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

  “Have you no guide?” asked the widow, after a moment's pause.

  “None but that,” he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun; “and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.”

  “Have you travelled far?”

  “A weary way and long,” rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. “A weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your well—be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.”

  “Why do you call me lady?” she returned. “I am as poor as you.”

  “Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,” replied the man. “The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are—apart from the sense of touch—alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.”

  “Come round this way,” said Barnaby, who had passed out at the garden-gate and now stood close beside him. “Put your hand in mine. You're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?”

  “Alas!” returned the other, “I see nothing. Waking or sleeping, nothing.”

  Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his fingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.

  “You have come a long distance, “said the widow, meeting him at the door. “How have you found your way so far?”

  “Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard—the best of any,” said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the redtiled floor. “May neither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.”

  “You have wandered from the road, too,” said the widow, in a tone of pity.

  “Maybe, maybe,” returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with something of a smile upon his face, “that's likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for this rest, and this refreshing drink!”

  As he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, and cold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirst was not very great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again.

  He wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip or wallet, in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheese before him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness of the charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was not hungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened his wallet, and took out a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.

  “Might I make bold to ask,” he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood looking on, “that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out for me in bread to keep me on my way? Heaven's blessing on the young feet that will bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless man!”

  Barnaby looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment he was gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an attentive face, until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps was inaudible to the widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a very altered tone:

  “There are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the connubial blindness, ma'am, which perhaps you may have observed in the course of your own experience, and which is a kind of wilful and self-bandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma'am, and public men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of a regiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence of youth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes have not yet opened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma'am, of which I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example. Added to these, ma'am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we have a specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimes glimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a total darkness. Therefore, ma'am, I have taken the liberty to get him out of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together, and this precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towards yourself, you will excuse me, ma'am, I know.”

  Having delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of manner, he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish.

  “I am a citizen of the world, ma'am,” said the blind man, corking his bottle, “and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion, without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul as depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma'am; immediately. “ With that he slapped his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to proceeding any further.

  The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition—for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in its place almost divine—and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom he addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor resumed:

  “Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's name in your ear. —Zounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend's name in your ear?”

  “You need not repeat it,” said the widow, with a stifled groan; “I see too well from whom you come.”

  “But as a man of honour, ma'am,” said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, “whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I WILL mention that gentleman's name. Ay, ay,” he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, “but not aloud. With your leave, ma'am, I desire the favour of a whisper.”

  She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence.

  “You are slow in conversation, widow,” he said after a time, pausing in his draught. “We shall have to talk before your son.”

  “What would you have me do?” she answered. “What do you want?”

  “We are poor, widow, we are poor,” he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.

  “Poor!” she cried. “And what am I?”

  “Comparisons are odious,” said the blind man. “I don't know, I don't care. I say that we are poor. My friend's circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?”

  She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before him, she said:

  “Is he near here?”

  “He is. Close at hand.”

  “Then I am lost!”

  “Not lost, widow,” said the blind man, calmly; “only found. Shall I call him?”

  “Not for the world,” she answered, with a shudder.

  “Very good,” he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. “As you please, widow. His presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:—I say no more.”

  “Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?” she retorted. “I do not think you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this po
or place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.”

  The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:

  “—Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question. I have the softest heart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands. —If you are very poor now, it's your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I said just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of his entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; he has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you; he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are in the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.”

  She was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.

  “The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and then for my friend; and that's what I advise. He bears you no malice that I know of, ma'am: so little, that although you have treated him harshly more than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would consent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.”

  He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find out what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.

  “He is a likely lad,” said the blind man, thoughtfully, “for many purposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change and bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you to-night. —Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty pounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It's a pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, and it's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a moderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it you. —Twenty pounds!”

  She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.

  “Don't say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a little while. Twenty pounds—of other people's money—how easy! Turn it over in your mind. I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on, and if I don't sleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma'am, for twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that's a fair allowance. I'll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in these parts.”

  With these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with him. Then seating himself, under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching his legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out without his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel and tinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening, of that gentle kind, and at that time of year, when the twilight is most beautiful. Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off, and to sniff the grateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease—as though the cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputed possession of it all his life—waiting for the widow's answer and for Barnaby's return.

  Chapter 46

  When Barnaby returned with the bread, the sight of the pious old pilgrim smoking his pipe and making himself so thoroughly at home, appeared to surprise even him; the more so, as that worthy person, instead of putting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious article, tossed it carelessly on the table, and producing his bottle, bade him sit down and drink.

  “For I carry some comfort, you see,” he said. “Taste that. Is it good?”

  The water stood in Barnaby's eyes as he coughed from the strength of the draught, and answered in the affirmative.

  “Drink some more,” said the blind man; “don't be afraid of it. You don't taste anything like that, often, eh?”

  “Often!” cried Barnaby. “Never!”

  “Too poor?” returned the blind man with a sigh. “Ay. That's bad. Your mother, poor soul, would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby.”

  “Why, so I tell her—the very thing I told her just before you came to-night, when all that gold was in the sky,” said Barnaby, drawing his chair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. “Tell me. Is there any way of being rich, that I could find out?”

  “Any way! A hundred ways.”

  “Ay, ay?” he returned. “Do you say so? What are they?—Nay, mother, it's for your sake I ask; not mine;—for yours, indeed. What are they?”

  The blind man turned his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to where the widow stood in great distress; and answered,

  “Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend.”

  “By stay-at-homes!” cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve. “But I am not one. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the sun, and travel home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day has reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon is peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that lives in the water. As I walk along, I try to find, among the grass and moss, some of that small money for which she works so hard and used to shed so many tears. As I lie asleep in the shade, I dream of it—dream of digging it up in heaps; and spying it out, hidden under bushes; and seeing it sparkle, as the dew-drops do, among the leaves. But I never find it. Tell me where it is. I'd go there, if the journey were a whole year long, because I know she would be happier when I came home and brought some with me. Speak again. I'll listen to you if you talk all night.”

  The blind man passed his hand lightly over the poor fellow's face, and finding that his elbows were planted on the table, that his chin rested on his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and that his whole manner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a minute as though he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made answer:

  “It's in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world; not in solitary places like those you pass your time in, but in crowds, and where there's noise and rattle.”

  “Good! good!” cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. “Yes! I love that. Grip loves it too. It suits us both. That's brave!”

  “—The kind of places,” said the blind man, “that a young fellow likes, and in which a good son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot, in a month, than he could here in all his life— that is, if he had a friend, you know, and some one to advise with.”

  “You hear this, mother?” cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight. “Never tell me we shouldn't heed it, if it lay shining at out feet. Why do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?”

  “Surely,” said the blind man, “surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is your mind,” he slowly added, “not made up yet?”

  “Let me speak with you,” she answered, “apart.”

  “Lay your hand upon my sleeve,” said Stagg, arising from the table; “and lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We'll talk more of this: I've a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.”

  She led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they stopped.

  “You are a fit agent,” she said, in a half breathless manner, “and well represent the man who sent you here.”

  “I'll tell him that you said so,” Stagg retorted. “He has a regard for you, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your praise. We must have our rights, widow.”

  “Rights! Do you know,” she said, “that a word from me—”

  “Why do you stop?” returned the blind man calmly, after a long pause. “Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in the
last position of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never be spoken, widow.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Quite—so sure, that I don't come here to discuss the question. I say we must have our rights, or we must be bought off. Keep to that point, or let me return to my young friend, for I have an interest in the lad, and desire to put him in the way of making his fortune. Bah! you needn't speak,” he added hastily; “I know what you would say: you have hinted at it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I am blind? No, I have not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be better than men who have their sight—why should you? Is the hand of Heaven more manifest in my having no eyes, than in your having two? It's the cant of you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals; oh yes, it's far worse in him, who can barely live on the few halfpence that are thrown to him in streets, than in you, who can see, and work, and are not dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you! You who have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four, and want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and justice of rich to poor, all the world over!”

  He paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught the sound of money, jingling in her hand.

  “Well?” he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. “That should lead to something. The point, widow?”

  “First answer me one question,” she replied. “You say he is close at hand. Has he left London?”

  “Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has,” returned the blind man.

  “I mean, for good? You know that.”

  “Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that reason.”

  “Listen,” said the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside them. “Count.”