Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
whose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man
revived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no
language can describe; with a thousand old recollections and regrets,
and causes of distress, anxiety, and fear, besetting her on all sides;
poor Dolly Varden--sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly--began to hang her head,
and fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her
cheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful
of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and
inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she
nestled all the livelong day in Emma Haredale’s bosom; and, sometimes
calling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and
sometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in
its cage.
Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that
are so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine--down upon fruit, bloom
upon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose
whole existence is a day--how soon ye sink in troubled water! Poor
Dolly’s heart--a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing; giddy, restless,
fluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and smiles and
laughter--Dolly’s heart was breaking.
Emma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort
to impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly
clung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her
with some fortitude, she increased her own; and though the nights
were long, and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence
of watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear
perception of their destitute condition and its worst dangers, she
uttered no complaint. Before the ruffians, in whose power they were, she
bore herself so calmly, and with such an appearance, in the midst of all
her terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that
there was not a man among them but held her in some degree of dread;
and more than one believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was
prepared to use it.
Such was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave
them to understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her
charms, and detailed such feats of resistance she had performed (her
virtue having given her supernatural strength), that they felt it quite
a happiness to have her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort
they derived at first from Miggs’s presence and society: for that young
lady displayed such resignation and long-suffering, and so much meek
endurance, under her trials, and breathed in all her chaste discourse a
spirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and devout belief that
all would happen for the best, that Emma felt her courage strengthened
by the bright example; never doubting but that everything she said was
true, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and agonised
by doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at
first, by seeing one who came from home; but when she heard under what
circumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had
fallen, she wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort.
Miss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for this state of mind,
and to entreat her to take example by herself, who, she said, was now
receiving back, with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions
to the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace of mind and a
quiet conscience. And, while on serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it
her duty to try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haredale; for whose
improvement she launched into a polemical address of some length, in the
course whereof, she likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that
young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she returned so often to
these subjects, and so frequently called upon them to take a lesson from
her,--at the same time vaunting and, as it were, rioting in, her huge
unworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,--that, in the course of a
short time, she became, in that small chamber, rather a nuisance than a
comfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had
been before.
The night had now come; and for the first time (for their jailers had
been regular in bringing food and candles), they were left in darkness.
Any change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears; and
when some hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could
no longer repress her alarm.
They listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in the outer
room, and now and then a moan which seemed to be wrung from a person in
great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these
men seemed to be in darkness too; for no light shone through the chinks
in the door, nor were they moving, as their custom was, but quite still:
the silence being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board.
At first, Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick
person might be; but arriving, on second thoughts, at the conclusion
that he was a part of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to
be employed with great success, she opined, for Miss Haredale’s comfort,
that it must be some misguided Papist who had been wounded: and this
happy supposition encouraged her to say, under her breath, ‘Ally
Looyer!’ several times.
‘Is it possible,’ said Emma, with some indignation, ‘that you who have
seen these men committing the outrages you have told us of, and who have
fallen into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties!’
‘Personal considerations, miss,’ rejoined Miggs, ‘sinks into nothing,
afore a noble cause. Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good
gentlemen!’
It seemed from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs repeated
this form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the
keyhole of the door; but in the profound darkness she could not be seen.
‘If the time has come--Heaven knows it may come at any moment--when they
are bent on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, with which
they have brought us here, can you still encourage, and take part with
them?’ demanded Emma.
‘I thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, miss,’ returned
Miggs, with increased energy.--‘Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!’
Even Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she was, revived at this, and
bade Miggs hold her tongue directly.
‘WHICH, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?’ said Miggs, with a
strong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun.
Dolly repeated her request.
‘Ho, gracious me!’ cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. ‘Ho, gracious
me! Yes, to be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a
toiling, moiling, constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with,
never-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself,
potter’s wessel--an’t I, miss! Ho yes! My situations is lowly, and my
capacities is limited, and my duties is to humble myself afore the
base degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is--fit to
keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from
wicked relations--and to demean myself before them as is no better than
Infidels--an’t it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help
young flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into
whitening and suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there
an’t a bit of padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor
pomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities--an’t it, miss! Yes, to be
sure it is--ho yes!’
Having delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful
volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when
she jerked out the interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not
because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of
triumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an
impassioned manner on the name of Simmuns.
What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long Miss Miggs,
now that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on waving
them before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is
it necessary to speculate on these matters, for a startling interruption
occurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm.
This was a violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its
sudden bursting open; which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in
the room without, and the clash of weapons. Transported with the hope
that rescue had at length arrived, Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for
help; nor were their shrieks unanswered; for after a hurried interval, a
man, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the other a taper, rushed
into the chamber where they were confined.
It was some check upon their transport to find in this person an entire
stranger, but they appealed to him, nevertheless, and besought him, in
impassioned language, to restore them to their friends.
‘For what other purpose am I here?’ he answered, closing the door, and
standing with his back against it. ‘With what object have I made my way
to this place, through difficulty and danger, but to preserve you?’
With a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate expression, they
embraced each other, and thanked Heaven for this most timely aid. Their
deliverer stepped forward for a moment to put the light upon the table,
and immediately returning to his former position against the door, bared
his head, and looked on smilingly.
‘You have news of my uncle, sir?’ said Emma, turning hastily towards
him.
‘And of my father and mother?’ added Dolly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Good news.’
‘They are alive and unhurt?’ they both cried at once.
‘Yes, and unhurt,’ he rejoined.
‘And close at hand?’
‘I did not say close at hand,’ he answered smoothly; ‘they are at no
great distance. YOUR friends, sweet one,’ he added, addressing Dolly,
‘are within a few hours’ journey. You will be restored to them, I hope,
to-night.’
‘My uncle, sir--’ faltered Emma.
‘Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily--I say happily, because he has
succeeded where many of our creed have failed, and is safe--has crossed
the sea, and is out of Britain.’
‘I thank God for it,’ said Emma, faintly.
‘You say well. You have reason to be thankful: greater reason than it is
possible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages,
to imagine.’
‘Does he desire,’ said Emma, ‘that I should follow him?’
‘Do you ask if he desires it?’ cried the stranger in surprise. ‘IF he
desires it! But you do not know the danger of remaining in England,
the difficulty of escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure the
means, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me. I had forgotten that you
could not, being prisoner here.’
‘I gather, sir,’ said Emma, after a moment’s pause, ‘from what you hint
at, but fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and
the least, of the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not
yet slackened in its fury?’
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands; and with
the same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his
eyes upon the ground, and remained silent.
‘You may venture, sir, to speak plain,’ said Emma, ‘and to tell me the
worst. We have undergone some preparation for it.’
But here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to hear the worst, but
the best; and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to
keep the remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends
again.
‘It is told in three words,’ he said, glancing at the locksmith’s
daughter with a look of some displeasure. ‘The people have risen, to a