Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and
the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I’m rather put
out when he’s away. Hugh!--a dreadful idle vagrant fellow, sir, half
a gipsy, as I think--always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in
the straw in winter time, sir--Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman
a waiting here through him!--Hugh! I wish that chap was dead, I do
indeed.’
‘Possibly he is,’ returned the other. ‘I should think if he were living,
he would have heard you by this time.’
‘In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,’ said the
distracted host, ‘that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his
ears, it wouldn’t wake him, sir.’
The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and recipe
for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood
in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his
hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his
fate, and a half disposition to lead him into the house, and shut him up
in the parlour, while he waited on his master.
‘Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!’ cried John, in the very height
and zenith of his distress. ‘Did you hear me a calling, villain?’
The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon the
saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse’s head towards the
stable, and was gone in an instant.
‘Brisk enough when he is awake,’ said the guest.
‘Brisk enough, sir!’ replied John, looking at the place where the horse
had been, as if not yet understanding quite what had become of him. ‘He
melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there
he is. You look at him again, and--there he isn’t.’
Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to what
he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the whole life
and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up
his wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole’s best apartment.
It was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of
the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large as many
modern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass, emblazoned
with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and patched, and
shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that the former
owner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed the
sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into
his chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues
and colours from their pride.
But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it
would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room
of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay, and was
much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the walls;
and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty’s dress; the light of
women’s eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound
of gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once
been there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with
them all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born
and bred there; the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be
bought and sold--a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or
leave it, it was still the same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody,
had equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever
changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!
No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before the
broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square
of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning
and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were
heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his
cook, touching the stranger’s entertainment; while the guest himself,
seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the
distant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.
Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together,
or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was
quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest
corner, summoned John Willet.
‘Sir,’ said John.
He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the
mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this
before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.
‘There’s a house not far from here,’ said the guest when he had written
a few lines, ‘which you call the Warren, I believe?’
As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the
question as a thing of course, John contented himself with nodding his
head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his
pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.
‘I want this note’--said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and
folding it, ‘conveyed there without loss of time, and an answer brought
back here. Have you a messenger at hand?’
John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.
‘Let me see him,’ said the guest.
This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing
down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand, Barnaby, who
had just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who, so that he thought
himself employed on a grave and serious business, would go anywhere.
‘Why the truth is,’ said John after a long pause, ‘that the person who’d
go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and though quick
of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he’s not good at
talking, being touched and flighty, sir.’
‘You don’t,’ said the guest, raising his eyes to John’s fat face, ‘you
don’t mean--what’s the fellow’s name--you don’t mean Barnaby?’
‘Yes, I do,’ returned the landlord, his features turning quite
expressive with surprise.
‘How comes he to be here?’ inquired the guest, leaning back in his
chair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never varied; and
with the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile upon his face. ‘I
saw him in London last night.’
‘He’s, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,’ returned old John,
after the usual pause to get the question in his mind. ‘Sometimes he
walks, and sometimes runs. He’s known along the road by everybody, and
sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double.
He comes and goes, through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the
darkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.’
‘He goes often to the Warren, does he not?’ said the guest carelessly.
‘I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect
yesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman much.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ John made answer, ‘he does. His father, sir, was
murdered in that house.’
‘So I have heard,’ returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his
pocket with the same sweet smile. ‘A very disagreeable circumstance for
the family.’
‘Very,’ said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly
and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating
the subject.
‘All the circumstances after a murder,’ said the guest soliloquising,
‘must be dreadfully unpleasant--so much bustle and disturbance--no
repose--a constant dwelling upon one subject--and the running in and
out, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn’t have such a thing
happen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account. ‘Twould
be enough to wear one’s life out.--You were going to say, friend--’ he
added, turning to John again.
‘Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that
Barnaby’s as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,’ answered
John. ‘Shall he do your errand, sir?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied the guest. ‘Oh certainly. Let him do it by all means.
Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If he
objects to come you may tell him it’s Mr Chester. He will remember my
name, I dare say.’
John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that he
could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but left
the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of all
possible conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs,
he looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all
that time never once left off shaking his head; for which statement
there would seem to be some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch
as that interval of time did certainly elapse, before he returned with
Barnaby to the guest’s apartment.
‘Come hither, lad,’ said Mr Chester. ‘You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?’
Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say,
‘You hear him?’ John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of decorum,
clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance.
‘He knows him, sir,’ said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, ‘as well as
you or I do.’
‘I haven’t the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,’
returned his guest. ‘YOU may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my
friend.’
Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same
smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at Barnaby’s
door, determined to kick his raven, on the very first opportunity.
‘Give that,’ said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note, and
who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, ‘into Mr Haredale’s
own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If you
should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him--can he
remember a message, landlord?’
‘When he chooses, sir,’ replied John. ‘He won’t forget this one.’
‘How are you sure of that?’
John merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward, and
his earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner’s face; and nodded
sagely.
‘Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,’ said Mr Chester, ‘that
I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him (if he will
call) at any time this evening.--At the worst I can have a bed here,
Willet, I suppose?’
Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in this
familiar form of address, answered, with something like a knowing look,
‘I should believe you could, sir,’ and was turning over in his mind
various forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting one appropriate to
the qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to flight by Mr
Chester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed away.
‘Speed!’ said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, ‘Speed!
If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!’
With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet’s horror, on the
guest’s fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back
window.
‘Look down there,’ he said softly; ‘do you mark how they whisper in each
other’s ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in sport?
Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one
looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and
gambol, delighted with the mischief they’ve been plotting? Look at
‘em now. See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and
whisper, cautiously together--little thinking, mind, how often I have
lain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot
and hatch? Do you know?’
‘They are only clothes,’ returned the guest, ‘such as we wear; hanging
on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.’