Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 15

  At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his breakfastin his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left theMaypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at aninfinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to thedisadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.

  In the broad old-fashioned window-seat--as capacious as many modernsofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee--in thebroad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged,very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He hadexchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots forslippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obligedto make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case andtiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means thediscomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state ofperfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.

  The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularlyfavourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazyinfluence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedativeof a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residencepeculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, whenit is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.

  There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day,for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet adrowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens;those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of theirfootsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passingfrom the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, 'Who enters here leavesnoise behind.' There is still the plash of falling water in fairFountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-hauntedstudents may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray ofsunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubledto reflect a passing stranger's form. There is yet, in the Temple,something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of lawhave not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. Insummer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, andmore sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace thespillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff thefreshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think ofbaths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.

  It was in a room in Paper Buildings--a row of goodly tenements, shadedin front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the TempleGardens--that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paperhe had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments ofhis meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurelyabout the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a fewearly loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of loversmet to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had bettereyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster,with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornfulsidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid,looked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't knowshe was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river's margin twoor three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnestconversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone.

  'Ned is amazingly patient!' said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-namedperson as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick,'immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and hasscarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!'

  As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace.

  'Really, as if he had heard me,' said the father, resuming his newspaperwith a yawn. 'Dear Ned!'

  Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom hisfather gently waved his hand, and smiled.

  'Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?' said Edward.

  'Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.--Haveyou breakfasted?'

  'Three hours ago.'

  'What a very early dog!' cried his father, contemplating him from behindthe toothpick, with a languid smile.

  'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seatinghimself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was gladto rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; andit is upon that I wish to speak.'

  'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide in me, I beg. But you knowmy constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.'

  'I will be plain, and brief,' said Edward.

  'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing hislegs, 'or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me'--

  'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern, 'thatI know where you were last night--from being on the spot, indeed--andwhom you saw, and what your purpose was.'

  'You don't say so!' cried his father. 'I am delighted to hear it. Itsaves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation,and is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn't you comeup? I should have been charmed to see you.'

  'I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night'sreflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son.

  ''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the father, 'I was cool enough last night.That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder,it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east windthat blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampantin that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm.But you were saying'--

  'I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that youhave made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?'

  'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will hear you with the patience of ananchorite. Oblige me with the milk.'

  'I saw Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had compliedwith this request; 'her uncle, in her presence, immediately after yourinterview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbademe the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of yourcreation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.'

  'For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am notaccountable,' said his father. 'That you must excuse. He is a mere boor,a log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a fly in the jug.The first I have seen this year.'

  Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped histea.

  'Father,' said the young man, stopping at length before him, 'we mustnot trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves.Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me bythis unkind indifference.'

  'Whether I am indifferent or no,' returned the other, 'I leave you, mydear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miryroads--a Maypole dinner--a tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanityapart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business--a Maypole bed--aMaypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots and centaurs;--whetherthe voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dearNed, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and all that sort ofthing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.'

  'I wish you to consider, sir,' said Edward, 'in what a cruel situation Iam placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do'--

  'My dear fellow,' interrupted his father with a compassionate smile,'you do nothing of the kind. You don't know anything about it. There'sno such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have goodsense, Ned,--great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of suchamazing absurdities. You really surprise me.'

  'I repeat,' said his son firmly, 'that I love her. You have interposedto part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of,succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably ofour attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold usasunder if you can?'

  'My dear
Ned,' returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushinghis box towards him, 'that is my purpose most undoubtedly.'

  'The time that has elapsed,' rejoined his son, 'since I began to knowher worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly oncepaused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my childhoodI have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred asthough my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without alimit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. Ihave been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselvesto riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath mycare. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fitfor nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with noresource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we donot, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctivelyalike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from themotives of interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyesvisible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus muchplain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine,indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, inthe hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and akinder confidence between us in time to come.'

  'My good fellow,' said his smiling father, 'you quite affect me. Goon, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is greatearnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but Ifear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.'

  'I am very sorry, sir.'

  'I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind forany long period upon one subject. If you'll come to the point at once,I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Obligeme with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.'

  'What I would say then, tends to this,' said Edward. 'I cannot bearthis absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost andopportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it.Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as Ipossess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myselfan honourable path in life? For any term you please to name--say forfive years if you will--I will pledge myself to move no further in thematter of our difference without your full concurrence. During thatperiod, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, toopen some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fearI should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chiefendowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term weagree upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it isrevived by you, let it never be renewed between us.'

  'My dear Ned,' returned his father, laying down the newspaper at whichhe had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in thewindow-seat, 'I believe you know how very much I dislike what are calledfamily affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, andhave no manner of business with people of our condition. But as youare proceeding upon a mistake, Ned--altogether upon a mistake--I willconquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you aperfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shutthe door.'

  Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from hispocket, and paring his nails, continued:

  'You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother,charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, asshe left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal--hadnothing to boast of in that respect.'

  'Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward.

  'Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a greatname and great wealth, but having risen from nothing--I havealways closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted itscontemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that hisbusiness did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to marry hisdaughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned. I was ayounger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object,and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles,and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to mycomfort--quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is amongthe things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how oldare you? I always forget.'

  'Seven-and-twenty, sir.'

  'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising his eyelids in a languishingsurprise. 'So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as Iremember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about eighteen ornineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in thesechambers (once your grandfather's, and bequeathed by that extremelyrespectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderableannuity and my past reputation.'

  'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.

  'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father withgreat composure. 'These family topics are so extremely dry, that I amsorry to say they don't admit of any such relief. It is for that reason,and because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them sovery much. Well! You know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enoughto be a companion--that is to say, unless he is some two or three andtwenty--is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraintupon his father, his father is a restraint upon him, and they make eachother mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last fouryears or so--I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you willcorrect me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a distance, andpicked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed aweek or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such nearrelations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy,that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported youto some distant part of the world.'

  'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said Edward.

  'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I assureyou. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threwyou into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dearfellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely uponyour doing something to provide for me in return.'

  'I do not understand your meaning, sir.'

  'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream-jug,but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, fortheir walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful anddisagreeable--my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you mustmarry well and make the most of yourself.'

  'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.

  'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father. 'Allmen are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court,the camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostlingeach other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, thecounting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,--what butfortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter! Yes. YouARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you werethe greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant, inexistence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself withthe reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make butone person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose theseother kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport--hundreds at astep? Or thousands?'

  The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.

  'I am quite charmed,' said the father rising, and walking slowly to andfro--stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or surveya picture through his glass, with the air of a connoisseur, 'that wehave had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishesa confidence between us which is quite delightful, and was certainlynecessary, though how you can ever have mistaken our positions anddesigns, I confess I cannot understand. I conceived, until I found yourfancy for this girl, that all these points were tacitly agreed uponbetween us.'

  'I knew you were embarr
assed, sir,' returned the son, raising his headfor a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, 'but I had noidea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How could I suppose it,bred as I have been; witnessing the life you have always led; and theappearance you have always made?'

  'My dear child,' said the father--'for you really talk so like a childthat I must call you one--you were bred upon a careful principle;the very manner of your education, I assure you, maintained my creditsurprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must lead it, Ned. I must havethese little refinements about me. I have always been used to them, andI cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you observe, andtherefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned, youmay set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your ownappearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alonedevours our income. That's the truth.'

  'Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me, sir, toan expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right or title?'

  'My good fellow,' returned his father more compassionately than ever,'if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in thepursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every manhas a right to live in the best way he can; and to make himself ascomfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, Igrant, are very great, and therefore it the more behoves you, as a youngman of principle and honour, to pay them off as speedily as possible.'

  'The villain's part,' muttered Edward, 'that I have unconsciouslyplayed! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I would, for her sake, Ihad died first!'

  'I am glad you see, Ned,' returned his father, 'how perfectlyself-evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apartfrom this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself onanother (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish you'dlook upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone, howcould you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she wasamazingly rich? You ought to be so very Protestant, coming of such aProtestant family as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing.Even if one could set that objection aside, which is impossible, we cometo another which is quite conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girlwhose father was killed, like meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable!Consider the impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-lawunder such unpleasant circumstances--think of his having been "viewed"by jurors, and "sat upon" by coroners, and of his very doubtful positionin the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an indelicate sortof thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put to death bythe state to prevent its happening. But I tease you perhaps. You wouldrather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly. God bless you. I shallbe going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night,certainly to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the mean time, for bothour sakes. You are a person of great consequence to me, Ned--of vastconsequence indeed. God bless you!'

  With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat inthe glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner,withdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lostin thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite still andsilent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder Chester, gailydressed, went out. The younger still sat with his head resting on hishands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.