Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
virgins following her example, she would, to spite mankind, hang, drown,
stab, or poison herself, with a joy past all expression.
It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he knocked at
his own house, with a shrill cry of ‘Who’s there?’
‘Me, girl, me,’ returned Gabriel.
What, already, sir!’ said Miggs, opening the door with a look of
surprise. ‘We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,--me and
mistress. Oh, she has been SO bad!’
Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but the
parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew for whose
ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but an approving
look as he passed in.
‘Master’s come home, mim,’ cried Miggs, running before him into the
parlour. ‘You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he wouldn’t
keep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master’s always considerate
so far. I’m so glad, mim, on your account. I’m a little’--here Miggs
simpered--‘a little sleepy myself; I’ll own it now, mim, though I said I
wasn’t when you asked me. It ain’t of no consequence, mim, of course.’
‘You had better,’ said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that
Barnaby’s raven was at Miggs’s ankles, ‘you had better get to bed at
once then.’
‘Thanking you kindly, sir,’ returned Miggs, ‘I couldn’t take my rest in
peace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than that I knew
mistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by rights she ought to
have been there, hours ago.’
‘You’re talkative, mistress,’ said Varden, pulling off his greatcoat,
and looking at her askew.
‘Taking the hint, sir,’ cried Miggs, with a flushed face, ‘and thanking
you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I give offence
by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask your pardon, but
am content to get myself into trouble and to be in suffering.’
Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large nightcap,
had been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual, looked round,
and acknowledged Miggs’s championship by commanding her to hold her
tongue.
Every little bone in Miggs’s throat and neck developed itself with a
spitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, ‘Yes, mim, I will.’
‘How do you find yourself now, my dear?’ said the locksmith, taking a
chair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and rubbing his knees
hard as he made the inquiry.
‘You’re very anxious to know, an’t you?’ returned Mrs Varden, with
her eyes upon the print. ‘You, that have not been near me all day, and
wouldn’t have been if I was dying!’
‘My dear Martha--’ said Gabriel.
Mrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to the
bottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and then went
on reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and study.
‘My dear Martha,’ said the locksmith, ‘how can you say such things,
when you know you don’t mean them? If you were dying! Why, if there was
anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn’t I be in constant
attendance upon you?’
‘Yes!’ cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, ‘yes, you would. I don’t
doubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That’s as much as to tell me that
you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting till the breath
was out of my body, that you might go and marry somebody else.’
Miggs groaned in sympathy--a little short groan, checked in its birth,
and changed into a cough. It seemed to say, ‘I can’t help it. It’s wrung
from me by the dreadful brutality of that monster master.’
‘But you’ll break my heart one of these days,’ added Mrs Varden, with
more resignation, ‘and then we shall both be happy. My only desire is
to see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you may settle ME as
soon as you like.’
‘Ah!’ cried Miggs--and coughed again.
Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and then
said mildly, ‘Has Dolly gone to bed?’
‘Your master speaks to you,’ said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over her
shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.
‘No, my dear, I spoke to you,’ suggested the locksmith.
‘Did you hear me, Miggs?’ cried the obdurate lady, stamping her foot
upon the ground. ‘YOU are beginning to despise me now, are you? But this
is example!’
At this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for large
or small parties, on the shortest notice and the most reasonable terms,
fell a crying violently; holding both her hands tight upon her heart
meanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent its splitting into small
fragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise possessed that faculty in high
perfection, wept too, against Miggs; and with such effect that Miggs
gave in after a time, and, except for an occasional sob, which seemed to
threaten some remote intention of breaking out again, left her mistress
in possession of the field. Her superiority being thoroughly asserted,
that lady soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.
The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last night so
completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in his chair, and
would doubtless have slept there all night, but for the voice of Mrs
Varden, which, after a pause of some five minutes, awoke him with a
start.
‘If I am ever,’ said Mrs V.--not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous
remonstrance--‘in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than
usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am
treated.’
‘Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!’ cried
Miggs. ‘I never see such company!’
‘Because,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘because I never interfere or interrupt;
because I never question where anybody comes or goes; because my whole
mind and soul is bent on saving where I can save, and labouring in this
house;--therefore, they try me as they do.’
‘Martha,’ urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as
possible, ‘what is it you complain of? I really came home with every
wish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.’
‘What do I complain of!’ retorted his wife. ‘Is it a chilling thing to
have one’s husband sulking and falling asleep directly he comes home--to
have him freezing all one’s warm-heartedness, and throwing cold water
over the fireside? Is it natural, when I know he went out upon a matter
in which I am as much interested as anybody can be, that I should wish
to know all that has happened, or that he should tell me without my
begging and praying him to do it? Is that natural, or is it not?’
‘I am very sorry, Martha,’ said the good-natured locksmith. ‘I was
really afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I’ll tell you
everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.’
‘No, Varden,’ returned his wife, rising with dignity. ‘I dare say--thank
you! I’m not a child to be corrected one minute and petted the next--I’m
a little too old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the light.--YOU can be
cheerful, Miggs, at least.’
Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of compassionate
despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest state conceivable,
and tossing her head as she glanced towards the locksmith, bore off her
mistress and the light together.
‘Now, who would think,’ thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and
drawing his chair nearer to the fire, ‘that that woman could ever be
pleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be. Well, well, all of us have
our faults. I’ll not be hard upon hers. We have been man and wife too
long for that.’
He dozed again--not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty temper.
While his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper stairs was
partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight of him, hastily
drew back again.
‘I wish,’ murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round
the room, ‘I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But that’s impossible! I
wonder whether there’s any madman alive, who would marry Miggs!’
This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again, and
slept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused himself; and
having double-locked the street-door according to custom, and put the
key in his pocket, went off to bed.
He had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head again
appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a little lamp.
‘What the devil business has he to stop up so late!’ muttered Sim,
passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge. ‘Here’s
half the night gone already. There’s only one good that has ever come to
me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade, and that’s this piece
of ironmongery, upon my soul!’
As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg pocket of
his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted cautiously in
the lock his master had secured, and softly opened the door. That done,
he replaced his piece of secret workmanship in his pocket; and leaving
the lamp burning, and closing the door carefully and without noise,
stole out into the street--as little suspected by the locksmith in his
sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.
Chapter 8
Clear of the locksmith’s house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his cautious
manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling, swaggering, roving
blade, who would rather kill a man than otherwise, and eat him too if
needful, made the best of his way along the darkened streets.
Half pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and assure
himself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to Barbican, and
turning into one of the narrowest of the narrow streets which diverged
from that centre, slackened his pace and wiped his heated brow, as if
the termination of his walk were near at hand.
It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in truth
one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance by no
means inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself little
better than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind court, or
yard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant odours. Into
this ill-favoured pit, the locksmith’s vagrant ‘prentice groped his way;
and stopping at a house from whose defaced and rotten front the rude
effigy of a bottle swung to and fro like some gibbeted malefactor,
struck thrice upon an iron grating with his foot. After listening in
vain for some response to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and
struck the grating thrice again.
A further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration. The ground
seemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.
‘Is that the captain?’ said a voice as ragged as the head.
‘Yes,’ replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, ‘who
should it be?’
‘It’s so late, we gave you up,’ returned the voice, as its owner stopped
to shut and fasten the grating. ‘You’re late, sir.’
‘Lead on,’ said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, ‘and make remarks
when I require you. Forward!’
This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and
unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and
slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten
track must have ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr Tappertit being,
like some other great commanders, favourable to strong effects, and
personal display, cried ‘Forward!’ again, in the hoarsest voice he could
assume; and led the way, with folded arms and knitted brows, to the
cellar down below, where there was a small copper fixed in one corner,
a chair or two, a form and table, a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed,
covered with a ragged patchwork rug.
‘Welcome, noble captain!’ cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap.