Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 45

  While the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark,and the mantle of religion, assumed to cover the ugliest deformities,threatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful insociety, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position oftwo persons from whom this history has long been separated, and to whomit must now return.

  In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supportedthemselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing strawfor those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament fromthat material,--concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quietpoverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but thatof struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,--dweltBarnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger's footsince they sought the shelter of its roof five years before; nor hadthey in all that time held any commerce or communication with the oldworld from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote herlabour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. Ifhappiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secretsorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and herstrong love of him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of herquiet joys; and while that remained unbroken, she was contented.

  For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by, had passed him likethe wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reasonon his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sitsometimes--often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by thecottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied),and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lureto keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these littlenarratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; buthe liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remainpatiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, andworking cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.

  At other times,--and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficientto furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort,--he would wanderabroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Fewin that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had nocompanions of his own kind. Indeed there were not many who could havekept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But there werea score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbours, who served hispurpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with afull half-dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on somelong expedition that consumed the day; and though, on their return atnightfall, the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almostspent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise withsome new attendants of the same class, with whom he would return in likemanner. On all these travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master'sback, was a constant member of the party, and when they set off in fineweather and in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven.

  Their pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. A crust of breadand scrap of meat, with water from the brook or spring, sufficed fortheir repast. Barnaby's enjoyments were, to walk, and run, and leap,till he was tired; then to lie down in the long grass, or by the growingcorn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking upward at the lightclouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, andlistening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There werewild-flowers to pluck--the bright red poppy, the gentle harebell, thecowslip, and the rose. There were birds to watch; fish; ants; worms;hares or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway in the woodand so were gone: millions of living things to have an interest in, andlie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in memory of, when they haddisappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was themerry sunlight to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves andboughs of trees, and hid far down--deep, deep, in hollow places--likea silver pool, where nodding branches seemed to bathe and sport; sweetscents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or clover; theperfume of wet leaves or moss; the life of waving trees, and shadowsalways changing. When these or any of them tired, or in excess ofpleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midstof all these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music inhis ears, and everything around melting into one delicious dream.

  Their hut--for it was little more--stood on the outskirts of the town,at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, wherefew chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plotof garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working,trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his motherlaboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine, foundno difference in her.

  Though so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with solittle thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to havea strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any oldnewspaper, or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at withavidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, forher manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread; but itnever faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, whenthe wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face,and she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had anague. But Barnaby noted little of this; and putting a great constraintupon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before thechange had caught his observation.

  Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humblehousehold. Partly by dint of Barnaby's tuition, and partly by pursuing aspecies of self-instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powersof observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacitywhich rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers andsurprising performances were the universal theme: and as manypersons came to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertionsunrewarded--when he condescended to exhibit, which was not always,for genius is capricious--his earnings formed an important item in thecommon stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well;for though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence ofBarnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity,and never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than bitingthe ankles of vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted),killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners ofvarious neighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held him in great awe anddread.

  Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturb orchange their mode of life, when, one summer's night in June, they werein their little garden, resting from the labours of the day. The widow'swork was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her; andBarnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in thewest, and singing softly to himself.

  'A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a fewspecks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should berich for life.'

  'We are better as we are,' returned the widow with a quiet smile. 'Letus be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, thoughit lay shining at our feet.'

  'Ay!' said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and lookingwistfully at the sunset, 'that's well enough, mother; but gold's a goodthing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could domuch with gold, be sure of that.'

  'What would you do?' she asked.

  'What! A world of things. We'd dress finely--you and I, I mean; notGrip--keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, do no morework, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we'd find uses for it,mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold wasburied. How hard I'd work to dig it up!'

  'You do not know,' said his mother, rising from her seat and laying herhand upon his shoulder, 'what men have done to win it, and how they havefound, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turnsquite dim and dull when handled.'

  'Ay, ay; so you s
ay; so you think,' he answered, still looking eagerlyin the same direction. 'For all that, mother, I should like to try.'

  'Do you not see,' she said, 'how red it is? Nothing bears so many stainsof blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name aswe have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought suchmisery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and Godgrant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid downin our graves, than you should ever come to love it.'

  For a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder.Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wristas if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her withearnestness, when a new object caught his wandering attention, and madehim quite forgetful of his purpose.

  This was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bare-headed,behind the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway,and leant meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with theirconversation, and waited for his time to speak. His face was turnedtowards the brightness, too, but the light that fell upon it showed thathe was blind, and saw it not.

  'A blessing on those voices!' said the wayfarer. 'I feel the beauty ofthe night more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Willthey speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?'

  'Have you no guide?' asked the widow, after a moment's pause.

  'None but that,' he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun;'and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.'

  'Have you travelled far?'

  'A weary way and long,' rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. 'Aweary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of yourwell--be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.'

  'Why do you call me lady?' she returned. 'I am as poor as you.'

  'Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,' replied the man.'The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are--apart from the sense oftouch--alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.'

  'Come round this way,' said Barnaby, who had passed out at thegarden-gate and now stood close beside him. 'Put your hand in mine.You're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark?Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?'

  'Alas!' returned the other, 'I see nothing. Waking or sleeping,nothing.'

  Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with hisfingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.

  'You have come a long distance,' said the widow, meeting him at thedoor. 'How have you found your way so far?'

  'Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard--the best of any,'said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby hadled him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. 'Mayneither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.'

  'You have wandered from the road, too,' said the widow, in a tone ofpity.

  'Maybe, maybe,' returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet withsomething of a smile upon his face, 'that's likely. Handposts andmilestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for this rest,and this refreshing drink!'

  As he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, andcold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirstwas not very great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again.

  He wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip orwallet, in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheesebefore him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness ofthe charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was nothungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened his wallet, and tookout a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.

  'Might I make bold to ask,' he said, turning towards where Barnaby stoodlooking on, 'that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out forme in bread to keep me on my way? Heaven's blessing on the young feetthat will bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightlessman!'

  Barnaby looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment hewas gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with anattentive face, until long after the sound of his retreating footstepswas inaudible to the widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a veryaltered tone:

  'There are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is theconnubial blindness, ma'am, which perhaps you may have observed inthe course of your own experience, and which is a kind of wilful andself-bandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma'am, andpublic men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of aregiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence ofyouth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes have not yetopened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma'am, ofwhich I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example.Added to these, ma'am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which wehave a specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimesglimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as atotal darkness. Therefore, ma'am, I have taken the liberty to get himout of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together, andthis precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towardsyourself, you will excuse me, ma'am, I know.'

  Having delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of manner,he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the corkbetween his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusionof the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to herhealth, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips withinfinite relish.

  'I am a citizen of the world, ma'am,' said the blind man, corking hisbottle, 'and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore.You wonder who I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Suchexperience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion,without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soulas depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosityimmediately, ma'am; immediately.' With that he slapped his bottle on itsbroad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed hislegs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous toproceeding any further.

  The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickednessof his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition--for we areaccustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in itsplace almost divine--and this alteration bred so many fears in her whomhe addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, asit seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitorresumed:

  'Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour ofmeeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me tocall upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's name in yourear.--Zounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should beglad to whisper my friend's name in your ear?'

  'You need not repeat it,' said the widow, with a stifled groan; 'I seetoo well from whom you come.'

  'But as a man of honour, ma'am,' said the blind man, striking himself onthe breast, 'whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to saythat I WILL mention that gentleman's name. Ay, ay,' he added, seemingto catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, 'but not aloud.With your leave, ma'am, I desire the favour of a whisper.'

  She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in herear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like onedistracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottleagain, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking fromtime to time, followed her with his face in silence.

  'You are slow in conversation, widow,' he said after a time, pausing inhis draught. 'We shall have to talk before your son.'

  'What would you have me do?' she answered. 'What do you want?'

  'We are poor, widow, we are poor,' he retorted, stretching out his righthand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.

  'Poor!' she cried. '
And what am I?'

  'Comparisons are odious,' said the blind man. 'I don't know, I don'tcare. I say that we are poor. My friend's circumstances are indifferent,and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be boughtoff. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?'

  She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly beforehim, she said:

  'Is he near here?'

  'He is. Close at hand.'

  'Then I am lost!'

  'Not lost, widow,' said the blind man, calmly; 'only found. Shall I callhim?'

  'Not for the world,' she answered, with a shudder.

  'Very good,' he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made asthough he would rise and walk to the door. 'As you please, widow. Hispresence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live;to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:--Isay no more.'

  'Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?' she retorted. 'I do notthink you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on thispoor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened byyour own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.'

  The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:

  '--Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question. I have the softestheart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman liveswell upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a verygreat drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with whichsympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wishto arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus thecase stands.--If you are very poor now, it's your own choice. You havefriends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend isin a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you andhe being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you toassist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as Isaid just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of hisentertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; hehas always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you;he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You arein the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.'

  She was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.

  'The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and thenfor my friend; and that's what I advise. He bears you no malice that Iknow of, ma'am: so little, that although you have treated him harshlymore than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has thatregard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he wouldconsent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.'

  He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to findout what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.

  'He is a likely lad,' said the blind man, thoughtfully, 'for manypurposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little changeand bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with youto-night.--Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twentypounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It'sa pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, andit's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is amoderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring ityou.--Twenty pounds!'

  She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.

  'Don't say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it alittle while. Twenty pounds--of other people's money--how easy! Turn itover in your mind. I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on, and if I don'tsleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma'am,for twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that's a fair allowance.I'll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in theseparts.'

  With these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair withhim. Then seating himself, under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretchinghis legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or outwithout his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel andtinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening, of that gentlekind, and at that time of year, when the twilight is most beautiful.Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off, and to sniff thegrateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease--as thoughthe cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputedpossession of it all his life--waiting for the widow's answer and forBarnaby's return.