Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 52

  “Johnny, Johnny,” said Solomon—and the simple-hearted fellow cried outright, and wrung his hands—'Oh dear old Johnny, here's a change! That the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to see it! The old Warren too, Johnny—Mr Haredale—oh, Johnny, what a piteous sight this is!”

  Pointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy put his elbows on the back of Mr Willet's chair, and fairly blubbered on his shoulder.

  While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was silent again, John followed,with his great round eyes, the direction of his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that somebody had come to see him.

  “You know us, don't you, Johnny?” said the little clerk, rapping himself on the breast. “Daisy, you know—Chigwell Church—bellringer—little desk on Sundays—eh, Johnny?”

  Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were mechanically: “Let us sing to the praise and glory of—”

  “Yes, to be sure,” cried the little man, hastily; “that's it— that's me, Johnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.”

  “All right?” pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely between himself and his conscience. “All right? Ah!”

  “They haven't been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other blunt instruments—have they, Johnny?” asked Solomon, with a very anxious glance at Mr Willet's head. “They didn't beat you, did they?”

  John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round, leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of each eye, and he said, as he shook his head:

  “If they'd only had the goodness to murder me, I'd have thanked “em kindly.”

  “No, no, no, don't say that, Johnny,” whimpered his little friend. “It's very, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!”

  “Look'ee here, sir!” cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale, who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie his bonds. “Look'ee here, sir! The very Maypole—the old dumb Maypole—stares in at the winder, as if it said, “John Willet, John Willet, let's go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is deep enough to hold us; for our day is over!"”

  “Don't, Johnny, don't,” cried his friend: no less affected with this mournful effort of Mr Willet's imagination, than by the sepulchral tone in which he had spoken of the Maypole. “Please don't, Johnny!”

  “Your loss is great, and your misfortune a heavy one,” said Mr Haredale, looking restlessly towards the door: “and this is not a time to comfort you. If it were, I am in no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tell me one thing, and try to tell me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen, or heard of Emma?”

  “No!” said Mr Willet.

  “Nor any one but these bloodhounds?”

  “No!”

  “They rode away, I trust in Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,” said Mr Haredale, who, between his agitation, his eagerness to mount his horse again, and the dexterity with which the cords were tied, had scarcely yet undone one knot. “A knife, Daisy!”

  “You didn't,” said John, looking about, as though he had lost his pocket-handkerchief, or some such slight article—'either of you gentlemen—see a—a coffin anywheres, did you?”

  “Willet!” cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the knife, and instantly becoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed “Good gracious!”

  “—Because,” said John, not at all regarding them, “a dead man called a little time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name was on the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind. If he didn't, it don't signify.”

  His landlord, who had listened to these words with breathless attention, started that moment to his feet; and, without a word, drew Solomon Daisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind again, and flew rather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that day's sun had shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them, listened, looked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still unbound, and, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, or surprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had so imperfectly recovered.

  Mr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping his companion's arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what had been the garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon its smoking walls, and at the stars that shone through roof and floor upon the heap of crumbling ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, but his lips were tightly pressed together, a resolute and stern expression sat upon his brow, and not a tear, a look, or gesture indicating grief, escaped him.

  He drew his sword; felt for a moment in his breast, as though he carried other arms about him; then grasping Solomon by the wrist again, went with a cautious step all round the house. He looked into every doorway and gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every rustling of the air among the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with outstretched hands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they returned to the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any human being, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler.

  After a short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then cried aloud, “Is there any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There is nothing to fear now. If any of my people are near, I entreat them to answer!” He called them all by name; his voice was echoed in many mournful tones; then all was silent as before.

  They were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarmbell hung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn, and beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of the staircase still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust and cinders. Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecure and giddy footing here and there, and then were lost again, behind protruding angles of the wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it by other portions of the ruin; for by this time the moon had risen, and shone brightly.

  As they stood here, listening to the echoes as they died away, and hoping in vain to hear a voice they knew, some of the ashes in this turret slipped and rolled down. Startled by the least noise in that melancholy place, Solomon looked up in his companion's face, and saw that he had turned towards the spot, and that he watched and listened keenly.

  He covered the little man's mouth with his hand, and looked again. Instantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep still, and neither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down, he stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, and disappeared.

  Terrified to be left there by himself, under such desolate circumstances, and after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomon would have followed, but there had been something in Mr Haredale's manner and his look, the recollection of which held him spellbound. He stood rooted to the spot; and scarcely venturing to breathe, looked up with mingled fear and wonder.

  Again the ashes slipped and rolled—very, very softly—again—and then again, as though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot. And now a figure was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and often stopping to look down; now it pursued its difficult way; and now it was hidden from the view again.

  It emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light—higher now, but not much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress very slow. What phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look down so constantly? He knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected by that night's loss and agony. He was not about to throw himself headlong from the summit of the tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and clasped hi
s hands. His limbs trembled beneath him, and a cold sweat broke out upon his pallid face.

  If he complied with Mr Haredale's last injunction now, it was because he had not the power to speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed it on a patch of moonlight, into which, if he continued to ascend, he must soon emerge. When he appeared there, he would try to call to him.

  Again the ashes slipped and crumbled; some stones rolled down, and fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below. He kept his eyes upon the piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for its shadow was already thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared—and now looked round at him—and now—

  The horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that pierced the air, and cried, “The ghost! The ghost!”

  Long before the echo of his cry had died away, another form rushed out into the light, flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its breast, and clutched its throat with both hands.

  “Villain!” cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice—for it was he. “Dead and buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but reserved by Heaven for this—at last—at last I have you. You, whose hands are red with my brother's blood, and that of his faithful servant, shed to conceal your own atrocious guilt—You, Rudge, double murderer and monster, I arrest you in the name of God, who has delivered you into my hands. No. Though you had the strength of twenty men,” he added, as the murderer writhed and struggled, you could not escape me or loosen my grasp to-night!”

  Chapter 57

  Barnaby, armed as we have seen, continued to pace up and down before the stable-door; glad to be alone again, and heartily rejoicing in the unaccustomed silence and tranquillity. After the whirl of noise and riot in which the last two days had been passed, the pleasures of solitude and peace were enhanced a thousandfold. He felt quite happy; and as he leaned upon his staff and mused, a bright smile overspread his face, and none but cheerful visions floated into his brain.

  Had he no thoughts of her, whose sole delight he was, and whom he had unconsciously plunged in such bitter sorrow and such deep affliction? Oh, yes. She was at the heart of all his cheerful hopes and proud reflections. It was she whom all this honour and distinction were to gladden; the joy and profit were for her. What delight it gave her to hear of the bravery of her poor boy! Ah! He would have known that, without Hugh's telling him. And what a precious thing it was to know she lived so happily, and heard with so much pride (he pictured to himself her look when they told her) that he was in such high esteem: bold among the boldest, and trusted before them all! And when these frays were over, and the good lord had conquered his enemies, and they were all at peace again, and he and she were rich, what happiness they would have in talking of these troubled times when he was a great soldier: and when they sat alone together in the tranquil twilight, and she had no longer reason to be anxious for the morrow, what pleasure would he have in the reflection that this was his doing—his—poor foolish Barnaby's; and in patting her on the cheek, and saying with a merry laugh, “Am I silly now, mother—am I silly now?”

  With a lighter heart and step, and eyes the brighter for the happy tear that dimmed them for a moment, Barnaby resumed his walk; and singing gaily to himself, kept guard upon his quiet post.

  His comrade Grip, the partner of his watch, though fond of basking in the sunshine, preferred to-day to walk about the stable; having a great deal to do in the way of scattering the straw, hiding under it such small articles as had been casually left about, and haunting Hugh's bed, to which he seemed to have taken a particular attachment. Sometimes Barnaby looked in and called him, and then he came hopping out; but he merely did this as a concession to his master's weakness, and soon returned again to his own grave pursuits: peering into the straw with his bill, and rapidly covering up the place, as if, Midas-like, he were whispering secrets to the earth and burying them; constantly busying himself upon the sly; and affecting, whenever Barnaby came past, to look up in the clouds and have nothing whatever on his mind: in short, conducting himself, in many respects, in a more than usually thoughtful, deep, and mysterious manner.

  As the day crept on, Barnaby, who had no directions forbidding him to eat and drink upon his post, but had been, on the contrary, supplied with a bottle of beer and a basket of provisions, determined to break his fast, which he had not done since morning. To this end, he sat down on the ground before the door, and putting his staff across his knees in case of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner.

  This call, the bird obeyed with great alacrity; crying, as he sidled up to his master, “I'm a devil, I'm a Polly, I'm a kettle, I'm a Protestant, No Popery!” Having learnt this latter sentiment from the gentry among whom he had lived of late, he delivered it with uncommon emphasis.

  “Well said, Grip!” cried his master, as he fed him with the daintiest bits. “Well said, old boy!”

  “Never say die, bow wow wow, keep up your spirits, Grip Grip Grip, Holloa! We'll all have tea, I'm a Protestant kettle, No Popery!” cried the raven.

  “Gordon for ever, Grip!” cried Barnaby.

  The raven, placing his head upon the ground, looked at his master sideways, as though he would have said, “Say that again!” Perfectly understanding his desire, Barnaby repeated the phrase a great many times. The bird listened with profound attention; sometimes repeating the popular cry in a low voice, as if to compare the two, and try if it would at all help him to this new accomplishment; sometimes flapping his wings, or barking; and sometimes in a kind of desperation drawing a multitude of corks, with extraordinary viciousness.

  Barnaby was so intent upon his favourite, that he was not at first aware of the approach of two persons on horseback, who were riding at a foot-pace, and coming straight towards his post. When he perceived them, however, which he did when they were within some fifty yards of him, he jumped hastily up, and ordering Grip within doors, stood with both hands on his staff, waiting until he should know whether they were friends or foes.

  He had hardly done so, when he observed that those who advanced were a gentleman and his servant; almost at the same moment he recognised Lord George Gordon, before whom he stood uncovered, with his eyes turned towards the ground.

  “Good day!” said Lord George, not reining in his horse until he was close beside him. “Well!”

  “All quiet, sir, all safe!” cried Barnaby. “The rest are away— they went by that path—that one. A grand party!”

  “Ay?” said Lord George, looking thoughtfully at him. “And you?”

  “Oh! They left me here to watch—to mount guard—to keep everything secure till they come back. I'll do it, sir, for your sake. You're a good gentleman; a kind gentleman—ay, you are. There are many against you, but we'll be a match for them, never fear!”

  “What's that?” said Lord George—pointing to the raven who was peeping out of the stable-door—but still looking thoughtfully, and in some perplexity, it seemed, at Barnaby.

  “Why, don't you know!” retorted Barnaby, with a wondering laugh. “Not know what HE is! A bird, to be sure. My bird—my friend— Grip.”

  “A devil, a kettle, a Grip, a Polly, a Protestant, no Popery!” cried the raven.

  “Though, indeed,” added Barnaby, laying his hand upon the neck of Lord George's horse, and speaking softly: “you had good reason to ask me what he is, for sometimes it puzzles me—and I am used to him—to think he's only a bird. He's my brother, Grip is—always with me—always talking—always merry—eh, Grip?”

  The raven answered by an affectionate croak, and hopping on his master's arm, which he held downward for that purpose, submitted with an air of perfect indifference to be fondled, and turned his restless, curious eye, now upon Lord George, and now upon his man.

  Lord George, biting his nails in a discomfited manner, regarded Barnaby for some time in silence; then beckoning to his servant, said:

  “Come hither, John.”

  John Grueby touched his hat, and came.

  “Have you ever seen this young m
an before?” his master asked in a low voice.

  “Twice, my lord,” said John. “I saw him in the crowd last night and Saturday.”

  “Did—did it seem to you that his manner was at all wild or strange?” Lord George demanded, faltering.

  “Mad,” said John, with emphatic brevity.

  “And why do you think him mad, sir?” said his master, speaking in a peevish tone. “Don't use that word too freely. Why do you think him mad?”

  “My lord,” John Grueby answered, “look at his dress, look at his eyes, look at his restless way, hear him cry “No Popery!” Mad, my lord.”

  “So because one man dresses unlike another,” returned his angry master, glancing at himself; “and happens to differ from other men in his carriage and manner, and to advocate a great cause which the corrupt and irreligious desert, he is to be accounted mad, is he?”

  “Stark, staring, raving, roaring mad, my lord,” returned the unmoved John.

  “Do you say this to my face?” cried his master, turning sharply upon him.

  “To any man, my lord, who asks me,” answered John.

  “Mr Gashford, I find, was right,” said Lord George; “I thought him prejudiced, though I ought to have known a man like him better than to have supposed it possible!”

  “I shall never have Mr Gashford's good word, my lord,” replied John, touching his hat respectfully, “and I don't covet it.”

  “You are an ill-conditioned, most ungrateful fellow,” said Lord George: “a spy, for anything I know. Mr Gashford is perfectly correct, as I might have felt convinced he was. I have done wrong to retain you in my service. It is a tacit insult to him as my choice and confidential friend to do so, remembering the cause you sided with, on the day he was maligned at Westminster. You will leave me to-night—nay, as soon as we reach home. The sooner the better.”

  “If it comes to that, I say so too, my lord. Let Mr Gashford have his will. As to my being a spy, my lord, you know me better than to believe it, I am sure. I don't know much about causes. My cause is the cause of one man against two hundred; and I hope it always will be.”