Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
back into the room, that she turned upon him, once again, that stony
look of horror, and, sinking down into a chair, covered her face, and
shuddered, as though the hand of death were on her.
Chapter 6
Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had
passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon the
shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and would have
gazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by compassion and
humanity.
‘You are ill,’ said Gabriel. ‘Let me call some neighbour in.’
‘Not for the world,’ she rejoined, motioning to him with her trembling
hand, and holding her face averted. ‘It is enough that you have been by,
to see this.’
‘Nay, more than enough--or less,’ said Gabriel.
‘Be it so,’ she returned. ‘As you like. Ask me no questions, I entreat
you.’
‘Neighbour,’ said the locksmith, after a pause. ‘Is this fair, or
reasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have known me so
long and sought my advice in all matters--like you, who from a girl have
had a strong mind and a staunch heart?’
‘I have need of them,’ she replied. ‘I am growing old, both in years and
care. Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them weaker than they
used to be. Do not speak to me.’
‘How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!’ returned the
locksmith. ‘Who was that man, and why has his coming made this change in
you?’
She was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself from
falling on the ground.
‘I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,’ said the locksmith,
‘who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has tried to prove it
when he could. Who is this ill-favoured man, and what has he to do with
you? Who is this ghost, that is only seen in the black nights and bad
weather? How does he know, and why does he haunt this house, whispering
through chinks and crevices, as if there was that between him and you,
which neither durst so much as speak aloud of? Who is he?’
‘You do well to say he haunts this house,’ returned the widow, faintly.
‘His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and darkness, at noonday
and midnight. And now, at last, he has come in the body!’
‘But he wouldn’t have gone in the body,’ returned the locksmith with
some irritation, ‘if you had left my arms and legs at liberty. What
riddle is this?’
‘It is one,’ she answered, rising as she spoke, ‘that must remain for
ever as it is. I dare not say more than that.’
‘Dare not!’ repeated the wondering locksmith.
‘Do not press me,’ she replied. ‘I am sick and faint, and every faculty
of life seems dead within me.--No!--Do not touch me, either.’
Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell back as
she made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent wonder.
‘Let me go my way alone,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and let the hands of
no honest man touch mine to-night.’ When she had tottered to the door,
she turned, and added with a stronger effort, ‘This is a secret, which,
of necessity, I trust to you. You are a true man. As you have ever been
good and kind to me,--keep it. If any noise was heard above, make some
excuse--say anything but what you really saw, and never let a word or
look between us, recall this circumstance. I trust to you. Mind, I trust
to you. How much I trust, you never can conceive.’
Casting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left him
there alone.
Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with a
countenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on
what had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable
interpretation. To find this widow woman, whose life for so many years
had been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and who, in her
quiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion and respect of
all who knew her--to find her linked mysteriously with an ill-omened
man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet favouring his escape, was a
discovery that pained as much as startled him. Her reliance on his
secrecy, and his tacit acquiescence, increased his distress of mind. If
he had spoken boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her
when she rose to leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of
silently compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have
been more at ease.
‘Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!’ said
Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with greater
ease, and looking ruefully at the fire. ‘I have no more readiness than
old John himself. Why didn’t I say firmly, “You have no right to such
secrets, and I demand of you to tell me what this means,” instead of
standing gaping at her, like an old moon-calf as I am! But there’s my
weakness. I can be obstinate enough with men if need be, but women may
twist me round their fingers at their pleasure.’
He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and, warming
his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his bald head with
it, until it glistened again.
‘And yet,’ said the locksmith, softening under this soothing process,
and stopping to smile, ‘it MAY be nothing. Any drunken brawler trying to
make his way into the house, would have alarmed a quiet soul like her.
But then’--and here was the vexation--‘how came it to be that man; how
comes he to have this influence over her; how came she to favour his
getting away from me; and, more than all, how came she not to say it
was a sudden fright, and nothing more? It’s a sad thing to have, in one
minute, reason to mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old
sweetheart into the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon
my mind!--Is that Barnaby outside there?’
‘Ay!’ he cried, looking in and nodding. ‘Sure enough it’s Barnaby--how
did you guess?’
‘By your shadow,’ said the locksmith.
‘Oho!’ cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, ‘He’s a merry fellow,
that shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We have such
pranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass! Sometimes
he’ll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes no bigger
than a dwarf. Now, he goes on before, and now behind, and anon he’ll
be stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping whenever I stop, and
thinking I can’t see him, though I have my eye on him sharp enough. Oh!
he’s a merry fellow. Tell me--is he silly too? I think he is.’
‘Why?’ asked Gabriel.
‘Because he never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.--Why
don’t you come?’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs. He wants you. Stay--where’s HIS shadow? Come. You’re a wise
man; tell me that.’
‘Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,’ returned the locksmith.
‘No!’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Guess again.’
‘Gone out a walking, maybe?’
‘He has changed shadows with a woman,’ the idiot whispered in his ear,
and then fell back with a look of triumph. ‘Her shadow’s always with
him, and his with her. That’s sport I think, eh?’
‘Barnaby,’ said the locksmith, with a grave look; ‘come hither, lad.’
‘I know what you want to say. I know!’ he replied, keeping away from
him. ‘But I’m cunning, I’m silent. I only say so much to you--are you
ready?’ As he spoke, he caught up the light, and waved it with a wild
laugh above his head.
‘Softly--gently,’ said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to keep
him calm and quiet. ‘I thought you had been asleep.’
‘So I HAVE been asleep,’ he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes. ‘There
have been great faces coming and going--close to my face, and then a
mile away--low places to creep through, whether I would or no--high
churches to fall down from--strange creatures crowded up together neck
and heels, to sit upon the bed--that’s sleep, eh?’
‘Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,’ said the locksmith.
‘Dreams!’ he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. ‘Those are not
dreams.’
‘What are,’ replied the locksmith, ‘if they are not?’
‘I dreamed,’ said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden’s, and peering
close into his face as he answered in a whisper, ‘I dreamed just now
that something--it was in the shape of a man--followed me--came softly
after me--wouldn’t let me be--but was always hiding and crouching, like
a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should pass; when it crept out and
came softly after me.--Did you ever see me run?’
‘Many a time, you know.’
‘You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came creeping on
to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer--I ran faster--leaped--sprung out
of bed, and to the window--and there, in the street below--but he is
waiting for us. Are you coming?’
‘What in the street below, Barnaby?’ said Varden, imagining that
he traced some connection between this vision and what had actually
occurred.
Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the light
above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith’s arm more
tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.
They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with chairs,
whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very
little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair
before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester,
the young gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the
previous night, and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed
him as his preserver and friend.
‘Say no more, sir, say no more,’ said Gabriel. ‘I hope I would have done
at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most of all for you,
sir. A certain young lady,’ he added, with some hesitation, ‘has done us
many a kind turn, and we naturally feel--I hope I give you no offence in
saying this, sir?’
The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in his
chair as if in pain.
‘It’s no great matter,’ he said, in answer to the locksmith’s
sympathising look, ‘a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from
being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the loss
of blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.’
‘If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,’ returned
the locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and bending over
him, ‘I’ll stand here for the convenience of speaking low. Barnaby is
not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such times talking never
does him good.’
They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a seat on
the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was making puzzles on
his fingers with a skein of string.
‘Pray, tell me, sir,’ said Varden, dropping his voice still lower,
‘exactly what happened last night. I have my reason for inquiring. You
left the Maypole, alone?’
‘And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place where
you found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.’
‘Behind you?’ said the locksmith.
‘Indeed, yes--behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook me,
and checking his horse, inquired the way to London.’
‘You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are,
scouring the roads in all directions?’ said Varden.
‘I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols
in their holster-case with the landlord’s son. I directed him as he
desired. Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me furiously,
as if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse’s hoofs. In starting
aside, I slipped and fell. You found me with this stab and an ugly
bruise or two, and without my purse--in which he found little enough for
his pains. And now, Mr Varden,’ he added, shaking the locksmith by the
hand, ‘saving the extent of my gratitude to you, you know as much as I.’
‘Except,’ said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking cautiously