Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  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 wh
om 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 bo
ard 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.