Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
‘That’s well,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘That is all I had to say. You are
anxious to go. Don’t let me detain you.’
Dolly didn’t let him, nor did she wait for him to try, for the words
had no sooner passed his lips than she was out of the room, out of the
house, and in the fields again.
The first thing to be done, of course, when she came to herself and
considered what a flurry she had been in, was to cry afresh; and the
next thing, when she reflected how well she had got over it, was to
laugh heartily. The tears once banished gave place to the smiles, and at
last Dolly laughed so much that she was fain to lean against a tree,
and give vent to her exultation. When she could laugh no longer, and was
quite tired, she put her head-dress to rights, dried her eyes, looked
back very merrily and triumphantly at the Warren chimneys, which were
just visible, and resumed her walk.
The twilight had come on, and it was quickly growing dusk, but the path
was so familiar to her from frequent traversing that she hardly thought
of this, and certainly felt no uneasiness at being left alone. Moreover,
there was the bracelet to admire; and when she had given it a good
rub, and held it out at arm’s length, it sparkled and glittered so
beautifully on her wrist, that to look at it in every point of view and
with every possible turn of the arm, was quite an absorbing business.
There was the letter too, and it looked so mysterious and knowing, when
she took it out of her pocket, and it held, as she knew, so much inside,
that to turn it over and over, and think about it, and wonder how it
began, and how it ended, and what it said all through, was another
matter of constant occupation. Between the bracelet and the letter,
there was quite enough to do without thinking of anything else; and
admiring each by turns, Dolly went on gaily.
As she passed through a wicket-gate to where the path was narrow, and
lay between two hedges garnished here and there with trees, she heard
a rustling close at hand, which brought her to a sudden stop. She
listened. All was very quiet, and she went on again--not absolutely
frightened, but a little quicker than before perhaps, and possibly not
quite so much at her ease, for a check of that kind is startling.
She had no sooner moved on again, than she was conscious of the same
sound, which was like that of a person tramping stealthily among bushes
and brushwood. Looking towards the spot whence it appeared to come, she
almost fancied she could make out a crouching figure. She stopped
again. All was quiet as before. On she went once more--decidedly faster
now--and tried to sing softly to herself. It must be the wind.
But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when she
stood still? She stopped involuntarily as she made the reflection, and
the rustling noise stopped likewise. She was really frightened now, and
was yet hesitating what to do, when the bushes crackled and snapped, and
a man came plunging through them, close before her.
Chapter 21
It was for the moment an inexpressible relief to Dolly, to recognise in
the person who forced himself into the path so abruptly, and now stood
directly in her way, Hugh of the Maypole, whose name she uttered in a
tone of delighted surprise that came from her heart.
‘Was it you?’ she said, ‘how glad I am to see you! and how could you
terrify me so!’
In answer to which, he said nothing at all, but stood quite still,
looking at her.
‘Did you come to meet me?’ asked Dolly.
Hugh nodded, and muttered something to the effect that he had been
waiting for her, and had expected her sooner.
‘I thought it likely they would send,’ said Dolly, greatly reassured by
this.
‘Nobody sent me,’ was his sullen answer. ‘I came of my own accord.’
The rough bearing of this fellow, and his wild, uncouth appearance, had
often filled the girl with a vague apprehension even when other people
were by, and had occasioned her to shrink from him involuntarily. The
having him for an unbidden companion in so solitary a place, with the
darkness fast gathering about them, renewed and even increased the alarm
she had felt at first.
If his manner had been merely dogged and passively fierce, as usual,
she would have had no greater dislike to his company than she always
felt--perhaps, indeed, would have been rather glad to have had him at
hand. But there was something of coarse bold admiration in his look,
which terrified her very much. She glanced timidly towards him,
uncertain whether to go forward or retreat, and he stood gazing at her
like a handsome satyr; and so they remained for some short time without
stirring or breaking silence. At length Dolly took courage, shot past
him, and hurried on.
‘Why do you spend so much breath in avoiding me?’ said Hugh,
accommodating his pace to hers, and keeping close at her side.
‘I wish to get back as quickly as I can, and you walk too near me,
answered Dolly.’
‘Too near!’ said Hugh, stooping over her so that she could feel his
breath upon her forehead. ‘Why too near? You’re always proud to ME,
mistress.’
‘I am proud to no one. You mistake me,’ answered Dolly. ‘Fall back, if
you please, or go on.’
‘Nay, mistress,’ he rejoined, endeavouring to draw her arm through his,
‘I’ll walk with you.’
She released herself and clenching her little hand, struck him with
right good will. At this, Maypole Hugh burst into a roar of laughter,
and passing his arm about her waist, held her in his strong grasp as
easily as if she had been a bird.
‘Ha ha ha! Well done, mistress! Strike again. You shall beat my face,
and tear my hair, and pluck my beard up by the roots, and welcome, for
the sake of your bright eyes. Strike again, mistress. Do. Ha ha ha! I
like it.’
‘Let me go,’ she cried, endeavouring with both her hands to push him
off. ‘Let me go this moment.’
‘You had as good be kinder to me, Sweetlips,’ said Hugh. ‘You had,
indeed. Come. Tell me now. Why are you always so proud? I don’t quarrel
with you for it. I love you when you’re proud. Ha ha ha! You can’t hide
your beauty from a poor fellow; that’s a comfort!’
She gave him no answer, but as he had not yet checked her progress,
continued to press forward as rapidly as she could. At length, between
the hurry she had made, her terror, and the tightness of his embrace,
her strength failed her, and she could go no further.
‘Hugh,’ cried the panting girl, ‘good Hugh; if you will leave me I will
give you anything--everything I have--and never tell one word of this to
any living creature.’
‘You had best not,’ he answered. ‘Harkye, little dove, you had best not.
All about here know me, and what I dare do if I have a mind. If ever you
are going to tell, stop when the words are on your lips, and think of
the mischief you’ll bring, if you do, upon some innocent heads that you
wouldn’t wish to hurt a hair of. Bring trouble on me, and I’ll bring
trouble and something more on them in return. I care no more for them
than for so many dogs; not so much--why should I? I’d sooner kill a man
than a dog any day. I’ve never been sorry for a man’s death in all my
life, and I have for a dog’s.’
There was something so thoroughly savage in the manner of these
expressions, and the looks and gestures by which they were accompanied,
that her great fear of him gave her new strength, and enabled her by a
sudden effort to extricate herself and run fleetly from him. But Hugh
was as nimble, strong, and swift of foot, as any man in broad England,
and it was but a fruitless expenditure of energy, for he had her in his
encircling arms again before she had gone a hundred yards.
‘Softly, darling--gently--would you fly from rough Hugh, that loves you
as well as any drawing-room gallant?’
‘I would,’ she answered, struggling to free herself again. ‘I will.
Help!’
‘A fine for crying out,’ said Hugh. ‘Ha ha ha! A fine, pretty one, from
your lips. I pay myself! Ha ha ha!’
‘Help! help! help!’ As she shrieked with the utmost violence she could
exert, a shout was heard in answer, and another, and another.
‘Thank Heaven!’ cried the girl in an ecstasy. ‘Joe, dear Joe, this way.
Help!’
Her assailant paused, and stood irresolute for a moment, but the shouts
drawing nearer and coming quick upon them, forced him to a speedy
decision. He released her, whispered with a menacing look, ‘Tell HIM:
and see what follows!’ and leaping the hedge, was gone in an instant.
Dolly darted off, and fairly ran into Joe Willet’s open arms.
‘What is the matter? are you hurt? what was it? who was it? where is
he? what was he like?’ with a great many encouraging expressions and
assurances of safety, were the first words Joe poured forth. But poor
little Dolly was so breathless and terrified that for some time she
was quite unable to answer him, and hung upon his shoulder, sobbing and
crying as if her heart would break.
Joe had not the smallest objection to have her hanging on his shoulder;
no, not the least, though it crushed the cherry-coloured ribbons sadly,
and put the smart little hat out of all shape. But he couldn’t bear to
see her cry; it went to his very heart. He tried to console her, bent
over her, whispered to her--some say kissed her, but that’s a fable. At
any rate he said all the kind and tender things he could think of and
Dolly let him go on and didn’t interrupt him once, and it was a good ten
minutes before she was able to raise her head and thank him.
‘What was it that frightened you?’ said Joe.
A man whose person was unknown to her had followed her, she answered; he
began by begging, and went on to threats of robbery, which he was on the
point of carrying into execution, and would have executed, but for Joe’s
timely aid. The hesitation and confusion with which she said this, Joe
attributed to the fright she had sustained, and no suspicion of the
truth occurred to him for a moment.
‘Stop when the words are on your lips.’ A hundred times that night, and
very often afterwards, when the disclosure was rising to her tongue,
Dolly thought of that, and repressed it. A deeply rooted dread of the
man; the conviction that his ferocious nature, once roused, would stop
at nothing; and the strong assurance that if she impeached him, the
full measure of his wrath and vengeance would be wreaked on Joe, who
had preserved her; these were considerations she had not the courage to
overcome, and inducements to secrecy too powerful for her to surmount.
Joe, for his part, was a great deal too happy to inquire very curiously
into the matter; and Dolly being yet too tremulous to walk without
assistance, they went forward very slowly, and in his mind very
pleasantly, until the Maypole lights were near at hand, twinkling their
cheerful welcome, when Dolly stopped suddenly and with a half scream
exclaimed,
‘The letter!’
‘What letter?’ cried Joe.
‘That I was carrying--I had it in my hand. My bracelet too,’ she said,
clasping her wrist. ‘I have lost them both.’
‘Do you mean just now?’ said Joe.
‘Either I dropped them then, or they were taken from me,’ answered
Dolly, vainly searching her pocket and rustling her dress. ‘They are
gone, both gone. What an unhappy girl I am!’ With these words poor
Dolly, who to do her justice was quite as sorry for the loss of the
letter as for her bracelet, fell a-crying again, and bemoaned her fate
most movingly.
Joe tried to comfort her with the assurance that directly he had housed
her in the Maypole, he would return to the spot with a lantern (for it
was now quite dark) and make strict search for the missing articles,
which there was great probability of his finding, as it was not likely
that anybody had passed that way since, and she was not conscious that
they had been forcibly taken from her. Dolly thanked him very heartily