Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
said just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of his
entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; he
has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you;
he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are
in the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.’
She was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.
‘The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and then
for my friend; and that’s what I advise. He bears you no malice that I
know of, ma’am: so little, that although you have treated him harshly
more than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that
regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would
consent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.’
He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find
out what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.
‘He is a likely lad,’ said the blind man, thoughtfully, ‘for many
purposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change
and bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you
to-night.--Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty
pounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It’s
a pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, and
it’s worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a
moderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it
you.--Twenty pounds!’
She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.
‘Don’t say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a
little while. Twenty pounds--of other people’s money--how easy! Turn it
over in your mind. I’m in no hurry. Night’s coming on, and if I don’t
sleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma’am,
for twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that’s a fair allowance.
I’ll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in these
parts.’
With these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with
him. Then seating himself, under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching
his legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out
without his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel and
tinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening, of that gentle
kind, and at that time of year, when the twilight is most beautiful.
Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off, and to sniff the
grateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease--as though
the cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputed
possession of it all his life--waiting for the widow’s answer and for
Barnaby’s return.
Chapter 46
When Barnaby returned with the bread, the sight of the pious old pilgrim
smoking his pipe and making himself so thoroughly at home, appeared
to surprise even him; the more so, as that worthy person, instead of
putting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious article,
tossed it carelessly on the table, and producing his bottle, bade him
sit down and drink.
‘For I carry some comfort, you see,’ he said. ‘Taste that. Is it good?’
The water stood in Barnaby’s eyes as he coughed from the strength of the
draught, and answered in the affirmative.
‘Drink some more,’ said the blind man; ‘don’t be afraid of it. You don’t
taste anything like that, often, eh?’
‘Often!’ cried Barnaby. ‘Never!’
‘Too poor?’ returned the blind man with a sigh. ‘Ay. That’s bad. Your
mother, poor soul, would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby.’
‘Why, so I tell her--the very thing I told her just before you came
to-night, when all that gold was in the sky,’ said Barnaby, drawing his
chair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. ‘Tell me. Is there
any way of being rich, that I could find out?’
‘Any way! A hundred ways.’
‘Ay, ay?’ he returned. ‘Do you say so? What are they?--Nay, mother, it’s
for your sake I ask; not mine;--for yours, indeed. What are they?’
The blind man turned his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to
where the widow stood in great distress; and answered,
‘Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend.’
‘By stay-at-homes!’ cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve. ‘But I am not
one. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the sun, and travel
home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day
has reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon
is peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that
lives in the water. As I walk along, I try to find, among the grass and
moss, some of that small money for which she works so hard and used to
shed so many tears. As I lie asleep in the shade, I dream of it--dream
of digging it up in heaps; and spying it out, hidden under bushes; and
seeing it sparkle, as the dew-drops do, among the leaves. But I never
find it. Tell me where it is. I’d go there, if the journey were a whole
year long, because I know she would be happier when I came home and
brought some with me. Speak again. I’ll listen to you if you talk all
night.’
The blind man passed his hand lightly over the poor fellow’s face, and
finding that his elbows were planted on the table, that his chin rested
on his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and that his whole
manner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a minute as
though he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made answer:
‘It’s in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world; not in solitary
places like those you pass your time in, but in crowds, and where
there’s noise and rattle.’
‘Good! good!’ cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. ‘Yes! I love that. Grip
loves it too. It suits us both. That’s brave!’
‘--The kind of places,’ said the blind man, ‘that a young fellow likes,
and in which a good son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot,
in a month, than he could here in all his life--that is, if he had a
friend, you know, and some one to advise with.’
‘You hear this, mother?’ cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight.
‘Never tell me we shouldn’t heed it, if it lay shining at our feet. Why
do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?’
‘Surely,’ said the blind man, ‘surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is
your mind,’ he slowly added, ‘not made up yet?’
‘Let me speak with you,’ she answered, ‘apart.’
‘Lay your hand upon my sleeve,’ said Stagg, arising from the table; ‘and
lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We’ll talk more of this:
I’ve a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.’
She led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they
stopped.
‘You are a fit agent,’ she said, in a half breathless manner, ‘and well
represent the man who sent you here.’
‘I’ll tell him that you said so,’ Stagg retorted. ‘He has a regard for
you, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your praise. We must
have our rights, widow.’
‘Rights! Do you know,’ she said, ‘that a word from me--’
‘Why do you stop?’ returned the blind man calmly, after a long pause.
‘Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in the last
position of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never be
spoken, widow.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Quite--so sure, that I don’t come here to discuss the question. I say
we must have our rights, or we must be bought off. Keep to that point,
or let me return to my young friend, for I have an interest in the lad,
and desire to put him in the way of making his fortune. Bah! you needn’t
speak,’ he added hastily; ‘I know what you would say: you have hinted
at it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I am blind? No, I
have not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be better than
men who have their sight--why should you? Is the hand of Heaven more
manifest in my having no eyes, than in your having two? It’s the cant
of you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals;
oh yes, it’s far worse in him, who can barely live on the few halfpence
that are thrown to him in streets, than in you, who can see, and work,
and are not dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you! You
who have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four,
and want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction.
The true charity and justice of rich to poor, all the world over!’
He paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught the sound of
money, jingling in her hand.
‘Well?’ he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. ‘That should lead
to something. The point, widow?’
‘First answer me one question,’ she replied. ‘You say he is close at
hand. Has he left London?’
‘Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has,’ returned the blind
man.
‘I mean, for good? You know that.’
‘Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there
might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that
reason.’
‘Listen,’ said the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside
them. ‘Count.’
‘Six,’ said the blind man, listening attentively. ‘Any more?’
‘They are the savings,’ she answered, ‘of five years. Six guineas.’
He put out his hand for one of the coins; felt it carefully, put it
between his teeth, rung it on the bench; and nodded to her to proceed.
‘These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death
should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of
much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them--do--on
condition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no more
into that room, where he sits now, expecting your return.’
‘Six guineas,’ said the blind man, shaking his head, ‘though of the
fullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty
pounds, widow.’
‘For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the
country. To do that, and receive an answer, I must have time.’
‘Two days?’ said Stagg.
‘More.’
‘Four days?’
‘A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to the
house. Wait at the corner of the lane.’
‘Of course,’ said the blind man, with a crafty look, ‘I shall find you
there?’
‘Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have made
a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, so hardly
earned, to preserve this home?’
‘Humph!’ said the blind man, after some consideration. ‘Set me with my
face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is
this the spot?’
‘It is.’
‘On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--For the
present, good night.’
She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away,
turning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen, as if he
were curious to know whether he was watched by any one. The shadows of
night were closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It
was not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end,
and made sure that he was gone, that she re-entered the cottage, and
hurriedly barred the door and window.
‘Mother!’ said Barnaby. ‘What is the matter? Where is the blind man?’
‘He is gone.’
‘Gone!’ he cried, starting up. ‘I must have more talk with him. Which
way did he take?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered, folding her arms about him. ‘You must not
go out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad.’
‘Ay?’ said Barnaby, in a frightened whisper.
‘It is not safe to stir. We must leave this place to-morrow.’
‘This place! This cottage--and the little garden, mother!’
‘Yes! To-morrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London; lose