Chapter 25
Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the world;him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by anungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to liesmilingly asleep--for even sleep, working but little change in hisdissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventionalhypocrisy--we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, makingtowards Chigwell.
Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course.
The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiledwearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse,fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering farbehind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path and leaving herto pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again and came uponher with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious natureprompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some hightree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, comeflying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprisingswiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sportupon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were hisdelights; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or lookedinto his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by onesad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering inthe same degree as it was to him of pleasure.
It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild andin the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It issomething to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in sucha creature's breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightlymen may crush that faculty in their fellows, the Great Creator ofmankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would notrather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining ina darkened jail!
Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of InfiniteBenevolence with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book, wideopen to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not inblack and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its music--savewhen ye drown it--is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerfulsounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find onedismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasurewhich every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kindwho have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from thewitless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all themirth and happiness it brings.
The widow's breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dreadand sorrow; but her boy's gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiledthe long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, andwould keep beside her steadily for a short distance; but it was more hisnature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him freeand happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him betterthan herself.
She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly afterthe event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twentyyears had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village.How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight!
Two-and-twenty years. Her boy's whole life and history. The last timeshe looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in herarms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him nightand day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came; how had shefeared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itselfupon her! The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the littletokens he had given in his childish way--not of dulness but of somethinginfinitely worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning--came backas vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which theyused to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-likein face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacanteye, and crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; everycircumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial,perhaps, the most distinctly.
His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror ofcertain senseless things--familiar objects he endowed with life; theslow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before hisbirth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she hadfound some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and hadgone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until hegrew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting; one afteranother, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after theirlong slumber and bitterer than ever.
She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It wasthe same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and woreanother air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought ofthat, and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was.
The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flockinground him--as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothersround some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her;they passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; andstriking into the fields, were soon alone again.
The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in thegarden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, andbade them enter that way.
'At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,' he said tothe widow. 'I am glad you have.'
'For the first time, and the last, sir,' she replied.
'The first for many years, but not the last?'
'The very last.'
'You mean,' said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, 'thathaving made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and aredetermined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you,you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, Iknow. As to Barnaby, it's quite his home.'
'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven hoppedgravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to MrHaredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshmentwould be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea!'
'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to walkwith him towards the house. 'Your life has been an example of patienceand fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given megreat pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in thecalamity which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father,without being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associateus with the author of our joint misfortunes.'
'Associate you with him, sir!' she cried.
'Indeed,' said Mr Haredale, 'I think you do. I almost believe thatbecause your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and diedin his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect uswith his murder.'
'Alas!' she answered. 'You little know my heart, sir. You little knowthe truth!'
'It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, withoutbeing conscious of it,' said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself thanher. 'We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed with the most lavishhand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinlyscattered by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserablemockery. I feel it so, God knows,' he added, hastily. 'Why should Iwonder if she does!'
'You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,' she rejoined with greatearnestness; 'and yet when you come to hear what I desire your leave tosay--'
'I shall find my doubts confirmed?' he said, observing that she falteredand became confused. 'Well!'
He quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side,and said:
'And have you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?'
She answered, 'Yes.'
'A curse,' he muttered, 'upon the wretched state of us proud beggars,from whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one beingforced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the ot
her condescendingto us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof, the nearerthey approach us.--Why, if it were pain to you (as it must have been)to break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged throughtwo-and-twenty years, could you not let me know your wish, and beg me tocome to you?'
'There was not time, sir,' she rejoined. 'I took my resolution butlast night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day--a day! anhour--in having speech with you.'
They had by this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for amoment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner.Observing, however, that she took no heed of him, but glanced up,shuddering, at the old walls with which such horrors were connected inher mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma wasseated in a window, reading.
The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside herbook, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warmand earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace as though shefeared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.
'It is the return to this place after so long an absence,' said Emmagently. 'Pray ring, dear uncle--or stay--Barnaby will run himself andask for wine--'
'Not for the world,' she cried. 'It would have another taste--I couldnot touch it. I want but a minute's rest. Nothing but that.'
Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity.She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to MrHaredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating herwith fixed attention.
The tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed, as hasbeen already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known.The room in which this group were now assembled--hard by the verychamber where the act was done--dull, dark, and sombre; heavy withworm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling everysound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever andanon a spectral knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others inthe house, a ghostly, gloomy air. Nor were the group assembled there,unfitting tenants of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startlingface and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern and despondent ever; his niecebeside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture of her father, whichgazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby,with his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with theplace, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven, who had hoppedupon the table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to beprofoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, wasstrictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit ofevil biding his time of mischief.
'I scarcely know,' said the widow, breaking silence, 'how to begin. Youwill think my mind disordered.'
'The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were lasthere,' returned Mr Haredale, mildly, 'shall bear witness for you. Why doyou fear to awaken such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. Youhave not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Bemore yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance that I can give you,you know is yours of right, and freely yours.'
'What if I came, sir,' she rejoined, 'I who have but one other friend onearth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforthI launch myself upon the world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim asHeaven may decree!'
'You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,' said Mr Haredalecalmly, 'some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which--ifone may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange--wouldhave its weight, of course.'
'That, sir,' she answered, 'is the misery of my distress. I can giveno reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It ismy duty, my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it,I should be a base and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips aresealed, and I can say no more.'
As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nervedherself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with afirmer voice and heightened courage.
'Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is--and yours, dear young lady,will speak for me, I know--that I have lived, since that time we allhave bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and gratitude tothis family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall preservethose feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they aloneimpel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shallturn me, as I hope for mercy.'
'These are strange riddles,' said Mr Haredale.
'In this world, sir,' she replied, 'they may, perhaps, never beexplained. In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own goodtime. And may that time,' she added in a low voice, 'be far distant!'
'Let me be sure,' said Mr Haredale, 'that I understand you, for I amdoubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarilyto deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from usso long--that you are determined to resign the annuity we settled on youtwenty years ago--to leave house, and home, and goods, and begin lifeanew--and this, for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which isincapable of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormantall this time? In the name of God, under what delusion are youlabouring?'
'As I am deeply thankful,' she made answer, 'for the kindness of those,alive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would not have itsroof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name beingspoken in their hearing; I never will again subsist upon their bounty,or let it help me to subsistence. You do not know,' she added, suddenly,'to what uses it may be applied; into what hands it may pass. I do, andI renounce it.'
'Surely,' said Mr Haredale, 'its uses rest with you.'
'They did. They rest with me no longer. It may be--it IS--devoted topurposes that mock the dead in their graves. It never can prosper withme. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son,whose innocence will suffer for his mother's guilt.'
'What words are these!' cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder.'Among what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you everbeen betrayed?'
'I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention,though constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions,sir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned. I mustleave my house to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. Myfuture dwelling, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poorboy should ever stray this way, do not tempt him to disclose it or havehim watched when he returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again.And now this load is off my mind, I beseech you--and you, dear MissHaredale, too--to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as youhave been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (forthat may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in thathour for this day's work; and on that day, and every day until it comes,I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more.'
With that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and withmany soothing words and kind entreaties, besought her to consider whatshe did, and above all to repose more freely upon them, and say whatweighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deaf to their persuasions, MrHaredale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide in Emma,of whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand inless dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiledwith the same indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met.The utmost that could be wrung from her was, a promise that she wouldreceive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean timereconsider her determination and their dissuasions--though any change onher part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made atlast, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neithereat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip,accordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair andgarden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.
It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview hehad kept his eye on his book with ex
actly the air of a very sly humanrascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening toeverything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly inhis mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders forthe instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, hewas thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense ofduty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what iscommonly called good company.
They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full twohours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment,Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who hadno wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, andwho feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatchsome messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposedto wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buyand carry thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfullyassented, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugaldinner.
Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up anddown when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which wasstrongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; andappearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes,after a long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon thegrave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse tones, 'I'm a devil,I'm a devil, I'm a devil!' but whether he addressed his observations toany supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark,is matter of uncertainty.
It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for MrReuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested,was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscriptionrecording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtfuland apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that thecoach was coming.
Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at thesound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walkedinto his basket straightway, entreating society in general (as thoughhe intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with churchyards)never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top androlling along the road.
It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was fromhome, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it calledfor. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him fromthe coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John'scharacter. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach's time. Hedespised gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that oughtto be indicted; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless,bustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity ofmen, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and goa-shopping. 'We know nothing about coaches here, sir,' John would say,if any unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles;'we don't book for 'em; we'd rather not; they're more trouble thanthey're worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait for 'emyou can; but we don't know anything about 'em; they may call and theymay not--there's a carrier--he was looked upon as quite good enough forus, when I was a boy.'
She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind, andtalked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other personspoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, analien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and hadlived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife--where she had knownall her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.
Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty Page 26
