Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
endings for all parties. With this affecting conclusion, Miss Miggs shed
more tears, and sobbed abundantly.
‘Can you bear this, Varden?’ said his wife in a solemn voice, laying
down her knife and fork.
‘Why, not very well, my dear,’ rejoined the locksmith, ‘but I try to
keep my temper.’
‘Don’t let there be words on my account, mim,’ sobbed Miggs. ‘It’s much
the best that we should part. I wouldn’t stay--oh, gracious me!--and
make dissensions, not for a annual gold mine, and found in tea and
sugar.’
Lest the reader should be at any loss to discover the cause of Miss
Miggs’s deep emotion, it may be whispered apart that, happening to
be listening, as her custom sometimes was, when Gabriel and his wife
conversed together, she had heard the locksmith’s joke relative to the
foreign black who played the tambourine, and bursting with the spiteful
feelings which the taunt awoke in her fair breast, exploded in the
manner we have witnessed. Matters having now arrived at a crisis, the
locksmith, as usual, and for the sake of peace and quietness, gave in.
‘What are you crying for, girl?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you?
What are you talking about hatred for? I don’t hate you; I don’t hate
anybody. Dry your eyes and make yourself agreeable, in Heaven’s name,
and let us all be happy while we can.’
The allied powers deeming it good generalship to consider this a
sufficient apology on the part of the enemy, and confession of having
been in the wrong, did dry their eyes and take it in good part. Miss
Miggs observed that she bore no malice, no not to her greatest foe, whom
she rather loved the more indeed, the greater persecution she sustained.
Mrs Varden approved of this meek and forgiving spirit in high terms,
and incidentally declared as a closing article of agreement, that Dolly
should accompany her to the Clerkenwell branch of the association, that
very night. This was an extraordinary instance of her great prudence and
policy; having had this end in view from the first, and entertaining
a secret misgiving that the locksmith (who was bold when Dolly was in
question) would object, she had backed Miss Miggs up to this point, in
order that she might have him at a disadvantage. The manoeuvre succeeded
so well that Gabriel only made a wry face, and with the warning he had
just had, fresh in his mind, did not dare to say one word.
The difference ended, therefore, in Miggs being presented with a gown
by Mrs Varden and half-a-crown by Dolly, as if she had eminently
distinguished herself in the paths of morality and goodness. Mrs V.,
according to custom, expressed her hope that Varden would take a lesson
from what had passed and learn more generous conduct for the time to
come; and the dinner being now cold and nobody’s appetite very much
improved by what had passed, they went on with it, as Mrs Varden said,
‘like Christians.’
As there was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers
that afternoon, the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably
with his pipe in his mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter’s
waist, looking lovingly on Mrs V., from time to time, and exhibiting
from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, one smiling surface
of good humour. And to be sure, when it was time to dress him in his
regimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all kinds of graceful
winning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up and get him
into one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal tailor, he
was the proudest father in all England.
‘What a handy jade it is!’ said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood
by with folded hands--rather proud of her husband too--while Miggs held
his cap and sword at arm’s length, as if mistrusting that the latter
might run some one through the body of its own accord; ‘but never marry
a soldier, Doll, my dear.’
Dolly didn’t ask why not, or say a word, indeed, but stooped her head
down very low to tie his sash.
‘I never wear this dress,’ said honest Gabriel, ‘but I think of poor Joe
Willet. I loved Joe; he was always a favourite of mine. Poor Joe!--Dear
heart, my girl, don’t tie me in so tight.’
Dolly laughed--not like herself at all--the strangest little laugh that
could be--and held her head down lower still.
‘Poor Joe!’ resumed the locksmith, muttering to himself; ‘I always wish
he had come to me. I might have made it up between them, if he had. Ah!
old John made a great mistake in his way of acting by that lad--a great
mistake.--Have you nearly tied that sash, my dear?’
What an ill-made sash it was! There it was, loose again and trailing
on the ground. Dolly was obliged to kneel down, and recommence at the
beginning.
‘Never mind young Willet, Varden,’ said his wife frowning; ‘you might
find some one more deserving to talk about, I think.’
Miss Miggs gave a great sniff to the same effect.
‘Nay, Martha,’ cried the locksmith, ‘don’t let us bear too hard upon
him. If the lad is dead indeed, we’ll deal kindly by his memory.’
‘A runaway and a vagabond!’ said Mrs Varden.
Miss Miggs expressed her concurrence as before.
‘A runaway, my dear, but not a vagabond,’ returned the locksmith in
a gentle tone. ‘He behaved himself well, did Joe--always--and was a
handsome, manly fellow. Don’t call him a vagabond, Martha.’
Mrs Varden coughed--and so did Miggs.
‘He tried hard to gain your good opinion, Martha, I can tell you,’ said
the locksmith smiling, and stroking his chin. ‘Ah! that he did. It seems
but yesterday that he followed me out to the Maypole door one night, and
begged me not to say how like a boy they used him--say here, at home, he
meant, though at the time, I recollect, I didn’t understand. “And how’s
Miss Dolly, sir?” says Joe,’ pursued the locksmith, musing sorrowfully,
‘Ah! Poor Joe!’
‘Well, I declare,’ cried Miggs. ‘Oh! Goodness gracious me!’
‘What’s the matter now?’ said Gabriel, turning sharply to her.
‘Why, if here an’t Miss Dolly,’ said the handmaid, stooping down to look
into her face, ‘a-giving way to floods of tears. Oh mim! oh sir. Raly
it’s give me such a turn,’ cried the susceptible damsel, pressing her
hand upon her side to quell the palpitation of her heart, ‘that you
might knock me down with a feather.’
The locksmith, after glancing at Miss Miggs as if he could have wished
to have a feather brought straightway, looked on with a broad stare
while Dolly hurried away, followed by that sympathising young woman:
then turning to his wife, stammered out, ‘Is Dolly ill? Have I done
anything? Is it my fault?’
‘Your fault!’ cried Mrs V. reproachfully. ‘There--you had better make
haste out.’
‘What have I done?’ said poor Gabriel. ‘It was agreed that Mr Edward’s
name was never to be mentioned, and I have not spoken of him, have I?’
Mrs Varden merely replied that she had no patience with him, and bounced
off after the other two. The unfortunate locksmith wound his sash about
him, girded on his sword, put on his cap, and walked out.
‘I am not much of a dab at my exercise,’ he said under his breath, ‘but
I shall get into fewer scrapes at that work than at this. Every man came
into the world for something; my department seems to be to make every
woman cry without meaning it. It’s rather hard!’
But he forgot it before he reached the end of the street, and went on
with a shining face, nodding to the neighbours, and showering about his
friendly greetings like mild spring rain.
Chapter 42
The Royal East London Volunteers made a brilliant sight that day: formed
into lines, squares, circles, triangles, and what not, to the beating
of drums, and the streaming of flags; and performed a vast number of
complex evolutions, in all of which Serjeant Varden bore a conspicuous
share. Having displayed their military prowess to the utmost in these
warlike shows, they marched in glittering order to the Chelsea Bun
House, and regaled in the adjacent taverns until dark. Then at sound
of drum they fell in again, and returned amidst the shouting of His
Majesty’s lieges to the place from whence they came.
The homeward march being somewhat tardy,--owing to the un-soldierlike
behaviour of certain corporals, who, being gentlemen of sedentary
pursuits in private life and excitable out of doors, broke several
windows with their bayonets, and rendered it imperative on the
commanding officer to deliver them over to a strong guard, with whom
they fought at intervals as they came along,--it was nine o’clock when
the locksmith reached home. A hackney-coach was waiting near his door;
and as he passed it, Mr Haredale looked from the window and called him
by his name.
‘The sight of you is good for sore eyes, sir,’ said the locksmith,
stepping up to him. ‘I wish you had walked in though, rather than waited
here.’
‘There is nobody at home, I find,’ Mr Haredale answered; ‘besides, I
desired to be as private as I could.’
‘Humph!’ muttered the locksmith, looking round at his house. ‘Gone with
Simon Tappertit to that precious Branch, no doubt.’
Mr Haredale invited him to come into the coach, and, if he were not
tired or anxious to go home, to ride with him a little way that they
might have some talk together. Gabriel cheerfully complied, and the
coachman mounting his box drove off.
‘Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, after a minute’s pause, ‘you will be amazed
to hear what errand I am on; it will seem a very strange one.’
‘I have no doubt it’s a reasonable one, sir, and has a meaning in it,’
replied the locksmith; ‘or it would not be yours at all. Have you just
come back to town, sir?’
‘But half an hour ago.’
‘Bringing no news of Barnaby, or his mother?’ said the locksmith
dubiously. ‘Ah! you needn’t shake your head, sir. It was a wild-goose
chase. I feared that, from the first. You exhausted all reasonable means
of discovery when they went away. To begin again after so long a time
has passed is hopeless, sir--quite hopeless.’
‘Why, where are they?’ he returned impatiently. ‘Where can they be?
Above ground?’
‘God knows,’ rejoined the locksmith, ‘many that I knew above it five
years ago, have their beds under the grass now. And the world is a
wide place. It’s a hopeless attempt, sir, believe me. We must leave the
discovery of this mystery, like all others, to time, and accident, and
Heaven’s pleasure.’
‘Varden, my good fellow,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I have a deeper meaning in
my present anxiety to find them out, than you can fathom. It is not a
mere whim; it is not the casual revival of my old wishes and desires;
but an earnest, solemn purpose. My thoughts and dreams all tend to it,
and fix it in my mind. I have no rest by day or night; I have no peace
or quiet; I am haunted.’
His voice was so altered from its usual tones, and his manner bespoke
so much emotion, that Gabriel, in his wonder, could only sit and look
towards him in the darkness, and fancy the expression of his face.
‘Do not ask me,’ continued Mr Haredale, ‘to explain myself. If I were to
do so, you would think me the victim of some hideous fancy. It is enough
that this is so, and that I cannot--no, I can not--lie quietly in my
bed, without doing what will seem to you incomprehensible.’
‘Since when, sir,’ said the locksmith after a pause, ‘has this uneasy
feeling been upon you?’
Mr Haredale hesitated for some moments, and then replied: ‘Since the
night of the storm. In short, since the last nineteenth of March.’
As though he feared that Varden might express surprise, or reason with
him, he hastily went on:
‘You will think, I know, I labour under some delusion. Perhaps I do. But
it is not a morbid one; it is a wholesome action of the mind, reasoning
on actual occurrences. You know the furniture remains in Mrs Rudge’s
house, and that it has been shut up, by my orders, since she went away,