Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
talent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more. The very
day afore he died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from memory! “I’ll
die game,” says my friend, “and my last moments shall be dewoted to
making Dennis’s picter.” That’s it.’
‘That was a queer fancy, wasn’t it?’ said Mr Tappertit.
‘It WAS a queer fancy,’ rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious
nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, ‘but he was a queer
subject altogether--a kind of gipsy--one of the finest, stand-up men,
you ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you a bit,
did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.’
‘You were with him at the time, were you?’ said Mr Tappertit.
‘Yes,’ he answered with a curious look, ‘I was there. Oh! yes certainly,
I was there. He wouldn’t have gone off half as comfortable without me. I
had been with three or four of his family under the same circumstances.
They were all fine fellows.’
‘They must have been fond of you,’ remarked Mr Tappertit, looking at him
sideways.
‘I don’t know that they was exactly fond of me,’ said Dennis, with a
little hesitation, ‘but they all had me near ‘em when they departed. I
come in for their wardrobes too. This very handkecher that you see round
my neck, belonged to him that I’ve been speaking of--him as did that
likeness.’
Mr Tappertit glanced at the article referred to, and appeared to think
that the deceased’s ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an
expensive kind. He made no remark upon the point, however, and suffered
his mysterious companion to proceed without interruption.
‘These smalls,’ said Dennis, rubbing his legs; ‘these very smalls--they
belonged to a friend of mine that’s left off sich incumbrances for ever:
this coat too--I’ve often walked behind this coat, in the street, and
wondered whether it would ever come to me: this pair of shoes have
danced a hornpipe for another man, afore my eyes, full half-a-dozen
times at least: and as to my hat,’ he said, taking it off, and whirling
it round upon his fist--‘Lord! I’ve seen this hat go up Holborn on the
box of a hackney-coach--ah, many and many a day!’
‘You don’t mean to say their old wearers are ALL dead, I hope?’ said Mr
Tappertit, falling a little distance from him as he spoke.
‘Every one of ‘em,’ replied Dennis. ‘Every man Jack!’
There was something so very ghastly in this circumstance, and it
appeared to account, in such a very strange and dismal manner, for his
faded dress--which, in this new aspect, seemed discoloured by the earth
from graves--that Mr Tappertit abruptly found he was going another way,
and, stopping short, bade him good night with the utmost heartiness. As
they happened to be near the Old Bailey, and Mr Dennis knew there were
turnkeys in the lodge with whom he could pass the night, and discuss
professional subjects of common interest among them before a rousing
fire, and over a social glass, he separated from his companions without
any great regret, and warmly shaking hands with Hugh, and making an
early appointment for their meeting at The Boot, left them to pursue
their road.
‘That’s a strange sort of man,’ said Mr Tappertit, watching the
hackney-coachman’s hat as it went bobbing down the street. ‘I don’t know
what to make of him. Why can’t he have his smalls made to order, or wear
live clothes at any rate?’
‘He’s a lucky man, captain,’ cried Hugh. ‘I should like to have such
friends as his.’
‘I hope he don’t get ‘em to make their wills, and then knock ‘em on the
head,’ said Mr Tappertit, musing. ‘But come. The United B.’s expect me.
On!--What’s the matter?’
‘I quite forgot,’ said Hugh, who had started at the striking of a
neighbouring clock. ‘I have somebody to see to-night--I must turn back
directly. The drinking and singing put it out of my head. It’s well I
remembered it!’
Mr Tappertit looked at him as though he were about to give utterance to
some very majestic sentiments in reference to this act of desertion, but
as it was clear, from Hugh’s hasty manner, that the engagement was one
of a pressing nature, he graciously forbore, and gave him his permission
to depart immediately, which Hugh acknowledged with a roar of laughter.
‘Good night, captain!’ he cried. ‘I am yours to the death, remember!’
‘Farewell!’ said Mr Tappertit, waving his hand. ‘Be bold and vigilant!’
‘No Popery, captain!’ roared Hugh.
‘England in blood first!’ cried his desperate leader. Whereat Hugh
cheered and laughed, and ran off like a greyhound.
‘That man will prove a credit to my corps,’ said Simon, turning
thoughtfully upon his heel. ‘And let me see. In an altered state of
society--which must ensue if we break out and are victorious--when the
locksmith’s child is mine, Miggs must be got rid of somehow, or she’ll
poison the tea-kettle one evening when I’m out. He might marry Miggs, if
he was drunk enough. It shall be done. I’ll make a note of it.’
Chapter 40
Little thinking of the plan for his happy settlement in life which had
suggested itself to the teeming brain of his provident commander, Hugh
made no pause until Saint Dunstan’s giants struck the hour above him,
when he worked the handle of a pump which stood hard by, with great
vigour, and thrusting his head under the spout, let the water gush upon
him until a little stream ran down from every uncombed hair, and he was
wet to the waist. Considerably refreshed by this ablution, both in mind
and body, and almost sobered for the time, he dried himself as he best
could; then crossed the road, and plied the knocker of the Middle Temple
gate.
The night-porter looked through a small grating in the portal with a
surly eye, and cried ‘Halloa!’ which greeting Hugh returned in kind, and
bade him open quickly.
‘We don’t sell beer here,’ cried the man; ‘what else do you want?’
‘To come in,’ Hugh replied, with a kick at the door.
‘Where to go?’
‘Paper Buildings.’
‘Whose chambers?’
‘Sir John Chester’s.’ Each of which answers, he emphasised with another
kick.
After a little growling on the other side, the gate was opened, and he
passed in: undergoing a close inspection from the porter as he did so.
‘YOU wanting Sir John, at this time of night!’ said the man.
‘Ay!’ said Hugh. ‘I! What of that?’
‘Why, I must go with you and see that you do, for I don’t believe it.’
‘Come along then.’
Eyeing him with suspicious looks, the man, with key and lantern, walked
on at his side, and attended him to Sir John Chester’s door, at which
Hugh gave one knock, that echoed through the dark staircase like a
ghostly summons, and made the dull light tremble in the drowsy lamp.
‘Do you think he wants me now?’ said Hugh.
Before the man had time to answer, a footstep was heard within, a light
appeared, and Sir John, in his dressing-gown and slippers, opened the
door.
‘I ask your pardon, Sir John,’ said the porter, pulling off his hat.
‘Here’s a young man says he wants to speak to you. It’s late for
strangers. I thought it best to see that all was right.’
‘Aha!’ cried Sir John, raising his eyebrows. ‘It’s you, messenger, is
it? Go in. Quite right, friend. I commend your prudence highly. Thank
you. God bless you. Good night.’
To be commended, thanked, God-blessed, and bade good night by one who
carried ‘Sir’ before his name, and wrote himself M.P. to boot, was
something for a porter. He withdrew with much humility and reverence.
Sir John followed his late visitor into the dressing-room, and sitting
in his easy-chair before the fire, and moving it so that he could see
him as he stood, hat in hand, beside the door, looked at him from head
to foot.
The old face, calm and pleasant as ever; the complexion, quite juvenile
in its bloom and clearness; the same smile; the wonted precision and
elegance of dress; the white, well-ordered teeth; the delicate hands;
the composed and quiet manner; everything as it used to be: no mark of
age or passion, envy, hate, or discontent: all unruffled and serene, and
quite delightful to behold.
He wrote himself M.P.--but how? Why, thus. It was a proud family--more
proud, indeed, than wealthy. He had stood in danger of arrest; of
bailiffs, and a jail--a vulgar jail, to which the common people with
small incomes went. Gentlemen of ancient houses have no privilege of
exemption from such cruel laws--unless they are of one great house, and
then they have. A proud man of his stock and kindred had the means of
sending him there. He offered--not indeed to pay his debts, but to let
him sit for a close borough until his own son came of age, which, if he
lived, would come to pass in twenty years. It was quite as good as an
Insolvent Act, and infinitely more genteel. So Sir John Chester was a
member of Parliament.
But how Sir John? Nothing so simple, or so easy. One touch with a sword
of state, and the transformation was effected. John Chester, Esquire,
M.P., attended court--went up with an address--headed a deputation.
Such elegance of manner, so many graces of deportment, such powers of
conversation, could never pass unnoticed. Mr was too common for
such merit. A man so gentlemanly should have been--but Fortune is
capricious--born a Duke: just as some dukes should have been born
labourers. He caught the fancy of the king, knelt down a grub, and rose
a butterfly. John Chester, Esquire, was knighted and became Sir John.
‘I thought when you left me this evening, my esteemed acquaintance,’
said Sir John after a pretty long silence, ‘that you intended to return
with all despatch?’
‘So I did, master.’
‘And so you have?’ he retorted, glancing at his watch. ‘Is that what you
would say?’
Instead of replying, Hugh changed the leg on which he leant, shuffled
his cap from one hand to the other, looked at the ground, the wall, the
ceiling, and finally at Sir John himself; before whose pleasant face he
lowered his eyes again, and fixed them on the floor.
‘And how have you been employing yourself in the meanwhile?’ quoth Sir
John, lazily crossing his legs. ‘Where have you been? what harm have you
been doing?’
‘No harm at all, master,’ growled Hugh, with humility. ‘I have only done
as you ordered.’
‘As I WHAT?’ returned Sir John.
‘Well then,’ said Hugh uneasily, ‘as you advised, or said I ought, or
said I might, or said that you would do, if you was me. Don’t be so hard
upon me, master.’
Something like an expression of triumph in the perfect control he had
established over this rough instrument appeared in the knight’s face for
an instant; but it vanished directly, as he said--paring his nails while
speaking:
‘When you say I ordered you, my good fellow, you imply that I directed
you to do something for me--something I wanted done--something for my
own ends and purposes--you see? Now I am sure I needn’t enlarge upon the
extreme absurdity of such an idea, however unintentional; so please--’
and here he turned his eyes upon him--‘to be more guarded. Will you?’
‘I meant to give you no offence,’ said Hugh. ‘I don’t know what to say.
You catch me up so very short.’
‘You will be caught up much shorter, my good friend--infinitely
shorter--one of these days, depend upon it,’ replied his patron calmly.
‘By-the-bye, instead of wondering why you have been so long, my wonder
should be why you came at all. Why did you?’
‘You know, master,’ said Hugh, ‘that I couldn’t read the bill I found,
and that supposing it to be something particular from the way it was
wrapped up, I brought it here.’
‘And could you ask no one else to read it, Bruin?’ said Sir John.
‘No one that I could trust with secrets, master. Since Barnaby Rudge
was lost sight of for good and all--and that’s five years ago--I haven’t
talked with any one but you.’
‘You have done me honour, I am sure.’