Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
drinkables, or savoury condiments; lastly, and to crown all, as typical
of the immense resources of the establishment, and its defiances to all
visitors to cut and come again, such a stupendous cheese!
It is a poor heart that never rejoices--it must have been the poorest,
weakest, and most watery heart that ever beat, which would not have
warmed towards the Maypole bar. Mrs Varden’s did directly. She could no
more have reproached John Willet among those household gods, the kegs
and bottles, lemons, pipes, and cheese, than she could have stabbed him
with his own bright carving-knife. The order for dinner too--it might
have soothed a savage. ‘A bit of fish,’ said John to the cook, ‘and some
lamb chops (breaded, with plenty of ketchup), and a good salad, and a
roast spring chicken, with a dish of sausages and mashed potatoes, or
something of that sort.’ Something of that sort! The resources of
these inns! To talk carelessly about dishes, which in themselves were
a first-rate holiday kind of dinner, suitable to one’s wedding-day, as
something of that sort: meaning, if you can’t get a spring chicken, any
other trifle in the way of poultry will do--such as a peacock, perhaps!
The kitchen too, with its great broad cavernous chimney; the kitchen,
where nothing in the way of cookery seemed impossible; where you could
believe in anything to eat, they chose to tell you of. Mrs Varden
returned from the contemplation of these wonders to the bar again, with
a head quite dizzy and bewildered. Her housekeeping capacity was not
large enough to comprehend them. She was obliged to go to sleep. Waking
was pain, in the midst of such immensity.
Dolly in the meanwhile, whose gay heart and head ran upon other matters,
passed out at the garden door, and glancing back now and then (but of
course not wondering whether Joe saw her), tripped away by a path across
the fields with which she was well acquainted, to discharge her mission
at the Warren; and this deponent hath been informed and verily
believes, that you might have seen many less pleasant objects than the
cherry-coloured mantle and ribbons, as they went fluttering along the
green meadows in the bright light of the day, like giddy things as they
were.
Chapter 20
The proud consciousness of her trust, and the great importance she
derived from it, might have advertised it to all the house if she had
had to run the gauntlet of its inhabitants; but as Dolly had played in
every dull room and passage many and many a time, when a child, and had
ever since been the humble friend of Miss Haredale, whose foster-sister
she was, she was as free of the building as the young lady herself.
So, using no greater precaution than holding her breath and walking on
tiptoe as she passed the library door, she went straight to Emma’s room
as a privileged visitor.
It was the liveliest room in the building. The chamber was sombre like
the rest for the matter of that, but the presence of youth and beauty
would make a prison cheerful (saving alas! that confinement withers
them), and lend some charms of their own to the gloomiest scene. Birds,
flowers, books, drawing, music, and a hundred such graceful tokens of
feminine loves and cares, filled it with more of life and human sympathy
than the whole house besides seemed made to hold. There was heart in
the room; and who that has a heart, ever fails to recognise the silent
presence of another!
Dolly had one undoubtedly, and it was not a tough one either, though
there was a little mist of coquettishness about it, such as sometimes
surrounds that sun of life in its morning, and slightly dims its lustre.
Thus, when Emma rose to greet her, and kissing her affectionately on the
cheek, told her, in her quiet way, that she had been very unhappy, the
tears stood in Dolly’s eyes, and she felt more sorry than she could
tell; but next moment she happened to raise them to the glass, and
really there was something there so exceedingly agreeable, that as she
sighed, she smiled, and felt surprisingly consoled.
‘I have heard about it, miss,’ said Dolly, ‘and it’s very sad indeed,
but when things are at the worst they are sure to mend.’
‘But are you sure they are at the worst?’ asked Emma with a smile.
‘Why, I don’t see how they can very well be more unpromising than they
are; I really don’t,’ said Dolly. ‘And I bring something to begin with.’
‘Not from Edward?’
Dolly nodded and smiled, and feeling in her pockets (there were pockets
in those days) with an affectation of not being able to find what she
wanted, which greatly enhanced her importance, at length produced
the letter. As Emma hastily broke the seal and became absorbed in its
contents, Dolly’s eyes, by one of those strange accidents for which
there is no accounting, wandered to the glass again. She could not help
wondering whether the coach-maker suffered very much, and quite pitied
the poor man.
It was a long letter--a very long letter, written close on all four
sides of the sheet of paper, and crossed afterwards; but it was not a
consolatory letter, for as Emma read it she stopped from time to time to
put her handkerchief to her eyes. To be sure Dolly marvelled greatly to
see her in so much distress, for to her thinking a love affair ought
to be one of the best jokes, and the slyest, merriest kind of thing in
life. But she set it down in her own mind that all this came from Miss
Haredale’s being so constant, and that if she would only take on with
some other young gentleman--just in the most innocent way possible,
to keep her first lover up to the mark--she would find herself
inexpressibly comforted.
‘I am sure that’s what I should do if it was me,’ thought Dolly. ‘To
make one’s sweetheart miserable is well enough and quite right, but to
be made miserable one’s self is a little too much!’
However it wouldn’t do to say so, and therefore she sat looking on in
silence. She needed a pretty considerable stretch of patience, for when
the long letter had been read once all through it was read again, and
when it had been read twice all through it was read again. During this
tedious process, Dolly beguiled the time in the most improving manner
that occurred to her, by curling her hair on her fingers, with the
aid of the looking-glass before mentioned, and giving it some killing
twists.
Everything has an end. Even young ladies in love cannot read their
letters for ever. In course of time the packet was folded up, and it
only remained to write the answer.
But as this promised to be a work of time likewise, Emma said she would
put it off until after dinner, and that Dolly must dine with her. As
Dolly had made up her mind to do so beforehand, she required very little
pressing; and when they had settled this point, they went to walk in the
garden.
They strolled up and down the terrace walks, talking incessantly--at
least, Dolly never left off once--and making that quarter of the sad and
mournful house quite gay. Not that they talked loudly or laughed much,
but they were both so very handsome, and it was such a breezy day, and
their light dresses and dark curls appeared so free and joyous in
their abandonment, and Emma was so fair, and Dolly so rosy, and Emma
so delicately shaped, and Dolly so plump, and--in short, there are no
flowers for any garden like such flowers, let horticulturists say what
they may, and both house and garden seemed to know it, and to brighten
up sensibly.
After this, came the dinner and the letter writing, and some more
talking, in the course of which Miss Haredale took occasion to
charge upon Dolly certain flirtish and inconstant propensities, which
accusations Dolly seemed to think very complimentary indeed, and to be
mightily amused with. Finding her quite incorrigible in this respect,
Emma suffered her to depart; but not before she had confided to her that
important and never-sufficiently-to-be-taken-care-of answer, and endowed
her moreover with a pretty little bracelet as a keepsake. Having clasped
it on her arm, and again advised her half in jest and half in earnest to
amend her roguish ways, for she knew she was fond of Joe at heart (which
Dolly stoutly denied, with a great many haughty protestations that she
hoped she could do better than that indeed! and so forth), she bade
her farewell; and after calling her back to give her more supplementary
messages for Edward, than anybody with tenfold the gravity of Dolly
Varden could be reasonably expected to remember, at length dismissed
her.
Dolly bade her good bye, and tripping lightly down the stairs arrived at
the dreaded library door, and was about to pass it again on tiptoe, when
it opened, and behold! there stood Mr Haredale. Now, Dolly had from her
childhood associated with this gentleman the idea of something grim and
ghostly, and being at the moment conscience-stricken besides, the sight
of him threw her into such a flurry that she could neither acknowledge
his presence nor run away, so she gave a great start, and then with
downcast eyes stood still and trembled.
‘Come here, girl,’ said Mr Haredale, taking her by the hand. ‘I want to
speak to you.’
‘If you please, sir, I’m in a hurry,’ faltered Dolly, ‘and--you have
frightened me by coming so suddenly upon me, sir--I would rather go,
sir, if you’ll be so good as to let me.’
‘Immediately,’ said Mr Haredale, who had by this time led her into the
room and closed the door. ‘You shall go directly. You have just left
Emma?’
‘Yes, sir, just this minute.--Father’s waiting for me, sir, if you’ll
please to have the goodness--’
‘I know. I know,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Answer me a question. What did you
bring here to-day?’
‘Bring here, sir?’ faltered Dolly.
‘You will tell me the truth, I am sure. Yes.’
Dolly hesitated for a little while, and somewhat emboldened by his
manner, said at last, ‘Well then, sir. It was a letter.’
‘From Mr Edward Chester, of course. And you are the bearer of the
answer?’
Dolly hesitated again, and not being able to decide upon any other
course of action, burst into tears.
‘You alarm yourself without cause,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Why are you so
foolish? Surely you can answer me. You know that I have but to put the
question to Emma and learn the truth directly. Have you the answer with
you?’
Dolly had what is popularly called a spirit of her own, and being now
fairly at bay, made the best of it.
‘Yes, sir,’ she rejoined, trembling and frightened as she was. ‘Yes,
sir, I have. You may kill me if you please, sir, but I won’t give it up.
I’m very sorry,--but I won’t. There, sir.’
‘I commend your firmness and your plain-speaking,’ said Mr Haredale.
‘Rest assured that I have as little desire to take your letter as your
life. You are a very discreet messenger and a good girl.’
Not feeling quite certain, as she afterwards said, whether he might not
be ‘coming over her’ with these compliments, Dolly kept as far from him
as she could, cried again, and resolved to defend her pocket (for the
letter was there) to the last extremity.
‘I have some design,’ said Mr Haredale after a short silence, during
which a smile, as he regarded her, had struggled through the gloom and
melancholy that was natural to his face, ‘of providing a companion for
my niece; for her life is a very lonely one. Would you like the office?
You are the oldest friend she has, and the best entitled to it.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Dolly, not sure but he was bantering her;
‘I can’t say. I don’t know what they might wish at home. I couldn’t give
an opinion, sir.’
‘If your friends had no objection, would you have any?’ said Mr
Haredale. ‘Come. There’s a plain question; and easy to answer.’
‘None at all that I know of sir,’ replied Dolly. ‘I should be very glad
to be near Miss Emma of course, and always am.’