Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its
lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life
in him yet.
The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn
one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally
among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys
and driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such
of its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable
reason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy
that the night would certainly clear at eleven o’clock precisely,--which
by a remarkable coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his
house.
The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was
John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokened
profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very
strong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet’s ordinary
boast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure; which
assertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing
that he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal
one of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence--always sure
that what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing
quite settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that
anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and of
necessity wrong.
Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose
against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might not
be affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then he
walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composing
himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to and
so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze, said, looking round
upon his guests:
‘It’ll clear at eleven o’clock. No sooner and no later. Not before and
not arterwards.’
‘How do you make out that?’ said a little man in the opposite corner.
‘The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.’
John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had brought
his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made
answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his
business and nobody else’s:
‘Never you mind about the moon. Don’t you trouble yourself about her.
You let the moon alone, and I’ll let you alone.’
‘No offence I hope?’ said the little man.
Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly
penetrated to his brain, and then replying, ‘No offence as YET,’ applied
a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then casting
a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs
ornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, who
sat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat
flapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on
which his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.
There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distance
from the fire also, and whose thoughts--to judge from his folded
arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him--were
occupied with other matters than the topics under discussion or
the persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about
eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat
slight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair,
and was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots
(resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at
the present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition of
the roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly
attired, and without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.
Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down,
were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt as
being best suited to the inclemency of the weather. There, too, were a
pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little of
his face was visible, except the long dark lashes which concealed his
downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulness
of demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even those
slight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.
Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once,
and then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silent
neighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often met
before. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed by
the person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated the
whole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon the
man in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time with
an intensity so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, who
all, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and stared
with open mouths at the stranger likewise.
The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the
little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the
parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little
round black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this little man wore at the
knees of his rusty black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, and
all down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothing
except his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened
in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles,
he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of
them at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless
under such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging
to short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and long
Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of their
companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively.
The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking
fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations--most
probably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position and
looked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keen
regard, and darted an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group.
It had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney,
except those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught in
the fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very ready
nature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward and
disconcerted manner.
‘Well?’ said the stranger.
Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. ‘I thought
you gave an order,’ said the landlord, after a pause of two or three
minutes for consideration.
The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a man
of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and
the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark
handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it
served the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his
eyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert attention from a deep
gash, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflicted
must have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferently
attained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. His
complexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly jagged beard
of some three weeks’ date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorly
clad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat down
in a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little
clerk very readily assigned to him.
‘A highwayman!’ whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.
‘Do you suppose highwaymen don’t dress handsomer than that?’ replied
Parkes. ‘It’s a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymen
don’t need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.’
Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to the
house by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by the
landlord’s son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty,
whom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treat
accordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire,
the man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eye
sharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:
‘What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?’
‘Public-house?’ said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.
‘Public-house, father!’ exclaimed Joe, ‘where’s the public-house
within a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house--the
Warren--naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, that
stands in its own grounds--?’
‘Aye,’ said the stranger.
‘And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as
broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands
and dwindled away--more’s the pity!’ pursued the young man.
‘Maybe,’ was the reply. ‘But my question related to the owner. What it
has been I don’t care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.’
The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, and
glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed his
attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:
‘The owner’s name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and’--again
he glanced in the same direction as before--‘and a worthy gentleman
too--hem!’
Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significant
gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.
‘I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that crosses
the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? His
daughter?’
‘Why, how should I know, honest man?’ replied Joe, contriving in the
course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to his
questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, ‘I didn’t see the young lady,
you know. Whew! There’s the wind again--AND rain--well it IS a night!’
Rough weather indeed!’ observed the strange man.
‘You’re used to it?’ said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to
promise a diversion of the subject.
‘Pretty well,’ returned the other. ‘About the young lady--has Mr
Haredale a daughter?’
‘No, no,’ said the young fellow fretfully, ‘he’s a single
gentleman--he’s--be quiet, can’t you, man? Don’t you see this talk is
not relished yonder?’
Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear it,
his tormentor provokingly continued:
‘Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his
daughter, though he is not married.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached
him again, ‘You’ll come in for it presently, I know you will!’
‘I mean no harm’--returned the traveller boldly, ‘and have said none
that I know of. I ask a few questions--as any stranger may, and not
unnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable house in a neighbourhood
which is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I were
talking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir,
for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?’
The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe
Willet’s discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak
preparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give him