Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 62

  The prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and restinghis elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, remained inthat attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of what nature hisreflections were. They had no distinctness, and, saving for someflashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the train ofcircumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in thepavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joinedto stone, the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor,--suchthings as these, subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening anindescribable kind of interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind;and although at the bottom of his every thought there was an uneasysense of guilt, and dread of death, he felt no more than that vagueconsciousness of it, which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him throughhis dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs thebanquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itselfunhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without shape,or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having noexistence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or metwith face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns.

  After a long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw theblind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.

  Guided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; andstopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself thathe was right, remained, for a good space, silent.

  'This is bad, Rudge. This is bad,' he said at length.

  The prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his bodyfrom him, but made no other answer.

  'How were you taken?' he asked. 'And where? You never told me more thanhalf your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it, and where, eh?'he asked again, coming still nearer to him.

  'At Chigwell,' said the other.

  'At Chigwell! How came you there?'

  'Because I went there to avoid the man I stumbled on,' he answered.'Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I wasurged to go there, by something stronger than my own will. When I foundhim watching in the house she used to live in, night after night, I knewI never could escape him--never! and when I heard the Bell--'

  He shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and downthe narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture.

  'You were saying,' said the blind man, after another pause, 'that whenyou heard the Bell--'

  'Let it be, will you?' he retorted in a hurried voice. 'It hangs thereyet.'

  The blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but hecontinued to speak, without noticing him.

  'I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted andbeset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in joiningthem. They had gone on before; I followed them when it left off.'

  'When what left off?'

  'The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them mightbe still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for them whenI heard--' he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with hissleeve--'his voice.'

  'Saying what?'

  'No matter what. I don't know. I was then at the foot of the turret,where I did the--'

  'Ay,' said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure, 'Iunderstand.'

  'I climbed the stair, or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide tillhe had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as I set footupon the ashes.'

  'You might have hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbedhim,' said the blind man.

  'Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on--I saw it,though he did not--and raised above his head a bloody hand. It was inthe room above that HE and I stood glaring at each other on the night ofthe murder, and before he fell he raised his hand like that, and fixedhis eyes on me. I knew the chase would end there.'

  'You have a strong fancy,' said the blind man, with a smile.

  'Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.'

  He groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time, said,in a low, hollow voice:

  'Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has never changedin all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the least degree.He has been before me in the dark night, and the broad sunny day; in thetwilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the light of fire, and lamp,and candle; and in the deepest gloom. Always the same! In company, insolitude, on land, on shipboard; sometimes leaving me alone for months,and sometimes always with me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding inthe dead of night along the bright reflection of the moon in the calmwater; and I have seen him, on quays and market-places, with his handuplifted, towering, the centre of a busy crowd, unconscious of theterrible form that had its silent stand among them. Fancy! Are you real?Am I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me by the smith's hammer, orare they fancies I can shatter at a blow?'

  The blind man listened in silence.

  'Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that as I left thechamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a dark door,who plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he suspected what Ihad done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to him--that I drewnearer--nearer yet--with the hot knife in my sleeve? Do I fancy how HEdied? Did he stagger back into the angle of the wall into which I hadhemmed him, and, bleeding inwardly, stand, not fall, a corpse beforeme? Did I see him, for an instant, as I see you now, erect and on hisfeet--but dead!'

  The blind man, who knew that he had risen, motioned him to sit downagain upon his bedstead; but he took no notice of the gesture.

  'It was then I thought, for the first time, of fastening the murder uponhim. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and dragged him downthe back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember listening to thebubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him in? Do I rememberwiping the water from my face, and because the body splashed it there,in its descent, feeling as if it MUST be blood?

  'Did I go home when I had done? And oh, my God! how long it took to do!Did I stand before my wife, and tell her? Did I see her fall upon theground; and, when I stooped to raise her, did she thrust me back with aforce that cast me off as if I had been a child, staining the hand withwhich she clasped my wrist? Is THAT fancy?

  'Did she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that sheand her unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she, in wordsso solemn that they turned me cold--me, fresh from the horrors my ownhands had made--warn me to fly while there was time; for though shewould be silent, being my wretched wife, she would not shelter me? Did Igo forth that night, abjured of God and man, and anchored deep in hell,to wander at my cable's length about the earth, and surely be drawn downat last?'

  'Why did you return? said the blind man.

  'Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live withoutbreath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, throughevery difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothingcould stop me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping andwaking, I had been among the old haunts for years--had visited my owngrave. Why did I come back? Because this jail was gaping for me, and hestood beckoning at the door.'

  'You were not known?' said the blind man.

  'I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not known.'

  'You should have kept your secret better.'

  'MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper atits will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing,the leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurkedin strangers' faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which italways trembled.--MY secret!'

  'It was revealed by your own act at any rate,' said the blind man.

  'The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forcedat times to wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you hadchained me up whe
n the fit was on me, I should have broken away, andgone there. As truly as the loadstone draws iron towards it, so he,lying at the bottom of his grave, could draw me near him when he would.Was that fancy? Did I like to go there, or did I strive and wrestle withthe power that forced me?'

  The blind man shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously. Theprisoner again resumed his old attitude, and for a long time both weremute.

  'I suppose then,' said his visitor, at length breaking silence, 'thatyou are penitent and resigned; that you desire to make peace witheverybody (in particular, with your wife who has brought you to this);and that you ask no greater favour than to be carried to Tyburn as soonas possible? That being the case, I had better take my leave. I am notgood enough to be company for you.'

  'Have I not told you,' said the other fiercely, 'that I have strivenand wrestled with the power that brought me here? Has my whole life, foreight-and-twenty years, been one perpetual struggle and resistance, anddo you think I want to lie down and die? Do all men shrink from death--Imost of all!'

  'That's better said. That's better spoken, Rudge--but I'll not call youthat again--than anything you have said yet,' returned the blind man,speaking more familiarly, and laying his hands upon his arm. 'Lookye,--Inever killed a man myself, for I have never been placed in a positionthat made it worth my while. Farther, I am not an advocate for killingmen, and I don't think I should recommend it or like it--for it's veryhazardous--under any circumstances. But as you had the misfortune to getinto this trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as you have beenmy companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I overlookthat part of the matter, and am only anxious that you shouldn't dieunnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at present, it is at allnecessary.'

  'What else is left me?' returned the prisoner. 'To eat my way throughthese walls with my teeth?'

  'Something easier than that,' returned his friend. 'Promise me that youwill talk no more of these fancies of yours--idle, foolish things, quitebeneath a man--and I'll tell you what I mean.'

  'Tell me,' said the other.

  'Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your scrupulous, virtuous,punctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife--'

  'What of her?'

  'Is now in London.'

  'A curse upon her, be she where she may!'

  'That's natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you wouldnot have been here, and we should have been better off. But that's apartfrom the business. She's in London. Scared, as I suppose, and have nodoubt, by my representation when I waited upon her, that you were closeat hand (which I, of course, urged only as an inducement to compliance,knowing that she was not pining to see you), she left that place, andtravelled up to London.'

  'How do you know?'

  'From my friend the noble captain--the illustrious general--the bladder,Mr Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him, which wasyesterday, that your son who is called Barnaby--not after his father, Isuppose--'

  'Death! does that matter now!'

  '--You are impatient,' said the blind man, calmly; 'it's a good sign,and looks like life--that your son Barnaby had been lured away from herby one of his companions who knew him of old, at Chigwell; and that heis now among the rioters.'

  'And what is that to me? If father and son be hanged together, whatcomfort shall I find in that?'

  'Stay--stay, my friend,' returned the blind man, with a cunning look,'you travel fast to journeys' ends. Suppose I track my lady out, and saythus much: "You want your son, ma'am--good. I, knowing those who tempthim to remain among them, can restore him to you, ma'am--good. You mustpay a price, ma'am, for his restoration--good again. The price is small,and easy to be paid--dear ma'am, that's best of all."'

  'What mockery is this?'

  'Very likely, she may reply in those words. "No mockery at all," Ianswer: "Madam, a person said to be your husband (identity is difficultof proof after the lapse of many years) is in prison, his life inperil--the charge against him, murder. Now, ma'am, your husband has beendead a long, long time. The gentleman never can be confounded with him,if you will have the goodness to say a few words, on oath, as to when hedied, and how; and that this person (who I am told resembles him in somedegree) is no more he than I am. Such testimony will set the questionquite at rest. Pledge yourself to me to give it, ma' am, and I willundertake to keep your son (a fine lad) out of harm's way until you havedone this trifling service, when he shall be delivered up to you, safeand sound. On the other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will bebetrayed, and handed over to the law, which will assuredly sentence himto suffer death. It is, in fact, a choice between his life and death. Ifyou refuse, he swings. If you comply, the timber is not grown, nor thehemp sown, that shall do him any harm."'

  'There is a gleam of hope in this!' cried the prisoner.

  'A gleam!' returned his friend, 'a noon-blaze; a full and gloriousdaylight. Hush! I hear the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.'

  'When shall I hear more?'

  'As soon as I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to say thatour time for talk is over. I hear the jingling of the keys. Not anotherword of this just now, or they may overhear us.'

  As he said these words, the lock was turned, and one of the prisonturnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for visitorsto leave the jail.

  'So soon!' said Stagg, meekly. 'But it can't be helped. Cheer up,friend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you are a managain! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who hasnothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him with hisface towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank you, good sir. Ithank you very kindly.'

  So saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his grinningface towards his friend, he departed.

  When the officer had seen him to the porch, he returned, and againunlocking and unbarring the door of the cell, set it wide open,informing its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in the adjacentyard, if he thought proper, for an hour.

  The prisoner answered with a sullen nod; and being left alone again, satbrooding over what he had heard, and pondering upon the hopes the recentconversation had awakened; gazing abstractedly, the while he did so,on the light without, and watching the shadows thrown by one wall onanother, and on the stone-paved ground.

  It was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, andseeming to chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and rough,and obdurate, filled even him with longing thoughts of meadow-land andtrees; and with a burning wish to be at liberty. As he looked, he rose,and leaning against the door-post, gazed up at the bright blue sky,smiling even on that dreary home of crime. He seemed, for a moment, toremember lying on his back in some sweet-scented place, and gazing at itthrough moving branches, long ago.

  His attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound--he knew whatit was, for he had startled himself by making the same noise in walkingto the door. Presently a voice began to sing, and he saw the shadow ofa figure on the pavement. It stopped--was silent all at once, asthough the person for a moment had forgotten where he was, butsoon remembered--and so, with the same clanking noise, the shadowdisappeared.

  He walked out into the court and paced it to and fro; startling theechoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of his fetters. There was adoor near his, which, like his, stood ajar.

  He had not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when, standingstill to observe this door, he heard the clanking sound again. A facelooked out of the grated window--he saw it very dimly, for the cell wasdark and the bars were heavy--and directly afterwards, a man appeared,and came towards him.

  For the sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a year.Made eager by the hope of companionship, he quickened his pace, andhastened to meet the man half way--

  What was this! His son!

  They stood face to face, staring at each other. He shrinking and cowed,despite himself; Barnaby struggling with his imperfect
memory, andwondering where he had seen that face before. He was not uncertain long,for suddenly he laid hands upon him, and striving to bear him to theground, cried:

  'Ah! I know! You are the robber!'

  He said nothing in reply at first, but held down his head, and struggledwith him silently. Finding the younger man too strong for him, he raisedhis face, looked close into his eyes, and said,

  'I am your father.'

  God knows what magic the name had for his ears; but Barnaby released hishold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Suddenly he sprung towardshim, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his head against hischeek.

  Yes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But where had he been so long, andwhy had he left his mother by herself, or worse than by herself, withher poor foolish boy? And had she really been as happy as they said?And where was she? Was she near there? She was not happy now, and he injail? Ah, no.

  Not a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked loudly, and hoppedabout them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a magic circle, andinvoking all the powers of mischief.