Chapter 81
Another month had passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when MrHaredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but afew weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester andhis niece, in the locksmith's house, and he had made no change, in themean time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatlyaltered. He looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation and anxietyof mind scatter wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; butdeeper traces follow on the silent uprooting of old habits, and severingof dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so easily wounded asthe passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting. He was now asolitary man, and the heart within him was dreary and lonesome.
He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusionand retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of socialcheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility.He had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she hadcome to be so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had somany cares and thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; thatlosing her was beginning life anew, and being required to summon up thehope and elasticity of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakenedenergies of age.
The effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness andhope--and they had parted only yesterday--left him the more depressed.With these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time,and look once more upon the walls of their old home, before turning hisback upon it, for ever.
The journey was a very different one, in those days, from what thepresent generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longestjourney will, and he stood again in the streets of the metropolis. Helay at the inn where the coach stopped, and resolved, before he wentto bed, that he would make his arrival known to no one; would spend butanother night in London; and would spare himself the pang of parting,even with the honest locksmith.
Such conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he laydown to rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, anduneasy visions. He knew this, even in the horror with which he startedfrom his first sleep, and threw up the window to dispel it by thepresence of some object, beyond the room, which had not been, as itwere, the witness of his dream. But it was not a new terror of thenight; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it had hauntedhim in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it hadbeen but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, itsreturn, in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation offear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. Thisdisquiet, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. Whenhe closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunkinto a slumber, he was conscious of its gathering strength and purpose,and gradually assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed,the same phantom vanished from his heated brain, and left him filledwith a dread against which reason and waking thought were powerless.
The sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but notrefreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy forpaying his last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had beenaccustomed to walk there at that season, and desired to see it under theaspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as would affordhim time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and turnedinto the busy street.
He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisycrowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognisedone of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had lefthis sword behind him.
'Why have you brought it to me?' he asked, stretching out his hand, andyet not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed andagitated manner.
The man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again.The gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country,and that he might not return until late. The roads were not very safefor single travellers after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen hadbeen more careful than ever, not to trust themselves unarmed in lonelyplaces. 'We thought you were a stranger, sir,' he added, 'and that youmight believe our roads to be better than they are; but perhaps you knowthem well, and carry fire-arms--'
He took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, andresumed his walk.
It was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, andwith such a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after hisretreating figure, doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watchhim. It was long remembered that he had been heard pacing his bedroom inthe dead of the night; that the attendants had mentioned to each otherin the morning, how fevered and how pale he looked; and that when thisman went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he hadobserved in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that hefeared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never comeback alive.
With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man'sattention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted),Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches,bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road asthe point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await hisreturn at a house of entertainment which was within a stone's-throw ofthat place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued hisway on foot.
He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising fromamong the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its old inhabitants,doubtless--sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the uncloudedsky. 'The old house will brighten up now,' he said, as he looked towardsit, 'and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It issome comfort to know that everything will not be blighted hereabouts. Ishall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to,in my mind!'
He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was aclear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir theleaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsysheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals, the far-offlowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant withthe softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deeprepose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted mansionwhich had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon itsblackened walls.
The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them thereis an image of death and ruin,--of something that has been bright, andis but dull, cold, dreary dust,--with which our nature forces us tosympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the castingdown of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes performthe worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up suchsacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would putthe proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to theblush!
He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowlyround the house. It was by this time almost dark.
He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered ahalf-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in aneasy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruinwith an expression of pleasure,--a pleasure so keen that it overcame hishabitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterlyfree from all restraint or reserve,--before him, on his own ground,and triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune anddisappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of allmankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the leastendure.
Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirredwithin him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierceconstraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes,and he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devilwho poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcelyto be achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to s
top: andthat, with an assumed compassion in his voice which drove him well-nighmad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it had beenanguish--acute, poignant anguish--to sustain.
All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by whicha goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him as he turnedback. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly--far more calmly than hehad ever spoken to him before:
'Why have you called to me?'
'To remark,' said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, 'what anodd chance it is, that we should meet here!'
'It IS a strange chance.'
'Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. I neverride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim seized me,quite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.--How very picturesquethis is!'--He pointed, as he spoke, to the dismantled house, and raisedhis glass to his eye.
'You praise your own work very freely.'
Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an airof the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though hewere remarking to himself, 'I fear this animal is going mad!'
'I say you praise your own work very freely,' repeated Mr Haredale.
'Work!' echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. 'Mine!--I beg yourpardon, I really beg your pardon--'
'Why, you see,' said Mr Haredale, 'those walls. You see those totteringgables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You seethe destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?'
'My good friend,' returned the knight, gently checking his impatiencewith his hand, 'of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when youstand aside, and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. Iam very sorry for you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here,I think I should have written to tell you so. But you don't bear it aswell as I had expected--excuse me--no, you don't indeed.'
He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air ofa man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a morallesson to another, continued:
'For you are a philosopher, you know--one of that stern and rigid schoolwho are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed,a long way, from the frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from aheight, and rail at them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heardyou.'
--'And shall again,' said Mr Haredale.
'Thank you,' returned the other. 'Shall we walk as we talk? The dampfalls rather heavily. Well,--as you please. But I grieve to say that Ican spare you only a very few moments.'
'I would,' said Mr Haredale, 'you had spared me none. I would, withall my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous lie could beenacted), rather than here to-night.'
'Nay,' returned the other--'really--you do yourself injustice. You are arough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.'
'Listen to me,' said Mr Haredale. 'Listen to me.'
'While you rail?' inquired Sir John.
'While I deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your worka fit agent, but one who in his nature--in the very essence of hisbeing--is a traitor, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathyyou two should have together) as he has been to all others. With hints,and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you set onGashford to this work--this work before us now. With these same hints,and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you urgedhim on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me--I have earned it, I thankHeaven--by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I seedenial in your looks,' he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, andstepping back, 'and denial is a lie!'
He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuoussmile, replied to him as coldly as before.
'You will take notice, sir--if you can discriminate sufficiently--that Ihave taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fineenough for the perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech;nor has it ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I couldname, you would have read indifference, not to say disgust, somewhatsooner than you did. I speak of a long time ago,--but you understandme.'
'Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit or reserved,expressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don'tdeny. Do you admit?'
'You yourself,' returned Sir John, suffering the current of hisspeech to flow as smoothly as if it had been stemmed by no one word ofinterruption, 'publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman inquestion (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve mefrom the necessity of making any further allusion to him. You mayhave been warranted; you may not have been; I can't say. Assuming thegentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any otherperson any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves tohim, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or forhis own amusement, or for any other consideration,--I have nothing tosay of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to meto be shared with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, thatyou will excuse a little freedom in me, I am sure.'
'Attend to me again, Sir John but once,' cried Mr Haredale; 'in yourevery look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. Itell you that it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak of, andwith your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk ofdegradation and character. You told me once that you had purchased theabsence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discoveredsince, and then suspected) you had gone to tempt them, and had foundthem flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped anyharvest from my brother's death; and all the foul attacks and whisperedcalumnies that followed in its train. In every action of my life, fromthat first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you havestood, like an adverse fate, between me and peace. In all, you have everbeen the same cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain. For thesecond time, and for the last, I cast these charges in your teeth, andspurn you from me as I would a faithless dog!'
With that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that hestaggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threwaway the scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary made adesperate lunge at his heart, which, but that his guard was quick andtrue, would have stretched him dead upon the grass.
In the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent's rage hadreached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them,and called to him, with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keepback.
'Not to-night! not to-night!' he cried. 'In God's name, not tonight!'
Seeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn,Sir John lowered his.
'Not to-night!' his adversary cried. 'Be warned in time!'
'You told me--it must have been in a sort of inspiration--' said SirJohn, quite deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed hishatred in his face, 'that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Didyou believe our last meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that yourevery word and look was not to be accounted for, and was not wellremembered? Do you believe that I have waited your time, or you mine?What kind of man is he who entered, with all his sickening cant ofhonesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage he affectedto dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit and theletter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time,to rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spuriouslustre on his house?'
'I have acted,' cried Mr Haredale, 'with honour and in good faith. I doso now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!'
'You said my "wretched" son, I think?' said Sir John, with a smile.'Poor fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave--trapped into marriage bysuch an uncle and by such a niece--he well deserves your pity. But heis no longer a son of mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft hasmade, sir.'
'Once more,' cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground,'although you tear me f
rom my better angel, I implore you not to comewithin the reach of my sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Whyhave we met! To-morrow would have cast us far apart for ever!'
'That being the case,' returned Sir John, without the least emotion, 'itis very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despisedyou, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brutecourage. For the honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one,I am sorry to find you a coward.'
Not another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, thoughit was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They werewell matched, and each was thoroughly skilled in the management of hisweapon.
After a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing oneach other inflicted and received several slight wounds. It was directlyafter receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making akeener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged his swordthrough his opponent's body to the hilt.
Their eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put hisarm about the dying man, who repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon theturf. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant,with scorn and hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then,that this expression would distort his features after death, he triedto smile, and, faintly moving his right hand, as if to hide his bloodylinen in his vest, fell back dead--the phantom of last night.
Chapter the Last
A parting glance at such of the actors in this little history as it hasnot, in the course of its events, dismissed, will bring it to an end.
Mr Haredale fled that night. Before pursuit could be begun, indeedbefore Sir John was traced or missed, he had left the kingdom. Repairingstraight to a religious establishment, known throughout Europe for therigour and severity of its discipline, and for the merciless penitenceit exacted from those who sought its shelter as a refuge from the world,he took the vows which thenceforth shut him out from nature andhis kind, and after a few remorseful years was buried in its gloomycloisters.
Two days elapsed before the body of Sir John was found. As soon asit was recognised and carried home, the faithful valet, true to hismaster's creed, eloped with all the cash and movables he could lay hishands on, and started as a finished gentleman upon his own account. Inthis career he met with great success, and would certainly have marriedan heiress in the end, but for an unlucky check which led to hispremature decease. He sank under a contagious disorder, very prevalentat that time, and vulgarly termed the jail fever.
Lord George Gordon, remaining in his prison in the Tower until Mondaythe fifth of February in the following year, was on that day solemnlytried at Westminster for High Treason. Of this crime he was, after apatient investigation, declared Not Guilty; upon the ground that therewas no proof of his having called the multitude together with anytraitorous or unlawful intentions. Yet so many people were there, still,to whom those riots taught no lesson of reproof or moderation, that apublic subscription was set on foot in Scotland to defray the cost ofhis defence.
For seven years afterwards he remained, at the strong intercession ofhis friends, comparatively quiet; saving that he, every now and then,took occasion to display his zeal for the Protestant faith in someextravagant proceeding which was the delight of its enemies; and saving,besides, that he was formally excommunicated by the Archbishop ofCanterbury, for refusing to appear as a witness in the EcclesiasticalCourt when cited for that purpose. In the year 1788 he was stimulated bysome new insanity to write and publish an injurious pamphlet, reflectingon the Queen of France, in very violent terms. Being indicted for thelibel, and (after various strange demonstrations in court) found guilty,he fled into Holland in place of appearing to receive sentence: fromwhence, as the quiet burgomasters of Amsterdam had no relish for hiscompany, he was sent home again with all speed. Arriving in the month ofJuly at Harwich, and going thence to Birmingham, he made in the latterplace, in August, a public profession of the Jewish religion; andfigured there as a Jew until he was arrested, and brought back to Londonto receive the sentence he had evaded. By virtue of this sentence hewas, in the month of December, cast into Newgate for five years and tenmonths, and required besides to pay a large fine, and to furnish heavysecurities for his future good behaviour.
After addressing, in the midsummer of the following year, an appeal tothe commiseration of the National Assembly of France, which the Englishminister refused to sanction, he composed himself to undergo his fullterm of punishment; and suffering his beard to grow nearly to his waist,and conforming in all respects to the ceremonies of his new religion, heapplied himself to the study of history, and occasionally to the artof painting, in which, in his younger days, he had shown some skill.Deserted by his former friends, and treated in all respects like theworst criminal in the jail, he lingered on, quite cheerful and resigned,until the 1st of November 1793, when he died in his cell, being thenonly three-and-forty years of age.
Many men with fewer sympathies for the distressed and needy, with lessabilities and harder hearts, have made a shining figure and left abrilliant fame. He had his mourners. The prisoners bemoaned his loss,and missed him; for though his means were not large, his charity wasgreat, and in bestowing alms among them he considered the necessities ofall alike, and knew no distinction of sect or creed. There are wise menin the highways of the world who may learn something, even from thispoor crazy lord who died in Newgate.
To the last, he was truly served by bluff John Grueby. John was at hisside before he had been four-and-twenty hours in the Tower, and neverleft him until he died. He had one other constant attendant, in theperson of a beautiful Jewish girl; who attached herself to himfrom feelings half religious, half romantic, but whose virtuous anddisinterested character appears to have been beyond the censure even ofthe most censorious.
Gashford deserted him, of course. He subsisted for a time upon histraffic in his master's secrets; and, this trade failing when the stockwas quite exhausted, procured an appointment in the honourable corpsof spies and eavesdroppers employed by the government. As one of thesewretched underlings, he did his drudgery, sometimes abroad, sometimes athome, and long endured the various miseries of such a station. Ten or adozen years ago--not more--a meagre, wan old man, diseased and miserablypoor, was found dead in his bed at an obscure inn in the Borough, wherehe was quite unknown. He had taken poison. There was no clue to hisname; but it was discovered from certain entries in a pocket-book hecarried, that he had been secretary to Lord George Gordon in the time ofthe famous riots.
Many months after the re-establishment of peace and order, and even whenit had ceased to be the town-talk, that every military officer, kept atfree quarters by the City during the late alarms, had cost for his boardand lodging four pounds four per day, and every private soldier two andtwopence halfpenny; many months after even this engrossing topic wasforgotten, and the United Bulldogs were to a man all killed, imprisoned,or transported, Mr Simon Tappertit, being removed from a hospitalto prison, and thence to his place of trial, was discharged byproclamation, on two wooden legs. Shorn of his graceful limbs, andbrought down from his high estate to circumstances of utter destitution,and the deepest misery, he made shift to stump back to his old master,and beg for some relief. By the locksmith's advice and aid, he wasestablished in business as a shoeblack, and opened shop under an archwaynear the Horse Guards. This being a central quarter, he quickly made avery large connection; and on levee days, was sometimes known to haveas many as twenty half-pay officers waiting their turn for polishing.Indeed his trade increased to that extent, that in course of time heentertained no less than two apprentices, besides taking for his wifethe widow of an eminent bone and rag collector, formerly of Millbank.With this lady (who assisted in the business) he lived in great domestichappiness, only chequered by those little storms which serve to clearthe atmosphere of wedlock, and brighten its horizon. In some of thesegusts of bad weather, Mr Tappertit would, in the assertion of hisprerogative, so far forget himself, as to co
rrect his lady with a brush,or boot, or shoe; while she (but only in extreme cases) would retaliateby taking off his legs, and leaving him exposed to the derision of thoseurchins who delight in mischief.
Miss Miggs, baffled in all her schemes, matrimonial and otherwise, andcast upon a thankless, undeserving world, turned very sharp and sour;and did at length become so acid, and did so pinch and slap and tweakthe hair and noses of the youth of Golden Lion Court, that she was byone consent expelled that sanctuary, and desired to bless some otherspot of earth, in preference. It chanced at that moment, that thejustices of the peace for Middlesex proclaimed by public placard thatthey stood in need of a female turnkey for the County Bridewell, andappointed a day and hour for the inspection of candidates. Miss Miggsattending at the time appointed, was instantly chosen and selected fromone hundred and twenty-four competitors, and at once promoted tothe office; which she held until her decease, more than thirty yearsafterwards, remaining single all that time. It was observed of this ladythat while she was inflexible and grim to all her female flock, she wasparticularly so to those who could establish any claim to beauty: andit was often remarked as a proof of her indomitable virtue and severechastity, that to such as had been frail she showed no mercy; alwaysfalling upon them on the slightest occasion, or on no occasion at all,with the fullest measure of her wrath. Among other useful inventionswhich she practised upon this class of offenders and bequeathed toposterity, was the art of inflicting an exquisitely vicious poke or digwith the wards of a key in the small of the back, near the spine. Shelikewise originated a mode of treading by accident (in pattens) onsuch as had small feet; also very remarkable for its ingenuity, andpreviously quite unknown.
It was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and DollyVarden were made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (forthe locksmith could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopenedthe Maypole. It was not very long, you may be sure, before a red-facedlittle boy was seen staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking uphis heels on the green before the door. It was not very long, countingby years, before there was a red-faced little girl, another red-facedlittle boy, and a whole troop of girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwellwhen you would, there would surely be seen, either in the villagestreet, or on the green, or frolicking in the farm-yard--for it was afarm now, as well as a tavern--more small Joes and small Dollys thancould be easily counted. It was not a very long time before theseappearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked fiveyears older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wifeeither: for cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and arefamous preservers of youthful looks, depend upon it.
It was a long time, too, before there was such a country inn as theMaypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question whether there hasever been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was a long timetoo--for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day--before they forgotto have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joeomitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or beforethe serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before theyfatigued themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions ofbattles and sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousandthings belonging to a soldier's life. As to the great silver snuff-boxwhich the King sent Joe with his own hand, because of his conduct in theRiots, what guest ever went to the Maypole without putting finger andthumb into that box, and taking a great pinch, though he had never takena pinch of snuff before, and almost sneezed himself into convulsionseven then? As to the purple-faced vintner, where is the man who lived inthose times and never saw HIM at the Maypole: to all appearance as muchat home in the best room, as if he lived there? And as to the feastingsand christenings, and revellings at Christmas, and celebrations ofbirthdays, wedding-days, and all manner of days, both at the Maypole andthe Golden Key,--if they are not notorious, what facts are?
Mr Willet the elder, having been by some extraordinary means possessedwith the idea that Joe wanted to be married, and that it would be wellfor him, his father, to retire into private life, and enable him to livein comfort, took up his abode in a small cottage at Chigwell; wherethey widened and enlarged the fireplace for him, hung up the boiler,and furthermore planted in the little garden outside the front-door, afictitious Maypole; so that he was quite at home directly. To this, hisnew habitation, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes, and Solomon Daisy went regularlyevery night: and in the chimney-corner, they all four quaffed, andsmoked, and prosed, and dozed, as they had done of old. It beingaccidentally discovered after a short time that Mr Willet still appearedto consider himself a landlord by profession, Joe provided him witha slate, upon which the old man regularly scored up vast accounts formeat, drink, and tobacco. As he grew older this passion increased uponhim; and it became his delight to chalk against the name of each of hiscronies a sum of enormous magnitude, and impossible to be paid: and suchwas his secret joy in these entries, that he would be perpetually seengoing behind the door to look at them, and coming forth again, suffusedwith the liveliest satisfaction.
He never recovered the surprise the Rioters had given him, and remainedin the same mental condition down to the last moment of his life. It waslike to have been brought to a speedy termination by the first sight ofhis first grandchild, which appeared to fill him with the belief thatsome alarming miracle had happened to Joe. Being promptly blooded,however, by a skilful surgeon, he rallied; and although the doctorsall agreed, on his being attacked with symptoms of apoplexy six monthsafterwards, that he ought to die, and took it very ill that he didnot, he remained alive--possibly on account of his constitutionalslowness--for nearly seven years more, when he was one morning foundspeechless in his bed. He lay in this state, free from all tokensof uneasiness, for a whole week, when he was suddenly restored toconsciousness by hearing the nurse whisper in his son's ear that he wasgoing. 'I'm a-going, Joseph,' said Mr Willet, turning round upon theinstant, 'to the Salwanners'--and immediately gave up the ghost.
He left a large sum of money behind him; even more than he was supposedto have been worth, although the neighbours, according to the custom ofmankind in calculating the wealth that other people ought to have saved,had estimated his property in good round numbers. Joe inherited thewhole; so that he became a man of great consequence in those parts, andwas perfectly independent.
Some time elapsed before Barnaby got the better of the shock he hadsustained, or regained his old health and gaiety. But he recoveredby degrees: and although he could never separate his condemnation andescape from the idea of a terrific dream, he became, in other respects,more rational. Dating from the time of his recovery, he had a bettermemory and greater steadiness of purpose; but a dark cloud overhung hiswhole previous existence, and never cleared away.
He was not the less happy for this, for his love of freedom and interestin all that moved or grew, or had its being in the elements, remainedto him unimpaired. He lived with his mother on the Maypole farm, tendingthe poultry and the cattle, working in a garden of his own, and helpingeverywhere. He was known to every bird and beast about the place, andhad a name for every one. Never was there a lighter-hearted husbandman,a creature more popular with young and old, a blither or more happy soulthan Barnaby; and though he was free to ramble where he would, he neverquitted Her, but was for evermore her stay and comfort.
It was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the past, hesought out Hugh's dog, and took him under his care; and that he nevercould be tempted into London. When the Riots were many years old,and Edward and his wife came back to England with a family almost asnumerous as Dolly's, and one day appeared at the Maypole porch, he knewthem instantly, and wept and leaped for joy. But neither to visit them,nor on any other pretence, no matter how full of promise and enjoyment,could he be persuaded to set foot in the streets: nor did he everconquer this repugnance or look upon the town again.
Grip soon recovered his looks, and became as glossy and sleek as ever.But he was profoundly sile
nt. Whether he had forgotten the art of PoliteConversation in Newgate, or had made a vow in those troubled times toforego, for a period, the display of his accomplishments, is matter ofuncertainty; but certain it is that for a whole year he never indulgedin any other sound than a grave, decorous croak. At the expiration ofthat term, the morning being very bright and sunny, he was heard toaddress himself to the horses in the stable, upon the subject of theKettle, so often mentioned in these pages; and before the witness whooverheard him could run into the house with the intelligence, and addto it upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard himlaugh, the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very doorof the bar, and there cried, 'I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!'with extraordinary rapture.
From that period (although he was supposed to be much affected by thedeath of Mr Willet senior), he constantly practised and improved himselfin the vulgar tongue; and, as he was a mere infant for a raven whenBarnaby was grey, he has very probably gone on talking to the presenttime.
Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty Page 81
