“Why, father!” cried Joe, entering at the moment, “you're in spirits to-day!”
“It's nothing partickler,” said Mr Willet, chuckling again. “It's nothing at all partickler, Joseph. Tell me something about the Salwanners. “ Having preferred this request, Mr Willet chuckled a third time, and after these unusual demonstrations of levity, he put his pipe in his mouth again.
“What shall I tell you, father?” asked Joe, laying his hand upon his sire's shoulder, and looking down into his face. “That I have come back, poorer than a church mouse? You know that. That I have come back, maimed and crippled? You know that.”
“It was took off,” muttered Mr Willet,with his eyes upon the fire, “at the defence of the Salwanners, in America, where the war is.”
“Quite right,” returned Joe, smiling, and leaning with his remaining elbow on the back of his father's chair; “the very subject I came to speak to you about. A man with one arm, father, is not of much use in the busy world.”
This was one of those vast propositions which Mr Willet had never considered for an instant, and required time to “tackle. “ Wherefore he made no answer.
“At all events,” said Joe, “he can't pick and choose his means of earning a livelihood, as another man may. He can't say “I will turn my hand to this,” or “I won't turn my hand to that,” but must take what he can do, and be thankful it's no worse. —What did you say?”
Mr Willet had been softly repeating to himself, in a musing tone, the words “defence of the Salwanners:” but he seemed embarrassed at having been overheard, and answered “Nothing.”
“Now look here, father. —Mr Edward has come to England from the West Indies. When he was lost sight of (I ran away on the same day, father), he made a voyage to one of the islands, where a school-friend of his had settled; and, finding him, wasn't too proud to be employed on his estate, and—and in short, got on well, and is prospering, and has come over here on business of his own, and is going back again speedily. Our returning nearly at the same time, and meeting in the course of the late troubles, has been a good thing every way; for it has not only enabled us to do old friends some service, but has opened a path in life for me which I may tread without being a burden upon you. To be plain, father, he can employ me; I have satisfied myself that I can be of real use to him; and I am going to carry my one arm away with him, and to make the most of it.
In the mind's eye of Mr Willet, the West Indies, and indeed all foreign countries, were inhabited by savage nations, who were perpetually burying pipes of peace, flourishing tomahawks, and puncturing strange patterns in their bodies. He no sooner heard this announcement, therefore, than he leaned back in his chair, took his pipe from his lips, and stared at his son with as much dismay as if he already beheld him tied to a stake, and tortured for the entertainment of a lively population. In what form of expression his feelings would have found a vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for, before a syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in tears, threw herself on Joe's breast without a word of explanation, and clasped her white arms round his neck.
“Dolly!” cried Joe. “Dolly!”
“Ay, call me that; call me that always,” exclaimed the locksmith's little daughter; “never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die, Joe.”
“I reprove you!” said Joe.
“Yes—for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For you, who have borne so much from me—for you, who owe your sufferings and pain to my caprice—for you to be so kind—so noble to me, Joe—”
He could say nothing to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of eloquence in his one arm, which had crept round her waist: but his lips were mute.
“If you had reminded me by a word—only by one short word,” sobbed Dolly, clinging yet closer to him, “how little I deserved that you should treat me with so much forbearance; if you had exulted only for one moment in your triumph, I could have borne it better.”
“Triumph!” repeated Joe, with a smile which seemed to say, “I am a pretty figure for that.”
“Yes, triumph,” she cried, with her whole heart and soul in her earnest voice, and gushing tears; “for it is one. I am glad to think and know it is. I wouldn't be less humbled, dear—I wouldn't be without the recollection of that last time we spoke together in this place—no, not if I could recall the past, and make our parting, yesterday.”
Did ever lover look as Joe looked now!
“Dear Joe,” said Dolly, “I always loved you—in my own heart I always did, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped you would come back that night. I made quite sure you would. I prayed for it on my knees. Through all these long, long years, I have never once forgotten you, or left off hoping that this happy time might come.”
The eloquence of Joe's arm surpassed the most impassioned language; and so did that of his lips—yet he said nothing, either.
“And now, at last,” cried Dolly, trembling with the fervour of her speech, “if you were sick, and shattered in your every limb; if you were ailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you were in everybody's eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man; I would be your wife, dear love, with greater pride and joy, than if you were the stateliest lord in England!”
“What have I done,” cried Joe, “what have I done to meet with this reward?”
“You have taught me,” said Dolly, raising her pretty face to his, “to know myself, and your worth; to be something better than I was; to be more deserving of your true and manly nature. In years to come, dear Joe, you shall find that you have done so; for I will be, not only now, when we are young and full of hope, but when we have grown old and weary, your patient, gentle, never-tiring wife. I will never know a wish or care beyond our home and you, and I will always study how to please you with my best affection and my most devoted love. I will: indeed I will!”
Joe could only repeat his former eloquence—but it was very much to the purpose.
“They know of this, at home,” said Dolly. “For your sake, I would leave even them; but they know it, and are glad of it, and are as proud of you as I am, and as full of gratitude. —You'll not come and see me as a poor friend who knew me when I was a girl, will you, dear Joe?”
Well, well! It don't matter what Joe said in answer, but he said a great deal; and Dolly said a great deal too: and he folded Dolly in his one arm pretty tight, considering that it was but one; and Dolly made no resistance: and if ever two people were happy in this world—which is not an utterly miserable one, with all its faults— we may, with some appearance of certainty, conclude that they were.
To say that during these proceedings Mr Willet the elder underwent the greatest emotions of astonishment of which our common nature is susceptible—to say that he was in a perfect paralysis of surprise, and that he wandered into the most stupendous and theretofore unattainable heights of complicated amazement—would be to shadow forth his state of mind in the feeblest and lamest terms. If a roc, an eagle, a griffin, a flying elephant, a winged sea-horse, had suddenly appeared, and, taking him on its back, carried him bodily into the heart of the “Salwanners,” it would have been to him as an everyday occurrence, in comparison with what he now beheld. To be sitting quietly by, seeing and hearing these things; to be completely overlooked, unnoticed, and disregarded, while his son and a young lady were talking to each other in the most impassioned manner, kissing each other, and making themselves in all respects perfectly at home; was a position so tremendous, so inexplicable, so utterly beyond the widest range of his capacity of comprehension, that he fell into a lethargy of wonder, and could no more rouse himself than an enchanted sleeper in the first year of his fairy lease, a century long.
“Father,” said Joe, presenting Dolly. “You know who this is?”
Mr Willet looked first at her, then at his son, then back again at Dolly, and then made an ineffectual effort to
extract a whiff from his pipe, which had gone out long ago.
“Say a word, father, if it's only “how d'ye do,"” urged Joe.
“Certainly, Joseph,” answered Mr Willet. “Oh yes! Why not?”
“To be sure,” said Joe. “Why not?”
“Ah!” replied his father. “Why not?” and with this remark, which he uttered in a low voice as though he were discussing some grave question with himself, he used the little finger—if any of his fingers can be said to have come under that denomination—of his right hand as a tobacco-stopper, and was silent again.
And so he sat for half an hour at least, although Dolly, in the most endearing of manners, hoped, a dozen times, that he was not angry with her. So he sat for half an hour, quite motionless, and looking all the while like nothing so much as a great Dutch Pin or Skittle. At the expiration of that period, he suddenly, and without the least notice, burst (to the great consternation of the young people) into a very loud and very short laugh; and repeating, “Certainly, Joseph. Oh yes! Why not?” went out for a walk.
Chapter 79
Old John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Key and the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets—as everybody knows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell and Whitechapel—and he was by no means famous for pedestrian exercises. But the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to the Golden Key this chapter goes.
The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith's trade, had been pulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled under foot. But, now, it was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat of paint, and shewed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole house-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if there yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in the attack upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling, so revived, must have been to them as gall and wormwood.
The shutters of the shop were closed, however, and the windowblinds above were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerful appearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of mourning; which the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go in and out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open; but the locksmith's hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy forge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.
On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The younger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.
Entering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs, abrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into the best room; the pride of Mrs Varden's heart, and erst the scene of Miggs's household labours.
“Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?” said Mr Haredale.
“She is above-stairs now—in the room over here,” Edward rejoined. “Her grief, they say, is past all telling. I needn't add—for that you know beforehand, sir—that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good people have no bounds.”
“I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden is out?”
“He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of his coming home himself. He was out the whole night—but that of course you know. He was with you the greater part of it?”
“He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an older man than I; but nothing can conquer him.”
“The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.”
“He has a right to be. He has a right to he. A better creature never lived. He reaps what he has sown—no more.”
“It is not all men,” said Edward, after a moment's hesitation, “who have the happiness to do that.”
“More than you imagine,” returned Mr Haredale. “We note the harvest more than the seed-time. You do so in me.”
In truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far influenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to answer him.
“Tut, tut,” said Mr Haredale, “'twas not very difficult to read a thought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my share of sorrows—more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have borne them ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all God's great creation. The men who learn endurance, are they who call the whole world, brother. I have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.”
Edward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time.
“It is too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had to live my life once more, I might amend this fault—not so much, I discover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my own sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively recoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in this circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be the same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its experience to guide me.”
“Nay, you make too sure of that,” said Edward.
“You think so,” Mr Haredale answered, “and I am glad you do. I know myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this subject for another—not so far removed from it as it might, at first sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still attached to you.”
“I have that assurance from her own lips,” said Edward, “and you know—I am sure you know—that I would not exchange it for any blessing life could yield me.”
“You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,” said Mr Haredale; “you have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my oncejaundiced mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.”
He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. “On that first and only time,” he said, looking from the one to the other, “when we three stood together under her father's roof, I told you to quit it, and charged you never to return.”
“It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,” observed Edward, “that I have forgotten.”
“You own a name,” said Mr Haredale, “I had deep reason to remember. I was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever, lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having acted—however much I was mistaken—with any other impulse than the one pure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature lay, the father she had lost.”
“Dear uncle,” cried Emma, “I have known no parent but you. I have loved the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of one harsh hour, since I can first remember.”
“You speak too fondly,” he answered, “and yet I cannot wish you were less partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall have in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else could give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and I have been together many years; and although I believe that in resigning her to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs an effort.”
He pressed her tenderly to his bosom, and after a minute's pause, resumed:
“I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask your forgiveness—in no common phrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In the same spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been when I connived at treachery and falsehood—which if I did not perpetrate myself, I still permitted—to rend you two asunder.”
“You judge yourself too harshly,” said Edward. “Let these things rest.”
“They rise in judgment against me when I look back, and not now for the first time,” he answered. “I cannot part from you without your full forgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common n
ow, and I have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to the stock.”
“You bear a blessing from us both,” said Emma. “Never mingle thoughts of me—of me who owe you so much love and duty—with anything but undying affection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.”
“The future,” returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, “is a bright word for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mine is of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from care or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are cloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set at rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am growing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it again— not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful counsel, Emma.”
“And you will take it?” asked his niece.
“I'll listen to it,” he answered, with a kiss, “and it will have its weight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, been much together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstances attendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed between you suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.”
“Much, much better,” whispered Emma.
“I avow my share in them,” said Mr Haredale, “though I held it, at the time, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from the broad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified by the goodness of his end. All good ends can he worked out by good means. Those that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at once, and left alone.”
He looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler tone:
“In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful steward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother left her, I desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcely worth the mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you go abroad. Let our ill-fated house remain the ruin it is. When you return, after a few thriving years, you will command a better, and a more fortunate one. We are friends?”
Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 148
