maypole—at your service, sir.”

  Mr Haredale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden-walk, unlocked the gate and let them in.

  “You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?”

  “Nothing to speak of, sir,” said John; “an idle tale, I thought you ought to know of; nothing more.”

  “Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing it like a censer.”

  Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and ascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on the steps. Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering face with no great favour; and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest, as they climbed the winding stairs.

  It terminated in a little ante-room adjoining that from which they had seen the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led the way through it into the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from which he had risen when they had rung the bell.

  “Come in,” he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door. “Not you, friend,” he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. “Willet, why do you bring that fellow here?”

  “Why, sir,” returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, “he's a good guard, you see.”

  “Don't be too sure of that,” said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he spoke. “I doubt it. He has an evil eye.”

  “There's no imagination in his eye,” returned Mr Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the organ in question, “certainly.”

  “There is no good there, be assured,” said Mr Haredale. “Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us.”

  Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick ears yonder.

  Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was surprised.

  “You did quite right,” he said, at the end of a long conversation, “to bid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a subject very painful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.”

  This was equal to John's most sanguine expectations; but he would have preferred Mr Haredale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did.

  This, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs.

  “Stay,” said Mr Haredale. “Will this man drink?”

  “Drink! He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir, replied John Willet. “He'll have something when he gets home. He's better without it, now, sir.”

  “Nay. Half the distance is done,” said Hugh. “What a hard master you are! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!”

  As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor.

  “What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman's house, sir?” said John.

  “I'm drinking a toast,” Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale's face; “a toast to this house and its master. “ With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.

  John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man.

  They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what be had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past—the nearest brushed his shoulder even then—who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.

  Chapter 35

  When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to
address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king's highway at that late hour of night.

  The man whom be addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when be was checked by the horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice:

  “Pray, is this the London road?”

  “If you follow it right, it is,” replied Hugh roughly.

  “Nay, brother,” said the same person, “you're but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be—which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?”

  “I say it IS the London road, sir,” answered John. “And I wish,” he added in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, “that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back'ards and for'ards, till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind “em, and drown us ten miles off?”

  “How far is it to London ?” inquired the same speaker.

  “Why, from here, sir,” answered John, persuasively, “it's thirteen very easy mile.”

  The adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the remark, “Thirteen miles! That's a long distance!” which was followed by a short pause of indecision.

  “Pray,” said the gentleman, “are there any inns hereabouts?” At the word “inns,” John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.

  “There are no inns,” rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number; “but there's a Inn—one Inn —the Maypole Inn. That's a Inn indeed. You won't see the like of that Inn often.”

  “You keep it, perhaps?” said the horseman, smiling.

  “I do, sir,” replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.

  “And how far is the Maypole from here?”

  “About a mile'—John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed:

  “And have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can recommend—a bed that you are sure is well aired—a bed that has been slept in by some perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?”

  “We don't take in no tagrag and bobtail at our house, sir,” answered John. “And as to the bed itself—”

  “Say, as to three beds,” interposed the gentleman who had spoken before; “for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one.”

  “No, no, my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is of far too much importance to the nation in these portentous times, to be placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, a mighty cause, depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let ME sleep on a chair—the carpet—anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever. Let John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky—no one will repine for HIM. But forty thousand men of this our island in the wave (exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,” said the speaker, rising in his stirrups, “it is a glorious cause, and must not be forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause, and must not be deserted.”

  “It IS a holy cause,” exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with great solemnity. “Amen.”

  “John Grueby,” said the long-winded gentleman, in a tone of mild reproof, “his lordship said Amen.”

  “I heard my lord, sir,” said the man, sitting like a statue on his horse.

  “And do not YOU say Amen, likewise?”

  To which John Grueby made no reply at all, but sat looking straight before him.

  “You surprise me, Grueby,” said the gentleman. “At a crisis like the present, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden monarch, weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and shadow, stalks triumphant—”

  “Oh, sir,” cied the man, gruffly, “where's the use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord's wet through, and tired with hard riding? Let's either go on to London, sir, or put up at once; or that unfort'nate Bloody Mary will have more to answer for—and she's done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever did in her lifetime, I believe.”

  By this time Mr Willet, who had never beard so many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered so far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for all the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment for man and beast; private rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learnt to repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman who had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, “What say you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward? You shall decide.”

  “I would submit, my lord, then,” returned the person he appealed to, in a silky tone, “that your health and spirits—so important, under Providence , to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause'— here his lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard—'require refreshment and repose.”

  “Go on before, landlord, and show the way,” said Lord George Gordon; “we will follow at a footpace.”

  “If you'll give me leave, my lord,” said John Grueby, in a low voice, “I'll change my proper place, and ride before you. The looks of the landlord's friend are not over honest, and it may be as well to be cautious with him.”

  “John Grueby is quite right,” interposed Mr Gashford, falling back hastily. “My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out.”

  John made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed close behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle rein; and, last of all, his lordship's secretary—for that, it seemed, was Gashford's office.

  Hugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his bolster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the true English breed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh, regarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older than the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-andforty; but was one of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on coolly till they win.

  “If I led you wrong now,” said Hugh, tauntingly, “you'd—ha ha ha!— you'd shoot me through the head, I suppose.”

  John Grueby took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb; but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon.

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nbsp; “Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young, master?” said Hugh. “Can you make any play at single-stick?”

  John Grueby looked at him sideways with the same contented air, but deigned not a word in answer.

  “—Like this?” said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. “Whoop!”

  “—Or that,” returned John Grueby, beating down his guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt end. “Yes, I played a little once. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your crown if it had been a little shorter.”

  It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, and evidently astonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence; his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was so puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried “Well done!” then, sheering off a little, led the way in silence.

  Before the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the Maypole door. Lord George and his secretary quickly dismounting, gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed Mr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with such orders and preparations as his guest's high quality required.

  As he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he knew nothing but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the Maypole so much honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make, and sallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired, under his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which betrayed a restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression; neither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness; which infected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity for the man: though why it did so, they would have had some trouble to explain.